“Dean,” a lady said as she finished sweeping the stairs, the light of affection in her eyes. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, Mrs. Kovic. I’m fine. These are my friends.”
She beamed at them and reached out to shake their hands. “So nice to meet you. This is a fine boy and so helpful,” she added with undisguised pride.
Striker looked down at the old lady’s praise.“Thanks, Mrs. Kovic.”
GQ smiled at her when she turned her attention to him. “And aren’t you a handsome young man?”
Preacher, even with the turmoil churning in his gut, chuckled. “Come on, G, before she feeds you cookies and milk.”
They went up the stairs and an old man came out and waved. “Hello, Dean. That sink works like a dream now.”
Dean nodded and went up another flight of stairs. They were stopped by several others who thanked him for other types of handy work. Once inside the small apartment, Striker sat down in one of the chairs.
Preacher went over to the kitchen and peeked inside the fridge. It was just about empty except for a few bottles of beer and some cheese. Preacher had to wonder how much he was eating. “How about we stay for dinner?”
Striker stiffened and turned away. “No. You don’t have to do that. Thanks for getting me here.”
“What was all that about anyway?” GQ asked gently. “The alley, the mafia-looking guys.”
“Mrs. Kovic’s nephew got himself in trouble with a bookie. I mitigated the problem, and they didn’t particularly like my interference. But don’t worry. I can take care of myself.”
Preacher pulled some bills out of his pocket. “Why don’t you go down to that farmer’s market and get a few things, G. We’ll stay for dinner.”
GQ nodded and slipped out the door. The kid might not look like it, but he was a dream in the kitchen. Striker rose, went to the fridge and grabbed one of the bottles. “Help yourself,” he said and went to the window and leaned against the jamb.Striker gave him a wry half smile. “You are so transparent.”
“Tough.”
Striker laughed, screwed off the top, and took a drink.
Preacher walked from the kitchen and settled into one of the chairs, setting his ankle across his knee. “The last time I saw you was at 2-Stroke’s wedding in San Diego. You needed to be home with your brother. What happened?”
His expression set, Striker said, “I couldn’t stay.” He lifted his head and met Preacher’s gaze, a sad, agonizing look in his eyes. “I was restless, and San Diego is rife with the Navy. It was too painful.”
“Why did you come back here? It wasn’t exactly the best time of your life.”
He held Preacher’s gaze for a moment, then looked down, releasing a heavy sigh. “I don’t know that either.” He rubbed at the rim of the bottle with the pad of his thumb, then took another drink, glancing back at Preacher. “Maybe I’m looking for something I need. Something I lost.”
This was killing him. “It was all my fault, man. I’m sorry,” Preacher said, his tone gruff.
Striker turned from the window, genuine surprise on his face. “What?” He shook his head vigorously. “No. Shit happens all the time. It’s not on you. I knew what I was doing. There was no other alternative and if we hadn’t intervened, Alek, Chry, and my brother wouldn’t have made it. We saved them, Preach. You, me, and Ice. Don’t ever forget that.”
“That is a good outcome, and that helps me to sleep at night.”
Striker’s expression went grim. “What keeps you up?”
Preacher turned away, a disturbing feeling rolling over in his gut. “What happened to you?”
It hung between them for a moment, then the door opened, and GQ was back. There was no more time for talk as he whipped up a fresh salad and penne pasta that melted in their mouths.
As night fell, Preacher knew they had to get back to the barracks. “You two should go. I’ll be okay.”
“Hey, we’re going to be here for a bit. We’ll stop by again,” GQ said. “I’ll make something good. Okay?”
“Sounds great,” Striker said. “Bye, guys.”
They left his apartment and GQ looked as miserable as Preacher felt. “Hey, you go back. I’m going to walk for a bit to clear my head.”