Rome (Marked Men, #3)(16)

Rule had a valid point, but he didn’t understand that what I was battling against was so much bigger and harder to process than coming to terms with the fact that Remy and our parents had lied. I had so much death, so much blood in my dreams, that Rule would never be able to relate to it. No one would.

I blew out a heavy breath and slammed my hat back down on my head, wincing a little as the interior scraped across my newly acquired wound.

“I wish it was that easy for me.” I reached out and punched him in the shoulder. “Seriously I’ll talk to Shaw and try and lay off the doom and gloom. Being Captain No-Fun really is no fun.”

Rule rolled his winter-colored eyes and went to reach for the handle on the glass door we had been standing in front of. “Ignore Cora. We do all the time. She’s a handful.”

She did indeed look like the perfect handful, but I don’t think Rule would appreciate me saying that. I wasn’t even sure why I was thinking it.

“I really am sorry about the emergency room. I was pretty drunk and had lost a ton of blood; plus it’s embarrassing. There’s no way some scrawny biker prospect should’ve been able to get that good of a lick in the first place. Speaking of which, I have to roll to the bar and make amends. The owner took care of my bike, and when I went to collect it he wouldn’t take a dime for the repairs to his place. He told me to swing by today and we could work something else out. He’s a really legit guy, so I need to make it right by him as well.”

“Cool, but next time you get cut open, call me. Put the shop number in your phone so that you can get in touch with me during the day. I don’t answer my cell when I’m with clients. Cora can get me if you need me.”

I tapped the number in my phone and regarded my brother seriously.

“We good?”

His eyes were so much cooler than mine, so much more guarded, and I could tell he wasn’t a hundred percent on board with forgiving me just yet.

“For now we are.”

It didn’t sound like he had much hope for me being able to act right in the foreseeable future. I didn’t like that at all. He told me he needed to get to his client, so we said good-bye and I found myself looking back through the glass to get another glimpse of the intriguing blonde. Too bad she had her back to me and appeared to be deep in conversation with Nash about something. I turned and went back to where I left my bike on the street to head down to Brite’s bar.

I asked him the name of the place when I went to pick up my bike on the day after the Fourth, and he said it was called whatever I wanted to call it. The place had no official name, no signage, nothing. He told me most of the regulars just called it the Bar. That worked for me and it fit the simple, no-frills ambience of the place. So did the primarily classic rock that rattled off the old sound system Brite kept behind the bar. Plus he said that when most of the regulars grumbled to their pissed-off spouses that they were headed to the Bar, the vagueness of the name offered them a little breathing room while the angry wives called around town looking for which bar exactly.

When I got there, I was surprised that there was already a line of older guys seated at the bar top. I was having to work really hard at not disappearing into a bottle every night, and seeing them was a stark reminder that I could very well be them if I didn’t get it together sooner rather than later. I didn’t want to be the lonely guy at the bar before noon, no one wondering where I was, no one concerned about my well-being, no place better to be or nothing better to do, with the bottom of a glass offering my only absolution. It didn’t escape my notice that a lot of Brite’s regular clientele, the guys that had been in here steadily since I wandered in a few days ago, were ex-military. The last thing I wanted was to become just one more … of anything.

The big man caught my eye from behind the bar and waved me over. I tried not to cringe when I had to walk over the lovely rust-colored stain that spread across the old wooden floor, courtesy of yours truly. I whipped my hat off, because even though we were from two different branches, and I probably outranked him in the reality of things, there was just something about Brite that demanded you show respect. I don’t know if it was the eyes, so dark and serious, or that epic beard, but I had enough years in the service to know when to show proper regard for a fellow serviceman.

I leaned up against the end of the bar. I figured that kept me from looking like the sorry sacks that were posted up at it, already three or four rounds in.

“Thanks again for watching the bike, and the run to the ER. I really do appreciate it. I wish you would let me pay you for the damages.”

I had more money in savings than I knew what to do with. I wasn’t married, there wasn’t a girlfriend, I didn’t have kids, or a house and a dog, so while I was deployed, all I had to cover was the Harley and my truck. I wasn’t a millionaire by any stretch of the imagination, but until I figured out what in the hell I was going to do with myself for the foreseeable future, I most definitely had enough stockpiled to live on comfortably. I could clean up the mess I made in the Bar and not even notice it was gone. Only Brite just shook his shaggy head, and that rueful grin split his beard.

“I don’t need your money, son.”

I lifted the eyebrow that was under the scar, it was the only one I could arch independently, so I did it a lot.

“No? Well, what did you mean when you said we could work something out?”