All of it. Ten years of it.
It was buried in four empty graves. It was in the smile he’d lost. It was in the words he couldn’t find.
It was over. Nearly a decade of his life, taken away in a single day.
It was over. It was gone. He watched it walk away under a bright blue sky, because even fucking God couldn’t be bothered enough to make it rain.
The pain was everything, and everywhere, and it consumed Aberlour completely.
He stood there frozen in place, watching the crowd leave the cemetery and drive away. He felt nothing at all, and everything at once. He was immobile. Might have been forever, hadhenot interfered.
“You’re not attending the wake?”
A husky male voice splintered his thoughts, and Aberlour turned to face the newcomer.
“Major O’Reilly,” Aberlour responded automatically. O’Reilly looked the same. Stoic and commanding, but his startlingly bright, azure blue eyes were filled with grief and pity. Abe couldn’t bear to look into them.
“Thank you for coming,” he said sincerely.
“I shouldn’t have had to.” O’Reilly’s anger was genuine. “I spoke with my superior—the Marines have their own procedures, but Major General Baron has a shit track record. Too many lives, too much—”
But Aberlour couldn’t hear it. Not now. He raised his hand to request silence, and O’Reilly’s eyes widened in surprise.
“They’re already dead,” he said tersely, exhausted and weighted down by that reality.
“And you don’t want revenge?” O’Reilly asked, sounding appalled. Abe didn’t blame him. He’d called him up in a panic, ready to burn down the world no matter the cost, and now? What the hell was he now, beyond spilled guts and failed hope?
“Short of shooting myself, I wouldn’t find it,” Aberlour replied, realizing immediately that there was no one else to whom he could admit that. That harsh statement was too jarring, too crude, tooworryingfor the common man, but Shawn? Major Shawn O’Reilly, who’d seen the abyss that was human nature? What was death to men like them—self-inflicted or otherwise—but simply a delayed reality?
“Have a drink with me?” O’Reilly asked. His anger faded, his gaze shielded, like perhaps he knew his pity would not be well-received.
And Abe remembered the way Shawn had looked at him once. Not with pity but with longing. Like perhaps, Aberlour was something someone could want. And for an instant, he considered it; but then—
“No, thank you,” he said, shaking his head. “Not today.” It wasn’t a permanent refusal, but it was far from anything they both desired. Aberlour just wasn’t sure he deserved anything; not right now, at any rate.
For a moment, it looked as if O’Reilly might attempt to persuade him—to push him a little, but then smiled sadly and nodded his understanding.
“I’ll see you around then,” he said, not a question, but a promise. A silent “don’t do it” was attached to his offer.
Aberlour gave him a brisk nod of confirmation—it was all he could manage, because he was very much afraid to promise anything for fear it might prove him to be a liar somewhere down the line.
Chapter 29
Present day
May 2020
After about another hour, his phone fell silent. Relieved to find the buzzing had stopped, he placed it on the table next to his empty glass.
The screen flashed a message that he had four missed calls, and one voicemail, but he made no move to see who’d been calling. He played with the empty glass in his hand, wondering if Scella would pour him another if he asked nicely enough.
“If you hit the bull’s eye from here, the next one is on the house,” the bartender said, as if summoned by his thoughts. He turned sideways in his chair to look at her. She was young, and far too pretty to be in a bar like this, but with one hand on her hip and a bottle of scotch in the other, she also seemed right at home. And he was damned thirsty.
Wordlessly, he picked up one of the darts he’d set down on the table and threw it at the board.
It sunk right in the middle with little fanfare.
She gave a low whistle, as though impressed, and with a sigh, proceeded to pour him another one.
