It should hurt. But I just sigh and bury myself in the engine hatch until I’ve done enough of a patch job that I can sail again tomorrow—maybe, if I wake up feeling skint enough to be that reckless.
By then, I’ve dodged Oscar twice and the eerie quiet I came home to has been eclipsed by the wall of raucous noise blasting out of the Joker.
Live music.
Shouting.
Singing.
The kind of chaos a tired man can get lost in, but I don’t have that luxury. I should’ve come inside hours ago, a fact underlined the moment I lay eyes on Jack across the jam-packed bar.
He’s serving, shoulders broad, jaw set, like he could hold the place up if the leaking roof gave up the ghost for good. But his eyes are wrong. As if he’s taking every thump of bass directly to his brain, and I’m in motion before I make a conscious decision.
I slip behind the bar. BehindJackand my chest presses against his back as I pitch my voice low where he can hear me over the din. “Take a break, love.”
Jack tilts his neck to find me, but his gaze is too jittery to hold mine for long. “I’m okay.”
“You don’t have to be. I’m here.”
It’s in him to argue, but he doesn’t. Which tells me how hard he’s struggling. That he’s been clinging to shore for way too long and I’ve just offered him solid ground.
“Go on.” I kiss his cheek, not caring who sees. “Lie down for a while.”
“I’ll come back in a bit.”
“You don’t have to,” I repeat.
“Aye, but I want to be where you are.”
“You’re killing me, Gallagher.”
Jack almost smiles, but now I’m here, his brain has had enough, and he needs out of this carnage before he drops.
He retreats and goes upstairs. I ache to go with him. Tostaywith him every minute his TBI leaves him this vulnerable. But I have to settle for checking on him every half hour, trusting that the deep and near instant sleep he’s found on the sofa is everything he needs as the evening bleeds into the kind of night that never ends.
We make a ton of money, but the clean-up is brutal. I have no idea how late it is by the time I stagger upstairs.
Jack is still on the couch, arm tucked under a cushion, red light from a nearby lamp casting a glow over his face. He hasn’t moved in hours, but a blanket lies over his legs now, and I know better than to think he put it here himself.
Skylar.
He should be at work. But…he’s not. He’s on the other couch, curled in on himself, hood pulled over his face as he sleeps, like he’s trying to disappear, and the sight of him twists my gut.
Skylar never sleeps anywhere but his bed. Never naps on the couch or dozes off in front of the TV. He’s too wired, too much lone wolf in him, so either the world has ended or he’s missing Mal so hard he can’t bear to be alone tonight, and I take that hit in my stomach too.
Can’t leave them.
So I take a shower, lay myself down, and go to sleep on the floor. Wake at dawn to Skylar stirring and I realise it’s been years since I’ve seen him this unguarded. That I’ve forgotten how fleeting it is before he scans his surroundings as if it’s him who spent decades in the military. Though my romantic heart likes to think he’s looking for Mal more than danger these days.
And lucky him, he just finds me.
He stares, unblinking. Then he sits up a little and makes room for me on the couch. “Get off the fucking floor.”
Skylar ordering me about is a world away from Jack doing it. But it’s cold and my neck hurts, so I do as I’m told, rise from the floorboards, and sink onto the sofa.
I expect Skylar to retreat to the other end of the couch, but he lies back down, dumping his head in my lap, and closes his eyes again.
And, gods, I’m not ready for that. Damn, I can’t be crying before coffee on Christmas Eve.