Page 51 of Waging War
“This place reminds me of being young and running around with the guys.” I smile to myself as I run my hands over furniture I never thought I’d see again. “These pieces were donated by different club members. It’s funny… I remember jumping on that one as a young girl,” I say, pointing to an old yellow couch with an afghan draped across the back.
Beside the couch is a green velvet recliner, and I laugh at the sight. “Cooper broke the handle off that one at Uncle Greg’s house. Oh my gosh!” I step to the hearth of the fireplace across from the couch, where a small TV rests between an old cuckoo clock and a stack of books.
“What is it?” Ben asks from the doorway, shining his light where I stand.
My cheeks hurt from smiling. “It’s my mom’s old clock.” The tips of my fingers brush the worn, paint-chipped wood. “I can’t believe they saved it.” Pain clenches my throat as her face sparks bright in my memory. “It’s been here this whole time.”
Ben’s steps are loud as he crosses the living room.
“We need to find the breaker box,” I say absently.
“Where is it? I’ll take care of it.” A pause, paired with a scowl. “If you’re okay with that.”
Fine, I deserved that.
I point around the corner toward the back of the house. “It’s that way, down in the basement.”
He blinks at me for a moment before grumbling to himself and stomping off.
Dammit. What is wrong with me?
He risked his life to break me out of the compound tonight, and whether I needed him to or not, I appreciate the hoops he must have jumped through to help. So, why am I taking my anger and frustration out on a man who has risked so much for me?
It’s a hard pill to swallow, but perhaps it’s not my dad who’s unrecognizable.
He’s always protected me—even killed a man for me—but is he capable of putting my wants above his duty?
I swallow a heap of irony building in my throat. Ben isn’t much different than my father in that respect.
Or is he?
He stomps around outside as I mull this over.
The night Dad was shot, I’d wished so badly that Ben would’ve just given me to Jack. But if he had, would I notstillbe blind to my father’s influence and demands? If not for what he’s done, I wouldn’t have realized just how sheltered I’d become, and in a way, I owe Ben for that.
I jump when the back door slaps open. He strolls toward the hearth with his arms full of firewood and kicks the metal screen covering the fireplace out of the way. I’m ignored as he starts chucking pieces of wood inside.
“Ben.”
Once he’s satisfied with his work, he straightens and dusts off his hands.
Trying to make sense of my feelings for the man is like trying to turn mud into clean water. Possible, yet impossibly difficult.
I’d been so sure of my hatred for Ben until I allowed him to show me what it could be like to let it all go.
It was nothing more than spur-of-the-moment hate sex, right?
Now, I’m not so sure.
Whatever emotion he finds on my face has him shouldering past me toward the kitchen.
“Ben,” I say again, but he doesn’t stop.
He flips on a light in the outdated kitchen and rummages through the drawers in search of something. I wrinkle my nose at the yellow countertops and matching wallpaper, making a note to tell Dad to update this place.
Frustrated, I step around the edge of the bar that separates the kitchen from the living space. “What are you looking for?”
“The electricity works, but not the heater,” he says, squatting in front of the doors under the sink.
