Page 34 of Raggedy Dan
Dan
Dan had spent entirety of the day trying not to lose his mind.
After church, he’d paced the garage like a caged animal, cleaning guns that didn’t need cleaning.Glock, Sig, the old 1911 he’d carried in the sandbox, didn’t matter the make or model, he worked methodically to ensure every piece was stripped, oiled, and reassembled until his hands ached.Rocker found him there around three, leaning against the workbench with a bottle of bourbon.
“Brother, you’re wearing a hole in the concrete.”
Dan grunted.“She’s fine.”
“I know she’s fine.Maria’s texting me updates.They’re at the range now.Your girl just taught Dawg’s pregnant wife how to shoot.”Rocker took the bottle, and swigged.“You’re fucked, man.”
Dan yanked the bourbon back and paused before he drank deep.“I know.”
By six, his buzz had faded, threatening a low headache in his temples.He popped a couple of over-the-counter pain killers and went out to where their bikes sat side-by-side.Dan gave hers a little pat, promising, “Momma’s gonna be home soon, take you out before you know it.”He rode to Ella and Dawg’s house like he was chasing something he couldn’t name.
When Riley walked out, her blazing hair wind-tossed, cheeks flushed from sun and laughter, and still wearing his flannel like she owned it, everything in him settled.And then ignited.
She climbed on behind him without hesitation, arms wrapping around his waist, cheek against his back.He felt her smile through the leather.
They didn’t talk much on the ride.Didn’t need to.
He took her to his place, which was a tidy little white house past the outskirts of town with an angled roof, surrounded by nothing but trees and stars.Inside was sparse.The living room had a leather couch, a big TV, and framed photos of his old unit on the wall.One shelf held the folded flag from his best friend’s funeral, triangle case gleaming under the lamp.
He locked the door behind them.
“My place,” he said.“Figured you might want space that doesn’t smell like ashtray and motor oil.”
Riley set her goggles on the counter.“You trying to seduce me, Sharp?”
“Already did that.”He stepped close, backing her against the fridge.“Now I’m working to keep you.”
She lifted the bandana, revealing his mouth.The kiss was slow.Deliberate.He was memorizing the shape of her lips, the way she tasted like lime and salt and something sweeter underneath.When he pulled away, his eyes were dark.
“I need to tell you some things,” he said.“About how I got to look like this.”
Riley reached up and tugged the bandana down herself.“I’m listening.”
So he told her.About the convoy outside Kandahar.About the IED that turned his Humvee into burning confetti and shrapnel.About waking up in Landstuhl with half his face gone, skin hanging in rags, his best friend in a box next door.About the months of surgeries, the mirror he’d shattered, how the nurses had whispered sadly about the ruin of his looks when they thought he was asleep.
When he finished, voice raw, Riley pressed her forehead to his scarred cheek.
“Thank you for your service is bullshit,” she whispered.“So I’m just gonna say thank you for still being here.And for letting me touch what’s left.”
Dan felt like she’d punched him, pushing out a half sob, half groan, and kissed her like she was oxygen after years underwater.
They didn’t make it to the bedroom.
***
Riley
The kitchen light was harsh, but she for sure didn’t care.
Dan lifted her onto the counter in one smooth motion, hands rough and reverent on her thighs.She yanked his shirt over his head, fingers tracing scars like a map she already knew by heart.He peeled the flannel off her shoulders, followed by her tank, and then Dan groaned when he saw she’d worn nothing underneath.
“Fuck, Riley.”
She hooked her legs around his waist and pulled him closer.“Now, Dan.Can’t wait.”
