Hetch (Men OF S.W.A.T #1)(87)

My body locks at the sound of his name.

“Ahh, yeah,” I ease out, hoping she didn’t notice the change in me at his name. “It can’t hurt to involve him, give him a more active role as a mentor around here. I’ll have a word with him, see what he thinks.” I step away from her, effectively ending the conversation of Hetch. My earlier need resurfacing right now is not what I need.

“Okay, I’m leading rec time today. I better get out there.”

She walks out without a backward glance, leaving me alone with too many thoughts and too many concerns.

Later in my shift, another text comes through. I contemplate ignoring it, but curiosity gets the better of me.



Hetch: I know you don’t want to hear this, but my cock is hard for you right now, thinking about the last time I had you.



Seriously, I’m screwed.





Thirty-One





Hetch





“Hetch?” The knock comes through the wall unexpectedly, causing a spike in my heart rate. I just got home after a long twelve-hour shift where my SWAT team were smashed with high-risk arrest warrants most of the day. After receiving an elbow to the jaw from some cracked-up meth head, my head still pounds, and my body aches from tackling said meth head down a flight of stairs. But as much as I want to sleep for the next two days straight, the sound of my name coming through the wall takes every one of my issues away.

“Yeah, sweetheart?” I sit up in my bed and move closer to the wall. Normally. I'm the one who instigates these talks, but something tells me after my risqué text today, she’s finally coming around. Perhaps knowing I still get a hard-on for her was all she needed to hear?

“Do you ever have days where you think you don’t know what the hell you’re doing?” Her voice is quiet, unsure, and a little unsteady.

“Ha, you do know who you’re talking to, right?”

She lets out a shaky laugh before clearing her throat. “I’m serious, Hetch.”

“What’s going on, Liberty?” There’s a pause on her end before she replies.

“I’m worried about Mitch. He’s pulling away, and I don’t know what to do.”

“What’s been happening?”

“Sue found a pocketknife in his room today. When she took it off him, he freaked out, said it was for protection.”

“You think his brother is pressing him?” I don’t doubt he might try, but with an arrest warrant out for him, the dickhead would be stupid to try anything.

“He said he isn’t, but I don’t know if I believe him. I think he’s hiding something.”

“Sometimes you just have to trust they will come to you when they need you, Lib. He’s not a kid, you know? He’s a young man, and if he’s going to make something of himself, you need to realize he has to make mistakes, and he has to learn from them.”

“He had a pocketknife, Hetch.” I understand her concern, but I only spoke to Mitch two days ago. We had our normal one-on-one time; and like all our other sessions, he was polite and talked about school with ease. He assured me his brother hadn’t been hassling him.

“So did I at that age. And I lived at home with my parents. He lives in a group home setting. You have to realize these boys are never going to be normal teenagers. They're bound to slip up, most kids do.”

“I know. It’s just, I–I don’t know. I’m probably over thinking it. I worry about him.”

“I know you do. It’s one of your strengths, but also one of your weaknesses.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I can’t see her face, but I can just imagine it pinched, eyebrows raised in a “how dare you say that” way.

“You know what it means, B. It’s great you care. I love that about you. But sometimes I worry you’re too close. My dad was the same with his kids when he was a youth counselor. He’d become so invested, they were almost as important to him as Kota and I were.” I pause, amazed I didn’t freeze up. “It didn’t upset us, but sometimes I wondered why he cared so much when he had his own family.”

“You know, that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you talk freely about your dad,” she states cautiously, and I can hear she’s unsure if she should even bring it up.

“Yeah, well, the quack I’ve been seeing seems to be helping.” My laugh is forced, uneasiness weighing my body down.

“You’re seeing someone?” Her tone is hopeful, and I can’t help feel it along with her.

“Yeah, it’s helping. A lot.”

“I’m glad, Hetch. That’s really good.”

“I’m trying hard here, sweetheart,” I offer all I can.

“Will you tell me about him? Your dad, I mean.” I don’t answer right away, too busy focusing on my raised heartbeat and trying to ease it.

“Ahh, what do you want to know?” I answer when I’ve managed to clear my throat, and push down my anxiety.

“What was his name?”

It’s a simple question. Easy enough to answer, but still, it takes a few beats before I can.

“Samuel. Sam for short.” The same ache that’s rooted deep within me whenever I think about him starts to throb. Only this time, I’m not going to bury it. Instead, I’m going to let myself feel it, allow myself to mourn. If I’ve learned anything in my sessions with Dr. Anderson, it’s that death is something you never heal from. Unlike how a scab heals, or a scar fades, the absence of someone you love never disappears. His death will be a part of my life forever, a part of me. And if I want to prove to Liberty I’m the man she deserves, then I need to let it be a part of us too.