Jack dug his fingers into the wooden top of the bench, still too close to Lynn’s shoulder. If he had claws, he’d be gouging that wood. His chest heaved as he glared between them like they were the problem, then finally spat words Lance had not been braced for. “What’s this bullshit about Sheriff Morty beingarrestedat your stupid hospital? I heard they were chargin’ him with attempted murder!”
Something clanged as an almost comical series of gasps went through the diner, followed by more murmurs of semi-respectfully hushed conversations.
Lance ground his teeth.You have got to be fucking kidding me.
Lynn raised her chin. “It’s making me more than a little angry that you’re interrupting my personal time to yell at me over that like it’s my fault, Jack.” She did not do him the courtesy of speaking quietly, and Lance loved her more for it. “I have no control over Morty Parker’s actions or the charges he earns himself.”
Jack slammed his hand down onto the wood. “It’s fuckin’ bullshit!”
“Bullshit!” George echoed.
Lynn flinched, just a bit, almost undoubtedly on reflex, when the loud slap of Jack’s hand on wood carried through the air. But that was enough.
Lance pushed out from his seat, forcing George to stumble back, and stood to his full height. Neither old timer could match his six feet, let alone the pissed off aura he’d long honed to perfection. “I gave you multiple chances to mind your manners, Jack. I asked clearly, you even acknowledged my words, but instead you went and continued encroaching.”
“Fuck off,” Jack said, raising his other hand and flipping Lance off as if Lance were only trying to intimidate him.
Lance crowded into his space, reached over, and physically removed the stubborn old man’s hand from the bench top. Using his grip on the man’s wrist he walked the man backwards until the old man was parallel with the unoccupied aisle table nearest their seat. He didn’t let go as the man attempted to pull his arm free, and he didn’t lower his voice when he spoke. “The hospital ain’t up to shit, Jack. Morty went off the deep end the other day, walked into a fully functioning hospital in broad daylight, and madethreeattempts to end a life. So yeah, he got his ass landed in jail where he fucking belongs. Any other questions?”
Jack glared back at him. “How the hell would you know that, stranger?”
Lance released the old man and held up a hand, two fingers raised. “Because I was two of those attempts.” He swore the whole damn diner went quiet for a moment.
Jack’s eyes widened.
George, of course, couldn’t stay out of it. “You’re lying!”
Lance turned his head to lock eyes with George, not bothering to step away from Jack. “You have a lot of nerve tossing that around, when webothknow the liar in this conversation isyou. George.”
George’s face turned red with anger. “The fuck are you talking about, boy? Who are you to even accuse me of—”
“Oh, I amsoglad you asked,” Lance interrupted. He dipped two fingers beneath his shirt collar and scooped up the identification tags that still hung around his neck, holding them out so the tags dangled for curious eyes to see. He kept his own stare firmly fixed on George’s face while the older man slowly realized what he’d stepped into. “Master Gunnery Sergeant Lance Blackburn, United States Marine Corps. That’s who the fuck I am.” Lance let the tags fall against his shirt front.
The diner had gone breathlessly silent. Even Jack of Asses had ceased his blustering.
Lance kept his narrow-eyed glare on George. “Word is you’ve been telling everybody and their mothers how your son was KIA. Funny thing, ‘cause Jon’s a damn good buddy of mine, and I talked to him just this morning.”
George’s nostrils flared as he sucked in a breath, his fists clenching, his expression saying he wanted to argue.
“But you knew he was still alive,” Lance continued. “You were the one who passed along the letter his mama left him just the other day, the one that led Jon to his inheritance. Weren’t you, Georgey?”
“It’sGeorge,” the man spat.
Several voices started talking at once and a chair squeaked against the floor.
“Is that true?” an elderly woman’s voice asked, calling from halfway across the diner.
Lance finally looked away from the old asshole he knew he wouldn’t punch, if only for the man’s age and frailty. He found himself taking in a gray-haired woman in a peasant dress with pain written all over her face. She stood beside a sideways chair and a table with two other occupants—one male, one female—while she lifted a hand to clench it over her chest.
“Is it true,” she repeated, settling her wide stare on Lance, “that Jon Johnson is still alive?”
More murmurs carried as if Lance’s words hadn’t been shocking enough.
Lance attempted a more friendly smile for the woman he harbored no ill will toward. “Yes, ma’am. The story of his death was a fabrication he never even knew about until last week.”
Scandalized gasps and voices too loud to qualify as murmurs followed the declaration.
George let loose a furious growl. “You impertinent son of a bitch! How dare you—”
