“Hated the band?” he asked, his head tilted to the side. “I mean, it was a shock to see you on stage, but why would someone hate it?”
“They liked dating someone from the symphony. They liked the social aspect and class of that type of musical endeavor. But they hated the band that played in bars. Hated that I wore a short skirt, or hated that the other band members were all guys, or that so much of my time was taken with them.”
“And the others?”
Snorting, she said, “When I met someone at a band gig, they loved the get-up—the outfit, the music, the idea they had of me being in a band. They liked that they were dating someone who played music in bars. When they found out that I also play in an orchestra, especially when they saw my formal dress or found out that my Friday nights were with the symphony, well, that blew their image of me.” She hefted her shoulders in a shrug. “Now that I say it out loud, it sounds rather stupid.”
“I agree. Someone who cares about you should care about all of you.”
She jerked her head up, her breath catching in her throat, but a knock on the door stalled her response. Clay jumped up and threw open the door, took the pizza from the delivery guy, and paid. Moving into the kitchen, she grabbed two plates. The scent of pizza wafted past, and her stomach growled. “I’m starved.”
“Good. I’ve felt guilty all day about leaving you, so the least I can do right now is make sure you’re eating.”
They filled their plates and moved back to the sofa. Neither talked for a few minutes as they relaxed, eating their fill. Finally, she leaned back and said, “I really needed that. Thanks.”
He leaned forward, took the empty plate from her hands, and placed it along with his on the coffee table. Settling back against the cushions, it did not escape her notice that he shifted forward, sitting closer. He stretched his long arm along the back of the sofa, and his fingers drifted through her hair. Her scalp tingling, she leaned her head into his palm, and a sigh slipped from her lips. “Your turn,” she whispered.
11
“I was a Ranger.” As soon as those words left his mouth, Clay watched as Christina blinked and then a crinkle slowly formed across her brow. He gave his head a little shake and said, “I suppose that was a rather dumb opening remark.”
Her brow eased as her lips curved slightly. “Clay, I just want to know more about you. You can start any way you want to.”
“I really should start further back than that.” He sucked in a deep breath, hating how he needed to draw strength to talk about his parents. And this is why I never do this. “Just as your parents worked well together, mine didn’t. As your parents were dedicated to their music and had no problem putting in the time it took to work toward a common goal, mine didn’t share those traits.”
She leaned forward and placed her hand on his, rubbing her thumb over his rough knuckles. “I’m sorry, honey.”
“My parents argued. A lot. As in I can’t imagine why they ever got together because they didn’t seem to like anything about each other. But weirdly enough, they both liked me. When my dad wasn’t around, my mom was funny, she baked cookies, and she put on her records, and we’d listen to music. But as soon as my dad got home from work, she groused and complained, ignoring me just to argue with him.
“And my dad was the same. If Mom was out working or shopping or visiting a friend, Dad and I tinkered in the garage. We worked on the car, built model airplanes, watched old movies. But as soon as Mom got back home, they’d devolve into their petty, screaming arguments that often ended in doors slamming, leaving me in the middle, not knowing who to turn to.”
“Were they… um… physical?” She bit her lip and continued to rub her thumb over his hand.
He sighed at the soothing gesture. “They never hit each other, although my mother was known to throw things when they fought, and my dad punched a hole in the wall a few times in anger. Sometimes I think they did those things just to piss each other off. And they never did that if I was in the room. But believe me, when the screaming started, I got out of there.”
Shaking his head, he winced, the memories still able to sting. “As an adult, I can compartmentalize. My parents should never have gotten married because they truly didn’t like each other. I even wondered if they got married because they were pregnant with me, but I checked their marriage license against my birth certificate when I got older.” He shrugged. “I was born a full year after they got married. I once asked my dad why he married my mom, and his only response was that it seemed to make sense at the time.” Christina’s eyes bugged, and he couldn’t help but chuckle. “Yeah… not exactly the answer I was looking for.”
He turned his hand over so that their fingers were now linked. Hers were so small, so delicate against his much larger, much rougher hand. And yet there was strength in her fingers. The pads were calloused from untold hours of practicing her instrument. His were calloused from untold hours of practicing with firearms. He wondered why that thought didn’t bother him, and yet seeing their hands together, all he could think was how perfectly they fit together.
“Did they stay together?”
Lifting his gaze to hers, he continued. “My upbringing was so chaotic that I craved order. Discipline. I joined the Army as soon as I graduated from high school. My dad came to my boot camp graduation and informed me that as soon as I’d left home he and my mom filed for divorce. I asked him why they’d stayed together all those years only to divorce as soon as I left.” He snorted as he continued to shake his head. “He claimed they wanted to give me stability even though they knew they weren’t right for each other. Stability… Jesus, seriously?”
“Wow, I don’t even know what to say to that, Clay.”
He lifted his free hand and gently brushed his fingertips over her forehead, smoothing the line. “There’s nothing to say to that, sweetheart. My parents were fucked up as a couple but thought that staying together while I was growing up was the right thing to do. Mom died from breast cancer about seven years ago. Before that, the few times I’d go home, I’d spend a day or so with her and we’d have a good time. She’d bake and we’d listen to music. Then I’d go to my dad’s place, enjoyed time with him as well. I’ve often thought how much better my upbringing would’ve been if they hadn’t tried to live in the same house. Anyway, I stayed in the Army, got into the Rangers, had missions all over the world. The discipline I craved I got from the military. The family I’d never had I got from my fellow Rangers.”
“If you loved the Rangers so much, why did you get out?”
He shifted and now wrapped his hands around both of hers, holding them in his lap. “I was chosen for some special operations with… well, let’s just say with a special group. It was an honor, and I was proud to be part of it. That’s where I met Mace.”
“Your boss?”
Nodding, he said, “Yeah. He was in charge of our missions. Through him, I met some of the others. After a couple of years, Mace was getting out and had a dream of starting a security business. He hand-picked some of the people that he’d worked with and extended invitations to come work for him when they got out of the service. I was one of those people and considered it even more of an honor.”