SEAL'd Perfection The Complete Collection: A Navy SEAL Romance (35 page)

“Why are you leaving?” I asked, suddenly desperate for him to stay. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye.

I wasn’t sure if I ever would be.

Jace looked down at the table, his good hand resting on the gleaming white surface. He kept his bad hand tucked in his lap. “There’s nothing left for me here.”

I sucked in a breath, the words hitting like an arrow. Slicing through skin, muscle, and bone, right into my tattered heart. It was the kill shot.

My head started to shake on its own accord, wobbling back and forth, silently pleading for him to take back the vile statement. “Nothing?” I breathed. “Nothing! How can you even say that to me? Me, Jace, you know, Kat. Do you even remember who I am anymore?”

Jace looked past me, flicking his eyes to the rest of the room.

I whipped around, facing the dining room of patrons, all of whom had Jace and me fixed in their sights. Not a one of them even bothering to conceal the fact that they were shamelessly listening in on our conversation. I wanted to tell them all to get the hell out of my diner, to leave me alone, to never come back. I hated everything about every second as I stood there before them, like I was something on display, a TV movie of the week, an actress playing a part. That
this
wasn’t real, that my heart wasn’t actually breaking. To them, it was all a show, something to feed their sick, small town gossip mill for the next month, until they stumbled upon something bigger and juicier.

My entire body trembled, all of their eyes still staring back at me, silently judging me.

“Kat, honey,” Patrice was at my side. I jumped at her touch as she grabbed my arm. She shot a look over at Jace, and whatever she was thinking, it wasn’t kind. “Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

My resolve melted, leaving me feeling like some kind of boneless fish. Patrice tugged at my arm and I followed along, my eyes on Jace until she pulled me around the corner and back into the kitchen.

I swore, as long as I lived, I’d never forget the lost, bewildered look reflecting back at me in those deep blue eyes.

* * * *

“Why don’t you take off,” Patrice suggested later in our shift. “I got everything shut down out front. Just waiting on a couple laggers.”

I stood up from where I’d been squatting, refilling the sugar holders. “Are you sure?
You
should be the one who gets to leave early. You had to carry the weight all afternoon after…well, you know.” I rolled my eyes at myself. After she’d dragged me out of the dining room before I could make an even bigger spectacle of myself, she’d let me hide out in the kitchen for the better part of the shift, avoiding all the people who’d had front row seats to my encounter with Jace.

The one that had left me looking like a crazed, bitter ex-girlfriend.

Which, I supposed, in some ways, I was.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to soothe myself with the argument that it was probably worse in my head than it had been in person.

“After you went bat shit cray cray in front of twenty customers?” Patrice filled in my trailed off statement.

Ugh
. Apparently it
had
been that bad.

“Yeah…”

Patrice smiled. “If you want to close up, that’s cool, but if you wanna jet, I get it. We’ve all been there. Men make women crazy. Sometimes in a good way….sometimes, not so much,” she finished with a shrug.

I returned her smile and stooped to pick up the bottles from the floor, leaving the fifty pound bag of sugar under the counter. I stacked the sugar jars on the counter and brushed my hands off on my apron. “I’ll stay. Thanks for taking care of me, Patrice. I know I don’t thank you enough for having my back around here.”

She waved a hand at me, but the light in her eyes told me my words meant more than that to her. “No worries girl. Hey, I’ll see you Monday, have a good weekend off!”

“Thanks, you too!”

Patrice flew out of the diner, and I went out to the dining room to check on the last of the customers. There were two older ladies still working through a piece of pie that they were sharing, alongside two cups of coffee, and a twenty-something, sitting along the counter, earphones in, tapping on the screen of her phone. I approached her first, and she asked for her check, and pushed an empty soup bowl over the counter to me. After cashing out her bill, I collected the five she left on the counter for me, and then started closing procedures after letting the two ladies know there was no rush.

I was wiping down the last of the free tables when a light turned on across the street, lighting up the windows of Jace’s shop. I hung back a few feet, not wanting him to look across and see me watching him from the diner window. At first, there wasn’t any sign that anyone was inside, but just as I was about to turn away, Jace crossed through, carrying something large. His pace was slow, and my gut knotted tight, wishing I could go across the street and help him carry whatever was in his arms, as the load was obviously too big for him—especially with a jacked up spine and a damaged hand.

I watched for as long as I could stand, as he shuffled box after box across the room, each one a little slower than the last. When every fiber in my body was on fire, ready to bolt across the street, I forced myself to look away and busy myself with another task until the ladies finally asked for their bill. I did my best to serve them with a smile as they paid and left together, chatting happily, not a care in the world.

Twenty minutes later, everything was ready to go. I locked the till in the safe, and bundled myself into my coat. The light was still on at Jace’s shop when I left the diner. I locked the front doors, and lingered for another moment, watching, before rounding the building and going to my car. He was still moving things around, his pace now painstakingly slow, but I didn’t have time to go and help. I had to pick up Jax from Hilda’s and ferry him over to Mitch and Hannah's for their weekend. Somehow, I tore myself away and drove away without breaking down Jace’s door and saying all the things that had been building in my mind since that afternoon in the diner.

Things that after tomorrow, wouldn’t matter.

He was leaving, and I would have to find a way to accept that.

“You’re a shit bag, Jace Winslow,” I huffed to myself, throwing a box of packed belongings to the ground by the front doors of my tattoo shop. I crossed the room and grabbed another box, hauling it across the room towards the pile of others, my steps short and clipped, mostly due to the fire licking up my spine. I’d taken my meds but they were wearing off faster than normal, the pain of packing and moving boxes and furniture around too much for them to mask.

My doctor was going to kill me.

I didn’t care. I figured the outside should hurt as much as the inside. And at this point—after the conversation with Kat—that was a helluva a lot.

So I kept going, box after box, ignoring the sharp pinching, stabs, and pulses of pain.

“A lying, piece of shit,” I continued to berate myself, setting down another box. A groan ripped from me as I straightened.

My breaths were coming hard and fast, like I’d run ten fuckin’ miles. I stared at the small pile of boxes.

I’d moved four of the twenty that were packed up.

“Shit.” I gasped for breath and took a shuffled lap around the room to slow my breathing and stretch my throbbing back. The movers were coming the next day, and although I’d hired them to pack and move everything, it was a point of pride that they not show up to a complete disaster.

I had to make the day as smooth and problem free as possible. I knew my mind and heart wouldn’t be in it. I was determined to move, the final paperwork had been done for the house I’d purchased in Chicago, and the movers were coming first thing in the morning to take care of the rest.

I should be happy, relieved that I’d been able to get out of my lease. Relieved to be breaking free, back to a big city.

There was nothing left in this town.

At least, that’s what I’d told Kat.

“Dirty, lying, piece of shit,” I said under my breath.

I crossed the room and sat down on one of the leather couches clustered with the other furniture that had made up the waiting area of the shop. A glance across the street told me that Kat had already gone. It was too late. There wasn’t going to be time to talk to her the next day. She wouldn’t be at the diner anyways, she hardly ever worked the weekends, she’d probably be out at a park with Jax, or hanging out with Hilda.

Just like she should be. She had a life, she didn’t need me. I would slip away the next day and it would be done. Whatever was left between us, the ghosts of a life that might have been, will finally dissolve, and we could both move on to the next part of life. I imagined her finishing school, moving on to be some big time designer, moving to a big city and opening her own studio, catching the eye of all the rich and famous, making big bucks for her and Jax. She’d move on and leave the small town and all its memories behind.

Myself included.

As for myself? I had no idea. I had a house paid for in full. It was close to the waterfront, room to spare, and private parking—which, in Chicago, is a big fuckin’ deal. I’d had a few offers to do another reality show, I figured it was a pity offer and turned it down. I didn’t need, or want, camera’s up in my grill at the gym or physical therapy while I tried to get my shit back together again. Doors had opened, but I’d slammed them all shut. I needed some time alone, and a big city was the perfect place to be alone.

A buzz interrupted my wallowing, and I heaved up to go check the phone I’d left on the desk. It was a text from a buddy of mine, letting me know he was watching my interview on TV. I grimaced at the message. It was meant to be celebratory, but it reminding me that the
Inked by Jace
season finale was airing. When I’d finally come home and been able to resume shooting, the studio had decided that a final interview would make the perfect ending—after everything. They’d said it would be a way for me to give my gratitude and send off message to all my fans and supporters.

I set the phone down without replying and dragged my tired ass back up to my apartment. I pulled a beer out of the fridge, ignoring the little voice in the back of my head that sounded like my doctor, reminding me not to mix my painkillers and alcohol. I’d done it half a dozen times since I’d been on them, and so far it hadn’t mattered.

At least, not that I’d noticed.

I popped the top on the beer and took a long swig. It hit my empty stomach, and I was reminded I hadn’t eaten anything all day. I’d lost ten pounds during my recovery process, all of which was muscle. I hated that my body was cannibalizing my own muscle, and could see the changes to my arms, shoulders, and chest when I looked in the mirror. But, that was par for the course. Everything else was jacked, why not my body too? I couldn’t work out the way I was used to. With my back out, lifting was out of the question. Hell, I’d barely been able to carry the boxes across the shop downstairs.

I leaned over the sink, my hands braced on either side. My eyes squeezed shut tight against an avalanche of rage and regret that buried me before I could take another breath. I waited, hunched over, for it to roll off me, for my muscles to relax, and when I could finally get air back in my lungs, I went back to my beer and chugged the rest of it down. Barely a minute passed before I had another one cracked open. It was stupid—I knew—but I didn’t care.

I took the bottle to the other room and stood before the large flat screen mounted on the wall. It was dark, and as I stood there, I remembered my friend’s text about the interview. I reached for the remote and flipped through the TV guide on the screen until I saw it,
Inked by Jace: The Series Finale
.

I clicked OK and a flash of a second later, my face filled the screen.

The TV me was in the middle of an answer, “—things went sideways, man. But, that’s life. When I joined the Navy, I always knew something like this was a possibility. I’ve had friends who’ve experienced similar things, and you know, I’ve had a lot of friends that never made it home.”

The camera panned to the interviewer, some dude named Charles, who I was introduced to the day of the interview. Apparently he was the star of some morning news show. Whatever it was, I’d never seen it, but John had assured me he was a ‘someone’ and I should be honored he was there to do the interview on such short notice.

I shook my head, remembering the solemn look in his eyes when he’d said it.
Yeah, like I give a shit.

Charles poised his next question, “Well, I speak for all of the American public when I say this, thank you for your service Chief Petty Officer First Class Winslow. It’s not taken lightly.”

He hopped to a commercial break, and I went back to the kitchen. The interview had taken place weeks ago, a few days before I’d flown home. The show had sent John and his crew, with Charles, out to the VA hospital I’d been staying at. It had been a whole big thing, all those eyes on me. Truthfully, I’d felt like a total douchebag, walking those halls with a camera crew. Like I was some fuckin’ movie star or some shit.

I was nothing.

Absofuckinlutely nothing.

To distract myself, and chase away the memories, I cracked half a dozen eggs into a bowl and started to scramble them with a fork. I was getting better at using my left hand for everything, but the motions still felt clumsy and awkward to me. Something as simple as scrambling eggs was now a chore. I couldn’t help but wonder when it would feel normal, and not serve as one more reminder that things were broken now.

I
was broken now.

By the time I got the pan heated up, and some butter melted, I heard the interview kick back on in the other room. Charles was talking to Senior Chief Gerard about the mission and the specifics of what had happened. I tried to tune it out, not wanting to relive it all. Most nights the memories were rattling around in the back of my mind, haunting my nightmares, or late night thoughts when sleep refused to come for me.

When my eggs were done, I put them on a plate and went out to my reclining chair. I set the plate next to the beer bottle I’d left on my side table, and went through the process of easing myself into my chair. The pain pills were working, and it didn’t feel like my spine was on fire, but I didn’t want to test them, and still moved slow and careful to not tweak my back.