The Marine's Embrace

All there to witness his humiliation.

He’d faced worse, he reminded himself as he stopped in front of the door, the muted sounds of music and conversation floating through the wood. Had faced much worse than public embarrassment and survived. Was still surviving it.

That wasn’t to say he looked forward to what he had to do. He was just realistic enough to know he didn’t have many other choices.

Jaw tight, shoulders back, he reached out to open the door—only to realize he was lifting his right arm to do so. He quickly dropped it. His arm, like his right leg from above the knee down, wasn’t there anymore, but unless he consciously thought about an action—opening a door, brushing his teeth, signing his name—his brain still wanted to use it. Call it habit, instinct or just the fact that he’d been right-handed his entire life—whatever the reason, it wasn’t that big a deal.

Just a reminder that even the simplest tasks were now anything but simple.

He grabbed the handle with his left hand, swung it open and stepped inside before he changed his mind. Beggars couldn’t be choosers and all that bullshit.

And that’s what he was. A freaking beggar, come to plead for scraps.

He rolled his head a few times, trying to ease the tightness in his shoulders, then moved forward. The bar was like any other dive he’d ever been in. Dimly lit with wooden floors that needed refinishing, tables and chairs that had seen better days and walls decorated with more of those neon beer signs. The scents of grilled meat and barbecue sauce filled the air. People occupied a few of the tables and the booths lining the walls, eating a late lunch or getting an early start on their evening drinking. There was a pool table in the back along with a dartboard, and the bar ran the length of the room to the left.

A waitress with a neck tattoo, her dark hair cut in a weird, uneven style, wove her way through the tables, delivering drinks and food. And behind the bar pulling a beer was none other than the owner himself. Kane Bartasavich, second son of Clinton Bartasavich Sr.

One of Zach’s three older half brothers. And the man Zach had come to see.

He made his way to the bar and noted how Kane momentarily stilled when he caught sight of him, saw the surprise in his brother’s eyes. But by the time Zach reached him, Kane’s expression was clear, his posture relaxed.

“What’s this?” he asked, shutting off the beer tap. “Slumming?”

“Looks like.” He nodded at the beer Kane set on a tray next to a soda. “I’ll take one of those.”

The waitress came, picked up the tray as Kane got a clean glass. Drew Zach’s beer.

Older than Zach by more than five years, Kane still looked like the hell-raiser he’d once been, in faded jeans and a black T-shirt, his dark blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, the edges of his tattoos visible just below both shirtsleeves.

His leg aching, Zach shifted, but that didn’t take enough weight off it. He eyed the empty stool next to him, feeling as if he was going into battle once again. He should have sat at a table or a booth, let Kane come to him. Too late now. There was no easy—or smooth—way to do it, but he’d be damned if he wouldn’t try. He dropped his bag at his feet, laid his left hand on the bar and lifted with his arm while he pushed off the floor with his left leg.

His ass hit the edge of the seat and he slid off, coming within an inch of knocking a few teeth loose against the bar before catching his balance. Kane reached toward him, but Zach shook his head and Kane eased back. There wasn’t anything he could do from the other side of the bar, anyway.

And Zach was already there to ask for a favor. He wasn’t about to add insult to injury by having his brother help him do something as simple as sitting down.

Zach glared at the stool. He didn’t need to look around to know he’d attracted attention. He could continue standing there, pretend nothing had happened, act as if he’d rather drink his beer and have the upcoming conversation with Kane on his own two feet—one real, one not. He could give up. Could give in and take the easy way out, just this once.

But he was afraid that like any temptation, one time wouldn’t be enough.

He took hold of the bar again, bent his left knee and hopped onto the stool, wiggling fully onto the seat.

Breathing heavily, he shut his eyes for a moment. It might not have been pretty, and yeah, he’d just made a fool of himself in front of at least thirty strangers, but he’d done it.

Best of all? He’d done it all on his own.

Kane set his beer in front of him, and Zach grabbed it. He was pathetically grateful when Kane’s expression didn’t change in the least, even though Zach was sure his brother had noticed how badly Zach’s hand was shaking.

Hard not to, since he’d slopped beer over the shiny bar.

Kane wiped up the spill then tossed the towel over his shoulder. “You’re a long way from home.”

Sipping his beer, Zach grunted. He wanted to down the entire glass and ask for another. When he’d first been injured, he hadn’t touched any alcohol, had known that it would have been all too easy to rely on it to ease the pain. As the months passed, as he’d survived surgeries and physical therapy, he’d continued to stay away, wanting to be able to say he’d recovered on his own, by his own strength and nothing else.

Now, every once in a while, he allowed himself a drink. Just to prove to himself that he could stop at one.

Kane’s gaze flicked to Zach’s empty sleeve, his mouth a grim line. Zach’s fingers tightened on his glass. He slowly lowered the beer, waiting for Kane to say something. To offer him sympathy or ask him something idiotic like how was he feeling.

“Get you something to eat?” Kane asked, his tone almost bored.

Zach could have kissed him.

Instead, he settled on shaking his head. Took another sip of beer before setting it down again.

He hated this. Hated what he’d been reduced to.

But he wouldn’t hide from it. Would do what he’d done with every obstacle, every hard time or unpleasant task he’d encountered in his life.

He’d face it head-on.

“I need a job,” he said, his quiet tone still somehow defiant. Belligerent.

Pissed off.

If Kane was surprised, he didn’t show it. Then again, the man had been a ranger. Not in league with the marines, of course, but he could at least be respected. Zach had come to Shady Grove and sought Kane out due to that shared connection of serving in the military.

He held Kane’s gaze while the other man studied him, trying, he knew, to read Zach’s thoughts. To gauge what was really going on inside his head.

Hell, over the past eight months, Zach had been poked and prodded by dozens of doctors, analyzed and questioned by shrinks, therapists and counselors. Let Kane look. He wouldn’t see anything Zach didn’t want him to see.

“You ever tend bar before?” Kane asked.

Zach’s mouth thinned. “No.”

“Wait tables?”

“I joined up right after high school.” Which Kane damned well knew. “Not sure how the army works,” he continued, “but the Marine Corps is too busy teaching us how to win wars to focus on mixing drinks and carrying plates.”

Kane took the towel off his shoulder with a snap then put it over his other one. “No summer jobs working in food service?”

He shook his head. He’d spent three summers working on building sites. Had even considered, those few times he’d thought about his future outside the corps, pursuing a career in construction. Maybe running his own business.

Back when he’d thought he’d leave whole.

“I can clean,” he said softly, hating that he had to beg for the most meager of jobs. Especially from a Bartasavich. He cleared his throat. Leaned forward. “I can stock the bar, wash dishes—” Probably. “Or if you know of any local business that could use someone...”

Someone. Right. More like a one-armed, one-legged man who suffered from headaches, flashbacks and PTSD. Christ, there were probably tons of job opportunities out there just waiting for him.

Maybe coming here was a mistake, but he hadn’t known where else to go.