A Heart's War (The Broken Men Chronicles Book 5) by Carey Decevito

sink.”
    Fetching it, I kneeled between her legs, popped the kit open and began to look through it, making sure I had what I needed.
    “Give me your hand.”  The heated jolt that hit me then nearly knocked me onto my ass.  Focusing on her wound, I was relieved to see that the bleeding had slowed. Taking some gauze, along with some rubbing alcohol, I cleaned the gash that crossed the palm of her hand, eliciting a pain-filled hiss from her. Remembering that my mother used to do this with mine and Paxton’s numerous cuts and bruises when we were younger, I blew on her wound.  Morgan’s breath caught, and my gaze moved to meet hers.  “You okay?”
    “Yeah.”  She cleared her throat.
    Applying some antibacterial ointment to the cut, I covered it with a bandage and taped it in place.
    Finished with my small paramedic stent, I set her First Aid kit back where I’d retrieved it.  “Stay here for a bit.  You’re looking a little pale.”  Getting to my feet, I took the waste basket with me and left the bathroom to pick up the mess of glass shards that had been left on the floor by her bed.
    Kneeling, I grabbed the damaged photo frame, studying the two grinning faces staring back.
    “Kayla, Damon’s wife, took that one of us before Damon deployed.” Morgan’s words held a hint of darkness.  “We were having a party in Damon’s honor.”
    I nodded, my mouth feeling drier than the Sahara Desert.  “You were close,” I stated more than asked, looking up at her approaching form.
    She sniffled, reaching out for the frame I still held. “Yeah.  We did everything together,” she explained.  “When Mom and Dad died, we looked after each other. We found out about this place through their will.  It was our grandparents’, only we thought Dad had sold it because of his falling out with them.”
    “I bet you’re wishing that he had, huh?”
    “No.” Her answer was firm.  “As much as this house needs help, this is where Damon and I felt most at home while growing up.  We sold our parents’ house and moved here and started fixing it up with my sister-in-law, but then he had to leave.” She took a seat at the foot of her bed, looking down at the photo.  Her tears started up again.  “Did you know that today’s his birthday?”
    My chest tightened, my eyes burned, and my knuckles had gone white from clenching my fists.  I shook my head solemnly and whispered, “I’m sorry.”  After breathing it out for a few seconds, I attempted to lift my head.  My eyes found her bloodshot orbs and all I saw was pain, grief, and desolation.  The walls began to close in around me.  “God, I’m so sorry,” I croaked and got to my feet as my vision blurred.  “I’ve got to get out of here.”
    Without another word, I did just that.
     
    I made it as far as to the side of my truck before the constriction in my chest caused me to halt.  The internal dam threatened to give way, but with each passing second, bent over, leaning on my knees, I sucked in much-needed air that seemed to help control my turbulent emotions.
    Or so I thought.
    Running my hands through my lengthening hair, the military style no longer really distinguishable, I clenched my tresses and kicked the tire as my breathing picked up again due to so many fleeting memories of Damon and the rest of my team.  And the first tears from what had transpired three years ago began to fall.
    And I allowed them, because I could give into the grief.  The guilt.  The anger.  Unlike three years ago.
     
    I didn’t acknowledge the crunching of rocks underfoot, nor the presence beside me, until a gentle hand laid itself on my shoulder.  That simple touch proved to be too much, and I found myself crumbling to my knees with Morgan trying to keep me on my feet, and failing miserably.
    Forced into straddling my lap, she clutched the back of my neck and hugged me to her chest in a death grip, rocking us back and forth in an effort to soothe the sobs that