Rome (Marked Men, #3)(5)

I felt her laugh and she reached up to squeeze the hand I had thrown over her shoulder. The sky lit up with a bunch of different colors and male laughter floated up from the yard.

“Sometimes I feel selfish. I got everything I ever wanted and it isn’t always perfect but the good days always outnumber the bad. I feel like I’m not allowed to ask for more.” She sighed so heavy I could feel it. “Now Rome thinks it’s all a joke and that hurts, I don’t know why he’s so mad. I’ve loved Rome like a brother as long as I can remember, so it hurts in more ways than one.”

“It’ll work itself out, you’ll see.” And I would be happy to help it along if I had to.

She was quiet for a really long time and we just watched the mini-explosions and smiled at the boys, who were clearly having a blast. Maybe one of us should have mentioned that drinking and fireworks weren’t a great idea, but Captain No-Fun was gone and I wasn’t going to be the good-time police.

“Did I ever tell you that you’re the smartest person I know, Cora?” Shaw’s voice was quiet but I took it as a compliment considering the girl was well on her way to becoming a doctor.

“I just call it like I see it.”

I did. I was from the East Coast, downtown Brooklyn to be exact, and I was the only child of a career sailor who had no clue what to do with his rebellious daughter. I loved my dad, he was my only blood relative, and I knew that he loved me in return. But we didn’t connect, and as a result, I learned from a young age to speak plainly and not pull any punches. It was the only way the two of us could communicate. So if someone needed to get to Rome Archer and tell him to get his fool head out of his ass, I was more than willing to be the person to do it. I didn’t idolize him, I wasn’t scared of him, and whether he was a giant or not, I wasn’t going to stand by and let him continue to cause so much grief for the people I cared so much about.





CHAPTER 2



Rome


I couldn’t believe that crazy little sprite had the nerve to dump beer on my head. First of all, she barely came up to my shoulder, and second of all, she looked like a walking, talking piece of candy. Everything about her was so colorful it almost hurt to look at her.

I should be furious at her, but she was right, I was an *. There was no reason to talk shit to Nash, no reason to get into it with Rule. I was just looking for a target to vent my frustrations at and those were the people closest to me. Maybe it was easier to unleash my aggravation at them, because I knew instinctively they would forgive me. I needed to find a place to have a drink and try and get my head together. A place that was dark and quiet and where no one expected me to be anything, or act a certain way. I was tired of not meeting expectations. I was not an idle man by nature. I was used to action, used to being in charge and taking the lead, and the only things I had managed to be on top of since coming back to Denver was pissing off everyone I encountered and drinking my considerable body weight in vodka. I was on a downhill slide that was bound to have an ugly-as-hell impact at the bottom and I knew it, but I felt powerless to stop it. Today was the proof of that.

I pulled into the first bar that looked like it could handle the mood I was in. Independence Day, my left nut. I had had about enough of the revelry and good cheer to last me a lifetime. I just wanted to bury my head in the sand and go back to a point in time that felt comfortable and familiar. I hated feeling like a visitor in my own life, and no matter what I told myself when I woke up in the morning each day, I couldn’t shake feeling like everything I had come back to after my contract with the army was up was a life that belonged to someone else. My family didn’t feel right. The new dynamic in my relationship with Rule didn’t feel right. Trying to get used to Shaw being taken care of by my wayward and reckless little brother didn’t feel right. Crashing with Nash while I tried to get my shit straight didn’t feel right. Not having a job lined up or any clear direction of how to support myself doing something other than fighting a war quite possibly felt the most wrong out of it all.

The bar was dark and not a place for those out for a fun Fourth-of-July cocktail. In the back, around several well-used pool tables, was a bunch of guys in biker gear sporting colors and looking like they meant business. Toward the front were several older men who looked like they never even got off the bar stool to go home and shower. Neil Young was blasting on the house speakers even though no one seemed like the type to sing along. This was not a place for the hip and trendy urbanites that flocked to Capitol Hill when the weather finally warmed up. I took a spot on an empty seat at the bar top and waited for the guy manning the bar to wander down to me.

He was almost my size, which was rare, only he had a solid thirty years on me. He had a beard that looked like it could be the home to a whole family of squirrels, eyes the color of charcoal, and the grim countenance that could only be found in men who had seen the worst the world had to offer and come out the other side. I wasn’t surprised at all to see a marine tattoo inked on his bulky forearm when he propped himself up across from me and put down a battered coaster in front of me. I saw him size me up, but I was used to it. I was a big guy and other big guys liked to figure out if I was going to be the kind of trouble they could handle or not.

“Boy, you already smell like a brewery. You sure you need to have another one?”

I frowned until I remembered the little blonde pouring her beer over my head. She could have found a better way to make her point, I thought as I remembered the soggy state of my T-shirt. I didn’t know what to make of Cora Lewis. She was around a lot. We never really talked much. She was too loud and tended toward the dramatic, hence the Coors Light shower I had just received. Being around her made my head hurt and I didn’t like the way her mismatched eyes seemed to try and pick me apart.