Page 639 of One More Kiss

What do I do?

Fidgeting, I glance over my shoulder and stare at the sleeping dog sprawled across the back seat.

“Chestnut,” Mann murmurs quietly and my eyes cut back to him. He doesn’t look away from the windshield as he continues, “That’s his name.”

I look back at the dog and I try to picture my brother petting and playing with him—loving that big sweet animal.

“He’s one of mine,” he reveals as he kills the engine on the car. I turn my attention back to him and he meets my gaze. “A couple of months ago, I paid Andrew a visit. I had been calling him for days with no response and was getting worried.” He pauses, reaching out to twirl a strand of my hair around his finger. The simple touch surprises me, but before I can even react, he continues. “When I arrived at his apartment, he was drinking heavily and looked like he had been up for days. There were dishes piled high in the sink and a hole in the wall next to where the T.V. used to hang in the living room. Pieces of sheetrock decorated the floor, so I knew it was fresh.” His fingers leave my hair as he draws in a ragged breath and turns his eyes back to the windshield. “He told me the nightmares had returned.”

My brows furrow with confusion.

“He was having nightmares?” I croak. Mann’s gaze snaps back to me and his confusion mirrors mine.

“You didn’t know?”

This question feels like a punch to the gut and remind just how disconnected me and Andrew truly had become.

Why would I know about Andrew’s nightmares? He wasn’t the type to offer information when it came to himself and I was too busy with the salon to give a damn. My brother returned from war, damaged and struggling and the best I did was call him to shoot the shit about our Aunt. I didn’t ask him how he was doing or if he needed anything and when he did call me to ask for help, I turned him away.

“Jo, Andrew was suffering from night terrors,” Mann says, cocking his head to the side as he studies me for another moment. “It’s all part of PTSD. You do know he was diagnosed with that right?”

I’m too embarrassed to even answer him. Mann takes my silence as confirmation that I didn’t know and continues.

“He was diagnosed when the mission failed, and they transferred us to Germany. That’s the main reason we were discharged. Neither of us were mentally fit to serve after that.”

“But you… you’re fine.” I stammer, searching his eyes for confirmation. “Right?”

“Sure,” he rasps. “Or at least I’m as fine as I can be. Part of my healing came with opening Booker and Mann, but the bigger part came from this place,” he says, tipping his chin toward the windshield.

I follow his gaze, catching sight of a large group of men—all dressed in leather and huddled around the front door of what appears to be some kind of warehouse.

“What is this place?” I ask, dragging my eyes back to Mann.

Biting the inside of his cheek, he turns to me.

“Home,” he replies evenly.

I glance towards the window, squinting against the darkness of night to spot a house but all that sits on the property is a shed and that warehouse.

“You live here?” I ask, hoping the question doesn’t come off as judgmental. He keeps his eyes on mine and simply shrugs.

“Don’t see the need to pay a mortgage on a place when I got all I need right here. The bed is warm, and the sheets are clean. There’s hot water and the fridge is always stocked with fresh brews. Man don’t need much more than that and if he does, he knows where to get it.” He pauses for a moment. “You need more than that, say the word.”

I draw my lower lip between my teeth and tear my eyes away from his. Starring back at the group huddled by the door, I swallow. Nothing about them screams warm and inviting, but I’ve never really been one to judge a book by its cover and I’m not about to start now.

Let help in.

I bring my eyes back to Mann’s.

“When Detective Reynolds called, he didn’t give away much. All he said was that Andrew was in an accident. I left my client in the chair and ran out of the salon, straight to my car. I didn’t think about packing a bag.”

He clears his throat and looks out the window. After a moment, his hands tighten around the steering wheel and he says, “Make a list. I’ll send one of the prospects to the drugstore to get whatever ya need.” His eyes come back to mine. “As for clean clothes, I’m sure I got a t-shirt or something for you to sleep in.”

I think about it for a second.

A hot shower sounds like heaven and despite the nap I took on the ride here, I’m emotionally exhausted, therefore clean sheets and a bed sound pretty fucking lovely too.

It’s only one night—One night with Mann—what more do I have to lose?

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