Sweet Bitter Honey Page 3

  “Shh…Cole, it’s okay. Just…sit here with me.” Dan’s low voice set off another wave of panic in Cole’s gut. “Please. I want…I need you to put your arms around me.”

  “Goddamn it!” Cole burst out. “I can’t fucking see you.”

  “It’s okay, it will be…” Dan coughed and groaned then put his hand back on Cole’s white-hot face. “Sit, be calm, hold me.”

  Cole sat, pulled Dan into his arms and held him. For how long, he had no idea, but Dan lived only a few more minutes, of that he was sure. By the time the explosion had been reported and a fresh wave of troops arrived, Cole’s face was stiff, and he had stopped hurting. Shock had set in. It had taken four Marines to pry his arms away from Dan’s body. When he woke, he was covered in bandages in a hospital in Germany. His left leg was in a cast from ankle to hip. He was one of three survivors of a roadside blast that had taken out eight Marines, including Dan Anderson, the man he loved.

  He clawed at his eyes, cursed the world for being alive, yelled at the medical staff, refused to eat or drink. None of that changed the fact that Captain Cole Robert Traynor was alone and would never see again.

  Cole sat up fast, wishing the nightmare away for the millionth time, once more to no avail. All he’d known for ten years was his life as a Marine. He’d joined after having the rug yanked out from under him when his homophobic father and passive mother got the news about his sexual preferences. Now, after being someone and part of something, he was back to nothing. All his life he’d been what his parents wanted and expected, but when he’d finally been honest, they’d tossed him out as though he was a disposable son, a nonexisting member of their family.

  He flopped back onto the pillow, recalling the epic bender he’d gone on after stumbling out of his boyhood home that day. His sister had tried to calm him down. She’d followed him out of the house and down the street, but he’d run from her, ignoring her pleas to return.

  He’d decided to need nothing and no one, and the men he’d let pick him up and fuck him that entire weekend at the club solidified it. One of them was an ex-Marine. Cole had poured his guts out to the guy in the wee hours, and he’d made a suggestion that changed Cole’s life forever. The Corps needed smart guys, computer-savvy wizards like Cole, especially since the war in Iraq was becoming one of counter-intelligence.

  The next morning, with a freshly pounding hangover, he’d opened the door to the Marine recruiter’s office, marched up to the cheerful guy in the sharp uniform at the desk and filled out the questionnaire, noting the “don’t ask” portion and relishing the supreme irony of his position. While he’d recalled a twinge of regret at that moment, realizing he was doing a completely knee-jerk, up-yours thing, he’d shrugged it off.

  The weeks spent at basic training had given him the sort of focus he’d never had. He’d loved it—every miserable, sore, tired, bullshit moment of it. Maybe because he’d known it for what it was. They’d been tearing him down to build him back up into the image of a man he wanted to be. He’d absorbed it all, made it his own and in the process become better. He didn’t regret it, even though he was one of the many hiding in the barracks closet.

  Lying in his pitch-black bedroom, trying to calm his breathing and pounding heart from reliving yet again the horror of his last days as a Marine, he gulped when the true horror of his new life draped across his brain. His mind would not still, kept sending him unnecessary fight or flight signals. Because now he was home, in his sister’s house, with a seeing-eye dog that he didn’t want and nothing to live for.

  The room seemed to pitch like a massive ship on the ocean, making him reach out to hang on, his stomach roiling and threatening to empty. The ever-present nightmare would not let him go, no matter how hard he forced himself to be awake and to own up to his current reality. He heard a growl, felt the dog’s wet nose shoving at him but pushed it away.

  “Cole!”

  He groaned and rolled over, ignoring the sound of his name.

  “Cole, stop!”

  He lashed out, flailing his arms, fighting back before the asshole terrorist could lay his stupid coward’s bomb and ruin Cole’s entire life.

  “Please!”

  He gasped and sat, felt flesh under his palms then sank back, letting go of whomever he had a death grip on. The dog was bumping his leg, whining.

  “Honey, it’s just me.” He heard his sister’s voice, calm, without a hint of fear.

  “What is that fucking noise?” He groaned and put a hand on his aching forehead. The thump-thump-thumping would not cease. His head spun pretty much nonstop with sounds. The doctors had warned that his other senses would heighten to compensate for the lack of sight, which had proven to be the understatement of the century. He honestly believed he could sense the undercurrent of rain on a sunny day across his skin, could hear people’s presence three rooms away, and would swear he could smell breakfast cooking three blocks down the street, although that was likely stretching it a little.

  Regardless, it was maddening. The daily headaches from the barrage of extra input were debilitating at best, pure hell at worst. Even his lowest moment in basic training, which he could pinpoint at the end of the first week in the hot stew of Parris Island, South Carolina, when every muscle, sinew and nerve he possessed had screamed in pain, he would take over this infernal pounding in his head.

  His VA therapist would invariably ask, ‘How is the pain?’

  ‘Bad,’ he’d say, rubbing his ears to keep out the cacophony of sounds from the hospital that warred with the nauseating odors threatening to bowl him over.

  ‘And how do you feel about that?’

  He would clench his fists, force down the urge to punch the useless asshole in the nose. ‘I feel like shit, thanks. The side effects from the painkillers and anti-depressants and whatever-the-fuck-else make me dry mouthed, antsy, groggy, madder than hell, and my goddamned head still hurts no matter what pills I take. Anything else?’

  He never stayed for the whole session. He would stand and let his dog pull him out of the room, to the elevator and down to the front door where the piss-reeking van would take him back to Audrey’s so he could sit on the couch and hold his aching head in his hands for a few more hours. It was a lovely cycle of do-nothing and talk about it, feel sorry for himself, then be unable to get off his ass because his skull felt as if it was cracking in two, twenty-four seven.

  Audrey put her hand on his face, making him flinch. “Cole, it’s just Brutus. His tail is hitting the carpet.”

  “God.” He groaned and sat, the animal’s head right under his hand. Cole could smell the dog’s wet nose. The snuffling noises the damn thing made were deafening. “Beat it.” He tried to push the dog away, but of course, he wouldn’t go. He sensed Audrey’s sigh about a second before she actually did it.

  “Here.” She grabbed his other hand and put some pills in his palm. He tossed them down and accepted the water glass. “Hopefully these will help.” They could’ve had him on fucking Viagra for all he knew or even cared. “The doctor upped your amitriptyline. Let’s hope that will help with the dreams.”

  “Whatever. They write ’scripts. I take pills.” He put his still-pounding head in his hands. “Anything to make this pain go away.”

  He felt his sister’s hand on his shoulder but jerked away. He couldn’t stand anyone touching him. “Sorry,” he muttered, clenching his jaw and resisting the urge to just lie down and sleep forever. He shied away from that, knowing suicide rates and depression cycles and all that crap would just make him yet another statistical cliché.

  This was his life. He had to live it, no matter how viselike the grip on his skull or how much his eardrums echoed and tossed yet more agony into the mix nor how much his nose picked up every random stink between here and Detroit. He sighed, his throat closing up when he pictured Dan, his amazing, handsome face and willing body.

  Which made him horny.

  Which made everything that much worse.

  Chapter Four
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  Audrey pulled him to his feet and the dog slid under his hand.

  “Okay, so Quinn and Ryan are coming over for dinner. I thought you might like to help me pull it together.”

  “Whatever,” he said, reaching out to flip on the lights. Until he realized that the lights were already on, or not, and that it no longer mattered to him. Clenching his fists and trying not to punch a hole in the wall, he recalled all the ruthless talk therapy sessions to go with the drugs. The one thing his group had practically browbeaten into him was the need to work on his anger.

  Yeah, like he could fucking do that.

  But he put his other hand down and onto the dog’s harness and let it lead him out, helping him avoid furniture obstacles and whatever else stood in the abyss between Audrey’s second bedroom and kitchen. “Jesus.” He clapped a hand over his nose. “Put out that candle, it’s killing me.”

  He heard her blow out the disgusting scent, the residual smoke wafting and dissipating before the air finally cleared, then proceeded to cut onions, tomatoes, peppers and mash garlic for what used to be his special lasagna sauce. “Make sure the noodles aren’t too done,” he said while soothing cooking aromas suffused his brain. “Put more garlic in the pan. It needs it.” Audrey obliged, chattering away about Ryan’s little boy, about their parents’ beer and wine wholesale company that she now ran, everything under the sun. “Could you…just be quiet a minute,” he whispered, putting the knife down and feeling his way back to a chair.

  “Sorry.” She ran her fingers through his hair. He grabbed her, held on for dear life while a now-familiar wave of depression bowled him over. He swallowed hard, determined not to start crying like a girl.

  “Come on, help me over here.” She hauled him to his feet then let the dog guide him to the stove where he stirred, tasted and demanded more oregano and yet more garlic until the sauce was right. He sat back down, exhausted and pissed off. The chemical mix of medicines his body absorbed ebbed and flowed and turned him into the walking contradiction he was now—always on the verge of yelling at the dog, his sister—anyone within hearing distance.

  Because Cole was a war hero, had saved three of the men in the escort platoon that day, even blinded and with a shattered leg, he was given priority in the assistant dog program. He’d been assigned the animal, along with his Purple Heart and Navy Cross, at a ceremony he barely remembered.

  A trainer had given him a grand total of three hours’ worth of instruction that he ignored in favor of dozing on and off in between bouts of bone-crushing pain. Thank God for Audrey. She’d taken it all in and demanded that he move in with her, new pet and all. He flinched when he felt the canine head on his leg. “Stupid fucker,” he muttered, rubbing the animal’s soft ears. He steadfastly ignored the calming sensation he got. The contrarian in him would not accept that petting a dog’s head would make him feel better, although it did.

  He felt Brutus’ vocal cords rumbling on his leg before the growl hit his ears. “They’re here,” he mumbled, about five seconds before the doorbell rang. Audrey put a cold beer bottle in his hand. He gripped it and waited in the kitchen while she greeted her boyfriend and the man’s brother.

  Cole had met them once, when he could still see, while on a leave about a year or so ago. They’d been in Audrey’s office waiting to talk to her. Cole didn’t give two shits about his father’s company and ignored all the news he got from it now that his sister was in charge. He had just been there to visit her, recharge his batteries then return to his life, and his lover.

  He sat in the kitchen, listening to her talk to them, recalling how striking the two men had been. Quinn was tall, with coal-black hair that Audrey claimed had turned a charming salt and pepper, with bright blue eyes. His brother, Ryan, was slightly taller, with a head full of wavy, dark blond hair, gray-green eyes and even broader shoulders. Cole remembered feeling the distinct sensation of being checked out that day, and he’d liked it. Ryan Shannon was a hot guy, and the few moments they’d stood and talked had made him nervous, given the signals his brain had thrown at him.

  By the time Audrey had come out of her office to meet them, Cole had been jumping out of his skin, needing to escape. He’d had no reason to even consider anything but Dan at that moment in his life. But something about Ryan had gotten to him. He had stared at Cole with those green eyes, sending a blatant “let’s skip this and find a dark corner, what d’you say?” message that got him so worked up he’d had to drive to Audrey’s house and go on a punishing ten-mile run to clear his head.

  Of course, now, he was just Cole, the poor blind asshole with a dog and a sad-sack-hero story. He couldn’t give a shit who was coming to dinner.

  Cole sighed and sipped his beer. He was allowed exactly one serving of alcohol a day on his current medicine cocktail and he never skipped it. An alarm from the stove sounded. He set the bottle down, felt around until he quieted it and decided to join the party in the other room. He stood in the doorway, cleared his throat and informed his sister about the timer.

  The testosterone coming off the man across the room was a not-so-subtle cologne, oozing in and out of Cole’s brain, warming his libido and making him flinch when someone touched his arm. “Hi.” Ryan’s voice was low. Cole kept one hand on the dog’s harness, the other on the doorframe. Sweat dripped between his shoulder blades. There was an uncomfortable extra beat of silence in the room. Then, drawn by something he couldn’t explain, he put out his hand, knowing Ryan’s would meet him halfway.

  Some sort of conversation resumed and flowed around him. He tried to still the sudden tremor in his hands and voice. “Better take out the lasagna, Audrey,” he said at one point then moved to the couch to sit, letting Ryan’s warm, somehow malty scent fill his brain. Their thighs brushed together when Ryan stood to get beer for everybody. Cole heard the happiness in Audrey’s voice when she and Quinn joked about their professional conflict of interest. He was content that Quinn Shannon did indeed love his sister the way she deserved. Not thrilled, however. No man would ever really be worthy of her. But the sound of her familiar voice, devoid of stress whenever Quinn was around, suited Cole just fine.

  He jumped when Ryan put a fresh, cold water bottle against his biceps. “Thanks,” he muttered, grabbing it.

  “So, Cole, I hear they got the computer set up for you. You’ll be starting work next week?” Quinn’s voice broke through the erotic fantasy loop Cole had running in his head when he felt Ryan’s leg close to his again. Jesus, he was horny. He hadn’t even given a half-thought to sex in the past year while he’d recovered in Germany and had then been discharged home to Michigan, to a life of nothingness with a side order of excruciating pain.

  “Uh, yeah.” He sipped. His headache had retreated to a back corner, still mumbling and threatening to return, but his neck was less tense, thank all the gods. The fact that he felt more relaxed at this moment, sitting next to a near stranger named Ryan Shannon, than he had in what seemed like forever, forced a puff of air from his lips. The dog shoved his muscular body between the men then dropped down on top of Cole’s feet as he’d been trained to do, never far away, always on-duty.

  He put the bottle down and adjusted the dark glasses that covered his sightless eyes. He tried to form coherent words, but every inch of his skin was on the alert in a way he hadn’t been since losing Dan, and his brain wouldn’t engage and cooperate.

  “Yeah, my brainiac brother’s going to be an analyst for an internet security company based in Detroit. He’ll work from home but take the bus downtown a couple of days a week. His computer is way cool—with a giant keyboard and a sexy woman telling him what’s on the screen. No more of that weird robot voice—it’s fabulous,” Audrey said, pride evident in her tone. She put a hand on his shoulder. “He picked up Braille in something like two weeks, not that I’m surprised. He’s always been the genius who can do anything when he puts his mind to it.”

  Cole flushed at her words. Truth be told, he was a nervous wreck about the whole damn
thing, but the CEO of the company had assured him that it was no sympathy job. Cole Traynor had maintained top security clearance from his work in counter-intelligence. He knew his way around the internet like no one else. Cole gulped back the urge to disparage the whole thing and start a pity party, another thing his therapist had been drilling him about. “Yeah, should be, uh, interesting—especially the part about having the computer tell me what’s on the screen. Not quite sure how that’s gonna work yet.”

  Ryan put a hand on his arm. The jolt of sexual energy that shot down Cole’s spine from the touch made him gasp. He jumped up, hit the underside of the table with his knees and heard the various cries of dismay at what was likely a huge mess of beer. The dog whined and stuck his head under Cole’s dangling hand, propping him up and providing calm at the same time.

  “I got this.” He heard Quinn moving around beside him. Standing there, the smell of spilled beer up in his nose, his canine companion growling at the guy who’d turned him into a walking hard-on with one touch, he felt like the world’s biggest idiot. He put his hand to his eyes, found the glasses and fiddled with them before grabbing the dog’s lead. He wanted to walk the hell away from all of them. One thing he surely did not miss were the no doubt multiple and sincere glances of sympathy floating around him. He gritted his teeth and let the dog lead him outside and to a chair. How the animal knew that was exactly where he wanted to go, he had no idea, but he was grateful.

  .

  Chapter Five

  Cole sat at the dinner table, frozen, revved up and miserable for a few minutes before he heard the conversation make its way toward him. Plates plunked down on the glass table top, the delicious-smelling lasagna was doled out, wine poured. He let the conversation roll around him again, keeping silent. He knew he was being belligerent, but he didn’t care. He could practically hear his therapist chiding that he would never integrate if he maintained his current fury level—mad at everyone around him who could still use their eyes.