“Tonight, you mean? He told me about the women.”
He paused. “Not the women.”
“Oh,” I said in understanding. “You mean the children.”
“Aye.”
I rubbed the bridge of my nose. “He didn’t give me details, but I know… I know enough.”
The man I was falling for was asleep, recovering from a gunshot because, despite what he had said about himself and the Blue Angels, they were saviors.
Protectors of the innocent.
Protectors of those too weak to defend themselves.
“Were you there?” I asked him. “The night they found the children?”
He nodded, his eyes glassy. With booze or emotion, I wasn’t sure. “There are some horrors you can’t ever unsee. Some horrors are there every time you close your eyes—nightmares that are burned onto your eyelids.” He shuddered. “We were too late for one. I’ll carry that guilt with me for the rest of my life. The others will too.”
I exhaled a shaky breath and nodded. I carried my own guilt and realized that sometimes, there was no absolution for our failures.
But I didn’t want to dwell on my past and the burdens fettered to my soul with iron shackles.
So, I left Ramsey with his own thoughts and went inside. And when I laid my head on a pillow in a clubhouse room, I thought about my future. For the first time in years, I thought there might be an added purpose to my life.
* * *
I woke up in the middle of the night to check on Boxer. His breathing was easy, and I stroked my hand across his forehead. He wasn’t hot to the touch. No fever, which meant most likely no infection. I’d check his wound in the morning, and flush and change bandages as required. As I made my way to the door to leave, he whispered, “Stay.”
“I didn’t mean to wake you up,” I whispered back.
“I was already half awake. Stay,” he said again.
“I don’t want to hurt you.” But even as I said the words, I was stripping out of my jeans that I’d pulled on in case I encountered anyone in the hallway. But the clubhouse was quiet, and everyone was asleep.
I gingerly crawled into bed next to Boxer. I backed up until I hit the wall, wanting to give him as much room as possible.
We lay there in silence, and when his breathing didn’t even out after a few minutes, I asked, “Are you still awake?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you in pain?”
“Some,” he admitted.
“Do you want—”
“No. No painkillers. I’ll be fine.”
“You sure?”
“I survived a hangover without aspirin and an appendectomy without morphine. I can handle a little bullet wound without painkillers.”
I closed my eyes and reached out to gently set my hand on his chest, wanting, needing, to feel the rhythm of his breathing.
“I think the ones we couldn’t save are in a better place,” he said, his voice raspy in the dark. “This world is so fucking cruel sometimes.”
“Yeah, that’s the truth.”