Joke's on You (SWAT Generation 2.0 6)

Booth was a town hero, having deployed four times, and coming home from his last deployment wounded.

They’d thrown him a freakin’ parade when he’d arrived in town.

So yes, they knew his story well.

Needless to say, when I arrived at my place to find Bourne there, I wasn’t really as nice as I probably should have been since I now didn’t have to deal with poop.

“Why do you hate me?” I finally got the courage to ask, blurting out the words before I could think better of them.

Bourne’s eyes flicked to me, then went back to the poop he was spraying off the concrete. During the day, when I couldn’t be here with them, I had no other choice but to put the dogs outside in their kennels.

Their air-conditioned kennels, but kennels nonetheless.

I hated that they had to be cooped up, but it usually wasn’t for long seeing as normally Delanie or I were able to be home during the day and they were let out in the runs built alongside the kennels.

“I don’t hate you,” he said, his voice much more different from Booth’s. I wasn’t sure how anybody ever got them confused. “I just highly dislike you.”

My mouth fell open, and at first, I wasn’t sure what to say.

Then I started to laugh, because Bourne wasn’t one to beat around the bush. He’d always told it like it was.

“You what?” I snickered. “How is that any better?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. But hate requires a certain level of feeling that I just don’t have for you. You’ve never done anything to me that instilled that level of emotion.”

Well, that was true.

“Why do you ‘highly dislike’ me then?” I pushed.

I wasn’t really sure what I was expecting out of him.

But after Booth’s words last night, I’d done a whole lot of soul searching myself.

I was tired of living my life to my father’s specifications.

Both Delanie and I had wonderful jobs.

He finished off the last of the kennels, then went to filling up the water bowls.

Even though it was Friday, and I wouldn’t be needing them filled tomorrow since I’d be home the entire day.

I took both Saturday and Sunday off, no matter what.

Even though they were the busiest days, I needed some me time.

And those were my days.

Meaning, I wouldn’t be putting the dogs in the kennels unless I left home.

And if that happened, I always gave them fresh water.

Only when he was finished did he turn around, pull the hose out of the kennel, then stop to stare at me.

“I don’t like the way that you’ve dicked my brother around,” he said. “I don’t like that he has to deal with Delanie when it should’ve been you. He’s only ever liked you, and I feel like I’m missing something when it comes to that night. I was with y’all most of the night. Does it not strike you as odd that they would choose to do that? Because, in my opinion, it does. Yet, I’ve only heard you verbalize being mad at him for what happened, when I’m not sure that anyone really knows what actually happened.”

I opened my mouth and then closed it.

Was he right?

I thought back to that night, and again, like always, the anger threatened to take over.

Sure, I liked to tell myself that I was over it—over the fact that my sister had slept with the man that I really, really wanted—but I would be lying. Deep down, under layers and layers of carefully constructed walls, I was still really upset.

I hadn’t been dating him. I’d wanted to, but my dad was a complete and utter dick.

“Did you know that the night that happened, Dad had announced that Delanie was going to enter into an arranged marriage?” I asked quietly.

Bourne stilled, turned, and looked at me with shock on his face.

“What?” he asked.

I nodded. “I kind of thought that was why. I mean, why else would she have done that?”

I honestly thought, once we found out that she was pregnant, that she’d done it with the first available man.

Only, in her inebriated state, she’d slept with my man and not the one she really wanted.

And, honestly, I couldn’t blame her.

Dad had said that there was a man back home, one that would ‘serve her well as a husband’ and was ‘within the recommended age range.’

See, back home in Iceland, my father had been more important than he was here.

Back home, he, as an ex-prime minister’s son. He was important. A somebody.

Here, he was just another man—a decorated war veteran, yes—but still just an average person nonetheless.

Hence the arranged marriage.

Dad had explained that this was his way back in, whatever that meant.

“Arranged marriages just aren’t done anymore,” Bourne said, dropping the hose and turning to face me.

I shrugged.

“I know,” I said. “But back home? I mean, they’re not exactly standard, but they’re not exactly uncommon, either. It’s acceptable.”