Jodie Bailey - Freefall

“I’m fine.” She jerked the laces free and yanked her boot off her foot, fighting the sudden urge to throw it at her friend. This day—and the man in her kitchen—had gone to her head.

“Uh-huh. You act like everything’s perfectly normal.”

Well, let’s see. A toasted Honda. Her ex hiding in her house. Everyone in her life going cuckoo at once. Yeah, normal was all over her house. “Too much went down in too many places today.”

“Other than things going boom?”

“It’s like my whole life went boom.” Cassidy pressed her big toes together. It was too hard to breathe while split in two, her thoughts in one room and her body in another.

He eyed her like he had something to say, then pressed his lips together and stood. As he shouldered her bag, he said, “Thanks for digging this out of your car for me. I can bring it to you Monday morning.” Jackson pulled the door open and paused with one foot inside and one on the concrete of the front porch. “You sure you don’t want me to check out what went bump in your kitchen?”

“It was nothing. And I’ve been to war. Three times. I can take care of myself in my own house.”

He flipped a mock salute as the streetlights flickered on behind him and her AC unit hummed to life.

“See? Nothing to worry about.” Cassidy gripped the doorknob tightly and willed Jackson to leave before she told him about Shane or said anything else she’d regret in the morning.

He tossed a wave in her direction without looking back and wasn’t halfway down the sidewalk before Cassidy shut the door and bolted for the kitchen. If Shane was still in that closet, he had a lot of explaining to do, then he’d have to get out of her life forever. The last thing she needed was his messing with her head. And he was definitely messing with her head.

Slipping in her socks on the tile, she gripped the door handle to steady herself, then yanked the closet open. Only her coats stared back at her. Shane was gone.

* * *

Shane ground his teeth together as he sat at the old wooden kitchen table while his roommate Derek Mann, a retired Special Forces buddy, practiced his rusty medic skills on the slash wound across his triceps.

“Logan, you’re lucky Cassy didn’t knife you herself. Unless she did, and you invented the whole story about somebody prowling around her house just so you could save some face.” For a moment, silence held court in the small bachelor apartment. “You got bested by a girl, didn’t you?”

Standing next to her today had definitely gotten the best of him in ways he’d thought he was long past. “Yeah,” Shane exhaled in a rush. “You caught me.” He winced as Derek applied alcohol to the injury and tried to focus on the flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. The late news flashed the photo of a Fort Bragg soldier killed in Afghanistan. Shane’s gaze drifted to the brown leather couch instead. He’d seen enough death to last twenty lifetimes. “I think getting gashed was probably less painful than being bludgeoned by the Maglite she was swinging.” He twisted his head around to check on Derek’s progress. “She meant business.”

Dark-skinned fingers forced his face to turn away, though Derek never shifted his attention from his work. “Dude, you know it hurts worse if you watch. Let me handle it. The stitching won’t be as pretty as if you had a real doc take care of it, but it won’t be infected and you won’t have to answer any probing questions, all right? You’re lucky the dude had bad coordination.”

“‘The dude had bad coordination?’” Shane smiled in spite of the pain. “Man, I have mad self-defense skills. I sent the ol’ boy packing.”

“So why did you end up hiding in a closet?”

“Cut a guy some slack, would you?” Shane flinched as the first poke of the needle pierced skin. He bit back a groan. “He bolted when she opened the garage door, and I had nowhere else to go.”

“Why did you go to the house anyway? You know you convinced her a long time ago you’re a bottom dweller.”

“She was convinced because I was.” Shane swallowed another dose of pain, although this one had nothing to do with his arm. “Back then.” The silence stretched out, heavy and medicine-laden, as Shane thought about how he’d treated Cassy, how the arrogance rooted in his then-new assignment to Special Forces had changed him. The drinking. The late-nights hanging out with his buddies. The weekends he hadn’t bothered to come home at all. He couldn’t decide which burned more, the alcohol that seared his arm or the guilt that blazed in his gut. He glanced at Derek’s work.

“If you’re out to make her believe you’re not the same guy anymore, then you’ve got your work cut out for you. I doubt she’s gonna buy that Jesus made you different the very first time you tell her.” Derek dug through the first aid kit until he found a roll of white gauze, which he ripped with his teeth. “But, dude, what in the world were you thinking? You don’t woo a girl by breaking and entering.”

“The last thing I want is to woo her.” Even as he said it, he started to wonder if it still held true. Shane shook his head against the thought and against the sting in his arm. It had to be true. He couldn’t tangle himself up with her again. It had hurt too badly to watch their years together implode the first time. “Maybe I was a jerk, but she didn’t give me a chance to redeem myself. She just threw everything away without looking back. I don’t need that kind of grief.”

“True. So, tell me, if Cassy didn’t cut you, who did?”

Shane tilted his chin and leveled his gaze on Derek’s. “You’re getting pushy in your old age.”

“Just don’t appreciate buddies taking hits when they aren’t in a war zone.” The matter-of-fact words didn’t gibe with the concern in the dark eyes.

Shane shifted and ran his free hand through his hair. “I don’t appreciate it either.”

Derek taped the bandage into place and repacked his supplies. “Well, you can act the fool about this if you want. Your life.”

“Yep. And I don’t need you playing father figure, old man.” Shane’s voice strained as he pulled his arm in front of him to inspect his bandaged triceps. Now that it was sewn and wrapped, the throbbing didn’t seem as insistent as it had earlier. A few ibuprofen ought to take the edge off, but pain was the least of his worries. Cassy and he were both in the crosshairs and there was no time to hide before the trigger was pulled.

* * *

After a hot shower and a change into sweats, Cassidy felt the day recede. Still, she found herself back in front of the closet. She opened the door again and stared into it. Lots of coats, but no Shane. She tapped her finger against her thigh and tried to decide if she should be worried or angry.

Definitely angry. Exactly what had he been thinking, hiding in her closet? Posttraumatic stress disorder must have kicked in for him. Maybe she should call a therapist. Then again, why should she even care? His problems weren’t hers anymore. Let whatever girl he decided to flirt with this week deal with it. Forget it. She kicked her foot out, and the closet door slammed with a satisfying bang.

The paper bag that held the squashed remains of her hamburger rested in the corner, ketchup and chili oozing in grease slicks on the paper. Yeah, that would make a wonderful meal. She made a face and leaned down to scoop up the dinner that was now destined to feed the trash can. A ketchup smudge a few feet from the bag caught her eye, and she swiped it with her finger.

The spot smeared and Cassidy froze, her stomach twisting. Blood. Two droplets splotched the vinyl between the closet and the door to the garage. Narrowing her eyes, she backtracked, eyes scanning the linoleum as she went. There. Several long smears streaked the floor in the hallway between the kitchen and the dining room.