Page 8 of Always You (Guardian Hall #1)
Chapter Eight
Alex
I woke up when Marcus tapped my shoulder, and his voice broke through my sleepiness. “Wake up, sunshine.” My head snapped up from the keyboard. A string of nonsensical characters glowed on the computer screen.
Rubbing my eyes, I tried to focus on Marcus, who was staring at me with concern and amusement.
“Carl tells me you’ve been covering his night shift for the last three nights. What’s up with that?” His tone was casual, but his eyes searched mine for a deeper answer.
“No reason,” I mumbled, straightening in my chair and stretching my spine. I was monitoring the front door just in case Jazz needed something or left. But then, it had morphed into something else, a habit fueled by my restlessness and inability to sleep. Today marked day four of Jazz staying with us, and each night felt longer than the last. Mostly because I was trying to stay awake in the day as well.
Idiot.
Marcus raised an eyebrow, not buying my half-hearted dismissal. “No reason, huh? Nothing to do with a certain soldier in the room down the hall?”
“No,” I lied. “Yes,” I amended when he quirked an eyebrow.
“Maybe try sleeping in an actual bed tonight?” he suggested, amusement lacing his voice. “It works wonders, I hear.”
“I can’t,” I snapped. “Sorry, I didn’t mean…”
Marcus raised his hands in mock surrender. “It’s okay, but you need rest. We can’t have our fearless leader falling apart on us.”
“Yeah.”
“You know, you could have asked Carl to wake you up if anything happened.”.
“It could be too late.” I knew he was right, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of responsibility that had settled over me. “I know, I just…” I was unsure how to explain the mix of concern and duty, keeping me tethered to the desk night after night.
Marcus leaned against the desk, folding his arms as he looked at me. I swear he could read my mind. “You’re still worried Jazz will bolt.”
I nodded, the admission feeling like a weight off my chest. “Yeah. I want to be here, just in case. But it’s not only that. I can’t sleep anyway, so I might as well be useful.”
“It’s not all on you…”
I knew he was right, and part of me felt foolish thinking I had to be some kind of lone guardian through the night. But it was hard to let go of the feeling that I needed to be available.
“I know,” I said, offering a tired smile as my stomach rumbled.
Marcus clapped me on the shoulder, his smile widening. “Breakfast. Then, how about you try getting some actual sleep?”
I placed a hand over his. “How is he? Is he okay?”
Marcus tilted his head to remind me he couldn’t tell me anything. But he was calm, and his demeanor told me everything I needed to know. Jazz was okay for the moment, healing physically, with no awful blood test results back and no danger.
Safe.
As Marcus walked away, I took a moment to power down the computer, the screen’s glow fading to black. Then, yawning, I dragged myself across the hall to the kitchen, scratching at my disheveled hair. My face felt grimy, a reminder of the night spent dozing off in an uncomfortable chair. All I could think about was coffee, which promised at least a semblance of alertness.
Exhausted, I shuffled to the coffeemaker, setting it up with practiced motions. As it gurgled to life, the aroma of coffee filled the room. Spotting a lone pancake left on a plate, I grabbed it, not even bothering to heat it up. I clattered a plate onto the counter, poured excessive syrup over the cold pancake, and yawned so wide I thought my jaw might lock open.
Coffee ready, I poured it into a mug, my hand so unsteady I nearly missed. “Fuck my life,” I muttered as a few drops splashed onto my hand, only just avoiding a full-on spill.
I glanced out of the window, managing a half-hearted glare at the sunshine pouring in, blinking as I took a cautious sip of the scalding coffee. “Hurry up,” I muttered at the caffeine, the heat of it doing little to thaw my sleep-deprived brain, feeling a bit more human with each gulp of caffeine. The day was already shaping up to be a long one, but at least I wasn’t facing it alone.
I turned to lean on the counter, thinking through everything I needed to do today, then stopped.
Jazz was sitting at the breakfast table in the corner, nursing a coffee of his own, and staring right at me.
Shit. He’d seen me dragging my tired self in, observed my clumsy dance with the coffee and pancakes, and now, I was stuck, frozen under his gaze. While he looked nothing like the Jazz I remembered from twenty years ago, he still had that unnerving intensity in his eyes as he focused on me. It used to be accompanied by smiles, but now, his expression was closed off. He was thin, wary, his beard was still unkempt, his hair longer than I’d ever seen it, but he was clean, and the bandages on his hand had gone and in their place was pink and healing skin. Do I say anything? Do I wish him a good morning? Do I just sidle out and pretend I haven’t noticed him staring?
After some internal debate, I decided on the most direct approach. Clearing my throat, I mustered as much cheerfulness as I could and said, “Good morning, Jazz.” Shit. Should I call him that? Or his full name? Or his rank? Why hadn’t I even asked that—it was politeness 101 to know what people wanted to be called.
He watched me for a beat longer, his expression unreadable, then nodded slightly. “Morning,” he replied, his voice rough.
I took a cautious step toward him, then another, until I was close enough to see the details of his face, the lines life had etched into his skin since we’d last seen each other. “You, uh, you doing okay this morning?” I ventured, not sure what ground stood firm between us.
Jazz shrugged. “As okay as can be, I guess,” he said, then stared back at his coffee.
I nodded, feeling the distance of years and experiences stretching between us. “If you need anything, you know, more pancakes or someone to talk to…” I let the offer hang, hoping he’d see it for the olive branch it was. All I wanted to do was talk to him and explain.
He glanced up again, meeting my eyes. There was a flicker of something there, maybe surprise or the first glimmer of acknowledgment. “Thanks,” he said, and though it was only one word, it felt like a tiny step forward.
I smiled, the tension easing a fraction. “No problem. Just, you know, holler if you need anything.”
Turning to go, I felt his eyes on me again.
“Did you make Harper give me the card?” Jazz’s question stopped me in my tracks.
“The what now?” Harper was Jazz’s daughter, someone I followed from afar, anything to get a glimpse into Jazz’s life. Not that Harper ever mentioned her dad on social media, nor her mother, to be fair.
“My daughter gave me a card for here,” Jazz explained and gestured at the kitchen, by which I assume he meant Guardian Hall. “Did you ask her to do that?”
“I don’t know her.” My heart hurt because I’d lost all chance of being part of Jazz’s life through my stupidity, including knowing his daughter.
“So why did she give me a card for this shelter?” he asked. Unspoken was the accusation— where you are!
“I don’t know.” I was as confused as him.
Jazz stared up at me, his gaze holding a clarity I hadn’t seen before. “She knows who you are.” The words felt as if they carried the weight of years between them. “I used to tell her about the Alex Richardson I was friends with.”
“You told her about me?” I couldn’t hide the surprise in my voice. “Why? After everything I did, why did you do that?”
His confusion was obvious, almost as if he couldn’t comprehend why I would ask such a question. “You were my best friend. My entire life before enlisting was stories of you and me,” he stated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He coughed and pressed a hand over his mouth, his chest still rattling. I almost reached for him but stopped myself.
“Did you tell Harper the bad parts?” I asked with caution, the words slipping out before I could weigh them. What the fuck, Alex?
Jazz’s gaze drifted to a point somewhere beyond the room, somewhere in the past. “I told her you were my best friend,” he repeated, his gaze returning to mine. “She probably thought you’d care about seeing me again.”
The room seemed to stand still around us, the bright morning light casting long shadows on the walls.
“Jazz, of course I?—”
“Please stop,” Jazz interrupted. His dark brown eyes brightened with emotion, and he pushed to stand upright, wavering a little. His fingers gripped the table, his knuckles white.
“Maybe it was a happy kind of luck that the card brought you here,” I said, not wanting to end this talk.
He huffed. “Bad luck,” he muttered and walked past me. “You don’t want to pull me back into your life, Alex.”
“Jazz, please.”
He left, and I couldn’t move. Grief hit me so hard that it was difficult to breathe. I knew I’d messed up—he was here at Guardian Hall for help. He needed some time to heal and find a new purpose. He’d already made it clear he wanted to talk to Marcus, not me, and there I was, trying to connect with him when he wasn’t interested.
I brought another coffee to the office, sat in the uncomfortable chair, and shuffled through the mail without caring.
At least he hadn’t left.
Yet.