Page 41 of Issued

Glancing down at my arm, I bite my lip. “I wish I hadn’t turned down that second bottle of pain killers, but I’ve had worse.”

“That’s not exactly a good thing.”

“No, but at least it gives me some perspective when I’m bitching about how much it sucks to be in a cast again.”

She laughs. “What did your hubby say?”

“Oh, you know, he was a little... upset.” Talk about an understatement. If Inara’s concern surprised me, Jim’s overprotectiveness left me speechless. “He can be really intense sometimes.”

“As in the ‘run out in the middle of the night to sleep over at Inara’s’ intense, or the ‘let’s cause a scene at S&S again’ intense?”

I flex my quads and spread my toes to get rid of some of the tension in my body. If only she knew about how he’s got a crush on the woman fromDallasand how he makes his own Spartan-II costumes for Comic-Con each year, maybe she wouldn’t be so critical of him.

“So, how’d you two meet anyway?”

The air rushes out of my lungs. Shit. But before I can stop myself, I blurt out the reason Jim and I are together because when it comes to Inara, everything is second nature as if we’ve been friends for years. “We got married through the military’s new Issued Partner Program. We didn’t know each other prior. It’s kind of like an arranged marriage.”

“Are you in love with him?”

The question shouldn’t be unexpected, yet my lungs seize anyway. Do I love my husband? Jim’s a rock—unbending and unbreakable. He’s offered me a safe place to live and makes me feel like nothing can touch me. He’s the kind of man who’ll fight and die for his own, and I know I can, and will, trust him with my life.

And while my heart senses the answer to the question, the wordyesjust won’t come out.

“Come on, Taya, spill. It’s just us here.” The expectant silence that stretches between us makes me feel vulnerable and exposed. By habit, I reach for my dad’s sweater that’s folded neatly on top of the nightstand. Luckily, I’d forgotten it in Lyons’s car after we left the storage unit one night. I bring the sweater to my face and inhale my father’s musky scent, taking comfort in the familiarity. Me pressing my face into the cotton, it feels like home.

“Taya, you okay? You sound like you’re huffing glue over there.”

“Hang on, I’m thinking.” The lingering ghost of cigar smoke and cologne transports me to when I was seven years old and picking my way across an icy sidewalk. I clutch my father’s arm with both hands, terrified of falling again. My breath is steam in front of my face, and my nose and ears feel like icebergs. I bury my face against his forearm while he laughs and pats the top of my head. Shuddering, I stick one hand in the pocket of his sweater, where he keeps his wallet, for extra warmth.

My father had worn the same sweater every winter for three decades. I’d finally tossed the old one and bought him a replacement for Christmas last year. After listening to him bitch about the lack of pockets, I’d sewn one to the inside of the coat.

“Come on, girl, how long does it take? It’s a simple yes or no question,” Inara says.

I lay the sweater in my lap and unfold it while I inhale and prepare to answer. Both Inara, and myself. But my fingers slip into the square of space before I do, and encounter something besides fabric. I withdraw the small piece of paper and stare at information to a cloud account. My heart beats wildly, like it might burst out of my chest. Scrambling to my feet, I hold the sweater tight against my middle with my cast in excitement.

“Hey, Inara? Can I call you back?”

I hang up the phone before she can respond. There’s no grace in the way I stumble over to the desk. I grab my laptop and flip it open. It’s frustrating to type with one hand, but I manage, and a few minutes later, I’m plugging in the username and password Dad wrote on the slip of paper.

Denied.

I try again, making sure to capitalize the correct letters, but it doesn’t work. Fuck. Depending on how long my father had the account, he may have updated the login information. I scroll down and click on the contact page link. Pulling out the phone, I punch in the number for customer service.

After a few moments of frustration navigating through the automated system, I get a living representative on the phone. “Good evening, my name is Thomas. How can I assist you today?”

“My name is Taya Maverick. My father has an account with you but he passed away. The login information he left must be old, and I cannot access the account. Can you help me?”

“Ms. Maverick, please hold while I transfer you to the Next of Kin department.”

Isn’t that nice? No condolences, just let me pass you off to someone else. I clutch my fists and my chest rises and falls more aggressively each second that passes. I grab the laptop and head over to the bed. A few seconds later a new representative is on the line denying me access into the account.

“So, what you’re telling me is you can’t give me the login information?” My teeth grind together. I swear if I could reach through the phone, I’d strangle the woman.

“Ms. Maverick, if you provide us with the information I’ve requested, we can send you a DVD with all the contents of the account. But I cannot give you access.”

“Fine. Send me the email with what you need.” I relay my email to her one more time. A minute later a new notification pops up and I confirm receipt of the email.

“Ms. Maverick, is there anything else I can help you with?”

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