Page 59 of Lock ’N’ Load

“So now you know.”

Whipping her head around, she gasped, her eyes glossy with unshed tears.

“Sheba, kemne.” As he left the room, the dog scrambled to her feet, her nails clicking on the hardwood floor behind him.

“Matt,” Trista called out. “Matt, wait!”

Ignoring her, he strode out the kitchen door into the backyard, grabbing a tennis ball from the grass. Whenever he thought of that horrific night twenty years ago, he felt trapped, and the only things that helped him get past it were fresh air and working with a dog.

Beside him, Sheba cavorted, excited at the prospect of playing fetch. Before the ball even left his hand, she bolted, running at breakneck speed. The ball landed about fifty yards in front of her. She gave chase, grabbed the ball in her jaws, then spun and bounded back in his direction. God, he loved watching her run. The animal was beauty and grace personified, and packed into the most amazing athletic body.

Dropping the ball at his feet, she wagged her tail, her entire body quivering with excitement as he picked it up and heaved it again. He’d known Trista was behind him, but he stiffened as she laid a hand on his back. It wasn’t that her touch angered him. Hardly. It felt good, comforting, even, but he didn’t deserve her touch, and he didn’t deserve to be comforted.

Fuck. He did want her touch, wanted it badly and in every way possible. But not like this. He wanted to enjoy it without an ounce of guilt, and he doubted that could ever happen.

“Matt, I’m sorry.” Her hand fell away. “I just wanted to know what happened. I didn’t mean to make you angry.”

In the distance, Sheba grabbed the ball and spun back toward them. “You have nothing to be sorry for. It’s public information.” Unable to bear the look of sympathy in her beautiful green eyes, he turned and strode toward the other building.

Sheba quickly caught up to him, but Trista was unable to keep pace. He flung open the door and Sheba bounded inside, dropping the ball on the floor and darting around the many desks and chairs, her tail in the air as she gave the place a thorough sniffing.

Hearing Trista’s footfalls as she entered the classroom, he sat on the edge of a desk and crossed his arms, facing away from the door. The rage eating him up inside was directed at himself for fucking up his life. Knowing what she knew now, Trista would never look at him the same way. She would see him for the fuck-up that he was.

The asshole that had gotten his best friend killed.

She stood in front of him, silhouetted by the white instructional board on the wall behind her. Sheba padded to her side and sat, and for a split second, he wanted to laugh at how easily and naturally Trista dropped her hand to the dog’s head, as if she’d been doing it all her life.

“I’m sorry.” Her fingers absently stroked Sheba’s ears, and the dog leaned into it. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Forget it,” he said. “You’re an intelligence specialist. Looking shit up is what you do.”

“You were just a boy.” Her tone was so sympathetic it grated on his nerves. “So was Jerry.”

“That doesn’t excuse what I did.” Unable to meet her gaze, he looked past her, focusing on the row of thick, padded bite suits hanging on the wall.

“It was an accident,” she countered.

“It happened because we were drunk.” Beneath his folded arms, he clenched his hands tighter. “We were two stupid kids, drunk off our asses and daring each other to do stupid things.”

“Tell me.” She took a step closer, and with him sitting and her standing, they were almost at eye level. “I’d like to know.”

As he stared into her clear green eyes, the thick, hardened shell surrounding his past cracked wide open, and he wanted to tell her everything. Why? Why her? Never once had he told any of his girlfriends about what had happened. Not that she was his girlfriend. The answer to his question hit him with the force of a battering ram. He cared what she thought of him.

“Now I understand.” She looked around the room. “Jerry’s Place. What you’re doing here is an incredible achievement. Not everyone could survive such a terrible accident and manage to create something so constructive and wonderful from it.”

Gone was the sympathy in her tone, replaced by something equally annoying. Admiration. He was no one to be admired, that was for sure. She needed to hear it. All of it.

He took a deep breath, then held it a moment before letting it out. “It was Jerry’s birthday, and we wanted to celebrate. We were sixteen but looked older. Old enough to have a set of pretty good fake IDs and buy a six-pack and a pint of Jack. We started out with the beer, then moved on to the hard stuff. That’s when our brains went to shit.”

Sensing his pain, Sheba inched forward to rest her head against his thigh.

“Jerry knew I wanted to be a cop,” he continued, ashamed that he’d managed to fulfill his dream but his best friend hadn’t. “He dared me to sneak into a police station and steal a uniform, so I did. Jerry told me he wanted to be a fireman, and I told him he couldn’t put out a fire to save his own ass, let alone anyone else’s. We relocated our drunk-fest to the nearest park, and the next thing I knew, he’d doused an old storage building with gasoline and lit it up.”

Pausing, he ran a hand through his hair. Despite being totally plastered at the time, he could still recall the vivid images of what had happened next.

“Jerry was so plastered he didn’t realize how much gas he’d doused himself with, and his clothes caught fire. His entire body burst into flames. I tried getting up, but I was so goddamn hammered myself I kept falling on my ass. When I finally got to him, I shoved him to the ground, trying to roll him and smother the flames, but it was too late. He died in the hospital, and it was my fault. My fucking fault. So don’t admire me for erecting this place. I didn’t do it because I’m a good person. I did it out of guilt.”

But he still felt unworthy and probably always would.