Man of Honor (Battle Scars #3) - Diana Gardin Page 0,1

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1

Drake

My palms itch, and I clench my hands into tight fists, trying to force the uncomfortable sensation away. The tingling merely changes course, shooting up my arms and giving my entire upper torso the sensation of being eaten alive by pissed-off fire ants.

I hate this fucking place. I hate this fucking day.

My eyes are grainy. I dig my fists into them, trying hard to root out the tiny granules of sand I know aren’t there. It’s just what happens when you’ve been up for a solid thirty-six hours. I sigh, my chest swelling with the pent-up air before I force it back out of my lungs with a loud whoosh.

Blinking a few times, I stare around me. Sitting in the pews surrounding mine is a sea of faces. Some I recognize from another lifetime, some I don’t. They’re all wearing the perfunctory look of extreme sadness one is supposed to express at a time like this. But I can probably count on one hand the number of people who truly loved her.

Because she was so goddamned hard to love.

For me, it was obligatory. She was my mother.

After the short service, in which the minister said a few words about the woman everyone in this small Georgia hole knew as the town drunk, I stood at the front of the church beside the closed casket. A long line of people waited to greet me. I nodded at each person who slugged by. There were some, like old Ms. Ebbie, who used to babysit me when my mom was on a bender, and Jim Tucker, who owns the grocery store, who wrapped their arms around me.

Fuck. Did I ever even tell Jim how grateful I am for all those times he let me clean up aisles in his store just so I could take home a meal for me and Ma?

From the kind and sympathetic look in both Jim’s and Ms. Ebbie’s eyes, I realize it doesn’t matter whether I ever actually said it.

They knew.

Everyone in this tiny godforsaken town knew. Without their help—the handouts that they gave me and the times they’d peel my mother off the floor at Boondock’s bar—I wouldn’t have made it out of here alive. They saved me first.

The army did the rest.

I hadn’t even noticed the fact that my eyes had glazed over until my vision clears as there’s a timid tap on my shoulder. I focus on the wizened, kind face of my high school shop teacher. The lines around his eyes are more pronounced, but other than that he looks exactly the same as he did the day I graduated eight years ago.

“Mr. Harris. Thank you for coming.” My voice sounds as though I haven’t used it in years.

His knowing gaze is enough to place an enormous lump in my throat, but I swallow it down like a shot of hard liquor. There’s no room for weakness in my life. I learned that a long time ago.

“You doing okay, Drake? I’m sorry that it took something like this to bring you back to town.”

Nodding, I bow my head in shame. “I should have visited. Sorry, Mr. Harris. Everything you did for me back then…”

He pats my shoulder, clearing his throat and looking me straight in the eye. “Did what needed to be done, son. Every kid deserves some lookin’ after.”

He did more than that. He was the first person to put a wrench in my hand. The first man in my life who ever gave a shit. He gave me goals, put the army on my radar as a chance to break free from here.

I owe the man my life.

“You stayin’ or goin’?” he asks gruffly.

I glance at the coffin and cringe. “Going. Right after she’s in the ground.”

He releases a heavy sigh before nodding. “Can’t say I blame ya. Imagine you got a life wherever you are now. Carolina, is it?”

A small smile touches my lips. “Keepin’ tabs on me, Mr. Harris?”

Patting my shoulder again before he begins to walk away, he grunts. “Somebody has to. Maybe use a phone every now and again this time. You hear me, boy?”

“Yes, sir.”

He pauses and then looks back at me. “I’m proud of ya, Drake. The hand you