Titanium Read online

  Why the eff would I do such a thing?

  Several reasons came to mind, and one of them really was my desire to get out of the trailer I'd called home for the past few months. I thought of my mom's reaction to the place when I moved there and grinned. God, she'd hated it, from the sixties shag carpeting--avocado green, naturally--to the fake paneling on the walls. I thought of our three-story house in Amarillo with its perfectly mowed lawns, perfectly tended gardens, and perfectly decorated interior.

  She and Dad lived to impress the neighbors. I hadn't inherited the gene.

  As for my other reasons...there were three. Riley, Riley, and Riley. She was the flame to my moth. I couldn't resist her. Would I regret my decision? Probably, but that wasn't what worried me most.

  What did, was my fear that Riley might regret it, too. More than anything, I did not want to hurt that beautiful girl with the sunshine smile. Once we shared quarters, it would be hard not to follow her around like a lost puppy. Why? Because I hadn't seen one thing about her that I didn't like. In fact, if I'd ever made a list of desirable traits in a female, she'd have had them all. Petite? Check. Toned? Check. Brunette? Check. Smart? Check. Sweet? Check.

  Yep. I was definitely headed for a heartache. And the worst part? I didn't give a rat's ass, at least about myself.

  Lost in thought, I channel surfed until I came across a talk show featuring Steve McConnell, CEO and owner of StMc Comics, as a guest. I'd seen the creator of the Titanium graphic novels many times before on TV and even once in person at Comic-Con. He'd held a huge audience captive with his wit and wisdom. And if I hadn't already been a fan of his series, he'd have made me one that day.

  Followers of Titanium, a half human-half metal misfit of an antihero, were cult-like in their devotion and even held yearly conventions, where they all dressed up as characters from the series. McConnell's recent decision to make a Titanium movie hadn't exactly thrilled any of his Titanimites, as they called themselves.

  Maybe they had a reason to worry. I could remember many a comic book hero who'd fallen flat in Hollywood. But the man deserved a chance in my opinion. After all, Titanium was his brainchild. No one else really had a say in the decision. And the thought of watching that character come alive in 3D or IMAX completely worked for me.

  Yawning so wide I popped my jaw, I gave up on TV to recheck that the doors had been locked. Once sure Riley would be safe while she slept, I stretched out on her couch, which wasn't even as big as the love seat in my parent's home.

  Did I miss that big ol' house in Amarillo? Not so much. I did miss my folks now and then, even though they'd fatally disappointed me. I especially missed my big sis and thought of her every single day. We'd been tight, we two, growing up. I'd even told Angela when I enlisted, a secret she'd faithfully kept from Mom and Dad until I was ready to tell them, too.

  I'd only seen her twice in the past year. Both meetings had been emotional for her and, I thought, too sad. Though Ang hadn't lied at any point--she knew better--her blatant belief that everything would be okay had been just as upsetting to me. At some point she'd have to do what I'd done: accept the fact that my life would never be better than it was now.

  I knew I should drive to Houston for another visit with her, Rob, and the boys. But curious little kids asked a lot of questions-- questions with painful answers. And Timmy would want to play football, something I wasn't physically able to do at the moment though I believed I was getting closer.

  Chapter Six

  Riley

  When I woke, bright sunlight streamed through the cracks between the mini-blinds on my only window. A glance at the clock revealed it was after eleven on a Sunday. I'd slept without dreaming, which I took as a sign that the bad stuff was over and all was right in my world again.

  What an idiot.

  Dressed in yoga pants and a P!nk T-shirt, I walked into my living room and found Zander already there, watching a NASCAR documentary. He had on yesterday's clothes, now wrinkled as if he'd slept in them, and hadn't combed his bed head, a look that went well with his scruffy chin and equated to sexy as hell. My heart sort of zinged in response.

  "Morning," he said.

  "Morning." I pulled back my long brown hair and began twisting a band around it. "How long have you been up?"

  "Five minutes, tops."

  "You didn't sleep in your bed." I'd noticed.

  "Nah, but the couch was just as good."

  That had to be a lie. "Would you like some breakfast? Wait... We did that already. How about some lunch?"

  "I'm still full from all those pancakes I ate. I think I'll go to my place and get started on packing my gear."

  "Will getting out of your lease be a problem?"

  "I'm renting month to month like most of my neighbors. There's a big turnover rate at Brookside Trailer Park." Zander, now on his feet and stretching, saw my curiosity. "No one can predict how long they'll need to hang around the hospital."

  "Oh." I stifled all the questions I wanted to ask. He'd talk about his injury when he got ready. "I'll be glad to help you pack."

  "I don't really have that much to move. But if you want to come, you're welcome."

  "I do." And if loading up boxes beat staying home alone, I probably still had issues. But I refused to think about them. Today was a new day. Well, not literally, but close enough.

  Since Zander thought his truck would hold everything, we drove to his trailer in it once I'd changed into jeans and a sweatshirt. I looked through the CD's tucked in the console and realized that while we were on opposite ends of the spectrum musically speaking, we did intersect in the middle, always a good thing when sharing a roof.

  Zander's digs were located in a park of aging mobile homes, twelve total. He told me that a veteran had seen a need years ago, bought some land, and set them up. All looked the same on the outside--dated, weather beaten, but clean. I saw lawn chairs and grills, some cycles, a basketball goal. What struck me most were his neighbors, most of who appeared to be outside enjoying a clear autumn day.

  Young men for the most part--I only saw three women and a couple of kids--who sat in wheelchairs or balanced on crutches. One had his arm in a cast; another, his leg. Several clearly had missing limbs. To the one, they smiled and waved at us. Emotion surged up inside me. Emotion I hid as I waved. Heroes deserved respect and appreciation, not irreparable damage to their bodies and lives.

  "What are you thinking?" Zander asked.

  I just shook my head. If I tried to answer, my voice might crack and give away the depth of my sorrow.

  "They're not ruined, you know."

  I managed a nod, but still couldn't speak. Not with my heart in pieces. Feeling self-conscious on several levels, I got out of the truck. Every eye followed us across a carpet of bright orange maple leaves to the wheelchair ramp leading to Zander's front door. All the trailers had them, I saw.

  Once inside, the smell of wet dog accosted me. Clearly my almost housemate hadn't exaggerated that. With an eye out for the bulletproof roaches he'd mentioned, I perused the pristine area, which seemed oddly impersonal for him having lived there for months. I saw no family photos anywhere or art on the walls. The kitchen counter was completely clear, as was the tiny dining table.

  Crediting his neatness to the military, I explored the rest of the trailer and found a small bedroom with the bed neatly made, a smaller bedroom full of stuff, and a bathroom so clean I'd have been comfortable eating there. Everything appeared to be old fashioned, yes, but as shiny as the day it left the manufacturer. I easily decided that I couldn't have picked a better housemate.

  "There are boxes in here." Zander pointed to the smaller bedroom. "I'll take the full ones to the truck first. Now I'm glad I was too lazy to unpack them when I moved in."

  "Where do I start?"

  "Everything in the pantries, dressers, and closets is mine, so any place would be good."

  Hoisting a closed box, he left me. I picked out an empty one and went to his bedroom. There was a built-
in chest in there. Checking the drawers, I found they had clothing in them. I began with the top one, which held underwear. By the time I got to the bottom drawer, my box bulged, but I'd managed to get everything in it.

  Zander took what I'd packed up and headed out the door again. I don't know how many trips he and I made to the truck before we finished loading his twelve boxes, flat screen TV, laundry baskets, and crutches. I do know it was almost five and starting to get dark, thanks to a cloud bank in the northwestern sky. We made one final inspection to be sure we hadn't missed anything. Zander locked the door. The two of us walked to his truck for the last time, with him limping noticeably.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw that some of his neighbors had congregated and openly stared from a yard across the street, an avid audience to Zander's departure. Just as we got to Zander's truck, a neighbor with one intact leg and a bandaged stump joined us with the help of crutches. He was a good looking guy, tall with short dark hair and darker eyes. He had a soft cover book slightly squashed against one of the handgrips.

  The moment I saw it, I winced. Couldn't help it. That graphic novel and I had history. Zander's eyes, which were on me, narrowed.

  The guy shot him a sympathetic look that made no sense in the current context. "What's up, Xman? You skipping out on me?"

  Xman? A pretty accurate nickname, I thought, in light of Zander's psychic skill.

  "Yep," said Zander.

  "Lucky dog. Who's this?" His openly admiring gaze swept and flustered me.

  "Kyle, Riley McConnell. Riley, Kyle Olsen, a buddy of mine."

  "Nice to meet you." I deliberately planted my gaze on Kyle's face. I didn't want to be caught staring lower. His demeanor told me he knew I was doing that, which was way embarrassing and almost worse than gawking at his injured leg.

  "You two been friends long?" he asked me.

  "Just met, though it feels like I've known him forever. Zander saved my life last night. Muggers in a parking lot."

  "No shit? Well, he is good at that." Kyle handed Zander the graphic novel, which was oversized and dog eared as if it had been read a lot. "Brought your book back."

  Zander tossed it in the seat of his truck without comment. I realized his cheeks had flushed and he seemed oddly tense.

  "My folks are bugging me to move back to the farm. They think I'll do better there." Kyle dazed into the distance. "They can't seem to understand that my hell is inside here." He touched a finger to his head before sighing heavily. "Don't be a stranger, okay?"

  "I won't." The two of them shared a brief man-hug. Zander cleared his throat a little too loudly.

  I saw that Kyle's eyes brimmed and hated to leave him. I could only imagine how my new housemate felt.

  From there, Zander drove us to the last trailer on the right. I stayed in the truck while he knocked on the door, talked to some guy for a bit, and handed in his key. They parted with a handshake.

  The drive home was quiet. I had the distinct impression that Zander was upset. I assumed it was because of Kyle's comment about his personal hell or the fact they wouldn't be living next door to each other anymore. Clearly they were good friends. Or maybe he regretted telling me he'd share my apartment, essence of wet dog or no.

  We began moving boxes from the truck to my side of the duplex the moment we got there. Misty rain compromised the front steps and Zander stumbled twice, the second time nearly planting his face in my porch.

  I waited until he put down his box inside the house before trying to let him off the hook. "Why don't you take a break? I can get the last two."

  "I'm perfectly able to do it myself," he as good as growled.

  "Fine. Do it." Sheesh. I eyed the living room, which now had six boxes and the TV piled up in it. We'd put the rest in the bedroom and kitchen. "I'll see if I can dig up some dinner."

  Zander said nothing as he headed out the door again. I edged over to the window and peeked between the mini-blinds to see how he was doing. What I saw was him, standing by the bed of his truck, with his hands gripping the chrome railing. He rested his forehead on them and scuffed gravel with his shoe while he caught his breath. At least, that's what I assumed he was doing.

  My heart wrenched. More than anything, I wanted to offer sympathy, but the guy clearly had his pride, and I needed to respect it. So I went to the kitchen instead and popped a couple of TV dinners into the oven. While they heated, I unloaded his food box, careful to keep his things separate from mine until I knew if we would be sharing. I soon heard the front door shut and the click of the new lock that told me he'd made his last trip outside. Good.

  He appeared in the doorway. "I stink. Mind if I borrow your shower?"

  "You don't have to ask. It's half yours."

  "Not yet." Zander pulled a checkbook from his hoodie pocket. "What's my part of the rent?"

  I realized we'd never talked money. I named an amount a little under half. Having him nearby was worth a lot.

  He closed the distance to the dining table and wrote me a check. "This is okay, right? Or do you prefer cash?"

  "A check is fine. It's not like I won't know where to find you."

  Zander didn't respond to my joking, but turned and walked away with a decided limp. I felt another stab of sympathy. He'd definitely overdone it today and probably last night.

  While I threw together a couple of salads from packaged greens, he went about his business. I heard the bathroom door shut and, soon after, water running. A crash and loud "Shit!" sent me flying to the hallway.

  "Everything okay in there?"

  "Don't come in!"

  "Wouldn't think of it." I wondered if I was making him nervous by being so openly needy. Maybe I should reassure him that my sense of security wasn't his responsibility, and we were nothing more than renters sharing space. Not that I wouldn't give him an enthusiastic go if offered the chance. I liked everything about the guy so far, but I didn't need to tell him that. Especially if he was having second thoughts or something.

  While the dinners baked, I got on the computer, which was located in Zander's bedroom, and reread my father's email. I honestly didn't know how to respond now that I knew he'd sent me money for years. Leslie had one thing right, I decided. Whether I wanted it to or not, my perspective had been altered. What if he had turned his life around? Did I owe him a second chance?

  I'd adored my dad right up to the moment I overheard him and mother shouting one night in their bedroom. Although I'd been young, I'd known it wasn't a good thing when daddies had girlfriends on the side. The fact that he'd had one while my mom was so sick didn't really sink in until much later. It became a betrayal I'd never forgive.

  Hello. It was nice to hear... Actually, it hadn't been. Delete. Delete. Delete. I was surprised to get your email. How did you get my address? I'm fine. Going to school and working in San Antonio. I have a new roommate named Zander. He's cool. Thank you for the money you've sent. I wish I'd known about it sooner. Delete. Delete. Delete. I didn't want him to be pissed at Leslie, whether or not she'd been right to keep the donations from me. I don't know about the holiday thing. I need to think. Riley.

  Just as Zander emerged from the bathroom, I hit Send and met him in the hall. "We should probably move this desk into the living room. I don't want to trespass every time I need to check email."

  He nodded. Zander wore flannel sleep pants and a thermal shirt, both faded and comfy looking, as well as his shoes, which seemed odd. I was a barefoot girl, myself, especially at home. I found myself longing for a bath, but it would have to wait. I liked my food hot.

  We sat and ate in oddly uncomfortable silence until I got the nerve to speak. "Are you upset about what Kyle said?"

  "Which?"

  "His comment about hell being inside his head."

  "We all feel that way."

  So it wasn't that. "Are you upset with me?"

  He put down his fork. Our gazes met. "You don't have to tippy toe around my bad moods, Riley. Believe me, you'll never be able to keep up."


  "I won't, but if I did or said anything to piss you off, I'd like to know so I can avoid doing it in the future."

  "You didn't. It's me. All me."

  "Fine." Did we start talking then? Of course not. He ignored me; I ignored him. When I could stand the tense silence no more, I took my salad bowl to the sink. "I'm going to take a bath. Make yourself at home."

  "Mind if I use your laptop?"

  "Nope." I left him and his mystery mood alone.

  Zander

  When I could hear the water running, I sat at Riley's computer desk, located to the right of my new bed. A shake of the mouse brought her PC out of sleep mode. When the monitor came on, I saw that she had just answered an e-mail that was now right there in front of me.

  I looked everywhere for the logout box, in the process unwittingly reading just enough of the thing to make me want the rest: Riley, I know I haven't been much of a dad to you, and for that I'm sorry.

  Resisting impulse, I minimized the letter and surfed the net for a bit, even going to YouTube to watch some surprise military homecomings to keep from getting into that letter again. They were like crack cocaine, those videos. Impossible to resist. I saw vets popping up at their kids' schools, vets jumping out of huge Christmas boxes under the tree, vets sneaking in on their unsuspecting wives at work, even vets arriving at hospitals just in time to see their babies born. Though I knew sights like this made a lot of people cry with happiness, I still felt nothing. My own homecoming couldn't have been more different.

  Still waiting for Riley to get out of the bathroom and log me out of her email, I went back to it so many times I soon had the whole damn thing read.

  I'd never been so buffaloed.

  How could any father on the planet give up a daughter as amazing as Riley? The guy had to be a flake. When my curiosity began killing me, I went into her sent mail and shamelessly read her reply. I need to think.

  She'd gotten that right. Wishing I could kick her sorry dad's ass, I mentally composed the email I'd have written if I'd been her. He definitely wouldn't have wanted to read it.