1. Novel

  2. Severed Heart (Ravenhood Legacy Book 2)

  3. Severed Heart: Part 2 – Chapter 32
Severed Heart (Ravenhood Legacy Book 2)

Severed Heart: Part 2 – Chapter 32

PART 2

“HE WHO MAKES a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man.”
—Samuel Johnson
US PRESIDENT: BARACK OBAMA | 2009–2017

SPRING 2010

Camp Lejeune, North Carolina

Four years later

BLINK.
“Nineteen! Twenty! Twenty-one! Fuck you, Jennings!” Beekman’s voice booms through the crowd surrounding me as I lift my chin past the bar. More catcalls ring out as I summon the last of my willpower and hit a record twenty-five pull-ups before landing on my boots. Celebratory cheers ringing out from all sides as I finish my final physical test of my four-year active stint as a Marine.
“He ran 17:39 on the three mile this morning,” Beekman boasts while landing an exaggerated clap on my shoulder “Eat that, fuckers!”
I hadn’t meant to make a show of it, but as I take in the commotion surrounding me, I can’t help the swell of pride for adding to my cutting score. Though I’ve been training for years—readying myself for this—I’ve surpassed my own expectations. The long runs for endurance are paying off in spades, as well as knowing exactly what efforts will get me promoted within the ranks. I set my sights early on my goal before enlisting, hell-bent on a position in Security Forces, before doing an eighteen-month stint overseas. After completing my MCIs and all other needed curriculum, I’ve got enough points to gain promotion if offered—possibly before starting my reserves.
There’s a lot that factors into it, but I’ll rest easy tonight knowing I’ve done all I can to rank sergeant.
It’s taken years of sweat, focus, and dedication, but the prep work I put in before joining has been heavily on my side. I keep myself well-fed, work out a ridiculous number of hours, staying sharp and mentally engaged as long as I’m conscious. The only unbearable hours are the rare few I allow myself between lights-out and the early wake-up call. It’s then I see her face and hear her voice—and mine. Mostly the haunting echo of my promises to her. Promises unfulfilled. Promises that will remain that way, save one.
Because it never happened.
It’s during those long hours of silence that force reflection when I recall a life that feels so distant now—having exchanged every comfort I once knew for life in the Corps. After that morning, as I mentally forged myself anew while racing toward my recruiter, I enlisted as a heartbroken, pissed-off kid with his father’s chip on his shoulder.
Since then, I’ve exhausted that kid’s conflicting emotions and baptized him by hellfire with the help of the Corps. But no matter how much distance or how many months and years I’ve put between that morning and this moment, the ache for her remains. Even without her aware of it, my heart kept its promise.
“Ask me in a year how I feel about you, and I’ll say the same.”
That I’ve loved her every second, turned minutes into hours, becoming weeks, months, and years since I started inhaling militant breaths and exhaling my way through this mission. Engrossed in this life that I signed up for in an effort to become both the man and soldier I envisioned.
“Where did you go?” Beekman asks as we exit the complex.
“Just thinking about what’s next.” I shrug, glancing around to ensure we’re out of earshot. “Have you heard anything?”
“No, but keep your ringer on,” he says, cupping the back of his neck, the bold raven ink pattern on his arm mirroring mine. Though his tattoo is fresh, and over time, Beekman proved himself—becoming my first recruit—he’s far from my last. Over a dozen of America’s finest are steadily earning their ink by the day.
“Sadly, they don’t give a shit about timing for our convenience,” he states, his harsh exhale an indication that he’s just as on edge about not yet getting a call.
Like me, Beekman is set to start his time in the reserves soon, but his future plans include joining the alphabet mafia. His ambitions high for a spot in the bureau. Luckily for us both, he already has some connections in central intelligence. Connections which gave him the ability to make contact for the two of us to be considered as part of a loophole. One that will allow us to serve both our country and our wings on a far higher level—a level that will further my mission for education beyond the scope of ninety-nine percent of others who serve.
“The silence is getting pretty damning, man,” I tell him, my anxiety ramping up that if we don’t get called up, my homecoming to Triple Falls is imminent. Dom is still finishing up at MIT, thinking of going for his master’s after possibly taking a semester or two off, which will delay our mutual homecoming. A grenade he pulled the pin on during my last visit to Triple—which I always keep brief. The upside is that in a few weeks, I’ll grab my rank promotion—if offered—having fulfilled my part in the Jennings legacy. Even if my father didn’t want me to have that part in it, he sent a letter every month in an effort to mend our fractured relationship.
A year into my time in the service, I sent my first return letter. While our relationship will never be what it once was, we aren’t nowhere, which is where it was when I left.
Keeping tabs on home is easy by way of my fly-throughs whenever I can get off base and by my mother, who faithfully reports all things Jennings. A mother who refuses to let any extended period of time pass without contact. Her threats heard in the communications tent more than once during my first year. Something the guys in my company still give me shit about to this day. That and the fact that once they saw her on screen, they started voicing that they wouldn’t mind their own personal visits from Regina Jennings.
Fuckers.
“Fuck it, right? We knew it was a long shot.” Beekman flashes me a reassuring half-smile. “I’m going to grab a shower and some chow. We’ll just keep the faith, man, but in the meantime, I could use my wingman tonight and—”
“No,” I snap. “Immediately fucking no. I told you I’m never drinking with you again, and I meant it.” I cut my eyes at him in warning. “Ever.”
Beekman and I are the few in our inner circle presently unattached, and he’s never once been in genuine need of a wingman. His personal record being ten minutes in securing a hookup, whether it be male or female. His all-American look is deceiving as hell, as the devil residing within him reminds me of both Dom and Sean—especially with his nighttime antics. But I both love and trust him like one of my brothers, and I’m looking forward to making the introduction when the time comes.
“Aww baby, that night was just a mix-up,” he coos before reading my expression and lifts his palms. “All right, but seriously, if neither of us gets the call, maybe I’ll fly home with you, and we can set up shop for a while.”
I give him a nod. “Yeah, that might work.”
“Catch up with you in a few,” he says, walking backward, exaggerating his swagger though his expression rings sincere, “but know this, Corporal Jennings, they’d be fucking idiots not to dial you.”
“Thanks, man,” I tell him, mustering a grin as he turns and saunters away, leaving me feeling uneasy about his suggestion to move back to Triple Falls full-time. Some part of me feels my time in the service is unfinished. Like I’m not yet ready for phase two, which once included setting myself up on the orchard.
Plans Barrett beat me to, already having set up house and home on the Jennings farm with Charlie, their son due any day. Both are actively living the dream I once pictured for myself, in a different life, and with a woman who had the same dream—just not with me.
But where my younger cousin is planting roots, I feel as if I’ve spread my wings—constantly shifting directions and forging a different path for my future with my brothers, both in arms and ink. My attention and efforts are now dedicated to their flight patterns, which now take priority over any significant shift of my own.
Even when they piss me off, they remain my forever constants. At times my heroes—other times annoying as fuck. But in letting go of everyone else’s mistakes and simply allowing the people closest to me to be who they are without running interference, I’ve liberated myself from the weight of their burdens. Forever trying to tame my inner hypocrite who judges too harshly for not acting or reacting like I would in their own situations. More importantly, showing up when they need me most to camouflage their mistakes. For them, and even from afar, I’ve become the problem solver. A role I take seriously to protect them at all costs while keeping my resolve that if it’s personal for them, it’s none of my fucking business.
For the near handful of years I’ve been gone, I’ve been trying to forgive both my father and Delphine for the hurt they’ve caused themselves in sorting their lives and how personally I took it. I no longer regret the son I tried to be or loving Delphine with the whole of my heart and soul—even if she broke it.
So, while it’s liberating, there’s still a lingering soul-deep ache when I allow myself a glimpse at the rearview. Because even if I’ve resigned myself to that way of thinking, and even if it’s serving me well daily, I still feel as if something is missing. Something that still won’t be there when I eventually return to Triple Falls.
And so, I live in time measured by the slow sweep of my eyes, blinking from one day to the next through any aches that arise because of the gnawing that has yet to leave me. All the while keeping my promise, no matter how bad it burns—it never happened.
* * *
Triple Falls Police Department

One Week Laternoveldrama

BLINK.
“Wakey wakey . . . eggs and bakey.”
Peter’s eyes bug open from where he lays on the bunk bed as Reggie—who owes me half a dozen more favors—closes the jail cell behind me before pocketing the litter of keys on his ring. When Peter jerks to sit, I manage to pin him to the inch-thick mattress in time to muffle his cry with a firm hand.
“Already breaking rule number one, man. Shhhh,” I whisper as I gauge the look of him—pale, malnourished. Like me, he’s already jaded by life’s cruelly dealt hand at only seventeen.
“Robin Peter Morgan?” I muse. “Seriously? Your parents did you dirty.”
When Peter narrows his eyes at my barb, I can’t help chuckling. There’s a spark of a fighter and an anger inside him that he hasn’t managed to harness yet. One I’m all too familiar with.
“Not to worry, man. Half of our crew uses their middle names in their everyday because their parents cursed them the same way. So, I think I’ll take it as a good sign where you’re concerned.”
Confusion pinches his features as he does what he can to scan the marine dressed in civvies who’s currently confining him to his mattress in a jail cell. Fear wins as he struggles again, and I keep him pinned.
“Ah, ah, calm down, kitten. We don’t have much time. I was owed a favor, and I came to collect. Don’t you want to know why?”
Peter slackens slightly when I press in, and I decide to cut the theatrics when Reggie clears his throat to alert me that time is scarce.
“I can’t help but to think your namesake was a prelude to your literal future of Robin’ Peter to pay Paul. You’re a devious little shit, aren’t you? Everything from five-fingering the church offering plate to selling Grandma’s Fabergé egg on the internet to landing yourself here for another count of petty theft. You’ve been a busy, busy boy. Your rap sheet is getting a bit thick, considering your balls have barely dropped, and by my count, you’re running out of strikes, so let me reiterate—amateur.”
His eyes widen slightly as my words sink in.
“Yeah, we’ve had our eye on you for some time but don’t get any ideas. You’re not my type.”
I glance around the cell. “So, they locked you in here to scare you straight.” I smirk. “Are you scared, Robin?”
He glares up at me.
“Didn’t think so. My guess is the only thing cooking in that head of yours right now is who to borrow from the second you get out of here.”
He relaxes a little under my hold, his curiosity getting the better of him.
“But what you need to think about now is what if . . . what if things were different . . . what if you didn’t have to steal because your dad left you concussed on the floor of that trailer.” I tap the pink scar over his left eyebrow. “And living hand-to-mouth to feed your mother and infant sister?”
Peter stares up at me, and I know I’ve gained his attention by reciting the details of his life—details I’ve made it my business to know.
“What if you could get rid of Paul altogether, and you were the one collecting payment? Think about how satisfying it would feel to have a fat roll of green in your pocket just for doing what you were born to do.”
I ease my grip, and he stays idle, his attention fully mine as he considers my words.
“It’s crazy where a day can take you”—I widen my eyes—“trust me on this. Now, I’m going to pull my hand away and see if you can keep a secret, and if you can, we’ll be in touch.”
Report chapter Comments
Tip: You can use left, right, A and D keyboard keys to browse between chapters.