Page 3 of Memories of Us

Two weeks to figure my shit out before reporting back to base. Two weeks to get my head back on straight so I could fly again. Safely.

I shook my head to bring my focus back to the conversation. “I'll be at the funeral.” The large swallow of sparkling water burned down my throat, easing a bit of the growing tightness. “The man who called mentioned it would be at the ranch in three days. I assume you're going?”

“Damn, I miss your brother right now. He'd go out with me to celebrate this momentous occasion. When the hell did you get so damn boring?”

He cannot be serious.

Closing my eyes, I attempted to will my blood pressure to lower. Unfortunately, it didn't obey the direct command. He missed my brother, his son, who was dead because of the lifestyle he coaxed us both to need. No sign of remorse, just pissed he didn't have someone who would go party with him.

Sweat beaded along my temples and neck. I set the phone down on the bar and shrugged off my jacket. After hitting the speakerphone button, I snapped off my cufflinks and rolled up my right sleeve then left.

A loud, obnoxious giggle flooded the apartment. If I weren't so damn pissed at the whole fucked-up conversation, I'd roll my eyes at the typical scene playing out on the other end of the phone. My father, such a class act.

“Shhh,” he chuckled into the phone. “Brenton, hey, I gotta run. I'll call the attorneys to see when the estate will be divided out. I could use that money to support the next club venture. Hopefully he didn't pour it all down the drain on those dumbass cows.”

Right. Fucker. All he cared about was making the next dollar, which he then shoved up his nose or down some dancing girl's G-string.

When he hung on the line, a sense of dread settled deep in my gut. Staring at the phone, waiting for the next bomb to drop, I popped each knuckle. Twice.

“Oh and listen.” I glared at the phone. “When you come into town, you might want to lie low. Not make a big deal that you're here, you know, but with this news, every gold digger in Dallas will be looking for a payday. Who knows what accusations will come out just for some damn hush money.”

Hell, not again.

“What did you do?” I seethed. The glass trembled at my lips as I attempted not to chuck it across the room.

Being away from this place for so long, I'd forgotten who Dad was. Who I was. The son of a slimy, washed-up multimillionaire. Our family name forever tainted by the multiple assault accusations against him and the failing strip club empire he kept pouring money into.

“Nothing. It's nothing. Call you tomorrow when I know more.”

Everything blurred as heat simmered beneath my skin, flowing through my veins and ticking up my temper with each rapid heartbeat. With a raging bellow, I flung the expensive glass across the room. The crystal splintered against the concrete wall, sending shards scattering along the floor.

My chest heaved as sweat dripped down my temples to my cheeks and neck.

Fuck that bastard.

Sealing my eyes shut, I focused on the deep breathing exercises I'd learned to lower my stroke-level blood pressure.

The first “episode” happened moments after the call notifying me of Caleb's death. The second happened the day after the exhausting twenty-four-hour turnaround from Kentucky to Dallas to attend the funeral. I chalked those up to shock and exhaustion, but then it happened again. And again. And again.

Now here I was once again on the verge of blacking out. Darkness encroached from the corners of my eyes, soon to cut off my vision completely. My muscles trembled and weakened.

Slowly, carefully, I shuffled to the long leather couch and fell onto it. The cushions conformed around my back and thighs with a soft thump.

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out.

Shit, this couldn’t happen again. It had to stop. I had to find the cause and the cure by the time I was due back to base. If I couldn't, there was no way in hell I could risk my brothers' lives for the sake of my pride. No, if I couldn't get my head back on straight, I'd file for medical discharge no matter how devastating it would be. And it would be. The army, flying, my brothers—it was all my family and life. They saved me, and I needed them as much as they needed me.

Chest puffed out in a deep inhale, I paused at a light knock at the door. Slowly I blew the air out through my nose and waited. Another knock came seconds later, a bit louder, persistent that time.

Who the hell knew I was home?

I pushed off the couch with a groan and gave myself a minute to steady. The first step was tentative, the next stronger until I was convinced the episode was over and I was strong enough to meet whoever was here with the strength and confidence of regular Brenton Graves.

It was bullshit that the word “episode” was even in my damn vocabulary nowadays. But really, what did I expect from Caleb's sudden death combined with years of hoarded anger, a high-stress job, and a fucked-up childhood? It's a wonder this didn't happen sooner, honestly.

Not bothering to look through the viewer to see who was there at such a late hour, I yanked the door open, ready for anything.

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