Page 1 of Reaching Ryan

Chapter One

Ryan

April, 2018

Looking at myself in the mirror, I thought it would be different. That I would feel different.

Better. More like myself.

I was wrong.

I haven’t worn anything but faded T-shirts and flannel pants for six months. Last time I got my haircut was when Con (of all fucking people) pulled a pair of clippers out of his backpack instead of one of his usual bullshit card games a couple of months ago. Shaving used to be almost compulsive, even in-country I’d scrape my beard off with a field knife if I had to.

Today is different.

Today, I took the stairs to the first floor and white-knuckled my way through a proper cut and shave in the facility barber shop. When I walked in, the stylist about shit herself. She tried to hide it while she stammered and stuttered me into an open chair while the orderly at the front desk discreetly radioed that there was a possible code Charlie Brown in progress.

Charlie Brown is code for a resident in need of an intervention.

Charlie Brown is almost always me and the intervention usually involves a half dozen orderlies and at least one broken nose.

Afterward, Patrick is called. Threats are made and he comes trotting in with the family checkbook to save the day. It’s happened so many times he finally decided it would just be cheaper to build me a veteran center of my very own, from the ground up, than keep me here.

Most days he’d be right.

But not today.

Today I’m on my best behavior.

Because tonight, I have something better to do than square up with a bunch of mouthy dickheads, looking to trade a few busted ribs for a 5-figure payday.

So, I waltz in and take the chair. Mind my manners. Say please and thank you, even though the fact that the woman cutting my hair about took my ear off about a hundred times.

She’s nervous.

It’s not her fault.

It’s mine.

My reputation as an abusive asshole proceeds me and I’ve come by it honestly.

Never mind the fact that I’ve never so much as blinked at a female staff member—any female for that matter—much less raised so much as a finger at one.

Sure, there are rumors but none of them are true, but it’s not like I do much to dispel them. Matter of fact I encourage them because really, I just want to be left the fuck alone.

Which is too much to ask for when you have a hair-trigger temper and a rich benefactor who’s willing to pay to make your flare ups go away.

But like I said—not today.

When the stylist dusts me off and turns me loose without incident, she looks relieved and a little confused while the orderly eyeballing me from the front of the shop looks more than a little disappointed.

Shooting him a wink on my way out the door, I can’t help but laugh when he follows me out the door.

It becomes less amusing when he keeps following me, right into the elevator and moves to stand behind me.

“Look—” I begrudgingly jam my index finger against the 3rd-floor button on the control panel. I hate taking it, but experience tells me my shadow has a few buddies waiting for us in the stairwell. Usually, I’m more than happy to oblige but I’m running late, so the elevator it is. “As much as I’d love to kick your ass all over this elevator, I’m gonna have to take a rain check,” I tell him, cutting him a quick smirk over my shoulder. “I have a date.”

Okay—it’s not really a date.

---