Spare Change Read online

  Spare Change

  My Mira, Book One

  Dustin Stevens

  Spare Change

  My Mira: Book One

  Copyright © 2018, Dustin Stevens

  Cover Art and Design: Paramita Bhattacharjee, www.creativeparamita.com

  Warning: All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work, in whole or part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, is illegal and forbidden, without the written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, places or settings, and/or occurrences. Any incidences of resemblance are purely coincidental.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Sneak Peek

  Thank You

  Free Book

  Bookshelf

  About the Author

  He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.

  —Friedrich Nietzsche

  Prologue

  There are so many things I want to say to this man, I can barely keep them all contained. One at a time, they force their way to the front of my mind, aching to be expelled, held captive all day, waiting for this moment.

  Resting on the tip of my tongue, it would be so easy to let them come spilling out. To tilt my head back and bellow them toward the ceiling, left to hang in the air for a moment before drifting down around him, coating him like the fine mist of an Autumn rain.

  But therein lies the problem.

  For as easy as it would be, as much as I would like nothing more, doing so would display a weakness I refuse to let show. It would lower me to the same level as my captive, making me no better than the man tied to the metal chair in the center of the room, the ammonia smell of his urine soaking through the jeans he wears.

  And it would be a far greater injustice to the memory I am here to serve, the woman whose love was snatched away from me without cause or reason.

  Knowing that, it takes every bit of resolve I can summon to shove those thoughts aside. To make sure no sound finds the man’s ears save the echo of my shoes against the exposed floorboards of the house we are now in.

  With each contact, every reverberating sound that echoes through the space, I can see his upper body flinch, a small whimper sliding out over the strip of metallic tape stretched horizontally across his face.

  A stark contrast to our first meeting together for sure, in every way possible.

  The darkness outside has made it so the room is almost completely black, the faint whispers of sunlight having faded from the sky, long since past strong enough to penetrate the grime-covered windows lining the outer wall. In its stead, I am nothing more than a shadow, a moving specter, a source of unending terror for the man strapped down before me.

  Which makes the only word I can think to actually say, the only syllable I trust myself to utter before going to work, all the more unnerving for him.

  “Why?”

  Chapter One

  Lieutenant Commander Lisa Botkins’s hair is cut short, sitting well above her collar. Having been tucked behind her ears so many times, it seems to have a natural curl to it, wrapping itself around her skull. Dark brown in color, it is matched by a pair of wide-set eyes and a rounded chin, a few fine lines putting her age somewhere just north of forty.

  Sitting across from her, my mind processes the information in just a few moments, the kind of snap judgments a decade in the service of the United States Navy has instilled in me.

  “Good morning,” Botkins opens, a smile on her face, a matching tone in her voice.

  “Ma’am,” I reply, dipping my head slightly.

  It is the first time I have ever met the doctor, our doing so now a mandated step in my impending exit from the military. So far, her look, her demeanor, even her gender, seem to be the complete opposite of everything I walked in expecting.

  Stereotypes, and all that.

  “Congratulations,” Botkins says. “Just a few more days in uniform and you’ll be on your way back to civilian life.”

  It is actually my very last day of ever putting on the damn thing, the remainder of my hitch all being covered by accrued leave time.

  Knowing that’s not what she wants to hear, though, I nod slightly. Somehow, I even manage a smile. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Glancing down to a plain brown folder on her desk – no doubt my medical file – her gaze lingers for barely more than a second before shifting back up to me. If I were to guess, I would imagine the first time she’d ever even seen it, or my name in general, was probably less than an hour before my arrival.

  Not that I hold any of that against her in the slightest. The military is a system much too large for any of its component parts to ever keep up with.

  “Getting out at ten,” she says, raising her eyebrows slightly. “That’s impressive. Most enlistees end up running into military math.”

  Again, I force the smile, knowing it is what she wants to see. Military math is the polite way of saying that once Uncle Sam solicits a second term, it is assumed that they have you for the long haul.

  One tour is five years. Two is ten. If they can get you to ten, you’re already halfway to the pension waiting at twenty.

  Or as I’ve heard it put a million times before, five is ten and ten is twenty.

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Dressed in the standard tan uniform, Botkins leans forward, the springs on her seat creaking slightly beneath her. Resting her forearms on the front edge of her desk, I can see muscle striation along her wrists and neck, telltale features of a woman dedicated to her fitness regimen. Lacing her fingers atop my file, she exhales slightly before showing a flash of even white teeth.

  “May I call you Kyle?”

  It is the first time a ranking officer has called me anything other than Petty Officer Clady in years. Before that, it was some form of derogatory term, all concentrated into the two and a half years I spent training to become a SEAL, all hellbent on getting me to quit.

  For her to be asking such a question now is a pretty easy play to call. She’s trying to build trust and rapport, getting me to feel like this is a safe space, somewhere that I can open up and share how I’m truly feeling.

  Not a chance in hell.

  “Of course, ma’am.”

  The thin slash of white grows wider, the smile expanding. “Kyle, I know this sort of thing isn’t easy, being forced to come in for these sessions. Let me assure you, it isn’t because anybody thinks there is anything wrong with you. We just merely want to help make your transition back into the civilian world as painless and seamless as possible.”

  Which, to translate, means they want to know why I’m bouncing
after two tours and to make sure it isn’t because I’m going to be on the news one day for taking all the training they gave me and turning it on a cinema or a schoolhouse or something.

  Not that they need to worry about any of that with me. I have no lingering bitterness, no simmering hostility toward the government or the country.

  I just have other things I’d rather be doing.

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Remaining in place for another moment, Botkins looks at me, her dark eyes seeming to search my face, looking for any telltale feature that might give away an underlying feeling.

  Good luck with that. If so many years in the suck have taught me anything, it is how to wear one hell of a poker face.

  Tapping her palms against the front edge of the desk, Botkins retreats back into her chair. Rocking slightly from the movement, she waits until she returns to upright before saying, “Okay, let’s get started then, shall we?”

  Apparently, she doesn’t realize we already have. Seven minutes are gone, leaving fifty-three before I can be out and on my way again.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Raising a hand, Botkins motions to the small space around us. No more than ten feet square, it has all the required diplomas and commendations on the wall, though lacks for a single other identifying sign of character. Not one family photo or knickknack, both seeming to be in line with the bare ring finger on her left hand.

  Nothing in the air but plenty of San Diego sunshine streaming through, the all-too-familiar brine of the sea just a few hundred yards away from where we’re sitting on Coronado Island.

  “Please, while we’re in here, you don’t need to be so formal. In fact, I request that you don’t. The more we can get past that and open an actual dialogue, the faster you can get through this and on your way.”

  I’m not dumb enough to believe much of the first part of her statement, though I can at least recognize that she means well. It isn’t her fault that she’s been put in a position to fail.

  And at least we can both agree to the second part.

  “Sounds good.”

  Pausing, waiting to see if there is more I will add, Botkins eventually sees that I have no interest in expanding one bit more than necessary. A tact, I trust, she should fast grow used to.

  “Okay,” she says, her veiled enthusiasm already starting to wane slightly. “Let’s start with an easy one. What’s your first plan for when you get out of here?”

  Chapter Two

  My first event after walking off base wasn’t so much a plan as an old standby. Easing along the curb in South Park - the small enclave just past Balboa Park in the center of San Diego - the world seems just as it did a week prior, just as I’m sure it will a week into the future.

  The sun has set, street lights throwing down an orangey glow over the neighborhood. Local residents have festooned their front lawns in anticipation of Halloween, pumpkins and ghostly décor out despite the holiday still being weeks away.

  Along the sidewalks are scads of local denizens, many having already stripped out of their work attire, walking dogs of various shapes and sizes.

  “Aw, look at that tush!”

  Sitting in the passenger seat beside me, Mira, my wife of six years, has her right arm extended before her. Perched on the edge of her seat, her index finger can almost touch the front windshield, her gaze aimed at the duo of a young boy and his corgi walking along the street.

  As with so much of what comes out of her mouth, I can’t help but smile.

  “Uh, honey, I think that kid’s all of like twelve.”

  The finger remains out before her as a curtain of dark hair twirls in my direction. Peeling back, it reveals large dark eyes and full lips, a round face with light brown skin.

  In short, a knockout, someone I have no trouble admitting is way, way out of my league.

  Luckily for me, just about every person in the world except her seems to be aware of that.

  “I was not looking at him.”

  Just as it does every time she tries to appear cross with me, a crease has formed between her brows, her nose crinkled slightly. Twisting her head back to face forward, she adds, “I mean, look at that little white butt shaking its way up the sidewalk. You ever seen a better-looking thing?”

  I have. Every single morning when I wake up. And every night before bed. And a thousand times a day in my mind in between.

  Botkins wants to know why I’m bouncing out early, she need look no further than this. Being shot at, spending days so caked in dirt and debris that it isn’t even safe to eat, going to places on the map I’ve never heard of and can never tell another soul about? Yeah, those all are horrid ways to make a living, but they don’t compare to having to spend so much time away from moments like this.

  “Never,” I reply, doing my best to feign sincerity.

  As fast as the first hand had risen to point out the pristine canine backside, the other flies across the middle console, the back of it connecting solidly with my chest. A dull thump echoes through the quiet space. “Don’t poke fun. You like me, remember?”

  I do remember. I’m reminded it of it damn near every moment of the day.

  “Wasn’t poking fun,” I say, twisting my head to get a better look out through the windshield. “I’m usually more of a bulldog man, but you can tell that little bugger works out.”

  Drawing back her hand to swat me a second time, Mira stops mid-swing, a chuckle rocking her forward at the waist. Most of the air slides over her lips as she looks at me, her bright teeth flashing against her hair and skin.

  “What the hell am I going to do with you at home every day?” she asks.

  “Hey, you like me too, remember?”

  How one felt about the annual Athletic Mixer tended to sit in direct correlation with their year in school. Freshmen were openly curious, still wide-eyed at the whole college thing, willing to jump into any situation, no matter how awkward or imposed upon them. A year older and wiser, sophomores tended to view the affair more as their first chance to look at the incoming class, many seeing it as a shot to scout the new talent before the rest of the student body showed up.

  Juniors were much more hesitant. The final year that many sports teams required their athletes to go, they were often the oldest people in attendance. Most were beyond the point of wanting to actively troll the freshmen, having already paired off themselves or not really looking to train someone new about the ways of college life.

  Maybe in a few months, but not so early in the year.

  Standing outside the enormous circus-style tent that had been erected in the tailgating lot alongside Reser Stadium, I found myself firmly in the third category. Just six hours back into Corvallis after a summer spent playing Frontier League ball in Montana, I was tired from the long drive. Most of my gear was still stowed in the back end of my pickup parked nearby.

  And I had no interest in freshmen. Or forced interaction. Or really much of anything that wasn’t getting my shoes off and getting some rest.

  I had already made too many of those mistakes before.

  Already a half-hour late, I could hear a cacophony of sound drifting out through the occasional open flap in the tent, conversation interspersed with the sounds of bussing carts and silverware. Every so often the intercom would spring to life, bringing with it the stilted voice of someone trying entirely too hard to be funny.

  “You look lost.”

  The voice was one I’d never heard before. Young and male, it pulled my attention to the side, a clench in my stomach accompanying the movement as I shifted to stare at a guy with a mop of blonde curls on his head and a nary a single hair on his face. A light sheen of sweat covered his forehead, caused by a mix of the late-day Corvallis sunshine and the chinos and button-down the young man was wearing.

  Clearly a freshman, already trying much too hard.

  “Freshman?” the young man asked.

  No part of me wanted to engage in the conversation. Now, more than ever, I jus
t wanted to slide out, to head back to my apartment, drop my bags by the door, and dive face-first into bed.

  Maybe in the morning I would be more up for idle conversation.

  Even then, there was no chance that I would actually want to set foot inside that tent.

  “Junior,” I replied. “And not lost, just trying to work up the nerve to go inside.”

  A series of lines appeared around the young man’s eyes as he winced slightly. “That bad?”

  “Naw, I mean, it’s great,” I said, “if you’re into forced interaction and awkward small talk inside a sauna.” Motioning with my chin toward the young man’s clothes, I added, “Guarantee you don’t make that mistake again next year.”

  A flush of blood colored the young man’s cheeks as he looked down. His jaw sagged open as he searched for the words, coming up short, his face only darkening with the effort.

  “Happens to all of us,” I said, sensing his embarrassment. “First year, I wore khakis and a polo. Now...”

  Using both hands, I motioned to the cargo shorts and running shoes I wore, my hair tucked up beneath a fishnet ball cap for Bob’s Bait Shop in Missoula. Despite what I’d said, it was pretty much exactly what I’d worn freshmen year as well, my pride prohibiting me from ever donning what he had on – or anything close to it – but there was no point in belittling the guy.