CHAPTER
SIX
Brooke pushed her coffee cup to the side and leaned forward. Folding her arms, she studied the man opposite her. “Okay, Asher, we’ve made small talk for the past thirty minutes. Will you tell me why you wanted to see me this morning?”
He rubbed his eyes. “Straight to the point, huh?”
“Well, not really, but I think you’ll feel better if you get off your chest what you need to say.” A pause. “Even if it’s not what you necessarily want to say.”
He looked away from her with a shake of his head. “I’m . . . wow.” His eyes connected with hers again. “I thought I’d developed a pretty good poker face at this point. How’d you read me that fast and easy?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t think of it as reading you. But . . .” Brooke tilted her head. “Maybe it’s because deep down you recognize that I’m not really a threat to you. Regardless, I’m here to listen.”
He stared at his half-finished cup of coffee. After another sip, he linked his fingers on the table and leaned forward. “I realize that we only met a few times in passing while we were in Afghanistan, but that day of the bombing . . .”
“You pulled me out of there,” she said, her voice low.
“I did.” He cleared his throat. “Frankly, I wasn’t sure you were going to make it. Your burns looked pretty bad, but I was more concerned about your smoke inhalation.”
Brooke bit her lip, fighting the images that immediately bounded into the forefront of her mind. “The burns were mostly second-degree. A few spots were third on my arms and back and across my shoulders. I won’t be wearing a bathing suit anytime soon.” She rolled her sleeve up and showed him the still-healing areas on her forearms. “It’s been four months and I’m just now feeling up to resuming normal day-to-day operations—or life, I guess I should say, since I’m not serving in the Army anymore.” She rubbed a hand over her eyes as though she could scrub away the memories. It didn’t work. “I tried to get in touch with you. To thank you and your team for getting me out of there. If you hadn’t arrived when you did . . .” She looked away. It was still so very hard to talk about.
“I know.” In a slow move, he slid his hand across the table to grip her fingers. “I’m glad we were there. I got the message—your thank-yous—eventually.”
She frowned even as she took comfort in his touch. “How did you get there so fast? Was it just dumb luck that you guys were in the area and saw what happened?”
“No, we were headed there for a reason.”
“What reason?”
He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. It no longer exists.”
She studied him for a brief moment. “You were going there to see Sergeant Michaels, weren’t you?”
His hand tightened around hers for a fraction of a second, but his only other response was to raise a brow. “What makes you say that?”
“A feeling.” When he said nothing, she closed her eyes. “I still see his face sometimes . . . and hear his voice.”
She lifted her lids to see Asher sitting a little straighter, his eyes narrowed. “He spoke to you in the café?”
“Well, not when he first walked in, but later, yes, briefly. As he was dying.” Her throat tightened.
“What did he say?”
“That he wasn’t a traitor and not to let them say he was.”
He jerked like she’d punched him. “He said that? That he wasn’t a traitor?”
“Yes.” Asher’s reaction intrigued her. “He also said that he didn’t know.”
“Didn’t know what?”
“He never got that far. Just that he didn’t know.” They fell silent and Brooke finally said, “It’s my fault, you know.”
“What is?”
“That he was killed.”
Asher let out a disbelieving laugh. “What? How is that possible? Why would you think that? A terrorist killed him with a bomb planted in the restaurant. A bomb that almost killed you.”
“He came looking for me,” she said, thinking back to her impressions of that day. “He seemed to know I was going to be at the café and he came to find me.”
“How would he know that?”
“It was no secret my friends and I met regularly at that particular café—or as regularly as possible with our crazy schedules.”
“You think he followed you?”
“Yes.” She hesitated. Frowned. “Actually, I know how he knew where to find me.”
“How?”
“I . . . can’t say.”
“He was a client.”
She groaned. “I can’t say.”
“Yeah, you can because he told me himself that he was seeing you.”
“Yes. He didn’t say much, just that listening to you talk was . . . soothing.”
“Soothing?”
“His word, not mine.” He gave her a half smile. “Apparently, you were the only chatty female who didn’t make him crazy.”
“Good grief.” She looked away, the guilt building within her.
“So how would he know where to find you?” Asher asked.
Ugh. Brooke rubbed her eyes. “Sarah called to set up the day and time of our next get-together.”
“The café.”
“Yes. I’m pretty sure Isaiah overheard me and later remembered. Or something.”
Asher shook his head. “But that doesn’t make sense. He had your undivided, confidential attention in your sessions. Why track you down at the bar?”
Brooke paused. How could she put it without violating Isaiah’s right to confidentiality? “Okay, look. A lot of clients ordered to attend the sessions thought coming to see me was a waste of time, so they would sit there until the clock ticked down to the last minute and then leave.”
“Isaiah did that?”
“Yes. And sometimes clients wouldn’t show up at all. Don’t get me wrong, sometimes it was a legitimate excuse, but most of the time, it wasn’t. We had an appointment the day he died—not his regular appointment time, but one he scheduled. I had hoped . . .” She waved a hand. “But, surprise, surprise, he never showed.”
“He skipped it?”
“Yes, and I had just seen him that morning on the base and reminded him of the appointment. He said he’d be there. It wasn’t the first time he ghosted me, or even the second. I wrote it off and figured he got sent out on a mission or something. Then I saw him in the café.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, then dropped her hand. “Which is why I was so mad at him. I thought he had a lot of nerve. I mean, he couldn’t meet me when he was supposed to but wanted me to give up my lunch date with my friends to speak to him? Well, that wasn’t happening.” She rubbed her eyes. “I was so selfish,” she whispered. “But I was also so empty. I had given everything and . . .” A tear dripped from her bottom lashes and she swiped it away. “There was just nothing left to give.”
“I understand,” he said, his voice low.
“Do you? Do you really?”
“Yeah. I do.”
She sniffed and drew in a breath. “Do you know what Isaiah meant when he said not to let them say he was a traitor?”
He slid out of the booth in a smooth move and stood. “I can’t talk about it.” He dropped a five-dollar bill on the table. “Come on and I’ll follow you home, then I’ve got to go.”
“Please, sit back down,” she said. If he walked out the door, she just might have to chase him down, because she had more questions that needed answers.
Asher hesitated and pressed his fingers to his lids. When he finally opened his eyes, she gasped at the exposed torment there. Torment he masked so quickly, she wondered if she’d been seeing things. “Why?” he asked.
“Because you still haven’t told me why you wanted to see me this morning.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters.”
He backed toward the door.
“Um . . . Asher?”
“What?”
“You’re kind of making a scene.” Other patrons were watching them. Some using their peripheral vision, others outright staring.
Asher pulled in a deep breath, then calmly walked back and dropped into the seat. “This was a mistake. I never should have come today.”
“A mistake? Not from where I’m sitting. Your presence this morning makes twice that you’ve saved my life. I’m beginning to think I need to keep you around.”
He gave her a small smile at her attempt to lighten the atmosphere. The smile lasted all of two seconds before sliding into a frown. “I saw the pictures in the paper and I—”
“Wait a minute, you recognized me?”
“Of course. I mean, if someone hadn’t seen you like I did right after the bombing and then later saw the picture, they wouldn’t know who you were. But I did. And . . .”
“And?”
“And . . . I started thinking.” He clasped his hands. “You were there. You know what it was like. And . . . I need feedback from someone like that.”
She frowned. “I wasn’t in combat or anything. What about your buddies who were in your squad?”
His jaw tightened. “I talk to Gavin sometimes—when he’ll talk about it.”
“I see.”
“Anyway, the day of the bombing, as we were heading to the café, there was an attack. Wiped out half our unit. We had to leave them there. Couldn’t even—” He closed his eyes and swallowed. “Of those who are left, they’re scattered. Some are still serving, one’s turned into an alcoholic and is living a life of denial, and I just . . .” He spread his hands before clasping them once more. “You were there. You know. And you have the skills—” He blew out a breath. “Wow, I didn’t know trying to ask for help would be this hard.”
She had been there. She did know. “What is it you need help with?” God help her, she felt like a fraud. She couldn’t deal with her own issues. What made her think she could help him? Instead of blurting out the truth, she swallowed the confession.
“I can’t stop thinking about that day. About Isaiah and—you.”
“Me?”
He nodded.
“Oh,” she said. “Why me?”
He gave her a gentle smile. “Probably because I carried you out of there and I wanted to make sure you were truly okay.”
Brooke studied him. “Uh-huh.”
“What?”
“And?”
“And . . . I thought maybe you could help me deal with some . . . stuff. From that day.”
There. He’d said it. He’d admitted he needed help, and while he was tempted to get up and run out the door, she hadn’t even blinked. Instead, she continued to study him with those unwavering green eyes that had him convinced she could see straight into the deepest, darkest areas of his soul.
“What exactly do you think I can help you with?” she asked.
He cleared his throat as though that would somehow help him release the words. More words. “I have—I mean, some nights I have . . . It’s not so bad when—”
“Nightmares,” she said.
“Yes.” The word was clipped. “Nightmares. I’m okay during the day. As long as I stay pretty busy, I don’t have too many issues. Unless a car backfires or there’s an unexpected scream on the television or someone pulls up next to me at a stoplight or—”
“Or a helicopter flies too low overhead?” she asked.
“Exactly.” His heart rate slowed a notch. She got it.
“But the nights are different.”
It wasn’t a question and this time he didn’t look away. Her low voice was a balm to his agitation. Her presence soothing, comforting. She really got it.
Hope rose its slumbering head. “Very different.”
“So, what do you do when the nightmares hit?”
“If it’s during the day, I deal. If it’s at night and I can’t sleep, I run. What do you do?” He switched from his coffee to the water and lifted the glass to his lips.
“I scream at myself that it’s not real. And . . . I have a punching bag in my basement.”
He sputtered on the water. Coughed and cleared his throat. “A what?”
Amusement glittered in her eyes, and a dimple appeared in her left cheek. The sight warmed him. She gave a small laugh. “Breathe, Asher.”
“I’m breathing,” he gasped. “Barely.”
“Why that reaction? You okay?”
“Yes, but . . . a punching bag? I’m sorry. You’re so . . . calm and gentle and . . . serene. I guess I’m just having a hard time seeing you going at it with a bag.”
“Interesting description of me. Hmm. But I do. Go at it with a bag, that is. Quite frequently actually. My dad taught me to box. Or at least attempted to. I’m afraid I was a huge disappointment to him because I was never very good at it.” She grimaced. “But one night about a month ago, when I couldn’t sleep, I decided to see if punching on the bag helped. I found I liked doing it when I didn’t have someone screaming at me about form and such. It gives me a great workout and allows me to process my feelings and emotions in a very physical way.”
“That’s what running does for me.” He paused. “I may have to try boxing one day.”
“I’ll be glad to give you a lesson.” The dimple briefly appeared again.
“I’d like that. Would you want to go running with me?”
“Only if you have an oxygen tank handy.”
He let out a surprised snort. “Come on. If you work out with a punching bag, going on a run shouldn’t scare you.”
She grimaced. “I haven’t been working out that long, but the truth is, I hate to run.”
He held up a finger. “Ah, but you’ve never run with me.”
“Why would that make a difference? Running is still running.”
“You’ll have to let me prove you wrong. Come running with me.”
“What? When?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
She hesitated. “I don’t know, Asher, I need to wait and see how everything’s going to play out at work.”
He stilled. “Of course. I’m not thinking. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. You’re doing the same thing I’m doing. Compartmentalizing. Trying not to think about Sharon.”
“Or Isaiah.”
“Yes.”
Brooke looked like she wanted to say something. He leaned forward. “What is it?”
“Okay . . . so . . . speaking of running . . . would you like to run an errand with me?” she finally asked.
“What kind of errand?”
“I need to make a delivery and while I’ve not exactly been putting it off—okay, that’s not true. I have been putting it off and telling myself I just haven’t found the right time to do it, but now I’m just sliding into being irresponsible.”
“Seems to me like you’ve been pretty busy healing,” he said.
“Yes. In the beginning. And I used that as an excuse. When I was in the hospital for so long and then getting transitioned back into civilian life and my job . . .” She shifted, looked away, then back at him. “The truth is, I just don’t want to do this errand alone, but I wasn’t sure who to ask to go with me.”
“I’ll go.” He paused. “Where are we going?”
“To see Isaiah Michaels’s widow.”
Asher went still. “You want to go see Miranda?”
“I have something I need to give her.”
“What?”
She opened her purse and pulled out a piece of jewelry. “Before Isaiah died, he slipped this bracelet into my hand. He told me to keep it safe, then said to make sure I told her he wasn’t a traitor.” She took another sip of the coffee the waitress had just topped off. “It’s time for me to do that.”
“I saw the bracelet in the pictures,” Asher said.
Brooke pinched the bridge of her nose. “Those pictures, ugh. I don’t want to think about them.”
He wanted to argue with her about how truly amazing they were—not just the pictures themselves, but what they revealed about her personality, her character. But it was too soon, and she wasn’t ready to hear that all those pictures showed was an incredibly brave woman. He’d save that for another time. “Have you talked to Miranda?”
“I called her the day I left the burn unit. I’ve left voice messages asking her to call me back, but she hasn’t. As the days passed and she didn’t return my calls, I kind of let it go. But . . . I think I owe Isaiah to honor his last request.”
“She’s grieving. Maybe she’s not checking her messages.”
“And not answering numbers she doesn’t recognize. I think it might be best just to drop by and see her. She lives in Columbia, though.”
“That’s an hour-and-a-half drive. Are you sure you want to take a chance on her not being there?”
Brooke shrugged. “It’s not too far and I did a little research. I know she works as a waitress at a local diner and she’s off on Tuesdays and Wednesdays and every other Saturday. And she doesn’t live on the base.”
“How’d you find that out?”
“She’s not in Columbia but in a small town adjacent to the city. I knew the name of the church she and Isaiah went to, and when I called and explained to the secretary who I was and that I had something from Isaiah to give to Miranda, she was more than willing to share information.” She sighed. “But I don’t want to bother her at work. Showing up unannounced there seems like a bad idea.”
“Yeah, home is better. She can cry there and not worry she’s making a scene or something.”
“Well, there is that, I suppose.”
“All right. Tomorrow’s Wednesday. I’ll be happy to go with you. You want to drive or you want me to?”
“Um . . . you can, I guess.” She paused. “But I have a question before we go any further.”
“What?”
“When you scheduled the appointment for this morning, were you wanting a long-term counseling thing or were you just coming to see me because you saw my picture in the paper?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “To be honest, I hadn’t thought much beyond today. Why?”
“Because I don’t work with vets,” she said. “That was one of my stipulations with Marcus. I’d come work with him if he wouldn’t assign me any vets.”
Asher’s heart plunged. “I see.” He frowned. “Then how did I get this appointment for this morning with you?”
“Did you ask for me?”
“Yes.”
“And did you mention to Sharon that you were a vet?”
“No. I just told her that you and I had some history and that I’d like to see you. I didn’t mention it was from the Army, and she didn’t ask where I knew you from.”
“Patient assignments are decided strictly by what’s on the paperwork—or if the client mentions it on the phone.”
“Ah,” he said. “Well, I hadn’t filled out any paperwork yet.”
“Right.” His mind spun. She didn’t work with vets. Fine. “Well, looks like I won’t be a client then.” He stood. “You ready to go home?”
With only a slight hesitation that hinted at her uncertainty, she nodded. “Sure.”
Asher led the way to the parking lot. “So, how’d you meet this guy, Marcus Lehman?” he asked when they reached their vehicles.
“I’ve known him all my life.” She gestured to his truck. “It doesn’t bother you to drive?”
He shot her a quick glance. “What do you mean?”
“A lot of clients have trouble driving once they’re home and trying to adapt to civilian life.”
His jaw tightened. He knew what she was referring to. “It’s okay most of the time. Other times, it makes me sweat.” Because in Afghanistan, when someone pulled up beside you, it meant they were going to kill you. Or at least try to. “I know no one here is going to pull up beside me and start shooting. Or throw an explosive at me. I know that.”
“I know you do. Just like I know the ceiling fan in my bedroom isn’t a helicopter, but it doesn’t stop me from thinking about tearing the thing out.”
He barked a short laugh. “Yeah.” They fell silent before he cleared his throat. “Climb in for a few more minutes. I want you to finish telling me about you and Marcus, and it’s cold out here.”
She did as he asked and her gaze landed on the opened bag of trail mix in the cupholder. “Oh, I love that stuff.”
“Help yourself.”
“Thanks.” She tossed back a handful and crunched it while he settled himself behind the wheel.
“So . . . Marcus?” he asked.
After a short pause during which she scarfed more of his trail mix, she finally let out a low breath. “Our fathers served in the Army together and are best friends,” she said. “Marcus and I were born two days apart, so even though we moved a lot when I was a kid, Marcus and I ended up in the same high school graduating class. Then we both wound up at the Medical University of South Carolina and hung out a lot, had all-night study sessions with a couple of other military brats, and were just good friends.”
“Nothing more?”
She shook her head. “He’s been in love with Christine Blake since eighth grade and married her four years ago. But he always had it in his head we’d open a practice and be partners. However, at the time, I wasn’t interested.”
“Why not?”
“I wanted to join the Army.”
“And he didn’t?”
“No way. He was all about working for himself and not taking orders from anyone.”
“Dictator Dad syndrome?”
“Yeah.”
“Yours wasn’t?”
“He was. Still is.” She shot him a wry smile. “But I have a different personality than Marcus. I just let it roll off. Most of the time anyway.”
He cut her a sideways glance. “He tells you what to do, you smile and nod, then do your own thing?”
“Pretty much.” Her lips twitched and she ate another handful of his trail mix. “This stuff is so addictive.”
“No kidding.”
It wasn’t long before she’d finished off the bag. With a guilty glance at him, she crumpled the plastic and shoved it into a small garbage bag she saw in the door pocket. “Guess I need to stop at a grocery store on the way home and replenish your stash.”
“Don’t worry. I buy it in bulk.”