And Trask hated being wrong.
Add to those circumstances that he’d ended up here, employed but not even a business owner. So why, exactly, washe bothering being an employee, instead of going off to find something on his own?
It was time he had that discussion with his brothers now that Buck was back from his honeymoon. Trask’s exact job description needed to be decided quickly, because if Diver Downeast looked like it would be a good fit for him, hewouldbe hunting for that place to live. If not? Maybe he’d travel. Who the hell knew?
One thing was certain, however. Christmas was coming fast, and he needed to be out of the house, ASAP.
If he had to watch his mother over-the-top decorate, filling the place with sugar and spice, he’d probably lose his mind.
Christmas had, in the initial twenty years he’d served as a Marine, been just another day. War and conflict didn’t stop for holidays. For the last ten that Trask had been employed by Uncle Sam as an officer, he’d spent much of his time stateside at a desk, not in the field. At that point, the 25thof December in California had simply been a rare day where he could ignore everybody, put his feet up, and relax.
But that desk job had been the bane of his existence, and the smallest part of the reason he’d finally…separated from the Marines. He wasn’t a man who was designed to sit still. Which is what it felt like he’d been doing for the past couple years.
He didn’t want to make the same mistake here, where he’d been twiddling his thumbs for over two weeks.
That had to change.
Trask padded off to the bathroom on bare feet, making little noise as he brushed his teeth and took care of business. His mind made up, he’d head downstairs, toss a few things around with his father, then go for a run and take a shower. After that he’d seek out and confront Spence and Buck to see if they had a concrete plan for him.
He wasn’t used to this…bullshit; not being in charge, following others’ orders. But this was his new reality, and he either had to suck it up, or get the hell out of town.
“Hey Pops,” Trask greeted as he descended the well-worn staircase into the kitchen.
“Good morning, son,” his father returned, pouring himself a bowl of cereal. He shook the box. “You want some?”
“Sure.” Trask readily agreed. Even though it went against his new “getting his own food” edict.Meh.Cereal didn’t count.
His father grabbed a bowl out of the cupboard above his head, and poured a second helping.
Retrieving the milk from the fridge, as well as a couple spoons and napkins, Trask made his way over to the large, scarred wooden table that had seen so many Sothards come and go, and sat down.
He smirked, running a finger over a particularly deep gouge that lay inches from the edge. One that he remembered well.
His father laughed, watching him.
“You reminiscing?” Guy asked with a shake of his head and a grin.
“You know it,” Trask snorted, following the groove. “I thought Vincent would be grounded forever for this.”
Vincent, the loosest of cannons in the Sothard brood, had, back in the day—and unbeknownst to anyone—taken up knife throwing. He’d been eight at the time, and needless to say, it had been a completely unsanctioned activity. He’d somehow managed to steal away several of his mother’s kitchen knives, which he’d taken out into the woods behind the property’s big barns for practice on a stump.
Apparently, he’d been at it for just over a week when he’d self-proclaimed himself an “expert”.
As a surprise to the family, he’d decided to show off his newfound talent, and had smuggled a knife into breakfast one morning, keeping it hidden in his lap until the perfect moment.
Everyone had been seated, and a large bowl of freshly picked apples sat on the table, front and center.
Thathad been Vincent’s target as he abruptly stood.
It had started out okay; the knife had left his fingers adroitly, but… He’d missed the top apple by a fraction of an inch, and the blade headed straight toward fifteen-year-old Trask who’d just gotten to his feet at the other end of the table to reach for a piece of fruit.
If Trask’s father hadn’t had superhero-fast-parent-reflexes, Trask might have lost his masculinity that day…because that precious package was where the weapon had been headed. But thanks to Guy Sothard, the knife had been swatted from its ill-fated trajectory, permanently scarring the table instead of Trask’s junk.
“Vincent’s still the same,” Guy chuckled. “I almost expect him to attempt those same types of shenanigans, today.” His father took a bite, then chewed, contemplatively.
Trask waited to hear what else his dad had to say, because clearly his father was winding up for something.
“You, on the other hand,” Guy pondered, “are not the boy who left here so many years ago, even though you’ve pretended well when you’ve been here on leave.”
