to the top. Not a drop more.” It was how Tammie served it all the time now. And her increased tips from customers proved the value of the woman’s advice.
Now, though, Tammie was serving herself. She tipped the silver-topped sugar dispenser, counting to five before she stopped the white stream. She needed the energy to get through the rest of the night.
She tossed her order pad and pencil on the counter beside her coffee, waiting for Cora to join her. The steam of the second cup swirled upward, and Tammie watched it with tired, nearly unfocused eyes. The shape morphed and swayed in the air conditioner’s breath.
“What’s that?” Cora leaned over the counter, peering down at Tammie’s order pad. “It’s pretty.”
Tammie stared in horror. Her fingers had instinctively picked up the pencil and sketched the steam, creating flowing waves and pockets where her creativity planned to settle precious stones. It was a good design. She could take the gold and fold it just here—
No! Tammie ripped the page free and tore it into tiny pieces. If she had a match she’d have burned it. Instead, she scattered the pieces into the bus tray behind the counter, watching, painfully, as they sank into the dumped ice waters and coffee. The pencil lead disappeared into the damp.
“What’d you do that for?” Cora wasn’t accusing, just curious, as she climbed up on the old vinyl stool and settled.
Tammie shrugged, knowing that would be answer enough, at least for Cora. She couldn’t let Cora see her work, and she couldn’t let anyone ever know what she could do. Not until she figured out a solution—until she figured out a way to escape for good.
“It was just silliness.” She dismissed the design with a wave of her hand, but cringed when she saw the spark of curiosity linger in Cora’s faded blue eyes. Despite having destroyed the drawing, Tammie still saw it in her mind, felt her fingers itch to pick up the pencil and finish it, felt the longing to hold her tools and work with the materials she’d so loved.
They finished their coffee in silence, both women fighting exhaustion as their shift stretched out.
“I’m gonna get a quick breath of air,” she told Cora. “Be right back.” Tammie needed, just for a minute, to be alone. And while the alley out back was the last place in the world she wanted to be, with its hefty thick stink and dirt, it was dark and empty. At least for now.
The back door was heavy metal but it was never closed. A supposed fire door, it gave little protection. The screen door was all that separated the kitchen from the alley. She let it slam closed behind her, needing something to separate her from this life she’d been forced into.
She looked up at the sliver of sky she could barely see between this building and the filthy one across the alley. She could almost make out the sparkle of a single star beyond the city lights and clouds. Closing her eyes to seal in the damp that threatened to fall over the edge of her lashes, she let her mind have its silence.
She’d been little when her mother had taught her to make a wish on her first star. “Star light, star bright,” she whispered. The rest of the words rushed through her head, but not past her lips. Not here. Tyler’s little face flashed into her mind, but she refused to let it go any further. She’d taught him the silly rhyme. Did he remember it? Or would he soon forget it, and her?
She forced her thoughts elsewhere. He was not a part of this world, of the level she’d sunk to. No, he was safe and in a good place. She’d made sure of that.
Never here.
She needed to get back inside. Blinking rapidly, this time not because of tears, but the bright fluorescent lights of the kitchen, she hurried inside. There were voices in the dining room. A couple, half-drunk, had settled in the front booth while two young men stood at the door waiting to be seated.
“And here we go.” Cora whipped by Tammie, a tray in one hand and the perpetual coffee carafe in the other.
Tammie grabbed her now-bare order pad from where she’d left it on the counter and shoved it back into her apron pocket. She seated the two men and headed back to the kitchen with their order, hearing the door open again. Yep, the rush was back. Thank goodness.
* * *
DJ STARED OUT the window at Brooke Army Medical Center. The whip-snap sound of the flags outside came through the glass and took him back. Too far back. He cursed and turned away from the sight of the fabric dancing at the end of the thick metal poles. That was not why he was here.
“Tell me straight, Doc.” He knew what the doctor was going to say, but he wanted to hear the words.
“I think you know what the answer is,” the doctor guessed.
“Yeah, but humor me. Say it.”
The silence in the exam room was heavy, and DJ wanted to fill it with cursing. Instead, he sat still, meeting the doctor’s hesitant gaze with a glare.
“You’ve reached a plateau. At this point I don’t foresee any measurable improvement.”
“So the discharge stands?” DJ said through clenched teeth.
The doc looked at him and simply nodded. He didn’t move. He seemed to barely breathe. He didn’t like being here any more than DJ did. DJ knew that, but dang it, it wasn’t his life that was going down the drain.
Without another word, DJ slowly, stiffly stood, then walked to the door and threw it open. He stepped out into the hall, his gait uneven as he moved down the narrow hallway. He knew it was hotter than hell outside, but he walked out into the late afternoon anyway. He wasn’t coming back here, and he couldn’t wait to escape.
The huge Harley he’d ridden in on sat just where he’d left it, the frame baking in the sun. The bright blue paint on the tank and fenders glistened in the leftover sunlight, the chrome winking at him. If he had “plateaued,” why the hell could he drive this monster? They’d told him he couldn’t do that. They’d told him he might not walk, yet here he was. How did they know he couldn’t still be a soldier? They wouldn’t even let him try.
He straddled the bike and kicked it to life, filling the air with the throaty roar of the engine and all the curse words he hadn’t let fly inside the hospital.
He wasn’t in the mood to go back home. Home. Was that what Wyatt’s ranch was? It wasn’t really. It never would be, even with all the family memories that lurked within its walls. The only thing even slightly homelike there was his son, Tyler. And Tyler seemed at home there as anyplace else he would be.
DJ was the one who didn’t know what home was.
He headed east, in the general direction of the ranch, but when he hit the freeway, he passed the regular turnoff and instead headed north...and kept going.
The hot wind slid over his skin. Heck, now he could let his hair grow out. He could dress more like himself, instead of in the endless parade of ugly camo. He could... His thoughts ended. All he saw ahead was emptiness.
The machine ate up the miles. He knew what he had to do. He knew where he should go. He knew... But before that he needed space, time to himself and a drink.
The Lucky Chance Bar was technically only fifteen miles away from Wyatt’s ranch—if you were a crow. It took DJ the same two hours to get there over the winding roads. He pulled the bike into the dirt parking lot and let the engine fall quiet for a while before he climbed off.
The rough country bar was where DJ had cut his drinking teeth as a young man. Since he’d been home, he’d avoided the place, too afraid that the lure of oblivion would be too strong to resist. Tonight, he knew he’d failed. There was no more resisting. All his nightmares were coming true.
By the time DJ was settled in the booth at the back of the bar, alone, where he’d sat countless times back in the day, his mind was full of memories of the recent past.
Decisions needed to be made and DJ was avoiding making them. He knew that. Medical discharge. He’d have