Page 7 of Remnants
“That shirt is cute as shit.” I laugh while letting her in. She giggles and brushes the front of her shirt as she walks past me. I inhale her scent: orange blossom and cedarwood. It’s an orgasm for my nose every time she’s near.
I watch her as she stands in my living room that connects to the kitchen. My small home is dimly lit. I don’t like loud noises or bright lights so I keep the lights soft and curtains drawn. I suddenly feel somewhat self-conscious as I realize how her house is a giant mansion and I asked her over to my hobbit hole.
“Oh, wow. Is that your military graduation photo?” I freeze at her question before looking to see her staring at a box on the floor I hadn’t finished unpacking. I inwardly groan as she picks the photo up.
“Uh, yeah. That would be the one.” I laugh dryly as I study her face. Her eyebrows are drawn together, forming an adorable wrinkle as she looks over the photo.
“I like you better now,” she states firmly.
I laugh in surprise. “What?”
She blushes but shrugs. “You look calmer now. There’s a lot of anger in those eyes.”
I feel a burning sensation in my chest. Therewasanger in those eyes. Anger that I had to go into the military to avoid my abusive, homophobic father. It was that or live on the streets. I didn’t want to go. I was so scared, and rightfully so.
“Well, most nineteen year olds are full of anger.” I shrug, trying to make light of the matter as I sit down on the edge ofmy couch. If I don’t get off my knee soon, I won't be able to walk tomorrow.
“How long were you in?”
“Three years, four months, and three days,” I say almost instinctively. I watch as she sets the picture, so gently, back in the box.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude.” I feel a pang of guilt as I watch her twist her fingers together. As I look at her hands, I notice her ring is missing. Fuck, I shouldn’t feel good about that. She’s probably in a happy marriage and I’m being disgusting.
“You’re not intruding, Junebug,” I say softly. “My time in the military, as I’m sure you can guess, was not great.” She raises a brow as she sits on the large ottoman next to me.
“I don’t know anything besides you were in the army and you received several medals. Just what is written on the Black Widow Ink website.”
“You didn’t search me?” I ask in shock. Kaitlin shook her head.
“No I… figured your history is something that should come from you, when and if you feel like talking about it. Besides, some of those things they talk about when telling stories are one-sided.”
“That box has my photo from graduation, my service pins, letters of recognition, photos of me overseas, and different medals because they think I’m some sort of hero.” I sigh as I hear someone pull into the driveway—it must be the pizza. I grunt while starting to stand up. “I gave my life, my sanity, and my body for this country and in return I get a disability check, a box full of crap, and a broken brain.” I go to grab the pizza but Kaitlin pushes me back down on the couch as she gets up.
“I’ll get it.” I watch as she stands and makes her way to my front door. I listen to her sweetly exchange pleasantries with the guy before wishing him a good night and shutting the door.
“I could’ve got it,” I say as I grab my cane and stand up to head to the kitchen. My knee screams in protest but I ignore the fucker. Kaitlin raises a brow as she sets the pizza on my counter.
“How bad is your leg?” she asks casually while looking in my cabinets while frowning as she finds my grey plates. Evidently my dish placement displeases her and that knowledge makes me smile a little.
“What makes you think it’s bad?” I ask while opening the fridge and grabbing a couple beers.
“Well the fact that you have a cane instead of crutches.” She gives me a half shrug.
“I have crutches, too. I just don’t use them often.” I watch as she hands me a plate with a couple slices of pizza.
“I got this pizza for us both, Junebug.” I frown at her empty hands.
She blushes and shakes her head. “I’m on a diet.” She says it so shamefully and soft—like a dirty secret. “I can’t eat that, I’ll end up bloated and I have weigh-in when James gets—”
Oh, that was a slip. She definitely didn’t mean to say his name. I stare at her graying skin and her widening eyes as I take a sip from my bottle.
“Your husband weighs you?” I feel a surge of anger and protectiveness wash over me because, well—fuck! This woman is a knockout. She is sweet and gorgeous with a soft body I would kill to hold. And here she is, too worried to eat pizza and drink a beer?
“I-It’s not like that,” she stammers. “I just have self control issues and James is a doctor so he makes sure I’m eating properly.”
I want to fight her, to tell her that is absolute bullshit, that doctor’s rarely know anything about nutrition and no doctor would tell her to abstain from pizza on occasion to make sure she made weigh-in.
“Tell you what.” I let out a breath, trying to regulate my heart rate. “Eat pizza and drink with me tonight, and I’ll show you how to burn it off tomorrow.”
