Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Anderson

Mom said once I was born a warrior, a protector. I don't remember if that was before or after I began to say I'd be a Ranger, like my father. Back then, at the tender age of four, it sounded kind of cool. Dad agreed with me, not that I saw him often. He was never home because he was saving the world. His father had died in the line of duty during the Vietnam War. Dad was only a year old when my grandfather was killed.

I don't remember him well. He died when I was six.

For years, I continued with the idea of following his footsteps. Mom wanted to stop the cycle with me by persuading me to choose a different path. She tried everything in her power. As a librarian, she had access to a vast number of books. Every day there'd be a new one on top of my bed. She tried law, medicine, architecture, even computers, but nothing enticed me as much as becoming a Ranger.

Tired of listening to her lectures on why I shouldn't follow in Dad's steps, I directed my attention to sports and drawing. She sent me to camps and different classes in hopes that I'd find my call. If I wasn't on the field, the court or the track, I was holding a sketchpad and a pencil. Mom didn't understand that my call found me long ago, it's in my blood. The path I traced made sense. My father's best friend, Arthur Bradley, remained close to my mother. He helped me with my military career and instead of becoming a Ranger like him and Dad, I became part of the Delta Force.

My missions were my life, the men under my command were my responsibility. We trained together, fought together, and risked our lives together. One visit to my mother and I started doubting the future. I had two broken arms, a bullet wound that's missed my heart by a couple of millimeters, and two of my men in body bags. Arthur suggested I find a new cause. Mason, his son, owns a security company with different specialties including designing, creating and installing custom security alarms while working for agencies like the FBI, Interpol, and the DEA. Foreign countries hire us to execute operations they can't, or won't, do. We fight human trafficking, drug cartels, and terrorist cells among other things. The options are wide. I still defend the innocent, protect my country, and do it at my own pace.

"I'm so glad you found a new place," Mom said when I shared that I planned on becoming a tattoo artist.

It was a partial truth. As I settled into my new life, I also found a job; or maybe the job found me. Mason referred me to Kevin. He had an apartment available right above his tattoo parlor. We got to talking, discussed my artistic side, and I became his apprentice. Kevin, who is also a musician, hired me part time and leased me one of the apartments above the shop. He taught me everything he knows. I learned fast and was able to use my drawing skills. A couple years later, he offered me half of the business with the stipulation that I'd cover for him when he's out of town and vice-versa.

"You're not a tattoo artist," Mom protested when she noticed a few bruises on me.

"I am." I revealed the few visible tattoos I had to her and then slumped my shoulders. She caught me. "But I also found a new place where I can use my training, Mom."

Needless to say, that didn't make her happy. I convinced her that what I did was safer— but it wasn't. She insists that I have to settle down. Doubtful, but for now I am keeping the missions to a minimum while we find a cure. Losing Mom isn't an option.

Bradley: Heard from Wings that you arrived a couple of hours ago. Tiago sent both reports, you didn't approve either. Is there something you wanted to add before I file them?

Me: No. I prepared the information, Tiago uploaded them. I haven't signed onto my computer to approve either.

Bradley: Will you be ready for the meeting?

Me: At what time is it?

Bradley: Nine. How's your mother?

Me: We're going to San Jose in a couple of days. This doctor you recommended is our last hope.

Bradley: Everything will work out.

Will it?

What if it doesn't? Mom is the only family I have left. She tells me daily that I have to stop risking my life.

Cute Neighbor: You're a drug dealer?

Oh fuck, blondie!

I rub my forehead. Months of work blown by the people who live next door to my mother.

Me: You're confusing me with someone else.

Cute Neighbor: No. Scarlett saw you. She warned us that you look a lot different with long hair. Not as hot. And scary, very scary.

Cute Neighbor: Yep, that's her primary concern. Not that you could be a dangerous person.

Me: You think I'm hot?

I stand in front of my window, facing the coffee shop, thinking about Mom's cute neighbor. Her love for coffee to stay awake, wine to relax her and tea to chase the insomnia. Aspen intrigues me like no other female has in a long time. She is a beauty, but there's so much more to her.

Cute Neighbor: I never said you're hot.

Me: Scroll through your texts.

Cute Neighbor: That's not what I meant to say.

A chuckle escapes me. I'd love to see her cheeks flushed and her teeth chewing that bottom lip I want to bite. Her long, dark, wavy hair resting on her shoulders shaking lightly, as those chocolate color eyes melt as I tease her for whatever she blurted. Shit, why do I miss her? These few weeks without talking to her felt incomplete. The need to listen to her voice increases. I miss those late nights talking with her, playing Scrabble, or reading in silence.

Although I have to shower, check in with Kevin, and catch up with some of my sketches, I call her.

"Hey." The sweet ring of her silky voice makes me grin.

"You sound tired, are you waking up or heading to bed?"

"Heading to bed." She sighs. "I just finished my last shift for the next three weeks. I know you said it wouldn't take more than a week, but what if they want to keep her longer or she's accepted into the program? I want to be there for her—at least at the beginning."

Aspen and Brooklyn work odd hours. I admire their dedication but I worry about the amount of time they spend in the free clinic and the emergency room.

"How are you?"

"I'm well." There's a hint of annoyance or defeat in her voice. How long has she been home chasing some zzz's?

"Insomnia?" I guess.

She growls instead of answering.

"You could use a cup of tea and a book." I guess after so many days observing the next-door neighbors I had some of their patterns memorized.

"Wine," she retorts. "No. A few margaritas."

Running would help—or sex.

"The world got to be too much for you today?"

"Something like that," she whispers. Her tone isn't sleepy, nor sad. It's that tone she uses when she's hiding her true feelings.

Aspen is tough to read; she conceals herself behind an indifferent, ascetic attitude. Some days, she works hard to give me the impression that she is a heartless gold digger dating a wealthy divorcee. The fa?ade fools many, not me. It was apparent from the beginning that there's sadness within her, and that those warm brown eyes reveal a sweetness in her soul not hard to recognize. As I learn more about Aspen, my desire to erase those wretched lines around her eyes and remove the gripping sadness in her heart grows.

"Do you feel like talking about it?"

"Do you feel like listening to it?"

I feel like listening to your voice. Which makes zero sense. I'm in my late-thirties and I've never had the urge to call a woman, spend my nights thinking about what she's doing, or fantasize ways of seducing her into my bed. Life is fast, hectic, and everchanging with the different missions I overtake at work. There's never time for relationships, or a minute to think about anyone. Except I've spent days, nights, and all my free time wondering about the girl next door. These past few weeks, I've reflected about her and those brown haunted eyes. Thinking of ways to bring her back from wherever forsaken place she hides. Today isn't any different. Can I make a difference from here? Drive to Tacoma to visit her with the excuse of seeing Mom?

I look at my watch. No fucking way, I couldn't make it on time.

"Always," I respond, waiting for her to share the latest chapter of her life. The one I missed because I went away. "I'd listen to anything you want to share."

"I lost another patient," she mumbles. "Well, I didn't. We'd been able to stabilize him, he went to surgery and…I pride myself on being the best damn doctor, to do my best with each case. Avoiding those hurtful words, ‘sorry we tried to do our best but…'."

She exhales, time passes. I look over the words I tattooed on my arm once I quit the force. I had served for years, prided myself on succeeding during each mission, hating the loss of innocent lives, and the lives of the men who fought along with me. Is she going through the same?

"Lately I …"

"The faces of those you couldn't save appear recurrently in your dreams," I murmur, understanding part of the pain.

"Something like that." She clears her throat. "A part of me wants to change specialties, the other needs to let go of the ER."

"Why don't you?"

"It's complicated." Her tender voice starts to change. She huffs. Even without seeing her I know the barriers are up and ready to take over. "Forget about it."

"Aspen, don't do that. Stop keeping those who care about you at bay." My voice comes out harsher than I meant. "We're trying to have a conversation and you are cutting it short."

"I'm going to bed," she snaps. "This isn't something I talk lightly about with strangers."

"Whoa, where is this coming from?" She went as cold as the artic. "Why are you trying to start a fight with me?"