Only Love
Page 25
He returned the smile, and I thought to myself, Nothing can ruin tonight.
Cue drunk asshole.
April brought us over to the car, a black Lexus sedan, which was parked along the circular drive in front of the inn. “Mr. and Mrs. Fox, this is Ryan Woods. He’s part of our crew here, and even though he’s not on duty at the moment, he’s going to help you out.”
The couple looked to be about my parents’ age, early sixties maybe. They were well-dressed, and the woman wore quite a bit of jewelry. “How nice,” she said with a chuckle. “I’m afraid Chad isn’t much good at these things.”
“Got people to do those things for me,” boomed Mr. Fox, whose sweaty face shone in the inn’s porch lights. He was clearly unsteady on his feet.
“Can you open the trunk please?” Ryan was all business.
Mr. Fox managed to pop the trunk open, and Ryan lifted up the floor, revealing the spare. Shrugging off his jacket, he tossed it aside, and I hurried over to pick it up off the grass.
“Can you do it?” Mrs. Fox asked.
“Yeah.” He rolled up his sleeves in quick, masculine motions that turned me on, revealing his muscular forearms and wrists.
“Oh, you have a tattoo,” said Mrs. Fox. “Our grandson has one of those.”
“The damn fool,” said Mr. Fox.
I thought I saw Ryan’s brow furrow, but I couldn’t be sure. He was walking around the car, putting something in front of the wheels.
“Well, I should get back inside,” April said. “Thanks a million, Ryan. Nice meeting you, Stella.”
I nodded. “You too.”
“Do you work here too?” Mrs. Fox asked me.
“No. Just visiting.”
“And you’re some kind of mechanic?” Mr. Fox squinted at Ryan, who was using a long metal wrench to remove some bolts from the flat tire. It was clear from the man’s tone what he thought of mechanics.
“No,” Ryan answered.
“He’s a handyman, dear. Isn’t that what she said?”
Ryan ignored them, using his foot to stomp down on the wrench.
“Easy there, boy,” barked Mr. Fox. “That’s an expensive car.”
I held my breath and wondered if Ryan would object to being called a boy. I certainly would have, if I were him. He didn’t appear to, but I did notice that he didn’t ease up on his stomping.
While Ryan was jacking up the car, Mr. Fox looked at his watch. “How much longer is this going to take? Maybe I’ll go in and have another drink. And it should be free, to compensate me for my troubles.” He stuck his hands on his hips and planted his feet in a stance that said Entitled Old Fart.
“Now, now,” hushed Mrs. Fox.
But the crotchety old drunk went off, listing all his grievances about Cloverleigh, from the poor lighting on the road in to the servers who weren’t quick enough to the high prices they charged for food that was too fancy for him and their failure to stock his favorite bourbon even though he’d told them numerous times what it was.
From there he moved on to complaining about his grandkids with their phones and tattoos and stupidity. “Not one of them chose my alma mater,” he griped. “And one shithead was dumb enough to join the military. He’s gonna be sent to some godforsaken country in the Middle East and get himself killed, and for what?”
“Chad,” said his wife. “Remember your blood pressure.”
“I wouldn’t have high blood pressure if the country hadn’t gone to hell in a handbasket ten years ago! The whole war is pointless. We can’t win, and those people don’t want us there. Now my idiot grandson will be in the middle of it, alongside a slew of other low-IQ idiots.”
Ryan froze in the middle of placing the spare tire in position.
Inwardly I prayed the guy would stop talking, but he didn’t.
“Bunch of arrogant cowboys going over there to play at being soldiers, that’s all there is. If any one of them had any brains, they’d be in college.”
“Now, now,” Mrs. Fox said. “College isn’t for everybody.”
“Well, they could at least be here contributing to the economy,” he scoffed. Then he gestured toward Ryan. “Like this boy here. He’s got some useful skills, at least.”
I couldn’t take any more.
“He’s not a boy,” I said loudly. “He’s a man. Actually, he’s a U.S. Marine who served in Iraq and Afghanistan.”
“Stella,” Ryan said, tightening the bolts on the wheel. “Don’t bother.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t help it,” I said hotly. “It bothers me to hear someone talk that way.”
“That true?” the asshole said, squinting at Ryan. “You were over there?”
“Yes.”
“Then you should know better than anyone that there’s no chance of victory and the whole thing is just a big, expensive waste of our time and money.”
Suddenly Ryan jumped to his feet, dropping the wrench to the pavement and squaring off against the old man. “I lost buddies over there,” he growled. “Good men. Brothers and fathers and sons. I watched them get blown apart. They paid more than you’ll ever be worth. So don’t stand there and tell me it was a waste.”
“You ever kill anybody?” the old man asked.
“Fuck off,” Ryan said, shoving him so hard on the chest he fell backward on his ass.
I gasped, and Mrs. Fox shrieked.
Ryan marched past me. “Let’s go, Stella. With his college degree, I’m sure he can figure out how to get his car off the jack.”
“Come back here!” bellowed the asshole, still on the ground. “You can’t do that. I know the Sawyers! I’ll have you fired!”
But Ryan had already stormed off down the road, and all I could do was follow, my legs working hard to keep up. “Hey,” I said, jogging a little to get beside him. I was still carrying his jacket. “Ryan, slow down.”
He grabbed his coat from me and threw it on but didn’t ease up on his pace. “Fucking assholes like that guy drive me crazy.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I usually don’t let that shit get to me,” he went on angrily. “I don’t know what my problem is tonight. I probably just fucking lost my job.”
“No! That wasn’t your fault! He was so rude to you.”
“They don’t get it. None of them fucking get it. They’ve got no idea what it was like for us there.”
“Of course not. But he’s just one drunk old jerk, Ryan. One dickhead stranger.”
He huffed sharply. “You think he’s the first guy to ask me that question? I get it all the time. From strangers, friends, family.”
My jaw dropped. “My God. How can people be so cruel and thoughtless? They should be thanking you for your service!”
“That’s even worse! What the fuck do they think they’re thanking me for? They don’t know what I did over there! They don’t understand that I’ve got seconds to make a judgment call that will either save my guys or end someone’s life—and that someone could be an enemy combatant or it could be a civilian. A farmer. A woman. A child. Or it could be both! That’s the real fucked-up part of it. It could be both a child and the enemy. That kid you’ve been giving candy and comic books to? The one that brought you fresh bread and knows your name and taught you a few words in his language? Is he the one reporting your position? Did he pull the trigger wire on the IED that killed your friend and wounded every single guy in your squad? Has he been the enemy all along? Is it your fault for talking to him?”
I was so shocked, I didn’t know what to say. Tears burned my eyes, and my chest ached as I raced along beside him. “Oh, Ryan, no. Of course it isn’t.”
“It is. I should have known. I let them down.”
“You didn’t,” I said, trying to touch his arm, but he shrugged me off, refusing to be comforted.
“And how about the time Taliban fighters lined up women and children as shields behind a compound wall while they fired at you, only you didn’t realize what they’d done until after you’d fired back, killing dozens of innocents?”
Cue drunk asshole.
April brought us over to the car, a black Lexus sedan, which was parked along the circular drive in front of the inn. “Mr. and Mrs. Fox, this is Ryan Woods. He’s part of our crew here, and even though he’s not on duty at the moment, he’s going to help you out.”
The couple looked to be about my parents’ age, early sixties maybe. They were well-dressed, and the woman wore quite a bit of jewelry. “How nice,” she said with a chuckle. “I’m afraid Chad isn’t much good at these things.”
“Got people to do those things for me,” boomed Mr. Fox, whose sweaty face shone in the inn’s porch lights. He was clearly unsteady on his feet.
“Can you open the trunk please?” Ryan was all business.
Mr. Fox managed to pop the trunk open, and Ryan lifted up the floor, revealing the spare. Shrugging off his jacket, he tossed it aside, and I hurried over to pick it up off the grass.
“Can you do it?” Mrs. Fox asked.
“Yeah.” He rolled up his sleeves in quick, masculine motions that turned me on, revealing his muscular forearms and wrists.
“Oh, you have a tattoo,” said Mrs. Fox. “Our grandson has one of those.”
“The damn fool,” said Mr. Fox.
I thought I saw Ryan’s brow furrow, but I couldn’t be sure. He was walking around the car, putting something in front of the wheels.
“Well, I should get back inside,” April said. “Thanks a million, Ryan. Nice meeting you, Stella.”
I nodded. “You too.”
“Do you work here too?” Mrs. Fox asked me.
“No. Just visiting.”
“And you’re some kind of mechanic?” Mr. Fox squinted at Ryan, who was using a long metal wrench to remove some bolts from the flat tire. It was clear from the man’s tone what he thought of mechanics.
“No,” Ryan answered.
“He’s a handyman, dear. Isn’t that what she said?”
Ryan ignored them, using his foot to stomp down on the wrench.
“Easy there, boy,” barked Mr. Fox. “That’s an expensive car.”
I held my breath and wondered if Ryan would object to being called a boy. I certainly would have, if I were him. He didn’t appear to, but I did notice that he didn’t ease up on his stomping.
While Ryan was jacking up the car, Mr. Fox looked at his watch. “How much longer is this going to take? Maybe I’ll go in and have another drink. And it should be free, to compensate me for my troubles.” He stuck his hands on his hips and planted his feet in a stance that said Entitled Old Fart.
“Now, now,” hushed Mrs. Fox.
But the crotchety old drunk went off, listing all his grievances about Cloverleigh, from the poor lighting on the road in to the servers who weren’t quick enough to the high prices they charged for food that was too fancy for him and their failure to stock his favorite bourbon even though he’d told them numerous times what it was.
From there he moved on to complaining about his grandkids with their phones and tattoos and stupidity. “Not one of them chose my alma mater,” he griped. “And one shithead was dumb enough to join the military. He’s gonna be sent to some godforsaken country in the Middle East and get himself killed, and for what?”
“Chad,” said his wife. “Remember your blood pressure.”
“I wouldn’t have high blood pressure if the country hadn’t gone to hell in a handbasket ten years ago! The whole war is pointless. We can’t win, and those people don’t want us there. Now my idiot grandson will be in the middle of it, alongside a slew of other low-IQ idiots.”
Ryan froze in the middle of placing the spare tire in position.
Inwardly I prayed the guy would stop talking, but he didn’t.
“Bunch of arrogant cowboys going over there to play at being soldiers, that’s all there is. If any one of them had any brains, they’d be in college.”
“Now, now,” Mrs. Fox said. “College isn’t for everybody.”
“Well, they could at least be here contributing to the economy,” he scoffed. Then he gestured toward Ryan. “Like this boy here. He’s got some useful skills, at least.”
I couldn’t take any more.
“He’s not a boy,” I said loudly. “He’s a man. Actually, he’s a U.S. Marine who served in Iraq and Afghanistan.”
“Stella,” Ryan said, tightening the bolts on the wheel. “Don’t bother.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t help it,” I said hotly. “It bothers me to hear someone talk that way.”
“That true?” the asshole said, squinting at Ryan. “You were over there?”
“Yes.”
“Then you should know better than anyone that there’s no chance of victory and the whole thing is just a big, expensive waste of our time and money.”
Suddenly Ryan jumped to his feet, dropping the wrench to the pavement and squaring off against the old man. “I lost buddies over there,” he growled. “Good men. Brothers and fathers and sons. I watched them get blown apart. They paid more than you’ll ever be worth. So don’t stand there and tell me it was a waste.”
“You ever kill anybody?” the old man asked.
“Fuck off,” Ryan said, shoving him so hard on the chest he fell backward on his ass.
I gasped, and Mrs. Fox shrieked.
Ryan marched past me. “Let’s go, Stella. With his college degree, I’m sure he can figure out how to get his car off the jack.”
“Come back here!” bellowed the asshole, still on the ground. “You can’t do that. I know the Sawyers! I’ll have you fired!”
But Ryan had already stormed off down the road, and all I could do was follow, my legs working hard to keep up. “Hey,” I said, jogging a little to get beside him. I was still carrying his jacket. “Ryan, slow down.”
He grabbed his coat from me and threw it on but didn’t ease up on his pace. “Fucking assholes like that guy drive me crazy.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I usually don’t let that shit get to me,” he went on angrily. “I don’t know what my problem is tonight. I probably just fucking lost my job.”
“No! That wasn’t your fault! He was so rude to you.”
“They don’t get it. None of them fucking get it. They’ve got no idea what it was like for us there.”
“Of course not. But he’s just one drunk old jerk, Ryan. One dickhead stranger.”
He huffed sharply. “You think he’s the first guy to ask me that question? I get it all the time. From strangers, friends, family.”
My jaw dropped. “My God. How can people be so cruel and thoughtless? They should be thanking you for your service!”
“That’s even worse! What the fuck do they think they’re thanking me for? They don’t know what I did over there! They don’t understand that I’ve got seconds to make a judgment call that will either save my guys or end someone’s life—and that someone could be an enemy combatant or it could be a civilian. A farmer. A woman. A child. Or it could be both! That’s the real fucked-up part of it. It could be both a child and the enemy. That kid you’ve been giving candy and comic books to? The one that brought you fresh bread and knows your name and taught you a few words in his language? Is he the one reporting your position? Did he pull the trigger wire on the IED that killed your friend and wounded every single guy in your squad? Has he been the enemy all along? Is it your fault for talking to him?”
I was so shocked, I didn’t know what to say. Tears burned my eyes, and my chest ached as I raced along beside him. “Oh, Ryan, no. Of course it isn’t.”
“It is. I should have known. I let them down.”
“You didn’t,” I said, trying to touch his arm, but he shrugged me off, refusing to be comforted.
“And how about the time Taliban fighters lined up women and children as shields behind a compound wall while they fired at you, only you didn’t realize what they’d done until after you’d fired back, killing dozens of innocents?”
