Free Do Him Right by Cerise DeLand Page B

set, his eyes blazing
green fire. With a growl, he picked up Troy from under his armpits as if he
were a sack of flour. “Enough. Let’s go.”
    “Like hell!” Troy whirled, his fist aiming for Chet’s jaw
but hitting his chest with a thud that made Troy howl in pain. Chet reeled him
about and frog-marched him toward the door.
    John Dayton was right behind them. “I’ll take him home,
Chet.”
    Horrified, Shana stood there, mouth open, numb with fright,
as Chet handed Troy over to John and strode back to her.
    “Thanks, Brak,” he told the man who still stood behind her
and held her steady. “I’m good now.”
    “No problem, man.” Brak stepped around to look at Shana who
had walked into Chet’s arms. “Troy’s a good guy, just broken up from the war.
He and I were in the same unit.”
    “He was a great guy,” Chet declared. “He could be
again if he’d learn to accept what he’s gotta do to outgun that head injury.”
    “I hear you,” Brak agreed with a nod. “But he’s depressed
about the death of one of our guys, friend of ours killed with the same IED
that wounded him. Drinking doesn’t help the depression.”
    “Right you are,” Chet said and stuck out his hand to Brak. “Thanks
for helping.”
    “You bet.” He smiled and turned away.
    The band that had stopped in the midst of the fracas stirred
to life again.
    “Are you okay?” Chet pushed curls from her cheek as they
stood at the bar and drank their beers.
    “Fine.” Liar. Her heart pounded like a freight train.
    “You sure?” Chet ran a hand over her cheek. “He manhandled
you, insulted you.”
    “He’s got a disability. I understand. It’s not like—” She
looked away then up at Chet. “Not like he’s an alcoholic.”
    “Maybe not yet. If he keeps on, he will be. He drinks to
cope with his disability.”
    “And his feelings of inferiority. All those men who served
over there have such a tough time coming back home and re-entering society.”
    “And head injuries are the craziest things to understand.
Even those of us who have one don’t always know when we’re going to get a
little nuts.”
    “But you do,” she said with certainty and pride that Chet
could talk about it so readily. “I’ve watched you. You try not to get angry.” The
anger that I wrote about with such carelessness. “How did you learn that
restraint?”
    He made patterns on the bar with the condensation from his
beer bottle. “Long process. Behavior mod. Going to doctors—shrinks, really—and
learning what makes me craziest most often.”
    “And what is that?”
    “People who insult me. Makes me see red.”
    She felt as if she’d driven a stake into her own heart. I
insulted you. I hurt you.
    “I had to learn to stay cool. Not let them get to me.”
    “And one way is to stay away from alcohol?”
    “Definitely. The docs say it changes the brain chemistry. I
know they’re right. After three years dry, I can’t say as I miss the taste. And
when I see someone like Troy, who might have a chance at a decent life if he
gave it up, I am never sorry I won’t take up the habit.”
    The fiddler began and pretty soon the strains of a line
dance filled the hall.
    “Come on, darlin’. Don’t look sad. We’re here to have a good
time and meet the ones who are going to buy tickets by the truckloads.”
    He grinned so broadly, she had to smile back even if her
heart was broken for what she’d done to him. She had accused him of behavior
caused by the head injuries. Of course, she hadn’t known that. But she still
owed him for her mistake.
    “Let’s dance.” He held her close a minute. “Then I want to
take you home with me and make love to you until the sun comes up.”
    Surprised at herself, she laughed her way through the line
dance with him then waltzed around the sawdust-covered floors to a few standard
favorites. Chet, whom she expected might not be comfortable on the floor, was
graceful and commanding. “I’ve never known a man who