The exhaust from my borrowed pickup was the only familiar scent as I slid into the narrow parking space and cut the engine. The last chug of the motor echoed off the garage walls—thick, gray cement that was too perfectly constructed to exist anywhere except good ole' America. The empty tobacco case lying in the space next to mine suggested it couldn't be anywhere but downtown Charleston. Home sweet home. Sort of. But even though it was familiar enough, the lack of crumbling edges and rotting rats in the corners left me unsettled. I'd spent four months diving off the coast of Africa and the Middle East before that. South Carolina was terrifyingly luxurious by comparison.
Was it insane to miss the pickup truck beds full of government gangbangers rolling through town with guns raised? Probably. But then it was even more insane that I was here of all places. Even before the military, I'd never spent any time in the world of corporate America, and I knew I wasn't going to fit in now. But a promise was a promise.
I paused inside the cab long enough to roll up the windows. Manual windows took more elbow grease than pushing a button. A familiar for both of the worlds I'd lived in. At least some things were universal.
Just fucking breathe, man. I inhaled. Exhaled. Got out.
Shoving the keys into my pocket, I started walking.
The closer I got to the street—and the view of the skyscraper across it with the words Franklin Industries mounted over the front—the faster my heart pounded. The more my irritation bubbled up, threatening to boil over.
I didn't want to do this shit. I wanted to go home. To Summerville. To the house my parents had raised me in. They were gone, retired and living on the coast of Florida. Purchasing my childhood home was the first step I'd made toward building a life for myself after almost losing it. Well, surviving that IED had probably been the first step if you asked anyone else. But "surviving" and "making a life" were two different things. And it was the former that had brought me here—all the way to the doorstep of the last place I ever expected to visit.
Just one meeting, I reminded myself now. One dog and pony show. Kiss a few babies. Shake a few hands. And then home to the peace and quiet of Summerville.
In a blur of forced will and silently repeated responsibilities, I made it into the building and through the security checkpoint.
"You're Liam Porter," the security guard said, his smile friendly. Open. Not murderous. Not radicalized. But I hated his enthusiasm. I did not want to be recognized. Not here. Not anywhere, really, but especially not here on my own turf.
"Yeah."
"I graduated from North Summerville too. Three years ahead of you. Wow. It's an honor, man." He put out his hand, and I shook it, gritting my teeth to bite back all the asshole things I wanted to say.
"Thanks."
"Your meeting's on the fourteenth floor. You can just go right up," he said, releasing my hand and nodding at a bank of elevators behind him.
"Thanks," I said again. Better a repetitive monkey than a cursing ass.
I spun on my heel and headed for the elevators. Maybe I should have brought Sophie after all, like she'd begged me to. "Just for backup," she'd said in that voice that always sounded like a warning of some kind. "Just in case."
"I survived an IED at forty feet," I'd told her with more than a little sarcasm. "I think I can handle this."
The words were true enough. One visit to Franklin Industries should have been cake. But Sophie and I both knew, for me, this sort of thing was worse than death. Even as I thought it, I tugged on my collar. I'd vetoed the tie Sophie had tried forcing on me. A dress shirt and slacks were bad enough.
I stepped into the elevator, reminding myself it was more than a fair trade. Not exactly an eye for an eye. More like a mouth for an ear. This company had done more for me than technology should have allowed. Definitely more than the military would have. The least I could do was stand up beside them and tell the world who'd given me a second chance at life.
They'd get one speech. That was the deal. After that, I could fade into obscurity. I was already well on my way with the stubble on my face and longer hair hanging over my forehead. After a few more months, with any luck, no one in town would recognize me ever again. I wouldn't be "Liam Porter, war hero." I'd be "that guy who never shaves and spends all his time carving out rocking chairs."
Sophie probably had a warning for that too, but I didn't give a shit. The idea of taking over my dad's old workshop, of losing myself in the sound of the saw, the smell of the sawdust… It was exactly what I needed after the stress of the last few months. Between the explosion, the subsequent surgeries, and now the spotlight, I just needed to lose the spotlight for a while. Get some peace and quiet. Move on.
But first, I had to pay my dues.
The elevator doors dinged, the yellow light indicating I'd arrived on the fourteenth floor. When the doors slid open, the first thing I saw was the view. Floor—to—ceiling windows ran the length of the foyer, offering a look at a cityscape that was too far away to look anything less than pristine. Even the silence ringing in my ears had a tone to it that screamed money.
I stepped out into the hall, caught up in the cityscape of Charleston as it stretched as far north as I could see. I knew Franklin's office wasn't at city center, that behind me, the city limits gave way to forest and from there, only winding back roads leading straight home to Summerville. But from here, all I could see was the bustle of a city too bloated with people and pollution to comfort me just now.
I thought of my dad's shop again, still full of half—finished passion projects from the last time I'd come home for a visit. It smelled of sawdust that burned my eyes and reminded me of the life I'd had before I'd almost lost it all. I'd left town as a player looking for glory, but four years later, I had returned as something else. I just didn't know what yet.
I took a deep breath and turned away from the window, walking slowly to the other end of the hall and the office that awaited me. Plush carpeting lined in gold trim led me straight to a reception desk made of glass and marble.
"Can I help you?" A bright—eyed twenty—something with gold earrings that glinted off the harsh lights greeted me.
