Justifying Jack (The Wounded Warriors Book 2) by Simone Beaudelaire, J.M. Northup Page A

were drinking,” Malcom assumed with a disapproving glance.
    “I had a beer,” Jack responded tersely. “
One
beer, Dad and I ate a whole bunch of nachos with it. I didn't even get a buzz. Why, something wrong with that?”
I wasn't drunk when I got home and I'm not drunk now.
    “Are you sure it's safe to mix alcohol with your medications?” Malcom pressed.
    Jack sighed.
Does he think I'm an idiot?
“I skipped my meds to be sure there wouldn't be an interaction. I know better than that.”
    “Hmmm,” Malcom rumbled, eyeing his son with a sour look. “You skipped your medication?”
    “Yeah, I did,” Jack felt exhausted.
I'm not in the mood for his shit.
“My medication is 'as needed' and I checked with the doctor when he prescribed it to me.”
    His father arched his brow skeptically. “Really?”
    “Really,” he answered flatly.
    “Well then,” Malcolm didn't seem convinced, but he apparently opted for a new bone to pick. “Are you sure it's a good idea to drink coffee at this hour? If I did, I'd never be able to sleep. Of course, with all the stuff you put in there, there probably isn't much room left for caffeine anyway.”
    Jack had heard enough.
This has to stop. I can't do this crap anymore.
With icy, respectful calm, he intoned, “That's enough, Dad. You've made your opinion abundantly clear, about how I take my coffee and pretty much everything else, and I don't want to hear anymore.” He paused as Malcom stared, mouth agape, eyes bugging out. Jack continued undisturbed. “Don't you think I've proven myself man enough by going to war and getting half my leg blown off?”
    “Jack, I…” Malcom seemed lost and a little hurt.
    Jack ignored his pang of guilt, determined to close the discussion on the irrelevant things his dad liked to nit-pick about. “Listen, I'd be more inclined to take your advice if you would save it for things that really mattered. If I put sugar in my coffee or ketchup on my eggs, what's it to you, really? It doesn't affect you or anyone else, so just knock it off, okay?”
    Malcom took a deep breath and drew himself up to his full height. His mouth opened and closed in silence several times. Then, without a word, he turned and left the kitchen. Jack listened to the clatter of his father's feet as he made his way back to his bedroom. Sighing wearily, he dragged a hand across his face.
That's been a long time coming, but damn, what a drag. I hope he takes a moment out from being angry in order to think about what I said, especially since I wasn't rude, only honest.
    Hoisting himself to his feet, Jack hobbled to the sink and dumped out his now-cold coffee. Rinsing the cup and tucking it into the dishwasher, he thought,
I need to get out of this house.

Chapter 4
    Elena ran with a natural abandon Jack could only dream of. He had always enjoyed running, but like so many other things, it was now left to his past. He hunkered on a high, backless stool, his injured thigh complaining, as he slowly dragged a paintbrush up and down over some gang graffiti, which had been sprayed across the siding of the church's storage building overnight. Mostly unintelligible symbols, with a few choice words interspersed, it marred the sense of safety and innocence represented by the kindergarten class, playing tag at recess. He smiled at their antics as he obliterated another number 3. The children shrieked as they ran, narrowly missing getting tagged, sometimes tripping and rolling in the grass. They jumped up immediately and began to run again with an admirable agility, if not grace.
    “Jack?” A little voice at his ear captured his attention. He turned to find Elena Dominguez standing beside him. “These are for you.” She extended a handful of ditch weeds and clover in his direction.
    “Aww, thank you,” he replied, genuinely moved by the little angel's gesture. “That's very kind.”
    “Mommy says, if someone gets hurt or sick, we should visit them and give them flowers,” she