The Heart's Shrapnel (17 page)

Wes

She’s right. Now that we’re here in Utah, there’s no reason to hover over her like some damned lunatic. But something still isn’t right. I can tell this war with my brother still isn’t over and that the person sitting behind bars right now is only making a dent in the situation. I have to find the loose cannon. I find him; I can leave.

After I’ve showered, I head downstairs to deliver some awful news to my parents. They know the reason I’m here isn’t simply to visit, but they refuse to acknowledge it.

My father is in the living room, watching jeopardy, so I join him on the couch.

“Still getting every answer wrong,” I tease.

Dad huffs. “It’s them that’s wrong. Every now and again they get it right.”

I don’t know how I’m going to tell them this, especially Mom. It took her years to conceive after many failed attempts. All she ever wanted was children. A family. Now I have to tell her one of her sons has died. Mentioning he’s been murdered will be on the back burner for now.

Summoning the courage, I find my voice. “Dad, there’s a reason I’m here, and—”

“Hush, son,” he says as he takes my hand in his aged one. “I know. When you called”—he pauses and swallows—“well, you never call. So when you finally did, it just seemed like the only reason for your sudden visit. But, I’ve already told your mother. She’s in complete denial. Kind of worried about her. She won’t let me even bring it up.”

“I need to talk to her.”

“That’s not necessary. Not right now. She’s had her cry and said she doesn’t want to discuss it right now. Plus, she’s went through all of this work for you. Let her enjoy this moment. It’s rare she gets to see you anymore.”

I know he doesn’t mean to attack me where it hurts, but it hurts nonetheless. Every time I see them, they age even more than the last time due to the long stretches between visits.

“It’s not healthy to pretend something like this didn’t happen.” I should know.

“I know that, Wes. Talk to her later. Not now,” he repeats.

“Okay. If you’re sure.”

“That girl upstairs. You like her?”

Despite the heavy mood of our conversation, I laugh. “Does it matter?”

He looks as if that’s the most absurd thing he’s ever been asked. “Does it matter? Of course, it does, son. Ever since Kathleen, you’ve been running from any chance to be happy with another woman. It’s ridiculous, not to mention stupid.”

Always the blunt one. “Feelings need to be returned on the other end before something can happen.”

He huffs again. “If she doesn’t like you, then I’m a horse’s ass.”

I ponder his words. Yes, Jane does have
some
affection for me. Her boldness at the hotel tells me as much. But being a long way from home and an ex trying to kill you will do things to your mind it wouldn’t otherwise do.

“I know what you’re doing,” he continues.

“What’s that, Pop?” I ask while rubbing my hands together.

“You’re over analyzing like you always do. Aside from having no gray in your hair, yet, you could be mistaken for me back in my prime.”

“Anyone ever tell you how blunt you are?”

“Only all the time. Keeps me young. Now, stop pussyfootin’ around and make an honest man of yourself. That job you’re doing will only take you so far. Look at your brother.”

The mention of Phillip brings back my melancholy mood. But the old man is right. What the hell am I doing with my life? But I died the day I received the call from Leonard that my twin brother—my only brother—was killed. I think a part of me knew something was wrong.

“Dad, I—”

“Six on the dot,” he says, looking past me.

Not understanding, I turn around. Jane walks down the stairs in a pair of fitted jeans that hug her curves in all the right places and a loose fitting red button-down shirt. Her hair hangs in natural waves down her back. I vaguely notice my father standing up beside me.

“Well, while you work on picking up your jaw from the floor and basking in denial of your feelings for that girl, I’m going to help your mother. And, don’t be long. I’m an old man.”

As he walks away, Jane turns and greets him. Her smile tugs at my heart. I’m not used to this feeling. In many ways it’s unnerving.

I stand up and go to her. “You look lovely, Jane from Baltimore.”

She blushes as she shyly looks down at her bare feet. I have the overpowering urge to kiss her, but I’m not sure it’d be appropriate, or if she’d want me to.

“Thank you.”

“Come. Dinner’s ready.”

We walk into the dining room where my mom has gone to great lengths to set the table. I suspect it keeps her preoccupied. Dad is seated at the head with mom at his left. I pull back the chair across from her for Jane to sit in.

“I hope you don’t mind, Jane. But, I made meatloaf with mashed potatoes and gravy. There’re green beans and corn for you to choose from.”

“The dinner rolls are homemade.” I look at her and wink as I take my seat.

“It all looks amazing, Mrs. McClintock,” Jane says.

“Oh, please. Call me Mona.”

“How was the trip here, you two?” Dad asks.

“Long, but enjoyable.” I don’t say anything else. The truth is, I loved it. Never in my life have I ever been with a woman who made me worry so much and yet so little at the same time.

“I’ll probably pass out as soon as my head hits the pillow,” Jane says through a bite of meatloaf. “Mona, this food is amazing.”

“Well slow down there, sweetheart. We say grace at this table,” Dad says.

Here we go.

Jane’s mouth falls open and her face turns red. “Oh, I—”

Everyone at the table bursts out laughing. “I’m just playin’ with ya. Besides, I trust my wife’s cookin’.”

I swear Mom blushes. “Oh, Paul. Behave. And thank you, sweetheart. Aren’t you precious? How long will you both be staying?”

“Just a few nights,” I inform her. “Jane has her job she needs to get back to, and there’s still some things I need to wrap up.”

Please, drop it, Mom.

“So, you’re a surgeon?” Mom asks Jane.

“Yes.”

“How amazing. It’s nice seeing young people today getting jobs that save lives,” Mom says.

I know she didn’t purposely mean to make a jab at me, but it’s been years of her wanting me to change what I do for a living. She doesn’t like the danger involved. If she only knew the things I have done, and the things that have been done to me. She wouldn’t look at me the same.

Jane takes a sip of her water and places it on the table. “Yes, I am excited about it. Besides, this volunteer work allowed me to meet many great people.”

“Like our boy here?” Mom asks.

Putting my fork down, I prepare for the uncomfortable questions. At least her mind is on something else, but she’s not quite herself. She’s trying to keep it together, and I suspect it’s more for Jane’s sake than mine.

Jane glances at me with a shy smile. “Yes, like your boy here.”

She
likes
the idea of referring to me as a boy. Well, I can assure her I’m far from that stage in life.

Shooting a glance at Mom and Dad, I tell them with my expression to tread lightly.

Mom clears her throat. “So, Jane. Where are you from?”

Jane wipes her mouth with a cloth napkin and sets it down. “Baltimore, Maryland.”

“Really? I heard it’s beautiful this time of year.”

“Very much so.”

While the ladies chat back and forth, I tune out. By the way, my dad is silently leaning back in his chair, I suspect he is, too.

When the topic changes to the various casualties Jane has treated, my ears perk up. This will somehow lead back to Phillip. I wasn’t expecting this to be this soon. Damn. I should have told my mother I’m undercover and Jane isn’t aware. Maybe she won’t say his name. Or mine.

“Do you mainly take care of soldiers?” Mom asks.

“No. To be honest, that’s all I thought I’d be taking care of. But my first day in Afghanistan I treated four locals from neighboring towns. And from then on, it’s been an even mixture between the two.”

“Oh, wow. The casualties you must see on a daily basis. I’m sorry, honey.”

“It’s okay. I enjoy being there to help.”

Mom’s eyes sadden, and her shoulders slouch a little. “Did you take care of my son, Phillip?”

Oh shit.

Jane looks a little taken aback but continues, “Yes. My first day on the job in Germany, in fact.”

Mom starts crying. The type of crying that makes no sound because it’s so deep with emotion. I knew it was a bad idea to wait.

Dad gets up from his chair, stands behind mom and rubs her shoulders. “Honey, maybe you should lay down.”

A startled and very confused Jane looks at me.

I sigh louder than expected. “I need to talk to you later.”

“Oh, okay,” she says not understanding.

“I’m sorry, Jane. But could I speak to my parents alone for a bit?”

“Sure, let me clear my plate.” She starts to grab it, but I place my hand over hers.

“That’s okay. Dad and I usually clear.”

She looks down at my hand still resting on hers. “Okay.”

She gets up, our hands parting. I expect her to go straight upstairs, but she surprises me when she walks over to my mother. Taking her hand, she says, “I’m sorry about your loss. If you need anything or someone to talk to, I’m right upstairs.”

Dad steps away, and Mom wipes her eyes with her free hand before standing to embrace Jane.

Just when I think I couldn’t fall for this woman any further . . .

“Thank you, darling. That’s real sweet of you.” Mom lets go of her.

Jane leaves to go upstairs.

When she is safely out of ear shot, I tell Mom and Dad I need a minute before I tell them what really happened to Phillip. But first, I help Dad clear the table.

Jane

Phillip said he’d be up, but he needed to have a difficult discussion with his parents. That was hours ago. It’s now eleven thirty.

I went downstairs to get a drink of water shortly after first heading up to the room, and his father said Phillip had gone to chop wood out in the backyard. Apparently he used to do that all the time when something was bothering him or he just needed to think. He must have been out there for quite a while. Unless the talk with his parents is taking this long. I can only imagine their pain. I just wish I knew who it was.

I throw back the covers and move to swing my restless legs over the edge, but I freeze when I hear the sound of the doorknob turning.

Phillip?

The door slowly opens, and Phillip, who looks the part of a man who’s been beaten down one too many times, trudges in. My heart aches for him. Whatever he said to his parents must not have gone well. He looks up, sees me on the bed, but doesn’t say anything as he heads to the bathroom.

I wonder what that’s all about?

Waiting patiently on the bed for him to return, I pull the covers back over me and read a book from the nightstand. I’m about three pages in when I hear something shatter.

I throw off the covers again, jump up, and toss the book on the floor in haste. I race to the French doors and fling them open.

Phillip stands with his back to me, hunched over the sink with bloodied hands resting on both sides. Shards of glass surround his bare feet.

“Phillip,” I say with caution as I creep toward him. “Don’t move. There’s glass.”

I’m not sure exactly what mood he’s in, but given the shattered mirror, I’d say it isn’t a pleasant one.

“I’ve been lying to you,” he says in an exhausted voice.

My body ceases to move and I swallow. “I know.”

He turns his head slightly in my direction over his shoulder.

“No you don’t,” he whispers in a hushed, strained voice.

“I mean, I suspected at least, remember? I don’t know what you’re lying about, but I know you’re keeping more from me than what you do. From the first day we met, you’ve had this mysteriousness about you—like you had something to say, but couldn’t. You’re very hard to read most days, but your eyes? Your eyes express so much.”

He shuts his eyes and exhales heavily through his nose. He hunches his shoulders up before returning to his exhausted slouch. He faces forward again and hangs his head.

“The scars on your back, the intensity you carry, the anger, the unanswered questions . . . the fact that you won’t take what you so obviously want,” I dare to add.

He lifts his head.

I’m right
.

“Something is holding you back, and it has a lot to do with why we’re here. Why you chose to bring me here.”

“Sometimes people are meant to be alone.”

“You mean you?” I move closer. “Why would you say that, Phillip?”

His shoulders rise, and he sucks in a breath. “Please don’t call me that,” he says in anguish. “Not anymore. I can’t take it. I—”

Right behind him now and not caring about the broken glass, I wrap my arms around his muscled waist. His body trembles.

“I’m sorry,” I say not fully understanding.

He shifts slightly and the shaking stops. I let go, and he turns and looks at me with red-rimmed eyes.
From crying or exhaustion?
He looks down at our feet.

“You’re bleeding,” he says as he scoops me up into his arms.

I didn’t even feel the glass cutting me.

“Sit here.” He sets me down on the counter, opens the medicine cabinet, and shuffles through the items—knocking down just about everything until he finds what he’s looking for.

“You’re the doctor, will these items do?” he asks holding up peroxide, cotton balls, Neosporin, and a box of Band-Aids.

“Yes.” I smile.

He moves me to the edge of the garden tub so he can kneel in front of me. He sets out the items on the ledge of the tub and rests my foot on his knee.

I take hold of both sides of the ledge to keep from falling.

He goes to work performing his magic. He knows what he’s doing. Every little nick is tenderly cared for, and before I know it, he’s done.

I focus on his hands. They are big, strong, and I love the veins just under the surface. He uses one hand to hold my foot while using the other to draw tiny patterns where my foot and leg connect. His gentle touch sends goosebumps up my whole leg. I wait in anticipation for what he’ll do next.

Hesitantly, his fingers roam a bit farther, skating along my smooth skin. I want him to go higher.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out as tears well in his eyes. Bowing his head, he rests it on my knee as he cries.

I’ve never seen a grown man cry before. Not like this. It’s heartrending and beautiful all at once—showing his passion and his pain. The sight overwhelms me. Wanting to soothe him in any way I can, I lean forward and run my fingers through his hair and kiss the back of his head.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” I say. “I want to help you. Whatever it is, you don’t have to go through it alone. Was it the talk with your parents?”

I sit up and he does the same. Red-rimmed eyes stare back. It’s as if I can see into his soul, but through a gray filter.

“Wes,” he says.

Confused, I shake my head.

“My name . . . is Wes.” His one hand starts rhythmically massaging my foot.

What is he talking about?

“I don’t . . . I don’t follow. Phillip, you aren’t making sense right now. Maybe you should get some sleep,” I suggest.

He laughs lightly and says, “If I’m not making sense to you right now, then I’m not sure I ever will.” When I don’t respond, he continues, “I’m Wes McClintock. I’m an identical twin. My brother was Phillip, a soldier in the United States Army.”

Oh my God. What? Where is he going with this?

Now that he’s started, the whole story comes out. “I received a call. Someone had murdered him. Apparently he found out some things he wasn’t supposed to. Wrong place at the wrong time as they say. He was found dead in his home on base where my partner was staying during an undercover investigation into drug use among soldiers. After that, everything hit the fan, and I put myself into the equation. I had my team move his body to a secure location before anyone else saw it . . . including me. Then had Leonard shoot me to make it look like Phillip had survived the bullet. Just when I think I’m close to solving the puzzle, something else happens and pulls me in further. It’s like it’s all connected somehow.”

My mind races. Run, stay, scream—stay. “I don’t know what to say.”

“I can understand that. Just know I never wanted to lie to you. But what I do . . . it’s for the good.”

“I’ve seen your back,” I reply. “What kind of work are you in? If you say it’s for the good, what is it? Because I can’t piece it together. Are you a fed? CIA? What?”

“CID,” he mutters.

CID?

“What’s CID?”

“I’m an agent in the United States Army Criminal Investigation Command. We investigate felony crimes and serious violations of military law as it pertains to the U.S. Army . . . and murders on post.” He watches me closely before moving on. “Usually, I have a CID uniform, but I wanted to take matters into my own hands. As you can imagine, I was pissed. And since Phillip is identical . . .
was
identical to me, it was doable. Leonard got the clear for me to step in where Phillip left off—this is all for him. And that’s what I had to tell my mom.”

My mind reels. “So, you’re not a soldier?”

“Not in the sense you originally thought,” he explains.

I try to soak in every word that spills from his mouth, to imagine putting myself literally in my sibling’s shoes to fight for them . . . it melts my heart. This is the sadness I’ve seen in his eyes all this time. He’s hurting. He’s lost his twin brother. Their bond had to have been strong.

“I’m so sorry. I had no idea,” I choke out.

“It’s okay.” He lowers his head again, only this time, it’s to kiss at the top of my foot. His tears are hot and wet against my skin. The pain he must be going through . . .

I lift his face up and pull just a little to bring him forward. His unsure eyes stray to my mouth and then back to my eyes. I nod and then kiss him. He can explain more tomorrow, but right now, I want to take care of him . . . to love him.

He relaxes as his lips mold with mine. The kiss is intense with a desperation to it. I come undone. It feels like it’s been ages since I’ve experienced this. Leaning in, I kiss him more passionately, which he eagerly accepts. All the items used for my feet clatter inside the tub as they get pushed to the side. But, before we’ve barely begun, he pulls away and stands.

I look at him, dazed and confused.

He offers his hand, and I take it. He pulls me to him, picks me up in his arms as before, and carries me into the bedroom. We stop in the middle of the room, adjacent to the bed, and with great ease, he slides me down the front of him until the tips of my toes touch the wooden floor.

Lifting my long nightshirt, I pull it over my head, leaving me naked from the waist up. He takes the time to roam the length of my body with his gaze.

“You’re beautiful,” he finally says as he puts a hand on the side of my face. Seconds pass as he stares at my still slightly bruised cheek. He leans down and plants a gentle kiss on my face where it collided with the wall.

“Where else has he hurt you?” When he moves to the crook of my neck, I whimper in ecstasy. “Tell me. I want to know every spot he’s ever touched where you didn’t want to be touched.”

“Everywhere,” I moan.

He half moans and half cries before he walks me back until I’m flush against the wall. His hands have a hold of my hips as he leans his hard body into me. But I can’t feel him. Not in the way I want to.

“Your clothes,” I murmur between kisses.

Ripping his mouth from mine, he rids himself of his shirt.

After what feels like forever, between the both of us, he’s now standing gloriously half-naked in front of me. I take a moment to run my hands up his rippled abs. Just my touch has his stomach muscles clenching.

Without warning, he falls to his knees and starts kissing random spots on my knees, up my thighs near my core that clenches with desire. I’ve never wanted someone so badly as I do now.

He continues licking and nipping my hips and pulls the band of my silk panties between his teeth. My head tips back and my jaw goes slack. I’m not in my right mind anymore. This is supposed to be me making him feel better. Not the other way around.

He pulls the band backward with his teeth and lets it snap back against the sensitive part where my thigh and womanhood meets before moving his hot, moist mouth over my stomach, my arms, and my chest as he does what he said he was going to do.

I forget about Kevin, the stress of my career, the confusion about Wes and Phillip, and I focus on how my body responds to him.

“Wes,” I say tentatively, trying it out on my lips. It’s freeing, exciting . . . dangerous.

“Jane,” he whispers hoarsely as he claims my mouth.

Before I know it, he picks me up, walks to the bed, and gently lays me down.

He towers above me. A powerhouse. A shelter.

Pushing myself up, I sit at the edge of the mattress. He doesn’t move. I grab his belt buckle and pull the leather strap. I pause briefly, making sure it’s still okay to continue, unhook it, and swiftly pull it from the loops of his pants. It falls to the floor with a loud clink.

I scan the corded bands of muscle running the length of his torso. I’m mesmerized by the design of his form—so powerful and strong. My breath catches at the mere sight of him.

Tentatively, I run my hands over the ridges of his abs. His muscles tighten and contract under my greedy fingers. My hands glide along his pecs, and over his broad shoulders. When I come to his happy trail, he swiftly grabs at my hands, stilling them. I look up in confusion.

“Are you sure about this? Do you understand what I’ve just told you, Jane? I’m not Phillip, I’m—”

“Wes,” I cut in. “I know. I understand.”

He swallows.

“It’s not your name I care about . . . it’s you.”

He lets go of my hands, and they immediately unclasp the button of his pants. I lower his zipper and work at removing his jeans and boxers. His erection springs free while he kicks his clothing off to the side. 

I want to worship him with my mouth, but he places an arm under my knees and sets me down in the middle of the bed, instead. It’s taking all I have not to move.

He situates himself over me, finding a spot to rest comfortably. I sigh into him as he sucks the crevice of my neck. His hands grab mine, intertwining our fingers. All too soon, he lets go, and my hands immediately take residence in his hair as he moves down and worships my breasts with his skilled mouth.

It’s so warm in here already, and that heat mixes with the intensity of his body and mouth on me; it’s almost too much to bear. Our bodies glisten with perspiration.