Ah, there’s the hit of guilt. Thought it might have skipped a day, but I’m not that lucky. I shake the unwanted thoughts and refocus on our newest volunteer, who also happens to be our biggest angel investor and spokesman.
“That is kind of you to say, and thank you for volunteering to do hands-on work with our combat vets. You’ve worked with veterans’ groups before, right?”
“Oh, yes. It is a passion project of mine. I have worked with the PTSD Center for many years now, as that is something I have in common with a lot of soldiers.”
Jean-Pierre, who is a vibrant, kinetic gift of a man, was interviewed by Oprah a couple of years ago, and he spoke about some of the horrors he experienced in the Rwandan genocide. He had family on both sides of the conflict, which allowed him and his mother and father to get out, but not before the violence had taken its pound of flesh. I respect the hell out of the work he’s doing for victims of genocide around the world.
As I am contemplating his history, the door opens again and in rolls one of my favorite guys, Stephen Benning, Air Force Special Ops, Pararescue. We slap and grab hands, and I wordlessly take in his unshaven face and the dark creases under his eyes. Benning had lost both legs above the knee, and one arm below the elbow after a rescue mission gone bad in the Gulf, yet still manages to be one of the most positive people I know.
Not to mention the fact he’s built like a brick shit house.
Unfortunately, like a lot of us, he sometimes has night terrors, and if he’s in his chair instead of his leg prosthetics, it means he’s had a bad night. Rather than discuss the obvious, I chuck his shoulder and nod toward the gentle giant in our midst.
Benning’s eyes go practically lunar. “Holy shit, you’re Jean-Pierre Sehene!”
Jean-Pierre kneels down to greet the buff blond in the wheelchair and holds out his hand. “Guilty as charged. And you are?”
“Stephen Benning, at your service.”
“Well, I know the customer is always right, but in this case, I must correct you. I am here to serve you,” he says with a warm and engaging smile. “I’d be honored to help you with your workout, that is, if you need it.”
Benning glances between Roly and me and Jean-Pierre and shrugs. “Okay then, let’s get started.”
Benning rolls over to one of the weight benches, drops the arm on his chair, and transfers into the seat before Jean-Pierre can even walk over. Benning grins at the impressed look on Jean-Pierre’s face. “You mind spotting me, big guy?”
“Not at all. Happy to help.” Jean-Pierre is tickled, and the men start up an easy conversation. Within minutes they’re laughing and pushing each other around like old friends.
I hand the five-dollar bill back to Roly and smile. “Go ahead, say it.”
Roly grins back and shakes his head. “Dude, I would never say I told you so. We’re family, we support each other. Even when one of us is super, super wrong about something, like whether or not the coolest guy on the planet would be a good volunteer for our vets. Nor would I ever say anything about your needing to unclench every once in a while and trust people to do what they’re good at.”
“I’m not ashamed to admit I was wrong; Jean-Pierre is doing a great job. Though, it’s unfair for him to start with Benning, because Benning is nice. Morris is a son of a bitch, and I’d love to know how the big, cuddly basketball player is going to handle someone like that.”
Roly rolls his eyes and is about to comment when the door opens again. Jake, my brother-in-law, pushes through with several yoga mats in his arms. Now Jake… he’s an interesting one. He’s gay, a fraternal twin, and a practicing Buddhist. According to his sister—my sister-in-law—he went to the Naval Academy right out of high school but decided not to pursue a military career. I’ve never bothered to correct her, but as a Naval graduate, I know for a fact that you can’t just “opt out” of a Naval career after the academy. The story she tells me is that he went to work for a vague-sounding software company, before a stint in Paris resulted in him coming back to the States minus one job and plus one dangerous alcohol habit. His family chalks it all up to experimentation gone wrong, but I have my suspicions.
I do know that if the tiny bone frog hidden in the ornate tattoo on his ribs is any indication, he’s seen deadly combat, not just as a regular Navy stiff, but as a SEAL. He knows Roly and I were SEALs, but he also knows we won’t ask about his service unless he offers. And he’s never offered, not a single detail. Like I said… interesting.
Jean-Pierre lights up when he sees Jake walk through the door, a brilliant smile slashing across his gorgeous face. “Jake!” He has Benning rack the weights, then jogs over to help a mildly startled Jake carry his unwieldy yoga mats.
“Jean-Pierre.” Jake has an aesthetic I like to call Zen goth, which includes a lot of gauzy black tops over skinny jeans, or, like today, a black tank over wide-legged fisherman pants with a dark gray scarf, all of which sets off his pale skin, lean muscles, stormy eyes and dark chocolate hair. He’s wearing overly complicated black leather sandals, so the ensemble is complete. It is in every aspect the exact opposite of Jean-Pierre’s flashy style. Hell, they seem to be opposite in every possible way. Jean-Pierre’s entire person just lit up like a lightbulb when Jake walked through the door, while Jake simply exudes this… dark sensuality. It’s weird to say that about a guy, but Roly and I have been commenting on those two like a bunch of wildlife experts on NatGeo for the past several months.
“Didn’t know you were going to be here today.”
Me, leaning over to whisper in Roly’s ear: Jake’s voice is low and kind, a go-ahead signal to the tall, interested suitor.
“Oh, yes. I’m volunteering here just wherever.”
Roly: Jean-Pierre’s going for the casual reply, as though he didn’t just move heaven and earth—and our entire damned volunteer schedule—to be here at this exact moment.
Jake’s cheeks pink up as he goes back out to the car for a stack of foam blocks.
Roly: Jean-Pierre’s trying to keep his expression neutral, but… oh, there it is. His eyes are on Jake’s ass like it holds the secrets of the universe.
Me: Jake is distracted but doesn’t look anyone in the eye, especially Jean-Pierre. Our coy goth monk gives nothing away… oh, wait! I could be mistaken, but was that a smile?
I hip check Roly, who’s laughing with me. Those two aren’t moving off the stick anytime soon, so we turn our attention to the job at hand. Let’s get this day going.
Chapter Two
Elijah
“Wrecked? What kind of gym calls themselves Wrecked?” I ask Penny, the job fair volunteer who was signing up interviewees for an opening there. “I mean, are they thinking the only way to work out is to physically wreck themselves? Not really the vibe I’m going for.”
Not that I had any business turning down any job of any kind at this point, but I was trying to avoid actively doing more harm than good.
“It’s for combat vets—you’re a vet, right? Your resume says you led PT for your unit.”
“Yeah, but I definitely don’t look like the typical gym guy. Especially not for a place called Wrecked.” At five foot ten I’m pretty average, height-wise, but skinny as fuck with a terminal case of speak-my-mind-itis, and I’m not sure I’m exactly a fit.