Justifying Jack (The Wounded Warriors Book 2) (3 page)

“I like comedies.
Father Goose
is a good one.”

She gleamed at his response. “That is a good one.”

“Wow,” Jack felt even more drawn to the woman before him, recognizing her kindred spirit. “I thought I was the only one.”

“Me too,” she laughed. “It's really a tragedy that poor working folks, such as us, have to be out and about, away from vintage movies and warm blankets.”

And away from lovely ladies with sad eyes.
Shaking off the potent lure of her beauty, he forced himself to return to the casual, but words escaped him. Instead, he found himself staring into her face as though the answers to all the questions that had plagued him lately could be found there.
Jack, she's the widow of one of your closest friends, man. Come on, what are you thinking?

She looked back, her expression unreadable, but her eyes seemed to be asking for something, begging for it. At last, she spoke, “I'll make sure your father gets this, Mr. Nelson.”

“Jack, Marithé. Remember? Call me Jack, please. I can't call you Mrs. Dominguez. It just seems so… wrong.”

She flashed a grin, seeming pleased. “Jack, then. I'm sure you know the drill. They'll call you, and so on.” She bobbed her head from side to side, emphasizing the repetition of her statement.

“Yeah, I know the drill,” he chuckled. “It was, ah… nice… to see you again, Marithé.”

She acknowledged his words with a silent nod, watching him as he made his way out of the office, his cane clicking rhythmically against the floor. The sound made Jack cringe. He hated how his unsteady gait made him look like what he was… weak.
Broken.

* * *

Marithé hadn't realized she was holding it, but letting out her unsteady breath, she felt a little overwhelmed.
Jack Nelson is too much for his own good. Too sexy, too handsome, and too damned nice.
She could easily recall, even though he was no longer visible, the chiseled lines of his face, the light cocoa of his skin, the brilliant flash of his perfect white teeth.
He looks amazing. Too good to be true.

“And not for you,” she sourly reminded herself. “How disloyal can you get? Your husband is barely cold in his grave and you're ogling one of his best friends!”

She swallowed hard, pressing the fingers of her hand against her forehead, closing her eyes in dismay. She knew the nagging voice of her conscience was right. She had no business drooling over Jack Nelson. No business even looking at a man, let alone secretly wishing he'd pressed his question about dating just a little harder.

“Marithé?” A voice shattered her reverie.

“Yes?” She glanced up to see the gentle, probing eyes of Shonda Nelson, scrutinizing her with blatant curiosity.

“Did you get the bulletins printed yet?”

Crap! Your job, mujer!
“Not yet. I almost have the cover design ready.”

“I need those ready before tomorrow,” she reminded her, trying to suppress her smile.
Crap! How goofy-looking was my expression when she came in right after her son left?

“I know, I know.”
Oh come on, Mari. Get with it.
“Sorry, I just…”

“Have other… things on your mind?” Shonda teased with an unspoken question in her gaze

“Uh, yeah,” Marithé could feel her face warming.
Oh, dear Lord, does she suspect I'm so frazzled and slow because I was daydreaming about her son? Ugh! How do I defuse this
?

Thankfully, the kind older woman cut her some slack and let her off the hook by saying, “Don't worry, dear, I'm only teasing. I've just never seen you so… distracted before. I guess I couldn't resist teasing.”

“Yeah, I guess I sort of was… distracted,” Marithé couldn't help feeling relieved as she repeated the generous word choice of her manager and friend. Though she was certain it showed plainly on her face, Shonda refrained from further commenting on her ill-concealed emotions. Instead, she extended a steaming mug towards her.

“Here, I grabbed you a fresh cup of coffee. It should help to get the motor running again.”

“Thank you,” Marithé responded, eagerly taking the mug and trying to hide the return flush igniting her face by sipping from the hot beverage.
Oh, I don't think there's anything wrong with my motor!

* * *

Malcolm peeked over the top of his laptop at the sound of Jack opening the kitchen door. It was evident by his expression that he hadn't expected Jack to be back so soon.
I hadn't expected it either.

“Hey, Dad,” he gave an uncomfortable wave, leaned his cane against the wall, then pulled his jacket off and hung it on the hook beside the door.

“Hi, Jack,” Malcolm replied as he returned to the keys.

“Working on a new sermon?” Jack surmised.

“Hmmm,” his father murmured absently. Jack glanced at Malcolm, amused as his father lifted his head, looking down his nose and through the bottom section of his bifocal glasses to read what he'd written.
How many times have I seen him in that exact position? Whether he's writing his sermon by hand or typing it doesn't matter, he still looks the same; serious, thoughtful, and… unavailable.

Jack continued to move through the kitchen towards his little room, but he only took a few steps before his father refocused on him. “Oh, Jack. Someone named Mike called while you were out. I left the message by the phone.”

“Mike?” Jack replied, happy to hear his friend's name. “Huh, I wonder why he called.”

“Read the message and you'll know,” Malcolm remarked. His comment was more matter-of-fact than anything else so Jack blew it off, realizing it wasn't meant in a discourteous manner.

Cool,
Jack thought as he read the message scrawled on a small notepad next to the phone.
The guys want to get together tonight at Dave and Buster's
. It had been years since he'd been there.
That should be fun.

Hearing the crinkle of the paper as Jack grasped the message, Malcolm asked, “Did you submit your application?”

The mention of the church job reminded Jack it would be his father who would offer candidates to the board members. “Ah, yeah.” He turned his gaze to Malcolm, meeting his eyes. “Why didn't you say you were in charge of the interviews?”

“I didn't want you counting your chickens before they hatched,” Malcolm gestured dismissively.
As if you ever did me any favors which would lead me to assume such a thing.

“Dad, I don't expect anything -”

“Jack,” Malcolm interrupted, getting up from the table and standing in front of his son. “I know you think I'm… an asshole…” the word seemed so foreign on his father's lips, adding to the man's discomfort as much as it emphasized his words.

“Dad, I…”

“Let me finish, please,” Malcolm requested, holding a hand up to stifle his son's objection.

“Sorry,” Jack apologized. “Please go ahead.”

“Thank you. Look, I'm only hard on you because I want the best for you. I… I don't mean to offend you.” Jack was moved by the admission and a pang of guilt shot through him when he recognized the sadness reflected in his father's eyes. “I'm… I'm glad you're home, son. I just, I don't want you to forget your worth.”

Wow. Where had that come from?
“Thanks, Dad. I appreciate you saying that.”

“I love you, son.” Malcolm awkwardly patted Jack's upper arm, never one for public displays of affection, even in the privacy of their own home. “I'm sorry if I don't show it or say it as much as I should.”

Jack nodded. “I love you too, Dad.”

Malcolm bobbed his head and cleared his throat. He shuffled back to his chair and plopped back down in front of his laptop. “So, are you going to go out with your friends tonight?”

“Uh, yeah,” he answered. “I think I will.”

“Are these men you knew in the Army?” his father asked, sipping from his coffee mug and scratching his head.

“I'm not sure who all is going to be there, but yeah, Mike was in my squad.”
Thankfully, he survived.
“He's a little younger than I am, but he's a real good guy.”

“Did you want to use the car?” Malcolm offered as he started to read through his sermon again, his voice growing distant with his distraction.

“Oh, no, but thank you,” Jack smiled, surprised by his father's thoughtfulness. “I, ah… I'll take a cab, like I did to come home.”

“Hmmm. Uh-huh…” And his father was gone, lost in the preparations for his part of the coming Sunday services.

Hey, I'll take it,
Jack thought to himself as he entered his little room, grabbing his cell to phone Mike back.
Perhaps there's hope for us after all.

Jack sipped from an icy mug of Heineken as he watched his friend Mike stammer into his cell phone. Moments later, the shy redhead pressed the end button and shoved the little plastic rectangle back into his jeans pocket.
Poor bastard must have been talking to his mom again. Amazing a crack shot like Mike comes from such an odd assembly of characters like his family.
Jack took another drink of his beer. Mike picked up his cue and returned to the table, but his hands were shaking so much his shot careened wildly all over the emerald felt and came to a slow stop without touching any of the other balls.

Without a word, he extended the cue to Jack, who rose, setting his beer aside, and took the wooden stick. Neatly, he lined up the cue ball and sank a solid purple into the side pocket, and then the red into the corner. The third shot, aimed at the green, missed.
If Mike ever figured out I take it easy on him, he'd be royally pissed. Poor kid sucks at pool at the best of times.

Jack returned to his beer while Mike picked up the cue again. This time he was able to sink his ball, and looked as though he might manage a second success when a loud cheer broke the kid's concentration. Instead of the desired orange stripe, the black eight ball rolled into the corner pocket and ended the game with an ominous thud.

The young soldier muttered curses under his breath before the two men turned to face the new arrival.

Raymundo 'Ray' Lozano seemed about to jump clean off the floor with excitement. His every muscle taut, the Latino soldier clutched a crumpled sheet of paper in one raised hand, waving excitedly.

“I take it you got good news,” Jack said dryly, stretching out his sore leg and rubbing it with one big, calloused hand.

“Hell yeah,” Ray shouted. “I got my orders, amigos. I'm going overseas.”

“I doubt you're going back to the Middle East,” Mike commented dryly, his phony 'tough guy' persona firmly in place with Ray's arrival, “or you wouldn't be so happy.”

“You called it, bro,” Ray replied. “I'm going to Germany.”

“Sprechen sie Deutsch?” Jack quipped, though he knew the answer.

“Nah, not much,” Ray replied. “But maybe I'll find a hot blonde or two to teach me.” He smirked.

“Yeah, a hot blond named Karl,” Jack replied, ribbing his friend.

“Fuck you,” Ray snarled, only half joking, making Jack grin widely.
He can dish it out like hell, but he never could take it.
“So while you two ladies are cooking to death here in Texas, I'll be enjoying the sweet life.” He plunked down into a chair and put his feet up on the table.

“Dude, I was gonna eat something,” Mike complained.

“What? They gonna put your nachos on the table, culero? Normally, they use a plate.”

Mike glared. “Nah, but once your rank boots have been on it, everything that touches this table will be contaminated.”

Jack shook his head.
Mike tries, I'll give him that, but he isn't quite smooth with the banter.

Meanwhile, Ray was still laughing at his own cleverness, though in Jack's opinion, scoring one on Mike hardly counted.

“So, off to Europe, eh?” Jack asked, trying to steer the conversation into more neutral territory. “Good luck. Hope you like it.”

“I plan to,” Ray replied. “What about y'all? Any plans?”

“I'm staying here,” Jack replied. “My dad offered me a job in his church.”

“Mother of God!” Ray exclaimed

. “Do you have to take a vow of chastity?”

A pang deflated Jack's pleasant mood.
Even when he isn't trying, Ray can be a dick of the first order.
“No, stupid, we're Protestant. Besides, I'm not a pastor. I'm going to be a trustee. You know, like a groundskeeper. At least until I figure out what I'm doing next.”

Ray made a face. “What about you, culero?” he asked, turning to Mike.

“I'm heading to San Marcos. I'm going to work in the admissions office at Texas State University. I'll be a VA rep, helping students with their G.I. Bill benefits. Plus, I got accepted into college there.”

“School?” Ray stuck his finger down his throat and pretended to gag. “You can have it, bro.”

“I like school,” Mike replied. “First thing I plan to do is study Spanish, so I can find out what 'culero' means.”

“It's a good thing you'll be in Germany by the time he finds out,” Jack told Ray.

“Bah,” Ray waved his hand in dismissal. “I can take him.”

“I was thinking he'd probably just shoot you,” Jack replied.

Ray made a different face this time, obviously recalling the fact that Mike was capable of outshooting pretty much everyone, before he said, “No hard feelings, bro. You know I'm just bullshitting you, right?”

“Yeah, sure,” Mike replied skeptically. “I'll keep that in mind.”

The men fell into an uncomfortable silence, which Ray broke by summoning a sexy waitress with teased blonde hair and black short shorts to their table. “Cerveza, por favor, baby,” he said, turning on the charm.

The waitress gave him a long, considering look before disappearing into the bar area.

She returned with a tray on which a green bottle sat atop a napkin. “Dos Exxis?” she suggested, and he accepted with a nod. She set the bottle and the napkin on the table then promptly disappeared.

“Hot damn!” Ray cheered. The girl had scrawled her name – Misty – and a phone number on the napkin.

How the hell does he do that?
Jack wondered.
All he has is cheesy pickup lines. Do they really sound so much better in Spanish?
He rolled his eyes, but couldn't help remembering just how long it had been since he'd been with a woman. The errant thought made him wonder if anyone would be willing to have him now…
now that I'm no longer a whole man
.

“It doesn't really feel right,” Mike mentioned thoughtfully. “You know, being all together without Sam.”

“Fuck Sam,” Ray chuckled, trying to cover his irritation by sounding like he was joking.

“I don't think he'd go for that,” Jack quipped, making Ray stammer and curse again.

Mike and Jack ignored the hot-tempered Latino and Mike asked, “Has anyone talked to him lately?”

“No, but I probably should give him a call,” Jack replied. “Maybe we can all get together for a drink some night.”

“Yeah,” Mike smiled, genuinely happy at the idea of seeing his friends together.

“I saw him at the Air Force Base the day he arrived home. His girlfriend, Amy was with him and man, he wasn't lying – that girl is
fine
,” Ray remembered with longing. “Do you think he'd bring her hot ass along?”

Jack and Mike gave each other a knowing look. It was obvious Ray still saw himself in competition with Sam, though no one really understood why.
I guess two stubborn males naturally just butt heads and those two are arrogant as well as stubborn, making it that much worse.

* * *

Jack double checked the numbers as he punched them into his cell phone.
I hope Sam answers, not knowing my new number.
He was relieved when his friend did answer, picking up the call on the third ring, sounding as hesitant as Jack had expected he'd be.

“Sam, it's me, Jack,” he said quickly.

“Oh, hey,” his friend replied. “It's been a while. How's the leg?”

Jack shrugged.
Dummy, he can't see you.
“It sucks, but I'm trying to ignore it. Hey, what would you say if we all headed your way sometime soon to hang out? Without your smart mouth to rein him in, Ray's turning into a real asshole.”

Sam snorted. “Ray's always been an asshole.”
And I expected the edge in your voice too, Wallace.
“Yeah, sure. Mind if I…” Sam trailed off as though not sure how to finish his statement.

“Bring your girlfriend? Yeah, that's cool. I'd like to meet her. She must be one hell of a chick, to put up with your sorry ass.”

“Shut up,” Sam replied, laughing at the good natured ribbing. “You're just jealous.”

“Nah, blonds aren't my thing,” Jack replied.
Now if she had medium brown skin and big hazel eyes… cut that shit out!
He forced himself to listen to Sam.

“How did you know Amy was blond?” Sam sounded perplexed.

“You kept her photo with you everywhere you went,” Jack reminded him. “Everyone saw it.”

“Oh.”

“So, tomorrow?” Jack urged.

“Yeah, sure,” Sam replied. “We'll be there.

They exchanged information about where to meet and hung up the phone.
I can't wait to see Sam again, even if watching him hang all over his girl hurts like hell.

* * *

Malcolm sensed the boy before he heard him. The prickling of the hair on the back of his neck alerted him to the watchful eyes of the youngster as he crouched outside the pastor's office door. Realizing the child was trying to be sneaky, Malcolm proceeded to work, acting as though he was unaware of the guest hovering just beyond the threshold.

With no reaction coming from the man, the little boy seemed to gain in confidence and courage. He peeked around the corner, farther and longer than he had to date, and eventually, rolled a small toy car into the room. The playful, albeit shy, antics made the older man grin.

“Oh my,” Malcolm feigned surprise, rose from his desk, and moved towards the toy. “I wonder where such a sporting car such as this came from.”

A high pitched giggle sounded from the hallway before a small frame appeared.

“It's mine,” Andres chimed, his grin spanning from ear to ear.

“It is?” the pastor inquired, playing along with the child.

“Uh-huh,” the boy bobbed his head excitedly.

“Well, what's it doing here?” Malcolm squatted down to grasp the little car and face Andres eye to eye.

“I rolled it through the door,” the boy said in a tone which implied the answer had been obvious. He tilted his head and raised his chubby little hand, palm up, emphasizing his comment with a shrug.

“Why did you do that?”

The child flapped his arms up, ballooning them out before he dropped them carelessly at his sides while he exclaimed, “I wanted to play with you.”

“Oh, I see,” Malcolm was genuinely touched. “What did you want to play?”

“Cars,” the youngster replied simply.

Nodding in response, the pastor handed the little car to the boy. “Well, I think we're going to need more cars then.”

Malcolm rose and walked over to his large oak desk, where he pulled open the heavy bottom drawer. When the child peered into the depths, a look of amazement crossed his features and his mouth opened with a little pop, causing the man to chuckle in a rich baritone. Seated in the bottom of the drawer were two small plastic bins, one filled with an assortment of toy vehicles and the other packed full of plastic army men.

“Wow,” Andres gasped in awe. “Where did you get all of those?”

“Well,” Malcolm began to explain as he plucking an aged firetruck from the neatly stacked Matchbox cars. It was missing paint in spots, showing the wear and tear of years of use. “They were Jack's, from when he was a boy. I used to play with him whenever I had the chance.”
It was never enough, but the times we did play were priceless.

“Doesn't Jack play with them anymore?” the boy wondered, reaching tentatively towards the enticing array of metal vehicles, afraid to touch them, but desperately wanting to.

“Well, when he became a soldier, he didn't have time to play with them anymore, so I brought them here.”
So I could remember the times we spent together.

“Did you do that so
we
could play with them?” Andres inquired, hope thick in his voice.

“That's precisely why I brought them here - so you and I could play with them - together,” Malcolm told him in a hushed tone, as though he were conspiring with the child. He couldn't help smiling at the glow in the little boy's eyes, which touched him deeply as it called memories of his own son's face to mind.
Time moves too fast and I missed so much. I don't want to miss anything anymore.

The old pastor settled himself onto the floor as the little boy clapped happily. Andres bounded towards the man and jumped into his arms without notice, almost tipping Malcolm over.

“I love you,” the child announced and then quickly pulled himself away, grabbing the firetruck. He scooted it around the floor making siren sounds, obviously unaware of the dampness escaping around Malcolm's eyes.

* * *

Jack sat at the kitchen table in a ladder back chair, his bad leg stretched out on a second, inhaling deeply as his mother dolloped whipped cream over a mass of peaches and sweet biscuits. The aroma awakened nostalgia. Its familiarity proved he was home and fond childhood memories of his mother warmed his heart.

“Thanks, Mama,” he told Shonda as she set the plate in front of him. He forked up a bite of his favorite dessert and blew on the steaming, soggy mass. Tucking it into his mouth, he closed his eyes and savored the tangy, sweet flavors.

“Good?” she asked innocently, setting a cup of coffee in front of him, and taking a seat herself.

Her cup, which had the words “God is good” printed in white on a navy blue background, reminded him even more strongly of years gone by. She'd had the thing so long only memory rendered it legible.
Funny how one's home isn't a building or even a location, but rather, it's the little odds and ends which hold us together. She was drinking out of that very cup when we got the call saying Dad was retiring from military service. She was drinking out of it again when I told her I was enlisting. That cup is the keeper of so many memories.

“It's delicious,” he replied. “Don't you want any?”

She shook her head sadly. “The doctor says I have pre-diabetes. If I don't lose some weight and watch what I eat, I'll need insulin injections. No more 'fun foods' for this lady.” She sighed deeply then added, “It's hard getting old, son.”

He bowed his head in acknowledgement, his gaze dropping toward his itchy wound. “Yes, I think I know what you mean.”

Shonda frowned deeply. “I guess you do. I'm sorry, but I still think of you as my little boy.”

“It's okay. I get it,” he responded simply.

“I know it's hard, honey,” she continued, “realizing you're mortal. I mean, you know, of course, but that first piece of irrefutable evidence… it hurts, but it's also a sign of maturity. You're turning from a boy to a man, son. It's good to see.”
Funny, my friends always saw me as the mature one.
In order to avoid replying to her sentimental words, he shoved more of the delicious cobbler into his mouth. She grinned sweetly. “But you're always going to be my baby.”