Barbed Wire Bandages Read online

  He inched the car forward, still debating on his first move. He was horrible at sitting still. He couldn't sit down long enough to read a book, enjoy a concert, or get lost in a movie. He'd been in high gear for so long he couldn't remember what it was like to relax. Even when he and Owen ventured out to bars around base, they never claimed a seat. They were always moving, chatting up women, dancing, or competing in one way or another. Darts, eight-ball, snooker; they were always playing. Always winning.

  But that was his life in Albany, Georgia. Back where his brothers in arms knew him well. In Till Park, the place he'd fought tooth and nail to escape a decade ago... no one knew him. Not the Marine he'd become and definitely not the the awkward, knobby-kneed kid he was in school. That boy was the very definition of unimpressive, so Garrison didn't expect anyone to remember his face, let alone his name.

  Knowing that the chances of running into anyone curious enough to approach him were slim to none, he let off the brake and coasted into the parking lot.

  The atmosphere inside Bucky's Bar & Grill wasn't what Garrison was expecting. Not by a long shot. He imagined low ceilings, wood paneled walls, rickety bar stools, and surly patrons. But when he stepped foot into the renovated firehouse, he was pleasantly surprised.

  Bucky had taken advantage of the two-story building and had turned the loft into a party room locals could reserve for special occasions. The ground floor was distinctly sectioned off into two areas. Toward the back was a relaxed dining area where couples sat at thick wooden booths with checkered tablecloths sipping wine and ale, while the front of the building was completely open and boasted beautifully stained hardwood floors. Garrison assumed that was the dance floor, but seeing as it was too early for uninhibited dancing, none of the barflies were kickin' it to Cotton Eye Joe just yet.

  There were quite a few couples moseying around, but not enough to make Garrison abandon his thirst and head for his motel. He planned on putting that off for as long as possible. Garrison had stayed in plenty of pay-by-the-hour roach motels, and if you've been in one, you've been in them all.

  As he took a seat at the bar separating the dining area from the dance floor, a thin blonde with legs for miles approached him with a pitcher.

  “Hey there! Need a menu?”

  “Uh, yeah, please.”

  The waitress handed him a small, laminated menu from her apron and took his drink order before sauntering out of sight. While he perused the entrees, he stole glances at the patrons. He wondered if he'd known any of them once upon a time, while at the same time hiding his face just in case anyone took notice of him.

  Surely they wouldn't. After all, he'd gained over seventy-five pounds in the last ten years, he kept his dark hair cut shorter, and the hard lines of his face bore little resemblance to the fresh-faced child he was before leaving Till Park. No one would ever know he was-

  “Garrison?”

  Shit...

  He begrudgingly turned, looked up from his menu, and came face-to-surprised-face with someone he was actually pleased to see.

  “Shawn?”

  “Yeah!”

  When he stood, Shawn pulled him into an intense, back-slapping, man hug before holding him out at arms length, inspecting him from his high and tight down to his well-worn boots.

  “Holy biceps, Batman! Look at you! Life's been good to you, huh?”

  Garrison smiled genuinely. “Yeah, I guess you could say that. You look...”

  “Exactly the same, right?” Shawn laughed, and Garrison was happy he admitted it. Shawn really hadn't changed. From his stature, his hair, his skin, his voice- he hadn't changed at all.

  “Rach! Can I get a shot for my friend over here?”

  Shawn raised his hand over his head and the waitress who'd taken Garrison's order stomped back into view, clearly not happy with how Shawn was yelling across the room.

  “Shawn, you don't have friends,” she yelled right back. “You have people who tolerate you.”

  “Not this guy,” he said, nudging Garrison in the ribs. “We go way back.”

  “Oh? Prison buddy?” She tilted her head to the side and offered the duo a sugary-sweet smile.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Garrison watched Shawn cringe.

  “Nah. High school, actually.”

  “Really?” She took a step forward and squinted, perhaps trying to place him. “A Till Park native?”

  “Yup.” Shawn slapped Garrison on the back, a gesture he was quickly growing sick of. “But this one escaped. Left the day of graduation to serve Uncle Sam.”

  That little tidbit of information seemed to interest Rachel, seeing as how she pulled her shoulders back and made a show of jutting her ample cleavage forward. “A soldier, huh?”

  “A Marine,” Garrison corrected.

  Even across the room, he could see her pupils dilate.

  “Even better.”

  He made a mental note to avoid that one. He knew there were women out there who had lady hard-ons for a man in uniform, but he'd been lucky enough to avoid them most of his military career.

  After Rachel took her sweet time undressing him with her eyes, she nodded to Shawn and grabbed a shot glass off the rack before filling it with whiskey.

  “Two, please,” Shawn said, slapping the bar to make sure he had her attention.

  When Rachel sat the amber shots in front of them, Shawn wasted no time in throwing his back and slamming the empty glass against the scarred wood of the bar.

  Garrison paused to smile with his full glass pressed against his lips.

  “No toast then?” He laughed.

  “Shit,” Shawn said. “What the hell is there to toast to in Till Park?”

  Garrison swallowed, enjoying the burn that trailed its way down his throat and landed in a heavy puddle at the bottom of his stomach.

  “Nothing,” he said, remembering all the times he'd wished for an escape from the single-stoplight town. “Absolutely nothing.”

  Ten shots later, they were thoroughly caught up. Garrison didn't have much in the way of things he could talk about, but Shawn had lived a colorful life. Between hopping jobs every year, three DUIs, a not-so-brief stint in prison, and two failed marriages, Garrison was surprised Shawn looked as good as he did. He didn't look like a recovering alcoholic, nor a man who'd had his heart repeatedly trampled. He looked like the same old Shawn.

  “So, seen anyone else since you've been back?” Shawn asked as Rachel set a pitcher of beer between the two of them.

  “Nope.” Garrison shook his head, thankful he hadn't run into anyone before Shawn. “I literally came straight here when I got into town. I haven't even had a chance to check into the motel.”

  “Good priorities,” Shawn chuckled. “Beer, babes, and then bed.”

  “I guess.” He smiled into his stein, remembering that Shawn had always been a candid individual, which is why he'd had such trouble fitting in as a kid. “So, are there quite a few people still around?”

  “Are you kidding?” Beer sloshed onto the table as Shawn poured it, his hand shaking. “Almost everyone we ever went to school with. Not a lot of people left after grad, and if they did, they were back within a couple years.”

  “Tragic,” Garrison muttered under his breath. Between the rainstorm raging to life outside and the steady hum of music, Shawn couldn't hear the bitterness lacing his voice.

  “Oh! But get this!” He yelled, suddenly remembering something crucial. “Crazy Cat Lady is still rompin' around these parts.”

  “Who?”

  Garrison took a sip of beer, for once cursing his high tolerance. His vision was barely starting to fuzz around the edges and Shawn's loud voice, which had been hell on his ears, was finally starting to become bearable.

  “You remember Bridget Warner?”

  Just hearing that woman's name caused Garrison's shoulders to stiffen and his pulse to jack up a few notches. It had been years since he'd thought about Bridget Warner or Nat Stilton or the football players and cheerleaders
that made his life a living hell, but the memories still stung. The anger was still there. The resentment was buried deep, somewhere his conscious thoughts never ventured, so the reminder did nothing but piss him off.

  “Yeah. I remember her.”

  “Her parents left her their place when they kicked the bucket and she turned it into some kind of animal shelter. She goes around town collecting strays in this beat up Ford.” He closed his eyes and laughed. “She went from high school royalty to crazy cat lady. It's fucking hilarious!”

  “Oh, yeah?” Garrison tried to sound interested, but the truth was, he just didn't care. At least, that's what he told himself.

  He wanted Shawn to drop the subject, but at the same time, he wanted reassurance that she'd gotten what she deserved. So he allowed himself one question, hoping for the bleakest of answers.

  “Is she still with Nat?”

  “Oh, hell no. That dick left town a while ago. He's some big name in marketing now. Or accounting or real estate or some shit. Hell, I don't remember. All I know is that when I got out of the pen, he was long gone and Bridget was busy collecting pussy off the streets.”

  Good to know.

  That meant one less person to run into. One less person he'd have the urge to throttle.

  “She stays out there by herself, almost never comes to town,” Shawn continued. “I bet she's three hundred pounds with yellow teeth by now.”

  He laughed heartily and eventually Garrison joined in, thinking all the while that that was just the kind of life someone like Bridget Warner deserved.

  After he started refusing refills and some of the alcohol had burned from his system, Garrison bid goodnight to Shawn with a promise of catching up again before the reunion. Exhausted, he made his way outside, cursing the rain he'd been eyeing from the safety of the bar. When he stepped out from under the awning above the door, the cold pellets seemed to intensify and he fumbled for his keys as the rain soaked through his light jacket.

  “Till Park really fucking hates me, doesn't it?”

  By the time he managed to wrench his door open and climb inside, he was soaked to the bone and thoroughly pissed. He turned the key and glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Hours had passed since he rolled into town and it was beyond time to get to his motel, check in, and dig out some dry, warm clothes.

  After spending so many years in the Corps serving in all kinds of shitty weather, his body was use to the sticky, uncomfortable feel of his wet shirt rubbing against his chest. But he wasn't a Marine anymore. He was a civilian. He didn't have to endure.

  The car purred to life and he backed out onto the street, fully intending to retire for the night.

  But something stopped him.

  Something deplorable and disgraceful... and too powerful to ignore.

  “Bad idea, man,” he whispered to himself as he tapped the wheel. “Bad. Fucking. Idea.”

  Curiosity nagged at him.

  It wouldn't relent.

  He needed to see, needed to be reassured that one of the most awful human beings he'd ever had the displeasure of knowing had ended up living in filth and degradation.

  He had to know.

  So, instead of driving the short distance to a guaranteed shower and bed, he turned in the opposite direction and made his way out one of the many dirt roads in town. Even though Garrison knew how shitty of an idea it was, he traveled steadily down the gravel trail leading to the Warner property.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Bridget Warner stood in the center of her living room, flipping the bird to the balding weatherman on TV. The radar image flashing across the screen pissed her off more than it should have, but mopping up muddy paw prints was the least favorite of her chores. She would rather muck out cow stalls than repeatedly scrub hundreds of tiny painted toes off her hardwood floors.

  As a flash of lightning illuminated the room, two cats jumped off the couch and bolted into the back bedroom, not giving two shits about the felines that were keeping themselves busy by swarming Bridget's ankles.

  “Hold onto your asses, ladies and gents,” she said as she hopped away from their incessant mewing.

  Storms had never bothered Bridget before she opened Till Park Animal Sanctuary. However, once the cats, dogs, and livestock started filtering in, it was clear she'd never enjoy another night of lying in bed, listening to thunder in the distance and the pitter-patter of rain on her tin roof.

  Those days had long passed. With all the animals on high alert, she was lucky if she managed to sleep at all without being smothered by a fuzzy belly or head-butted to death by someone needing reassurance.

  But she loved every second of it.

  Helping animals was her life. Her calling. She was proud of her work, even if the townsfolk referred to her as the 'Crazy Cat Lady'. That was a title she happily embraced, so long as it meant they still called her when a stray was dumped on a dry stretch of country road or the local PD had to forcefully remove a loyal canine from his deceased owner's property. Saving the lives of animals who had no one to depend on was her job as well as her passion.

  She loved it. She loved them. Every fluffy, slobbery, mangy one of them. And they loved her back. Unconditionally.

  After checking on Carl and Fiona, her two resident bovines, and making sure they were hunkered down nice and tight in the barn, she managed to corral Huck, her lone goat and self-imposed guard dog, in his pen before making sure all the dogs and cats were parked happily in front of the television. Everyone was safe, dry, and ready to spend a long night indoors weathering the impending storm. She just hoped the weatherman was wrong about his flash flood prediction. The last thing she needed was for the pond to swell and overtake her backyard which doubled as everyone's play area. She'd be mopping up muddy paw prints for months.

  “Everyone comfy?” She asked as she sat down to do paperwork. She really didn't expect an answer, but someone whined from the other side of the couch.

  “Charlie? Is that you?”

  Upon hearing his name, Charlie, a Great Dane no one in Till Park wanted anything to do with, poked his head up to give her the saddest eyes he could muster.

  “Don't even look at me like that,” she said without turning to face him. “You are absolutely, one-hundred percent, without a doubt, not sleeping with me tonight. No way in hell, dude.”

  Charlie's ears dropped just the tiniest bit, but he turned back around to face the TV. He huffed out a slobbery sigh before pulling all four of his long limbs under his belly and closing his eyes.

  “Anyone else got a problem sleeping in the living room?” She paused, waiting for a woof or howl in protest. “No? Good. Now, let me work.”

  She turned back to her papers and tuned everything out, ignoring the storm vibrating closer to her property. She tried to lose herself in her work and enjoy the piping hot cup of coffee by her side, but with every rumble of thunder and every lightning strike, the animals grew more restless, demanding her attention. They whined. They paced. They panted. They did everything but drop to the floor in full-on tantrum mode. Although, she could see Charlie considering it.

  “You guys are putting me on edge. Take it down a notch.”

  Of course, they ignored her and continued working their way through their nervous habits.

  When the pulling and popping of leather registered in her ear, Bridget turned to find Chibs, an ancient tabby, scratching at her leather couch, attempting to tear a hole or two (or twenty) through the fabric. But she couldn't bring herself to care.

  It was second hand, and she was sure that whoever sold it to the thrift store had also bought it used. Even though it was well worn and discolored, the animals perched atop it like royalty posed on a throne. It stuck out like a sore thumb against her more modern furniture, but she didn't care as long as they left the other couches and chairs alone.

  Just when she managed to tune the animals out and refocus on the new ad she had to submit to the paper, every mammal in the room went haywire. Barking. Hissing. Growling. Ru
nning. Hiding. They pulled out all the stops, even knocking over a lamp and kicking a throw pillow into a potted plant as they fled or raced to one of the windows, but she couldn't tell what had them so riled.

  “Guys!” She yelled over the ruckus. “What the hell?”

  Han, a sweet old mutt, hobbled to the sliding glass door that looked out over the front of the property and whined as headlights temporarily blinded him.

  “Good grief.”

  She stepped around three wagging tails and made her way to the door. Her driveway was long enough that if someone was coming, she knew about it a good five minutes before they made it to the doorbell. Because she lived so far out in the country, people usually called before visiting, especially on a stormy evening like the one she was cursing, but it seemed one particular individual hadn't bothered.

  Bridget pressed her hands against the glass and shielded her face, trying to make out the vehicle, but the rain made that impossible. Annoyed, she wiped at the fog her breath was creating and watched the mystery car make its way through the soft mud of her drive.

  The headlights moved along slowly and it was hard to tell through the streaking rain shrouding the glass, but it looked like they were swerving. The gravel path wasn't that crooked, but the bright beams bounced unevenly as the driver fought to keep traction through the mud pit that had consumed the front of her property.

  Charlie whined at her feet and she stuck a hand out to pet him. He was tall enough she didn't have to lean down to scratch behind his ears and solid enough she had to brace a hand against the wall to keep herself upright when he rested his weight against her thigh.

  “It's okay, buddy,” she soothed. “Maybe they're just lost.”

  As soon as the hopeful words left her mouth, Bridget watched the headlights come to an abrupt stop as a dull thud met her ears.

  “Are you freaking kidding me?”

  She growled and tossed her head back in frustration as she stomped to the mudroom.