“She’s in healthcare?” Grant asked.
“Trauma surgeon. Never though I’d meet a girl as immune to seeing blood and guts as I am.”
“Does she know what a giant nerd you are?”
Rusty grinned. “Wait till you meet her.” He took out his wallet and held up a card for Grant to see. “You can reach me at this number anytime. There will always be a place for you at my company. I’m going to put it here. You mull it over. The offer does not expire.” Rusty set his business card on the rolling tray table next to Grant’s hospital bed. “Once you’re out of here, and you need a place to crash, reach out.” And remember, if you need a job,” he tapped the card with his index finger, “you’ve got one.” Rusty stood and put his mask back over his face. “For now, concentrate on getting better. Even if you’re not in the army, you can still protect your country and everyone in it.”
“Thanks, brother,” Grant said. His eyelids grew heavy again and they closed on their own.Must be the morphine. The door clicked softly behind Rusty as he left. Grant opened his eyes and read the text on Rusty’s card: Redmond Guardian Service. Grant chuckled to himself. Him? A bodyguard? He could never. He was a Sergeant. A team leader. He protected whole companies of men, not rich movie stars and trust fund politicians.
Grant spotted the TV remote on the edge of the tray table and tried to reach for it, but the effort of sitting up wracked his body with pain. He lay back into his pillow, frustrated.
He’d seen men blown up by grenades and mines, men shot full of holes with machine gun bullets while on routine patrols. He knew he was lucky to have survived with all of his limbs still attached. His own father and brother hadn’t been so lucky. Grant also knew that leading a team took a strong, functioning body that didn’t wince when reaching for a television remote. He was probably kidding himself to think he’d ever be reinstated in his old position. He might get a desk job. Handling records, passing out orders or overseeing supplies. Clerical work. The kind of job he’d refused when he turned down his grandfather’s offer to run the hardware store. A back-office job that involved tallying inventory and scheduling employees. He frowned. Desk jobs weren’t for him. He would heal, and he’d want to be back out in the field. Any field. Maybe, even, a civilian field.
Grant picked up Rusty’s card, running his thumb along the tagline beneath the name of the business: “Protecting Your Life With Our Lives.” He set the card on top of his personal items on the nightstand to the side of his bed. Maybe it didn’t matter if he was protecting soldiers’ lives or civilian lives, as long as he continued to walk in his father’s and brother’s footsteps.
