Page 3 of Everything Changes

“Whoa. You okay, dude?” Quinn asked with concern, lifting Layla off his lap and half-rising, one arm outstretched as if to steady Carey.

Carey waved him off with a quick smile, saying, “Yeah, I’m fine. Please don’t worry,” he added when he saw Layla’s frown. “I just need to grab a little something to eat. It’s been hours, and I’m feeling the beers.”

He moved toward the refreshment table and filled a small plate with some cheese and crackers and some fruit, snagging a bottle of water to wash it down with. When he retook his seat, he noticed Layla still watching him with a furrowed brow.

“I’m fine, Layla,” Carey said gently.

“But you were limping.” Layla bit her lip and her eyes fell to Carey’s right leg, which he’d stretched out in front of him. “Does it—does it hurt?”

Carey rubbed his thigh, trying not to grimace. “I’m a little stiff from two days of driving, that’s all. It’s really not a big deal.”

Layla moved over to sit on the chair next to him, watching him narrowly as he ate a few crackers topped with cheese.

“It’s amazing. Looking at you no one would ever know that you don’t have a leg.”

Carey was used to Layla’s bluntness, and he smiled. “I have both legs, hot stuff,” he teased. “One is just made of plastic and titanium.” He pulled up his pant leg to show Layla the metal ankle above his athletic shoe.

“You sure it doesn’t hurt? I can have Quinn drive you back over to Jase’s—”

“I’m sure,” Carey said firmly. “Now go work your magic with the label execs and let me finish my snack while I wait for Jase.”

“Come on, honey.” Quinn drew Layla to her feet, then steered her away with his arm around her waist. “He’s a grown man and been taking care of himself for a long time. He don’t need a mama.”

Carey watched them go, warmed by Layla’s concern, knowing it stemmed from genuine affection. He hadn’t had a whole lot of that in his life, not until he met Jase and eventually was drawn into his circle of friends.

Jase. Carey wouldn’t be where he was today if it weren’t for him. Hell, he wouldn’t even be alive today; he would be just another statistic on the battlefields of Afghanistan, another shattered body sent home on a military transport in a coffin draped with a flag.

As Carey absently ate a fistful of grapes, he remembered the first time he’d seen the man who would become his lifesaver… and best friend.

Four years ago—Marine Corps Base Camp Pendleton, California

CAREY STOOD nervously on the parade field, itchy and sweaty in his camo fatigues, trying not to shift from foot to foot. It was his new unit’s first day after officially reporting for duty, and they were all assembled, ready to meet the unit leaders. It was early morning, but the sun was already beating down, adding to the general air of discomfort and nervousness.

As Carey did his best to stand at attention, he heard laughter and a husky voice from somewhere off to the right. No brass was there yet, so Carey dared to turn his head to find the source of the voice. He caught sight of a man, tall and lean, eyes sparkling with humor, making the rounds and introducing himself to the newbies. Finally he got to Carey and stopped, his eyes tracing Carey’s face.

“Hey, kid,” he said at last, sticking his hand out for Carey to shake. “I’m HM1 DeSantis, the unit corpsman.”

“PFC Everett, sir,” Carey mumbled.

“Okay, Everett, you and me are gonna get to know each other real well. Athlete’s foot, jock itch, aches and pains, you come see me day or night, got it? My door’s always open.”

“Yes, sir,” Carey said, feeling shy and strangely tongue-tied. DeSantis clapped him hard on the shoulder and moved on to the next guy, repeating the same spiel.

During the next two months of predeployment workups, Carey barely had time to breathe. Combat training, weapons training, physical training…. It all ran together in one big blur. Carey was surprised to see DeSantis out on the field training right along with the rest of the unit, running combat drills and earning weapons qualifications.

When he asked his sergeant why the medic was training with them, the guy looked at Carey like he was crazy. “How the fuck is he supposed to go out on the battlefield with the unit if he don’t know how to take care of himself out there? You gonna be the one to babysit him? Got any more stupid questions? No? Then get the fuck out of my face, Private!”

One day during an obstacle course run, Carey ran afoul of a piece of barbed wire fencing, receiving a deep, painful cut on his forearm. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he finished the course with blood pouring down his arm, dripping off the ends of his fingers. His sergeant took one look at it and ordered him to “Go see Doc, then get your ass back here on the double.”

Carey found DeSantis, who led him to the command center tent, pulled out his medical bag, gloved up, and examined the wound.

“Gonna need some stitches, Private,” he said. “You ain’t afraid of needles, are ya? I forgot my smelling salts in my other bag.” He looked at Carey with a lazy smirk, green eyes sparkling.

Carey flinched a little at the thought of stitches. “You can do that out here?” he asked skeptically, waving his uninjured arm around the tent. “Don’t I need to go to the clinic for that, see a doctor?”

DeSantis snorted. “Don’t know much, do ya? You think I just hand out Band-Aids and then send you on to someone else, a ‘real’ doc?” It must have been clear from Carey’s expression that was exactly what he’d thought because DeSantis snorted again.

“Doctors are officers, aren’t they? You’re just an enlisted guy like me,” Carey said defensively.