Page 2 of Always You (Guardian Hall #1)
Chapter Two
Alex
Jazz was almost unrecognizable.
His steps were hesitant, his shoulders hunched. He gazed at something beyond me. Broken. Lost. The shock of realizing it was him —my Jazz—jolted me as I stared, but my training kicked in, pushing past the initial shock. I’d seen many veterans come through those doors, each with their own ghosts, but this was Jazz —it was personal. When they emerged from the pockets of his worn jacket, his hands trembled—not only from the cold, but from a deeper, more pervasive chill that seemed to cling to him. When they finally met mine, his eyes were like windows to a soul that had seen too much, a deep well of pain and fear.
My heart broke.
I didn’t mean to send you away. I loved you.
Get your head straight, idiot, before he runs.
I cataloged what needed to be done. His cough rattled in his chest. Existing? New? Dangerous? Had he seen a doctor? Should I be taking him straight to a hospital? He wasn’t going to go anywhere with me.
First, a warm, welcoming space, a smile, no need for names—although he’d told me his—and now a hot drink, a meal, something to ease the chill that wasn’t only from the snow. Then, a quiet conversation about immediate needs: clothing, a shower, medical attention perhaps.
His appearance spoke volumes—the unwashed hair, the layer upon layer of clothes to keep out the cold, and a familiar distant look I’d seen in so many eyes. His beard hid most of his face—bushy, long, unkempt—but I knew him, and the lines etched by both time and trauma spoke of sleepless nights and unspoken fears. These were signs I’d become all too familiar with in my work here. I knew the routine, the steps to take, but with Jazz, it felt different, more urgent.
I had to tread carefully, respecting his pride while offering help, and it was a delicate balance, ensuring each person didn’t feel as if they were nothing more than a case, or another number. Every person who came here for help had their own story of service and sacrifice. But Jazz wasn’t just any individual—he was a part of my past, a part I thought I’d moved on from, the very reason Guardian Hall existed, and here he was, standing in front of me.
Okay. I can do this.
A door slammed somewhere in the building, startling Jazz. He stumbled a couple of steps until his back hit the front door, already searching for a way out. His posture was a study in wariness. His gaze darted around the hall like a cornered animal’s..
He unpeeled his fingers from the door handle, and I waited; then he stepped forward, another bout of coughing catching him between steps.
Note one, get Marcus here.
Every action he took was measured and cautious. The heavy burden of experiences too harrowing to articulate weighed him down as if the simple act of walking into an unfamiliar space was laced with potential danger.
He was startled again, but I hadn’t heard a noise—even in this sanctuary, a place designed to offer comfort, safety, and as much hope as we could give,, Jazz was edgy, battles raging inside him that he’d never left behind, where conflict extended far beyond the battlefield.
“The kitchen…” I murmured, and he winced and stopped walking. I took a couple of steps back from him, toward the open kitchen door, inviting Jazz further into the building. “We can help,” I encouraged gently, leading the way to the heart of Guardian Hall—the kitchen. At last, he followed me, then waited in the doorway. I noted the way he scanned the room, a soldier’s instinct to assess his surroundings.
“It’s big,” he whispered.
I smiled. The wide, welcoming garden room extended from the back of the building. Big skylights showed the snowy sky but let in sunshine when possible. The old but well-maintained stove radiated warmth, soft and gentle—nothing too hot for a person who’d become hardened to the cold. The scent of fresh-brewed coffee lingered in the air.
“It’s my favorite place,” I said with another smile, gesturing at the collection of mismatched sofas in one corner, clustered around a coffee table, with a large bookcase crammed full of books to one side. “I sit there and read when I can.”
“You like it when it rains,” he blurted.
At first, it didn’t make sense, but then I realized what he meant. He remembered that I loved to sit and listen to rain on the windows, tucked up on a sofa reading. He’d sit next to me, back then, playing with my hair, stealing kisses, trying to drag me away from my books, but never trying too hard, content to curl up with me and fall asleep on my shoulder.
Grief flooded me.
What did I do?
“I love the rain,” I said, then cleared my throat. “Can I get you something to eat or drink?”
After a moment, Jazz followed, and every step was a decision. He walked past the small wooden tables and chairs, each bearing the marks of countless conversations and just as many quiet moments for the men and women who stayed here. His gaze lingered on the large bulletin board adorned with notes and pictures, a tapestry of stories from those who’d moved on from us, and a list of events and weekly meetings. We had regular therapy sessions, AA, NA, or whatever was needed. Financial experts visited, representatives of veteran organizations, and even the local dog and cat shelters had us on their calendars for animal therapy. It was all there in black and white.
I watched him take it all in, the lines of tension in his face easing the merest fraction in the kitchen's warmth. It was a start, a small step.
“What would you like?” I asked with caution. “We have cocoa, coffee, tea…”
His eyes dimmed. “Coffee. Strong. Black.” Then, he blinked at me. “Please.”
“You can sit if you like,” I said, but he glanced at himself, shook his head, and tightened his grip on his backpack.
“I’m not staying,” he announced.
My heart fell and a wave of disappointment and concern washed over me. His swift rejection of anything I could offer him felt like a repeat of the last time I’d seen him, but I couldn’t think like that. He was no different to many who’d ended up here, and I understood his resistance when the walls of Guardian Hall were more like a cage than a refuge to some. They hated us, they cursed us, they wanted to see what do-gooders like me thought they could fix. They took the drink, the food, and then, some of them never came back. Any push from my side to get anyone to stay could drive them further away, I refused to let that happen with Jazz.
“Okay,” I said, calm, focused, then carried on with the coffee, acutely aware of the weight of his stare. I poured him a cup of the black stuff, then pulled down a container of cupcakes, lifting a couple onto a plate. Maybe the bright colors and the temptation of empty calories as a treat might make him take one? He didn’t. In fact, he ignored them and the coffee until I placed both on the table. Only then did he pick up the drink, still avoiding the cake, shaking. He had to let go of it when he was coughing more, but I waited until he held the coffee again, sipping it cautiously.
“Have you seen a doctor for the cough?” I asked.
His bloodshot eyes focused on me, his dark brown eyes intense, and his lashes as long and sweeping as I remembered. “I’m not fucking stupid,” he snarled, slamming the coffee on the table.
I took an instinctive step back, startled, and it was the wrong thing to do because his temper vanished, and instead, he was lost again. He thought he’d scared me.
“You didn’t scare me,” I said, unthinking, losing all my training and control instantly. “I’m not scared.”
He showed me his shaky hand and closed it into a fist. “You should be.”
Then, he turned on his heel and I heard him talking, more to himself than me. “I shouldn’t have come. This is wrong.”
I darted after him, fucking it up yet again, but slowing when I reached the kitchen door, expecting him to be at the front already. Then, I nearly walked straight into him. He was still as stone in the hallway, staring at the exit. Shaking. Terrified.
He shuffled to face me, and he was crying. Softly at first, but then huge rattling sobs that made him cough.
“Help me.”