The Marine's Embrace. Beth Andrews
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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