Chapter Thirty-Two

Son of a gun, my life has changed. Jake wouldn’t have it any other way.

While he’d spent the first few days of recovery sleeping, Zack had made certain that the AMA, the American Medical Association, got wind and evidence of Dr. Death’s extreme method for treating hysteria, hyper-vigilance, and PTSD. It seemed Lacy’s parents weren’t the only ones duped into paying thousands for false claims of a fast cure for Post-Traumatic Stress. The man actually was board-certified, but the greedy bastard had preyed on families of returning soldiers. Had a glamorous clinic and everything. Not any more. The last Jake heard, the AMA had closed Dr. Death’s clinic down pending a thorough investigation and possible charges. Jake would’ve taken it one step farther, but murder was against the law.

Poindexter was still making headlines, along with Rocky Rabbit, Ferret Face, and bloodthirsty Miss Annette Plunkett, who turned out to be Poindexter’s mistress from hell. She’d flipped on Poindexter faster than he could turn state’s evidence on his long-time buddy, Manny Prentiss. It didn’t take her long to rat out everyone Poindexter had blackmailed on his way up the corporate ladder. Plunkett knew where every last girl was, and she made certain the press knew, too.

The gossip rags blew up with Kelly Poindexter’s much publicized and televised declaration of divorce. She’d become a favorite on all the feel-good talk shows, investigative reports, and the like. The kingdom Poindexter had sold his soul for now resided in the hands of Homeland Security, Interpol, and a star-studded divorce lawyer from Hollywood.

The California Attorney General vowed Poindexter would never see the outside of the federal prison he was headed to, and his ex-wife vowed he’d never see his daughter—if he lived long enough to ask for parole or visiting privileges. Not likely. The man had too many enemies in the system who wanted him to disappear, and some were powerful enough to make it happen. Stupid, stupid man.

As far as all those poor little girls from Cambodia? Zack and Alex already knew exactly what those kids needed. They’d had a run in with another human trafficking ring, this one out of China, not too long ago. As quickly as the State Department and Immigration processed the girls, they were placed in better, safer hands. Some went willingly back home to relatives in Cambodia. Some went into the witness protection program. Some went into trustworthy foster care.

Then there was Lacy’s art show. Her big debut was coming up quickly, and Jake wouldn’t miss it. Alex’s wife had talked Lacy into a private showing at a torpedo factory over in Alexandria, though what Navy torpedoes had to do with art was still a mystery to Jake. It seemed Kelsey was on some society board, and knew people in all the right places. Once she’d seen Lacy’s work, she offered to set up the private showing for the families of the soldiers Lacy had painted.

Kelsey and Lacy had been planning the event for days now. Because it was scheduled for the week of Valentine’s Day, they’d decided to call it The Gallery of Soldier’s Hearts. Lacy was a bundle of nerves, but she’d be okay. The woman was a genius in disguise.

Jake’s painting, the one of snowflakes on a backdrop of black was the centerpiece of the show. It wasn’t going anywhere but back to her apartment. She’d painted it within hours of their very first time making love, and the damned thing spoke straight to his soul. It was her perfect red heart—not his—in the middle of that beautiful masterpiece of ice crystals.

The minute she’d given herself to him, he’d changed. A man couldn’t receive and accept that kind of a gift and not want to be better. She’d done that. Jake knew he might be crazier than a loon to believe like he did, but it was the gift of her heart that had kept him alive that treacherous night. Jamaal might have carried him, but it was Lacy’s love that kept him breathing.

“Hey, Jake. You-hoo. Earth to Jake.” Harley called from the floor in front of the Christmas tree where he’d been entertaining Zack’s littlest girl, MiKi.

Jake jerked out of his mental wanderings and set his empty plate on the table with Lacy’s. “Yeah, Harley. What’s up?”

“You seen Jamaal’s interview yet?” Harley asked while cute little MiKi played with his hair, his lips, and ears. The more she tweaked, the funnier faces Harley made until she was giggling herself sick. Little Song draped herself over his back watching and giggling, too. It was a lovely sound on a lovely day.

“Someone interviewed Jamaal?” That oughta be good.

“Oh, yes, you’ve got to see it,” Ember said from where she sat on her husband, Rory’s lap. Half the team seemed to prefer the floor to the love seats, but damn, those two kids did a lot of kissing and necking. Of course, Jake had his arm around Lacy, too. He was one to talk. “Do you have a tablet? I’ll show you.”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” Harley pulled up a mini-tablet from the floor beside him, flipped it open, and with a few deft taps of his index finger brought up the interview. “Here you go,” he said as he handed the device over. “Watch this.”

Jake leaned into Lacy so she could watch too, and suddenly, LiLi was hanging over his back, MiKi crawled over to join him while Song squirmed under his arm and took possession of his lap.

As usual, YouTube video brought up a commercial. “Oh here,” LiLi said, her fingertips working the screen like she knew precisely what to do. “You don’t want to watch that stuff. It’s so annoying.”

One of the major networks logo flashed on screen and, lo and behold. It was Jamaal, all right. He looked indifferent answering the reporter’s questions with a play-by-play of how he’d found his buddy, Jake Weylin, on the bank of the Potomac back in December. He didn’t look any happier when he explained how he’d hacked the nylon ropes with a pocketknife because that was all he had on him. Neither did he look the reporter in the eye.

“What’s wrong with him?” Lacy asked. “Do you think he has stage fright?”

“Maybe,” Jake answered. I sure as hell would.

Jamaal’s head dropped as he described how his best friend was talking out of his head when he’d found him because Jake was damned near ‘froze to death’ by then. He described how dead Jake looked and how scared he’d been that he’d arrived too late to save his brother. Jake had icicles hanging off his chin and eyebrows. Finally, Jamaal told the reporter how Jake didn’t weigh a thing when Jamaal laid him over his shoulder and began the long trek back to Lacy’s apartment in Anacostia.

Jake stared. He had no idea all his buddy had gone through to save his life. Jamaal hadn’t wanted to talk about it. Apparently, he did now.

“But how did you keep him warm?” the reporter asked. “That had to be a long walk.”

Jamaal’s big brown eyes brimmed. He brushed a big hand over his face, still not making eye contact. “It’s like this. Jake Weylin’s my brother, man. I put my coat over him, and I figured as long as I kept trying to save him, my coat would keep him warm enough. And I prayed. I prayed so damned hard, there weren’t no way he was gonna die. God just don’t work like that.”

The reporter leaned into Jamaal. “Excuse me, but that’s impossible, Mr. McCune. It’s more than a dozen miles from that riverbank to Anacostia, and the weather was frigid. The roads were closed and sections of the Potomac were frozen. It had to have taken you a long time to walk that far. Your friend should have been dead by then”

Jake rolled his neck at the uppity tone to that reporter’s voice. Was he there? No. Did he have a clue what a good man could do under real pressure? Abso-fuckin’-lutely not.

“I hate reporters,” Lacy muttered. “You’re here, so it is possible and it was a miracle.”

“Ain’t nothing impossible,” Jamaal muttered, finally looking the reporter in the eye. “’Sides, I ain’t stupid. I didn’t hafta walk far, only down to the river cuz I stole a boat.” Jamaal’s head bobbed as he got his swagger on. “That’s what I did. Once I got Jake down from that slab of iron he was stuck on, it didn’t take no time gettin’ him onto the river. I just fired that outboard up and away we went. Only problem I had was staying clear of the Coast Guard. Damned guys were everywhere.”

“But they were looking for you.” The reporter shook his head as if Jamaal was an idiot. “They could’ve helped.”

Jamaal shrugged. “Now how was I s’posed to know that? Poindexter tried to kill us. For all I knew, he could’ve been blackmailing someone in the Coast Guard, too. Only ones I trusted that night were Jake and Miss Lacy, and Jake was dying. ‘Sides, I just told you—I stole a boat. I was a wanted man.”

The reporter sank back in his chair. “What you are, Mr. McCune, is one lucky and very amazing man. Without a doubt, you did the impossible that night.”

“I know.” Jamaal’s USMC swagger showed up right on time. “But my buddy’s the real hero, not me. I just run interference for him and Miss Lacy. I knows how to cook now, too.”

The video clip ended and MiKi squealed, “Play it again!”

Song bounced up and down on Jake’s lap, clapping her pudgy hands.

“I like Jamaal,” LiLi said wistfully in his ear. “He’s like you, Uncle Jake. He’s one of the good guys, isn’t he?”

“He is,” Jake said humbly. Jamaal was one of best.

It was good to know that he was doing well. Old man Lamont Adams had given Jamaal a job helping rebuild the pool hall, and he’d promised Jamaal the bartender job when the hall was finished. The first thing Jamaal had done when he got that job was move out of Lacy’s apartment and into Lamont’s home where he helped take care of Mrs. Adams. It was a win-win. Mr. Adams gave him free room and board and something every honest man in the world craved, a paycheck at the end of every week and his pride back.

Alex lifted his glass. The room stilled. “You need a drink in your hand, Jake,” he said. Funny how it sounded more like an order instead of a suggestion.

Zack shoved another long neck brewski at Jake, one for Lacy, too. She gulped one of her extra noisy gulps like she always did when she was getting emotional.

“To Sergeant Jake Weylin,” Alex said, his glass raised high.

Everyone in the room lifted a glass or bottle to Jake while he sat there on the floor, fingering his icy cold longneck. Zack’s little girls had rejoined Harley, so Jake pulled Lacy in close, feeling awkward and put on the spot. “I didn’t do anything but nearly get myself killed.”

“You did, too. You got the smoking gun,” Lacy whispered. “It was all you, Jake. You brought Rafe Poindexter down, and you saved all of those little girls from Cambodia. Look at the people in this room. They’re not the press. They’re your friends, and they know a real hero when they see one. They care about you.”

Now it was his turn to gulp. He was no hero. Jake looked to Alex. Something about the guy commanded. He still had his glass raised, but those damned blue lasers pierced across the room and straight to Jake’s guilty soul. “Work starts at eight,” Alex said without blinking. “Be there.”

Once more “Yes, sir,” came automatically out of Jake’s mouth. Damn. I have got to stop pissing off my new boss or I’ll be doing KP.

Alex downed his drink, but just as quickly, Harley raised another toast. “To good friends and fast women!”

“Harley!” a redhead with two little boys at her side scolded from the leather couch. “The children.” Her brows lifted as if she expected better from him. Had to be his spitfire wife, Judy. Good on her for calling her husband out for that lame toast. Everyone laughed, but still.

Harley winked at his woman, sticking his chin right back at her. “I know, darlin’. I was just seeing if you were awake.”

“I am now.” Was there a challenge in her tone?

Grinning like a fool, Harley raised his glass again. “In the words of a famous snowman, whom we all know and love, have a ‘holy jolly Christmas’, folks. Live long and never forget” —he winked at Jake— “there’s angels amongst us, people. They show up when you least expect them. Some of ’em are big and black, and some of ’em got red hair.” He tossed a sexy wink at his wife. “Cheers.” Harley downed his drink and stuck his empty glass out to one of the little boys. “More, Georgie.”

I’m no angel, Jake thought, but damned if Lacy’s butt didn’t scoot in closer to his. “Here, here,” she said quietly.

He brushed a kiss to her temple. Now that he had time to notice, those boys of Harley’s were identical twins. “Here you go, Daddy,” Georgie said as he delivered a can of A&W’s finest. “Want me to pour it for you?”

Harley’s bows lifted as his hand settled over the already open—and dripping—can in his eager youngster’s hands. “Not unless Mom’s got a towel close by. Thanks, son. Now step back while I pour the bubbles.”

Georgie’s twin scrambled to his dad’s knee as the liquid refreshment glugged out of its can. “Kin I stick my finger in it?”

“No, it’s my turn,” Georgie argued, his wiggly body inching alongside his dad.

Harley settled the feud when he handed the can to Georgie and the glass to the other. “Be nice, boys. It’s Little Alex’s turn.”

“There’s something I have to tell you, Jake,” Lacy murmured, her fingers choking the stem of her wine glass. “As soon as we get home.”

Jake cocked his head, lowering it enough to block the sudden scowl on his face. She wasn’t looking at him. “Anything wrong?”

She shook her head, but damn. Were those tears in her eyes? “No. Everything’s perfect. There’s just something I’ve been meaning to say.”

His heart stuttered. Did she already know? “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you too,” he muttered into the side of her head. Lacy’s hair smelled of peppermint and snow. He inhaled deeply, held her scent as long as he could, then released it slowly. He had nothing to worry about, nothing in the big wide world. This was Lacy after all.

“To my buddy, Jake Weylin,” Zack said heartily, interrupting Jake and Lacy’s private moment. “Best damned friend a man could ask for.”

Bottles and glasses clinked. Jake bumped bottles with Lacy and Zack, but when he turned to Lacy, he paused. Those soft green eyes of hers were filled up with liquid love, and he wasn’t in the middle of Zack’s living room anymore. He wasn’t in the company of snipers, either. The world would always have its Sector 18s, but God willing, it would also have people like Lacy who knew how to reach the lost ghosts of war and paint them home. Or at least paint the heart back into them. Just like she’d done with him.

“I love you so much, Jake Weylin,” she whispered, one of those crystals tears perched at the edge of her lower eyelid. “You saved me and I saved you, and that’s the way it’s supposed to be, damn it.”

Jake loved it when Lacy got her dander up. He bumped his forehead to hers in the best Christmas toast ever. “I know.”