Page 112 of Luck Be Mine
“Struggling, trying to get my mind straight.” There was no point in sugar coating it. Once he did his psych eval, the results would point to problems.
“About?”
“I was standing next to Baxter. Me out the door first, and I’m the one dead. I’m taking a mental hit from those moments and haven’t sorted it out yet. The team is working through it as well.”
“Brennan, Thompson, and Hernandez are the only three as of this morning who have completed their evaluations. No one else has an appointment.”
“I’ll get on them, sir.”
“You, too. Get it done. It’s time. Command is only going to let you stay non-operational for so long without psychological evaluation to back it.”
“Understood. Is that all?”
“No, your two empty slots need to be filled, sooner not later. Files on new team members have been sent to Hernandez and Brennan. They are also in your inbox. Review, interview, but figure it out or command will.”
“Copy.” He wasn’t ready. He never would be ready to put somebody in Baxter’s slot. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d lost a team member and was so reluctant.
Bitching.
“Dismissed, Lieutenant Commander. Make your appointment on the way out.”
“Yes, sir.”
As directed, he booked an appointment for tomorrow then sat in his truck, fighting his frame of mind. Non-operational status had the entire team idling with nowhere to go, no mission, and difficult thoughts. For men used to constant demands on their time with little space to think, this was…
“Crap,” he muttered, starting the vehicle. The only way out was through. Time to run, swim, fire a weapon. Get the purpose back again or get out.
The thought left him squirming, an answer of “no” shouting at him.
Back home, the house was quiet. Carter remained cocooned in a sleep coma on the red sofa. Brennan and Doogie were gone. He surveyed the mess of his workroom and spent fifteen minutes making the bed, shoving clothes in the wash, and putting other items away.
This house, blanketed in calm now, was chaos central. He needed to clear his head. Swim. With no trunks in his workroom, he went to the master and found the bed pristine.
Cait was not the person who made the bed. He was. Was she not sleeping either?
“Yeah, moron. If you slept with her, you’d know.” He grabbed the suit and left the room, more disturbed than he cared to admit over a fucking bed.
But her art studio door was open. He stood in the entry.
The room was a mess. No bed in here, but the cream and gray room did have a large sleep chair. The checkered gray chair had drawings cluttered on the floor around it. Her drawing pad was jammed into the side of the cushion. The pencil box, tightly closed, stayed balanced on the arm.
They had separate places and kept retreating to them, too often for his comfort. He more than she because Cait had the kitchen and the gardens. Why was he acting like a guest in his own home?
He never entered her space when she was gone like she didn’t cross into his. Not once during all those nights he’d shut the door. Jammed inside and unable to ask for help, he’d locked himself away. Discomfort, guilt, and grief slammed him. Huntswore, loudly and long, slapping the back of the sleep chair until his hands stung.
Appalled at the outburst, he stepped around drawings on the floor and went to the side wall to study the pictures.
Hanging next to the chair, she’d placed a portrait of Rusty Dent. She’d also had the original rough drawing of their house, the one she’d painted for the living room wall. The depiction was more of an idea, and reality and vision were beginning to match.
On the floor at his feet, she’d drawn Baxter in multiple poses – laughing, talking, crouched in gear. Gone.
A quick hard inhale and he turned away.
Only to confront her art table.
Two taped drawings were on her adjustable board, the top tilted.
One of him from the funeral, standing behind the coffin, trident in hand and one in dress uniform with tears in his eyes.
