Mended: A Salvation Society Novel

driver or I will ride his ass. I hand him his bag and let him make his way to the car with his dark mood and issues following him. I don’t point out that he could have thanked me or say anything about his attitude. If with a little joke, he’s ready to bite harder than a Pitbull, it’s better to disengage right away.
“I need to get back upstairs and give the key back to Jackson. I’ll be five minutes.” Oliver still doesn’t acknowledge me and gets into my car. I know he has lost someone, but he’s rude, and he’s everything I’m not. In less than an hour, he has tried to flirt with me, decided he didn’t trust me, and believed I could be the kind to break into a friend’s car. The only reason I have a doorstopper and a wooden wedge in my truck is because I need to repair the ones that broke at home. Who does he think I am?
“Asshole,” I stomp around and get in the elevator to bring the keys upstairs.
Once in the office, I’m glad to see the guys are in a meeting and too busy to talk to me. Jackson sees me and nods toward the next door to Natalie’s office. I knock and start a non-interesting chit chat with her, avoiding the subject of grief like every other time I see her. All this in record time to be sure Green-eyes doesn’t get into a fit because I took too long.
He seems a little temperamental.
Or maybe the persona he crafted over the years is cracking being surrounded by someone from his past. I know the feeling. I felt the same when I came back and couldn’t be the Tessa I was when I was across the world. Reality comes crashing into you when you see the faces of people who knew the one you lost, who think they share your pain, who believe they know what you are going or went through. I could give him some slack and maybe some guidance.
I’ll start by apologizing and ask him to start over.
Stepping into the parking lot, I’m full of good intentions. But clearly, he wasn’t.
Because I kept looking at where I parked, and the car isn’t there. I don’t even have to look around to see if he parked somewhere else because in place of my baby is the doorstopper and wooden wedge I bought and a handwritten note.
I read it several times to be sure I comprehend what he did. But there is no doubt reading his words.
“Tessa,
Hoping this would help you find your way home.
Thank you for the ride.
See you later,
Oliver.”
Motherfucker!

Chapter Seven


OLIVER
Tapping the freaking pen against the desk is not helping me relax.
I’m getting on my own nerves, but I can’t stop it. Same with my bouncing leg. The void inside of me is taking over.
There was nothing to check on this morning at the motel.
Nothing to reassure me that everything will be fine today, and after calling Naomi three times last night, I couldn’t call her first thing when I woke up. She would have killed me. But how much do I regret my decision now?
Every decision.
Not FaceTiming her to watch Aito sleep.
Coming here.
Stealing Blue-hair’s car. No, I’m not regretting that.
She was a royal pain in the ass with her stupid joke, and I was so into my head I didn’t see she was pulling my leg. Maybe I did lose my touch at reading people. I would have done anything to see her face once she realized her baby wasn’t where she left it.
“Whatever you’re thinking about, keep going because the drumming on the desk has finally stopped,” Mark says. My eyes find him across the table. Physically, he hasn’t changed much, but he’s not the Mark I used to know. He’s lost some and found love. Maybe that’s what changed him. Or perhaps it’s just around me that he’s not the eternal funny guy he used to be. Which is more or less how anyone treats me once they know my story.
The one I tell.
Only Naomi never treated me differently. She still ignored me most of the time and called me only when she needed a proper dicking. We didn’t have the most conventional marriage.
“Oliver, stop that fucking noise, or I’ll shove the pen up your ass!” I put it down and focus on the white board. On the guy, I need to dig intel on and question his entourage. It’s not a big case per se. I did that for so many years, my phone buzzing from tips sent by a loose network I had created. One email could put me on the track of a liar. I was one of the best at it. Worked with those guys but with intelligence as well, and it’s like riding a bicycle. This case is too easy, or Mark is bullshitting me about the real reason we’re looking into him.
“What do you need me for? That case is pretty straight forward. Check in the database, talk to the people who were supposedly serving with him. Collect the facts and then talk to the guy. It’s not about bringing him to justice or us getting some fame through YouTube, it’s about getting to the bottom of the facts and not have civilian use of our name and reputation for getting glory that no one deserves.” I remind him.
If I loved what I did for years, it’s not a glamorous job. Telling a family their late war hero is an imposter or confronting a guy who has stolen the valor of our country because he needed to feel admired, is nothing to feel good about. It’s not about shaming the ones who saw a way to stroke their ego, but about protecting what you believe in and the lives we lost in duty. If being a soldier and serving your country is an honor, faking being one is, for me, the biggest disgrace there is.
“Spencer,