Page 4 of Battle Scars

“He needs a bodyguard for his daughter, also named Adrienne, like the French spelling,” he says.

“Extra fuck no then,” I reply. “Send one of the boys.”

“He said no-go on that,” he answers. “Only the best for his only daughter.”

“Love that for him, but he’s not going to get what he wants,” I bark.

“Gabe…”

“What part of no don’t you get?”

“He wants the boss,” Manny says quietly.

“All right, then you go.”

“Are you shitting me?” His dark brows shoot sky high on his face. “Maria would fucking kill me. I didn’t make it out of Kandahar for my wife to slit my throat in my sleep.”

“And why would she want to kill you, Manny?” I ask already knowing I won’t like his answer.

“Dude, do you live under a fucking rock?” he asks. The exasperation is evident in his tone of voice. I just stare at him, silently asking if he’s new here. “Right, I forgot, you do. If it doesn’t happen in the office, the field, or the gym, you don’t care. Well, let me fill you in. Adrienne the daughter is a fucking babe. She’s on posters in every straight man’s room from ages thirteen to seventy-five, and probably most girl’s rooms too. She’s that fucking sexy.”

“But she’s a driver?” I ask, feeling confused.

“Yes, she’s one of the best professional drivers out there and she’s got a body that could make a grown man cry,” he says, eyes wide.

“This is sounding kind of unprofessional,” I tell him, feeling itchy on the back of my neck. But the last thing I want to do is squirm in front of someone who’s known me long enough to know when something riles an emotion out of me.

“Oh, we’re going to treat her like a professional,” he says. “I’m just telling you that I can’t go because I’m married. So, you’re going.”

“I’m also married,” I tell him, and he gives me a sad look. I’m tired of the pity I see on everyone’s faces when Macy or my marriage is mentioned.

She lived, she died, and I love her.

I loved her. I don’t fucking know.

I run my palms over my face and sigh. “Fine. I’ll go, but this is bullshit.”

THREE

DEATHMATCH STYLE

ADRIENNE

Torrey Pines, California

As I sink into the tub, all I feel is sheer panic. There’s no other way to describe the emotions that wash over me as realization hits. Warm water and bath oils do little to resolve the tension that’s been slowly creeping up my neck and shoulders. This will ruin my lifelong friendship with Bobby.

I take a deep breath through my nose and push it out through my mouth. It does nothing. I reach over the side of the tub for my wine glass and when I pick it up, it’s empty, so I grab the bottle and pour the remainder into my glass. For a split second, I consider just chugging it out of the bottle—it’s been that kind of a day. I let go of the long, slim glass bottle, and it drops to the floor, the plush bathmat over the tile muffling its fall.

“I’ve decided to retire.”

I keep hearing my Dad’s firmly spoken words play through my head over and over again. My chest feels tight, and it’s difficult to breathe.

How could he do this to me? To Bobby? There’s no way our friendship is going to survive this.

When Bobby’s mom, Marsha, started working in the front office for my dad, I was six and Bobby was eight. His dad was never in the picture, so mine always tried to take him under his wing. I’ll never forget the look on Bobby’s face the first time he said something about racing that made Dad sit up and take notice of the man he was becoming. And I’ll also never forget the look on Dad’s face when Bobby told him that he wanted to learn to drive.

I’ll admit I was jealous. I was used to being the center of my parents’ whole world, but still, Bobby was a welcome playmate at my tender age. I’d hoped my parents would give me a brother or sister, but it just wasn’t in the cards.