Page 18 of Raven's Curse
Chase tensed as Foster’s voice shattered the silence, the pieces falling around them like glass. Chase glanced over his shoulder, not quite looking at any of them before turning away. Shoulders so stiff Greer feared any slight movement would break them.
Foster rolled his right shoulder. “Brother, I know you don’t want to hear this, that you’re not ready for forgiveness, but this wasn’t your fault.”
Chase’s head tilted forward as he kicked at the ground. “The hell it wasn’t.”
“Chase—”
“One job.” Chase turned, eyes narrowed, mouth pressed into a firm line as he clenched his jaw, the muscle in his temple jumping from the strain. “Save him. That’s all I had to do.”
Foster matched Chase’s stance, drawing himself up. Using his massive physique to command the space. He had three inches and about twenty pounds of muscle over Chase, and yet Chase seemed infinitely larger. An immovable force exerting his will over everyone else.
Foster shook his head. “Rhett was already compromised. Had been circling the grave for the past year. Hell, he’d only just roused. Any trauma was bound to be more than he could take. The fact he made it to the hospital…”
“But he did.” Chase tapped his chest. “I’m the one who let him down. Who didn’t fight hard enough. Long enough. All those minutes I wasted worrying about snipers and IEDs was time I could have been working on him. Could have been stabilizing him. Instead, he died because I wasn’t good enough.”
A snarl twitched at the corners of Chase’s mouth. “He’d dragged his ass back. Twelve months of nothing, but he’d kept battling until he’d beaten the odds.” He grunted as he booted a rock across the gravel drive. “Rhett deserved better than what I gave him.”
“What the hell do you think you could have done better? You administered blood, meds, performed fucking CPR for over twenty minutes straight.” Foster took another step, and she swore it echoed like thunder around them. “You did everything short of changing places. No one can ask for more than that.”
Chase snorted, the sound raw. Slightly unhinged. “Yeah, well, it didn’t matter in the end, did it.” He turned, started walking.
Foster pounded his fist against his thigh, looking back at Greer. “I can’t leave him like this.”
Greer sighed. “I’ve got his back, tonight.” She cut off any reply with a calculated step. “He’s not the only one who’s lost a brother. Who harbors that guilt. I’ve got this. You two try to get some rest. We’ll meet in your kitchen in a few hours. Hit the ground running.”
Foster glanced at Mac, frowned when she shrugged, then stared at Chase’s silhouette one more time before heading for their house. Greer was almost surprised to see it still standing. She half-expected the roof to crash down or the windows to blow out — a tangible display of their fractured hearts.
She waited until they’d closed the door before following Chase, still checking her six every other step. Fog curled through the trees and between the houses, cloaking the property in a heavy gray pall, the sheer pressure of it dulling every sound until only her pulse thundered in her head.
Head still low, Chase paused at his door before he slipped inside, leaving it ajar. Proof he’d known she’d follow. Or maybe she’d made more noise than she’d thought, her footsteps as heavy as the air, because he hadn’t looked back.
Greer made one last visual sweep of the area, staring at the trees, waiting to see a hint of that black boot emerging from the dark before following him inside. Deep shadows engulfed the room, a lone light burning down a hallway.
She kicked off her boots, armed the security system, then walked into the main living area. While they usually gathered at Foster’s place, she’d spent a few evenings at Chase’s over a game of poker. Chase referred to it as his cabin, with its warm wood and river rock accents. She’d always thought it felt like a favorite sweater. Inviting. Comforting. Nothing like the sterile vibe of her apartment. But tonight, the plush couch and reclaimed wood table and chairs seemed isolating.
Cold.
Chase stood in front of the large picture window, staring out into the forest beyond. Looking as if he’d shatter like the silence if she made the wrong move. Spoke too loudly or even brushed his arm.
He tensed further when she stopped at the edge of the couch, his hands fisting and releasing at his sides. “I don’t want to talk.”
She nodded, despite the fact he hadn’t budged, hadn’t so much as glanced her way. “I wasn’t going to ask you to.”
His head tilted. Not enough that he looked back at her, but she caught a glimpse of his chin. How he’d squared it as if bracing for a fight. “I don’t need a fucking pep talk, either.”
She snorted. “I’m not Foster. I don’t have any of those handy.”
Heading for the small wet bar on the far side of the room, she grabbed a glass and the bottle of Cuervo. She didn’t drink shots too often, but if she was going to open up about her past, she needed the liquid courage.
She poured a generous amount, took a deep breath, then knocked it back, closing her eyes as the tequila burned a path down her throat, hitting her stomach like a fireball.
It lasted about a minute, then started to ease, slowly fading into a comforting warmth. The kind she’d relied on for far too long after Troy had died. She poured two more, socked them back, then filled it one last time.
“Jesus, Greer. You might want to slow down.” Chase’s footsteps sounded behind her, stopping partway across the room.
She took a couple soothing breaths, the alcohol slowly lowering the walls she’d built around her. The ones Chase had scaled or maybe punched through over the past several months. Barriers the past couple hours had instantly reinforced.
She held up the fourth glass, only drinking a third as she closed her eyes — allowed the story she hadn’t shared with anyone short of her mandatory meetings with the bureau shrink to slip free. “I had a brother.”
