Читать книгу The Marine's Embrace - Beth Andrews - Страница 10

CHAPTER TWO

HE WAS LOST.

In Shady Grove, Pennsylvania.

How the hell was that even possible?

Not lost, Zach Castro amended. He knew where he was. At the corner of Main and Kennedy Streets, downtown Shady Grove, surrounded directly by squat buildings, most of which looked to be one hundred years old, the outer area nothing but rolling green hills. The sun warmed his head, but the cool breeze ruffling the empty right sleeve of his T-shirt reminded him that though it was late April, this small town was a world away from Houston in more ways than one.

Yeah, he knew exactly where he was. He just didn’t know where he was going.

Story of his freaking life.

The cab driver had dropped him off, insisting this exact spot was the address Zach had given him. Lying bastard.

He pulled out his phone, opened the maps app and typed in O’Riley’s. Two blocks away. He could do that.

He hoped.

He shifted his weight onto his left leg, but the ache in his right thigh remained and would no doubt grow in intensity. Pain was his new normal. There was nothing he could do about it except grit his teeth and bear it.

His right leg had stiffened up during the plane ride from Houston to Pittsburgh and had only gotten worse in the forty-minute cab ride that had brought him here. Moving would help. Eventually. But first, he knew, it was going to hurt like a son of a bitch.

New normal, he reminded himself. Bending at the waist, he grabbed his duffel from where the cabbie had dropped it at the curb and slung the strap over his left shoulder. Following the directions on his phone he turned—slowly and carefully—to the east and began walking.

Pain shot from just above his knee up to his hip. Sweat formed on his upper lip. He breathed through his mouth, fighting the nausea rising in his throat, and kept going, his stride awkward, his limp heavy, his gaze straight ahead. He felt people staring at him, scurrying out of his way, watching him as they passed. Wondering who he was. What he was doing there.

Their curiosity rolled off him, but their sympathy—and worse, their pity—grated. He didn’t want it. Didn’t need anyone feeling sorry for him, for what he’d lost. He was getting through it, wasn’t he? He’d already made progress, had gotten himself out of that wheelchair and on to a prosthetic leg. The surgeries, the grueling physical therapy, learning how to walk again had all been worth it. Each step he took, no matter how small, was a victory.

One that would be easier to celebrate if it didn’t hurt so goddamn much.

He passed a hardware store with a row of colorful, decorative flags waving in the breeze, then a bookstore’s bright and cheerful window display. At the corner he turned right. Halfway there, he told himself, squinting against the sun.

By the time he reached the next corner, his shirt was damp and sticking to him and his breaths were coming in gasps. He leaned against a street lamp and looked across the street at O’Riley’s.

It wasn’t what he’d expected at all.

Thank Christ.

Knowing the bar was owned by Kane Bartasavich, of the Houston Bartasaviches, Zach had pictured an upscale place, all sleek lines and plenty of glass. A place where the country-club set went to drink their lunch or stopped by after work for a fancy cocktail that cost as much as a decent meal.

He hadn’t pictured a two-story gray building that seemed to list to one side, a parking lot that needed repaving and neon beer signs in the windows.

It wasn’t the first time he’d been wrong. Wouldn’t be the last.

Unlike certain members of his family—namely his father and eldest brother—he didn’t get bent out of shape when things didn’t go his way. Didn’t carry the illusion that he had all the answers. He liked to think the arrogance that ran in his bloodline, the huge egos that had been handed down generation to generation, had somehow skipped him, but the truth was, he’d worked damned hard to be as different from them as possible.

He had spent his entire life pushing them away. Keeping them all at a distance.

Now, here he was—not quite broken, but a far cry from being whole—and who was the only person he could think to turn to?

A Bartasavich.

Fate was a coldhearted bitch with a twisted sense of humor.

Readjusting his duffel bag, he crossed the street, then made his way past a number of vehicles in the parking lot. Something else he hadn’t counted on or, to be honest, considered when he’d decided to come here—that there would be people inside a small-town bar in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon.

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.

All he’d known was that he couldn’t stay in Houston.

Kane pursed his lips. “I could always use an extra set of hands around here.”

Zach raised his eyebrows. Lifted his empty sleeve. “Will half a set work?”

Kane’s wince was so slight, Zach doubted most people would have noticed it. “Poor choice of words. You want an apology?”

“If you give me one, I’m going to lose what little respect I have for you.”

“Wouldn’t want that,” Kane said so drily Zach was surprised a puff of dust didn’t come out of his mouth. “You can start tomorrow.”

Zach finished his beer, hoping to wash away the sudden tightness in his throat. “I appreciate it.”

“Tough getting those words out, huh?”

“Only when saying them to a Bartasavich.”

Kane’s grin was sharp and appreciative and not the least bit insulted. Best of all? He didn’t point out that Zach was a Bartasavich, too—in blood if not in name.

“You know, the apartment upstairs is empty,” Kane said. “If you need a place to stay.”

“I’ll pass.”

“You could bunk with us,” Kane suggested. “We have a guest room on the first floor.”

His brother obviously thought Zach was refusing due to the apartment being on the second level. That wasn’t it. He could handle a few steps. It might even be good for his recovery, climbing up and down a bunch of stairs each day.

But he didn’t want to owe Kane for anything more than the job.

“Does Charlotte know you go around collecting strays?” Zach asked of Kane’s wife.

Kane lifted a shoulder. “You’re not a stray. You’re family.” As if reading Zach’s mind, he quietly added, “Whether you like it or not.”

He didn’t like it, but that wasn’t news. “I don’t need a handout. I make my own way.”

“It’s a place to sleep, not the account number to my trust fund. It doesn’t have to mean you like me or that you suddenly want to change your name to Bartasavich and come over for Christmas dinner.”

“I’ll find a place. On my own.”

Maybe.

The only other time he’d been to Shady Grove, he’d stayed at a Holiday Inn off the highway, but that had to be at least five miles away. And he didn’t think there was any public transportation in town. Not exactly a great setup for a man who needed to relearn how to drive.

“King’s Crossing has rooms,” Kane said, writing something on the back of a cocktail napkin. “But it’s on the other side of town. Bradford House is closer. It’s a bed-and-breakfast, though, not a real hotel.” He handed Zach the napkin. “I put my cell number on there, too. On the off chance you can’t find a room tonight and would rather ask for help than sleep on the street.”

Easy for Kane to say. He had this place, his pretty little wife, probably a house with a white picket fence. He had Estelle, his eighteen-year-old daughter and the only Bartasavich Zach actually cared about.

He had everything.

The only thing Zach had was his pride. And he’d choked down enough of it today.

Zach had to lay the napkin on the bar to fold it with his one hand. When he was done, he stood—getting off the stool was considerably easier than getting on the damned thing—and dug his wallet from his front left pocket.

“How much for the beer?” he asked, putting the napkin in with his money.

“On the house.”

“Don’t,” Zach said, holding Kane’s gaze. “Don’t make me regret coming here.”

“Yeah, I get it. You make your way,” Kane said mildly, pulling another beer. “It’s one beer. You going to insist I work you twelve hours a day? Pay you minimum wage and not one cent more?”

“How. Much?”

Kane served his customer then wiped his hands on the towel. “Ten should cover it.”

Zach narrowed his eyes. “Ten bucks for a draft? What’d you do, lace it with gold?”

“The drink was four dollars, but I figured you’d want to leave your friendly bartender a nice tip.”

He handed him a five. “You figured wrong. What time should I come in tomorrow?”

“I’ll be here at noon.”

“Noon? What’s the matter? Need your beauty sleep?”

“That’s why I’m the fairest of us all,” Kane said, pouring tequila into a blender.

Zach scratched the scar at his right temple. Had to admit what Kane said was true.

Especially now.

“I can be here earlier. I don’t need special treatment. I’ll put in a full day’s work.”

“I come in at noon,” Kane said, slicing a lime, “because I’m behind this bar most nights until 2:00 a.m. then I spend another half an hour cleaning up. I’ll need you to come in when we open for lunch, so you’ll work the early shift, 10:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m., Monday through Thursday, and 7:00 p.m. to 3:00 a.m. either Friday or Saturday night. I know math has never been your strong suit, so I’ll save you from having to count on your fingers. Each shift is eight hours.”

“Hard to count to eight,” Zach said, waving the fingers of his left hand at Kane, “when you only have enough for five.”

Kane sent him a bland look, not the least bit of sympathy in his gaze. “Take off your shoe, then, and use your toes.”

Apparently Kane wasn’t going to coddle him like a child.

Or worse, treat him like an invalid.

Zach bent and picked up his duffel bag. Put it over his shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“I don’t suppose you want me to drive you to a hotel?”

“Nope.”

“Right. If you change your mind—”

“I won’t.” He wouldn’t. Not about anything.

He turned and skirted the stool, his leg hurting worse now than when he’d first come in, but he kept going. His entire focus on taking the next step. Then another.

He’d just passed the end of the bar when Kane’s voice reached him.

“Hey,” his brother called. Zach stopped but didn’t turn around. Couldn’t. It took all he had just to remain upright, and would take extra effort to get him out the door. No way was he risking falling on his face in front of all these people by trying something as fancy as a turn without anything to hold on to.

“Before you come in tomorrow,” Kane continued, “do me—and the world in general—a favor and see about getting that stick dislodged from your ass.”

Several customers laughed; a few watched him to catch his reaction. Nope. No special treatment on Kane’s end.

Guess he shouldn’t have been worried about that.

Zach’s answer was to walk away—arm raised, middle finger extended.

He didn’t smile until he stepped outside, the door shutting behind him.

Maybe coming here hadn’t been a mistake after all.