Love Me (One Night with Sole Regret 12)

Chad took a deep breath and pushed/pulled himself out of the front seat, landing solidly on his left foot. He teetered for a moment, holding on to the car door for balance. What he was doing did not feel the same as landing on one of two feet. The counterweight of his right lower leg was missing. But he’d managed and eventually he’d get used to having to compensate for his missing parts. Not today. Today it felt weird and unsettling that he couldn’t put his foot down even if he wanted to.

Chad hopped to turn his butt in the general direction of the wheelchair, concentrating on staying on one foot and trying to ignore the instinct to take a step. Even with physical therapy, his uninjured leg had weakened from the days spent in that damned hospital bed. He needed to build up the strength in that leg again and concentrate on strengthening his upper body too. Maybe Owen would take him to the gym once he got out of the dumb sling. And speaking of dumb sling, how was he supposed to hold on to anything while he sat? He ended up flopping gracelessly into the wheelchair, glad Lindsey was out of sight for that bit of shame. At least he hadn’t eaten pavement.

“You did it,” Owen said, raising a hand. “High five.”

Chad grinned and accepted his brother’s congratulations by slapping his hand. So maybe he did want the trophy, just not from Lindsey.

Chad had already discovered that he couldn’t maneuver his wheelchair with one arm unless he wanted to go in circles, so he tried not to feel too useless as his little brother wheeled him up the ramp and into the house.

“Welcome home!” Lindsey said. She blew into a party blower. The coiled paper unrolled and bumped him in the nose.

He chuckled and batted the party favor away. “Thanks. It’s good to be home.” What he wouldn’t give to be able to tug her down onto his lap and kiss her breathless. Those kinds of thoughts had no place here, however. He needed to get them out of his head immediately. If he was lucky, Lindsey would continue to be his friend. She’d never be someone he could kiss on a whim.

“Your mom said beef stew is your favorite,” Lindsey said.

Chad laughed. “I’m a meat and potatoes kind of guy.”

“Well, I hope I didn’t screw it up.”

“You made beef stew?” he asked, suddenly breathless. “For me?”

“Not just for you. I get some too,” Owen said, pushing Chad’s wheelchair up to the kitchen table.

The wooden chair that usually occupied Chad’s appointed side of the table had already been removed and was tucked out of sight somewhere. Someone had been thinking ahead.

“Lindsey’s a great cook,” Owen said.

“A passable cook,” Lindsey said.

The doorbell rang, and she turned toward the living room. Chad couldn’t help but admire her profile. God, she was beautiful.

“That’s probably your mom. I’ll let her in.”

As soon as she was out of the room, Owen said, “Do you have a thing for her?”

Chad hardened his features into his emotionless Marine mask. “What do you mean?”

“You look at her like she’s some grand prize.”

“She is a prize.”

“She’s pregnant,” Owen said, as if her condition was contagious, even to men. “And she doesn’t even know who the baby’s father is.”

“I don’t care about that,” he said, but to make himself feel less vulnerable, he added, “But no, I don’t have a thing for her. She’s your liability, not mine.”

“Lucky me,” Owen said, dragging bowls out of a cabinet.

The scrape of nails against Owen’s refinished hardwood floors made Chad sit up straighter. He’d know those scrambling paw treads anywhere. “Hawn,” he called to the family’s golden retriever—she’d been his dog until he’d gone into the military and left her behind. “Where’s my girl?”

A bundle of wriggling fur burst into the kitchen and landed all four paws directly on his lap. Hawn wasn’t a small dog, but she somehow squeezed herself between the table and his chest and gave him a very thorough tongue bath. He wrapped his good arm around her, squeezing her tight—not minding the doggie slobber on his face or the flying fur which she shed nonstop or the loud thumping of her tail on the table or the back paw digging painfully into his thigh. Mom had less patience with her, however.

“Hawn, down,” she said sternly. “We talked about this before we left the house. You promised you’d behave.”

Hawn tilted her head back, tongue lolling to one side, and barked loudly. She sniffed at Chad’s bandages, scrapes, and ear, which made a shiver race down his neck, before she licked Chad’s face again. With a few swipes of her wide tongue, she managed to lick the sunglasses clean off. He winced slightly in the light, but the discomfort was tolerable. Hawn shifting so that her paws pressed into his nuts was not.

“Hawn, down,” he said in a higher pitch than normal. The ever-exuberant dog remembered her training and hopped down to the floor, gave his stump a curious sniff, then set her head on his thigh and gazed up at him worshipfully. He rubbed her ears with his unencumbered hand, loving the soft texture of her fur against his fingertips. How many times had he stroked Jawa’s ears just like this? It had become a calming habit for them both as they waited for orders. First in, last out. That was just part of the job for an MWD and his handler. Ensure an area was free of threats before anyone else set foot there, and make sure no threats were left behind when they finished. He’d never stroke Jawa’s ears again. He’d lost him. Had it been the explosion or the resulting vehicle rollover? Chad wasn’t sure what had ultimately killed his furry brother in arms. He hadn’t asked for details. Didn’t want to know. He hadn’t let himself really feel Jawa’s loss until that moment. The memory of the dead weight of Jawa’s body lying across Chad’s chest suddenly crushed him. He couldn’t breathe.

He’d lost Emerson too. The green Dawg had been scheduled to take over as Jawa’s handler when Chad returned to the States, but he hadn’t gotten the chance to even bond with the dog.

Nineteen. The number—Emerson’s age—ate at Chad. Emerson had been telling him about his prom night—his fucking prom night—when Chad had triggered that land mine. Emerson and Jawa, both of them gone. And not instantly. They’d suffered. Suffered because he’d taken his eyes off the terrain. Missed the tells. And he’d missed the memorial services of his two comrades while he’d been in the hospital. Would he have even gone if he’d been able? He would have cried in front of everyone. God, he was a fucking coward. Afraid of tears. Of feelings. Not afraid of enemy fire. But afraid of remembering them. Mourning them.

Emerson.

Jawa.

His fingers curled into Hawn’s soft fur.

Why was the room so small? And hot? Stifling. Worse than the desert heat.

Didn’t Owen have air-conditioning?

He couldn’t draw breath. Couldn’t breathe.

“I’m going to have dog hair all over my house,” Owen said as he ladled stew into bowls.

Such a simple statement, but it gave Chad something to focus on besides his grief. He sucked in a deep breath. The heat started to leave his overwarm flesh.

Chad forced dark memories aside and looked down his chest. Jawa wasn’t there. Even though his weight had felt so terribly, horribly real, he wasn’t there.

Chad’s shirt was covered with medium-length blond strands and one long blond hair that was mos

t likely Lindsey’s. He picked that one off his army-green T-shirt and held it up to the light streaming in from the window over the breakfast nook benches.

“I don’t think this one belongs to the dog,” he said.

His mother was already coming at him with a sticky lint roller. He didn’t doubt that she carried it around in her pocket when she had Hawn with her. The dog was a hair machine. With a decent spinning wheel and loom, they could start a sweater factory and use her shed fur to clothe all of Iceland.

“I miss my dog,” Lindsey said. “More than I miss my parents.”

A smile wobbled across her face as she sat on the bench to Chad’s left. Sitting between them, Hawn shifted her head onto Lindsey’s knee to get a new scratch before returning her attention to Chad.

“What kind of dog?” he asked. Jawa had been a Belgian Malinois, though he’d often been mistaken for a German shepherd. Chad didn’t voice his memories of Jawa. Someone might have pressed him for details, and he wasn’t ready to share them with anyone.

“Just a mutt,” she said. “But really sweet. Her name is Muffin Top.” She laughed.

“Like a fat roll?” Owen asked, setting a bowl of stew in front of Chad.

Chad’s mouth watered as soon as the savory scent met his nose.

Lindsey laughed. “Exactly like a fat roll. I think she has some shar-pei in her, because whenever she sits down, she has this wrinkle that goes all the way around her waist like she’s wearing tight pants and she has a muffin top.”

Mom laughed. “Aww, poor doggie. I bet you’ve given her quite a complex.”

“I did catch her doing sit-ups once.” She winked at Chad, who was getting impatient for a spoon.

“Chad has always loved dogs,” Mom said. “Everyone blames me for taking in strays, but he’s the one who brings them home.” She leaned in and wrapped her arms around Chad’s shoulders, giving one a vigorous rub. “I just couldn’t tell him no.”