Afraid to Fly (Anchor Point #2)(5)

"Dad, if you're-"

"I'm fine. I might go out and have a cigarette, but otherwise . . ."

She scowled, but shrugged. "All right. You know we can leave anytime."

"I know. Go have fun."

"Okay. Just say so if you want to take off."

"I will. Go."

She headed back out to the dance floor, and I took a deep swallow of ice water.

That cigarette was tempting as hell, especially after I'd been through a couple of beers, but I didn't move yet. I wasn't sure I dared, because the truth was, the pain was getting unbearable. The TENS unit was turned up as high as I could stand it, to the point it was more irritating than helpful. Instead of the electrical pulses feeling like spiders dancing on my skin, it felt like they were biting my skin.

I sighed. Well, there was no point in burning up the batteries for nothing, so I turned the unit down.

I'd gone through all the Motrin I'd brought with me. More and more, it looked like the only way I was sleeping tonight was with the help of one of the pain meds I'd been hoarding. Medical was stingy as fuck about anything besides Motrin, and the Navy frowned on using actual painkillers for any length of time. Another one of those things that was technically allowed if Medical deemed it necessary, but was a bullet train ticket to a medical retirement.



       
         
       
        

So on that rare occasion I got my hands on something stronger, I rationed that shit like they were the last pills on earth. When I did take them, I just prayed that wasn't the week I was called in for a random drug test.

I shifted in my chair, gritting my teeth at the fresh pain exploding along my spine. Good thing I had those strong meds at home, even if the means of acquiring them had been unpleasant. I was probably the only man alive who'd ever been thankful for a kidney stone. That weekend last spring had been hell, but I'd gotten a bottle of Percocet as a consolation prize and still had most of it left, so I actually stood a chance at sleeping tonight.

Now I understand why no one can tell the difference between a chronic pain sufferer and a drug addict.

I wiped a hand over my face and breathed as deeply as my uniform and muscle spasms allowed. Kimber was having a good time, and I didn't want to cut her evening short. These events were rare, and she didn't get many other opportunities to dress up and dance. Maybe someday she'd be ready to go to clubs and parties again on her own, but until that time, she stuck with events like the Navy Ball. And I'd happily go with her and knuckle through the pain until she was damn good and ready to leave.

I flagged down a waiter and grabbed another glass of water. For a minute or two, I wondered if I could talk him into getting me some ice-preferably wrapped in a dish towel, thank you-that I could lean against, but decided against it. Kimber would take one look at me getting an ice pack from a waiter, and drag me out the door.

A cigarette might help. The thought of it made some of the Pavlovian response kick in and relax muscles all over my body. Not the ones that hurt, of course, but maybe if I actually went out and lit up, I'd feel better.

Holding my breath, I rose. Fresh, eye-watering pain shot down my spine, which I'd expected, and I carefully breathed through it as I buttoned my jacket.

Yep, definitely gonna have to get this fucker tailored before next year.

The button held, though. Before I left the table, I checked my pockets for my cigarettes and lighter. Then I looked around, found Kimber, and held up my cigarette pack. She nodded before going back to what looked like a flirty conversation with an enlisted kid.

I worked my way around the edge of the room instead of through the crowd so no one would jostle me.

I made it to the exit and stepped outside into the chill October air. I hadn't even realized how stuffy the room had become until I was breathing fresh, clean, vaguely salt-scented air.

Fresh, clean air that was about to be polluted thanks to the Camel I was about to smoke. I pulled one out of the pack, put it between my lips, and lit it.

That Pavlovian effect intensified. The nicotine wasn't anywhere near my bloodstream yet, but even as I took that first drag, some of the tension in my neck and shoulders eased. I cautiously rolled my shoulders under my tight jacket. The spasm in the center of my back wasn't moving anytime soon, and the TENS wasn't helping much. 

Get ready for me, Percocet. I took a deep drag from my cigarette. We're going to bed together tonight.

In the parking lot, a car door slammed. The distinct click of dress shoes came closer, and I turned my head.

And almost dropped my cigarette.

Was I already getting loopy on the Percocet I hadn't even taken yet? Or was Clint really back? Strolling up the sidewalk? Coming right toward me? Alone?

I blinked a few times. Nope, this was no phantom drug side effect. That was Clint, and he was back, and was . . .

Right here.

I stood straighter, schooling the wince out of my expression. "Hey. I thought you called it a night."

"I did. But then . . ." He shook his head. "Anyway. Can, uh . . ." He gestured toward the door to the ball still going on without us. "Can I buy you a drink?"

"Uh . . ." I really am having premature hallucinations, aren't I? "I . . . Seriously?"

"Yeah. Kind of feel like . . . uh, like I owe you and everybody else for putting up with Logan." As soon as he said it, something in him settled, as if he'd been searching for an explanation and finally found one that satisfied him. He took a deep breath, and shifted slightly, as if he couldn't quite stay still. "Do you want anything?"

Oh, I definitely want-

"A Coke is fine. I've, uh, gotta drive." Which was true. Kimber had had quite a bit to drink tonight, so it was either me or a cab. "Here." I reached for my wallet. "You fly, I'll-"

"I'll get it. Don't worry about it." He flashed a shy smile. "Should I come back out here, or . . .?"

"No. I . . ." I glanced at the cigarette in my hand, then dropped it on the ground and crushed it under my heel, ignoring the twinge that motion sent from my hip to my back. "I was heading back inside."

"Meet you at the table?"

"Sure. Yeah."

We separated, and I headed back to where we'd been sitting earlier. Everyone else had cleared out-they were either dancing, socializing, or waiting for more drinks. Fine by me. I didn't need anyone watching me lower myself into my chair like I was eighty-five instead of forty-five. Or notice me cursing when a spasm knifed across my back and made my eyes water.

I leaned my forearms on the table, lifting my shoulders as much as I could to stretch the aggravated muscles. The spasm started to subside, but it wasn't in any hurry.

"Are you all right?" Damn. Clint's voice.

I nodded, and cautiously released my breath. Lifting my head, I forced a smile. "Old injury." I took out the TENS unit and cranked that fucker back up. "Still likes to come back and haunt me sometimes."

"Those are a bitch, aren't they?" He set a Coke in front of me and sat in the next chair with what might've been a Coke, or maybe Coke and something stronger.

I rolled my stiff shoulders. "Eh, life in the military, am I right?"

"I'll drink to that." He raised his glass. "This life ain't for the faint of heart."

"Amen." I clinked mine against his and took a sip.

"And, um . . ." He lowered his gaze. "By the way, I hope my date wasn't too much of an idiot for-"

"Don't sweat it. You should've seen Wolcott's wife at the Christmas party last year."

He met my eyes. "Really?"



       
         
       
        

"Oh yeah. And Stevenson's husband got so shitfaced, he tried to pick a fight with the chaplain."

"The chaplain?" Clint sputtered. "Over what?"

"Who knows?" I shrugged. "When you're that drunk, why does anything need to make sense?"

I couldn't be sure, but I thought he winced. Averting his eyes again, he quietly said, "Isn't that the truth."

I studied him, not sure if the wince had been leftover embarrassment from his idiot date, or something deeper. Whatever it was, he probably didn't want to get into it, so I changed the subject.

"So, um." I drummed my fingers nervously. "Are you settling in okay? To the new town and all?"

Clint nodded. "It's nice to be out of the desert."

"The desert?" I paused. "Oh right. You came from Nellis, didn't you?"

"Yep. Man, I did not sign up for the Navy to spend my life in Nevada."

"Could be worse. I know a few people who've landed in Nebraska."

He wrinkled his nose. "Ugh. The Navy does not belong in landlocked states."

"Tell that to the Air Force," I muttered. "They're the ones who need the Navy to operate the complicated, technical shit."

That got a laugh out of him. Nothing like the good-natured rivalry between military branches to lighten up a conversation.

"So, you were a drone pilot, right?" I asked.

His laughter faded a bit, and he sat straighter. "We prefer RAP. But yes."

"RAP?" Come on, Travis. You haven't even taken the drugs yet. "Remind me what that is again?"