Marco pushes Bastian’s hand away. “I also said never to trust boys.”
“Because Brett is a liar.” She scrunches her brows together and tilts her head. “Aren’t you a boy?”
His eyes dart to mine, but I’m content to watch him fumble through fatherhood. I salute him with my beer bottle and take a sip.
His eyes return to Charlotte, who bites her lip and stares at Marco with wide blue eyes. “I think your mom just called you.”
“But I didn’t hear anything.”
“Me neither.” A smirk curves my lips. “Have you ever heard of the term ‘pathological liar,’ Charlie?”
Marco guides Charlotte in Greyson’s direction. “Okay, go play with your brother.”
“But—”
“Go, Charlotte.”
She runs away, just as Raf, who was on the phone with his father-in-law, ambles over to us. He takes in the kids running around; Liv, Lucy, and Minka, lounging near the lake; Ranie, Carina, and Luke by the fire pit; and me, Marco, Bastian, and Asher, chillin’ with beers in our hands—a casual Saturday barbecue.
He shakes his head. “You guys can’t tell me that this isn’t surreal.”
I take in the view with him. “Definitely.”
Seven years ago, a gathering like this never would have been possible. The Andretti-Romano war seemed endless. The Camerino-Rossi war drew more blood than a Red Cross donation van. The De Luca family garnered little respect.
I can’t stand Ren’s mom—hell, Ren still refuses to talk to either of her parents—but Margot Vitali did what she promised. I’ll give her that. She united the five syndicates. Now we have a new generation, who will grow up never having experienced any of our wars. It took me a while to understand how a man like Vincent Romano could be complicit with dethroning Ren’s dad, but watching my daughter play with kids from every syndicate, I get it.
Asher finally peeks his eyes open. “We all wish Sof could be here, man.”
“I miss her.” Raf runs a hand across his face, but he has a half-smile on it as he watches the kids play. That’s how I know he’s okay.
I catch Sadie as she tries to run past me and into the house. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Her arms are crossed, and she looks pissed with a capital P. “To grab my voodoo doll, Daddy!”
“Your what?” I shake my head. “Why?”
“I hate Scarlett!” Her little feet stomp, and it’d be amusing if it was her mom dealing with the temper tantrum, not me. “I hate Scarlett so much!”
Scarlett is Raf’s daughter. She’s the opposite of her mom, which means she’s Raf’s twin. Dark hair, devious smile, and those I-know-something-you-don’t eyes.
“You don’t mean that.”
But Sadie’s eyes form little slits, and shit, maybe she does mean it. For a blonde-haired, blue-eyed angel, she has a streak of fire. One I’ll need to worry about until she’s old and graying. “Scarlett keeps talking to Rowan. Rowan is mine! She’s stealing him from me, Daddy! Scarlett’s a thief.”
Oh, dear God, I hope Scarlett succeeds. Rowan is almost as much trouble as Marco’s son Greyson.
Raf rolls his eyes and mutters, “Asher, I swear, your son better stay away from my daughter.”
Asher takes a sip of his beer, unfazed. “Because he reminds you too much of yourself?”
Before Sofia wrangled Raf, he slept his way around the Rossi territory and New England, where he went to boarding school with Bastian and Marco.
I shake my head and focus on my daughter. “Where did you get a voodoo doll?”
“Everyone has one now!” Sadie crosses her arms and tilts her chin up, looking way older than her five years. “They’re a therapeutic way to channel rage.”
I swear, kids grow up on TV doctors these days. The urge to toss out all the flat screens, tablets, and smartphones in the house grips me again. Last week, Sadie overheard me and Ren fucking in the bedroom. I’m not sure what she made of all the grunting, but she asked if I found a revolutionary anger management regimen.
The kid has a Mensa-certified brain people only dream of, coupled with the maturity of a kindergartener. A headache, but my cute little headache.
“Gosh, Daddy. Get with the program.” She runs off before I can ask her any more questions.
I set my beer down, nod to the guys, and head into the kitchen, where I just saw Ren enter. At the entrance to the kitchen, I lean against the wall and watch her work. Her clothes have been getting tighter and tighter around areas I’d like to grab and bite down on.
“I know you’re watching me, Damian.” She still hasn’t turned to face me.
I don’t mind. My view’s unparalleled. I could watch Ren dance around the kitchen all day.
“You going to explain why we’re throwing this?”
“I can’t invite my friends over for a nice Saturday barbecue?”
It’s been known to happen, and it’s not like none of us have private jets we can hop onto at a moment’s notice. But Ren’s been avoiding alcohol, and lately, all it takes is a brush of my tongue against her nipple, and she’s coming harder than a hail storm.
My girl’s pregnant, and I know she wants our friends here when she spills. I reach into the fridge and pull out a giant catering to-go box. It has the logo from our local sports bar on it, so I know Ren hasn’t touched it. I hand it to her.
“What’s this?”
“Can you plate it, so I can bring it out to the guys?”
“Sure.” She lifts the lid and nearly drops it when she sees the cake inside. It’s in-your-face blue, and the lettering reads: IT’S A BOY! Ren looks up at me. “How did you know I’m pregnant?”
“Last night, you rubbed yourself on my leg in your sleep. I had to clean it off in the restroom after you came.” I laughed. “You didn’t even wake up. Other pregnant women are into fried pickles and Snickers, but not my wife. My wife likes to fuck.”
“Damian!” Her eyes dart around the kitchen, probably checking to make sure Sadie isn’t lurking around. “How do you even know it’s a boy? It’s too early to tell.”
“I just know.”
She arches a brow. “You just know?”
“Yup.”
And I do.
Just like I know I’m blessed.
Just like I know I’m in love.
Just like I know we’re forever.
Just like I know I’m her Day, and she’s my Knight.
Fin.
Want to read about Bastian and Ari? Bastiano Romano is FREE to download here.
Chloe, you beautiful, pure-hearted soul; you pretty girl, with the clear blue eyes and the goofy grin; you energetic fun-seeker; you love of my life, my biggest heartbreak and biggest smile; I love you. I loved you yesterday. I love you today. And I’ll love you tomorrow. I wish you were here.
Rose and Bauer—my two wonder pups! Thank you for distracting me as I write and keeping me company when the last thing I want to do is write. Thank you for making it take ten times longer than usual to publish a book. Thank you for making my life a million times better than it would be without you two in it.
L, thank you for being my partner in crime.
Ava, get better WiFi.
Oh, and thank you.
Juli, your teasers give me life. Thank you for loving the Five Syndicates as much as I do and for sharing that love with the world. <3 I love your IG page and Facebook posts, your sweet messages, and your passion for reading. I love your bubbly personally. And I am honored to have you as a reader—to have been your first read.
Leigh, thank you for being my momager, for helping me process this crazy, hectic career.
Rafa and Fran, the cover gods brought you both to me. Damian wouldn’t be Damian without you both.
Desireé and Zach, you both are Damian and Renata. I cannot imagine anyone else being Damian and Renata but you two. Thank you for bringing my characters to life, for all you’ve both done for me (including all the frantic messages I should totally be ashamed of lo
l).
Jayvin, thanks for letting me harass you during football season, you MVP you.
Heather, you are the shiniest diamond, the largest cut, the best clarity, the rarest find. I love who you are; I love everything about you. Thank you for making me laugh, for helping me smile, for being a true friend.
Heidi, you are my person. You just get it. You get me. Do you know how rare that is? Rare enough for me to vow to steal you from your hubs. Back off, Brian.
Krista, you feel like a sister—a bubbly, bright, sister of my very soul. Thank you for being in my life.
Brittany, you weirdo. How can you not love aliens?! I’m sorry, we can’t be friends until you bow down to Jeffrey the Facebook alien.
Elan, you’re so needy. Gosh.
Amanda. You are so vivacious and full of life. I love everything about you—but most of all, our friendship.
Amara!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I hope you read that as me shouting your name in my American accent. I could get voice messages from you all day. You make me want to move to Australia, if not for your Aussie accent, then to be your BFF.
Gem and Janice, your keen eyes help keep my manuscripts pretty and clean. You two are so bad ass. I swear, y’all deserve monuments.
Bloggers, thank you for helping me get the word out on my books. I know I sometimes can’t comment on every post and I sometimes don’t see everything, but holy cow, I appreciate it all. I know, without a doubt, that my career would be a sliver of what it is without you all.
Readers—loves of my life, apples of my eye, bookish babes. Thank you for taking the time to read this. I (literally) cannot do this without you.
XOXO,
Parker
Parker S. Huntington is from Orange County, California, USA. She has a Bachelor’s of Arts in Creative Writing from the University of California, Riverside and is currently pursuing a Master's in Liberal Arts in Creative Writing and Literature from Harvard University.
She was the proud mom of Chloe and has two puppies, Bauer and Rose. She also lives with her boyfriend of six years--a real life alpha male, book-boyfriend-worthy hunk of a man.
Reach me at:
facebook.com/groups/Parkerettes/
facebook.com/parkershuntington
instagram.com/parkershuntington
amazon.com/author/parkershuntington
bookbub.com/profile/parker-s-huntington
goodreads.com/author/show/16632079.Parker_S_Huntington
Want to read about Bastian and Ari? Bastiano Romano is FREE to download here.
Rough Edge
by CD Reiss
Rough Edge
CD Reiss
The Edge - Book One
© 2018 Flip City Media Inc.
All rights reserved.
If any person or event in this book seems too real to be true, it’s luck, happy coincidence, or wish-fulfillment on the reader’s part.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: I did research. A ton of it. But I also make stuff up for a living.
There are a thousand ways to break something and more than one method of repair. Institutions we think we know from experience have engaged thousands of others in their own, equally valid experiences. What you assume is an error may be something else entirely. Or I might have fucked up.
You can poke me with corrections on any number of subjects and if I can fix an error, I will. I’m wrong a lot.
Rough Edge
He's her husband, but he's not the man she married.
Caden and Greyson come home from deployment to build a life together. Everything is perfect, until Caden starts changing into a different man---one with a savage edge that's as dangerous as it is sexy.
Who is her husband?
What has he become?
And why?
Caden takes part in an experimental treatment, one that intensifies the break between who he was and who he's becoming, while Greyson hunts down answers, putting together pieces of a puzzle that begins in Iraq and ends in their bedroom.
The cure may be worse than the disease, and as Caden's roughness hits new heights, so does Greyson's pleasure. She's falling in love with a man she never married---a man whose very existence is a mystery, and one she's hell-bent on destroying.
With time running out and forces bigger than their marriage working against them, Greyson needs to put together the pieces before Caden takes it all too far…
This book is dedicated to
the men and women of the US military.
Prequel - Cutting Edge
What Went Before
Part One
Eight days
Chapter One
NOVEMBER, 2004
THE AIR OVER FALLUJAH, IRAQ
18 HOURS TO OPERATION PHANTOM FURY
Not jumping.
I chanted two words to myself over and over.
Not jumping.
The Phrog’s dual rotors buzzed like a swarm of bees. My knuckles were striated in white and pink, and my palm already ached in the center. I kept my eyes on my boots and focused on the pain, feeling it in three dimensions as the shooting ache ran from my right wrist to my shoulder. That helped. Focusing on pain always did.
“How you doing, Major?”
I barely heard Ronin over the angry swarm and the shouts of the paratroopers, but I couldn’t ignore him. That was as good as an admission of the terror I felt. He’d use my fear as a weapon for good-natured but annoying mockery. Any woman with thirteen years in the military could take a ribbing, but none of us had to like it.
He was on the other side of the cargo bay, right next to the rear dock. I looked at him and released my hand long enough to give him a thumbs-up, but I couldn’t do that without seeing the open bay door the paratroopers were jumping from.
My stomach twisted when I saw the rectangle of clear blue desert sky and watched the marine sergeant smack a soldier on the helmet before she jumped and disappeared.
Ronin laughed. He was a loaner from Intelligence, temporarily attached to my unit in the First Medical Brigade. He was an ass, a friend, and an occasional bunk buddy since we’d met in basic training.
“One day you’re gonna have to jump,” he shouted.
I kept my hand up long enough to give him the finger, then I clutched the edge of my seat again.
“Cork it!” Lieutenant Jackson shouted to him, her eyes intent under her thick, black glasses. Jenn was a nurse practitioner and my best friend in the unit.
Ronin smiled at her. She had a silver bar to his butterbar. He couldn’t do shit.
The sergeant smacked himself on the helmet and jumped out.
Next stop: Combat Support Hospital—Balad Base.
The door was closed, and the helicopter whipped around, pressing my back against the fuselage.
* * *
We arrived at the CSH, combat support hospital, in the brightest part of the day. Sweat had a way of burning right off you between noon and two in July in Iraq, and what didn’t burn off, the wind took away. But in November, the dusty landscape of the airbase sat in contrast to the temperate air. I was on my third deployment, and I’d seen every season in the Middle East. Fall was my favorite.
“They have eighteen surgeons.” Our CO, Colonel Brogue, briefed us in the truck to base. “Six are US Army. Two are Aussie. Ten are Air Force.”
We were a team of sixteen medical officers: Two general surgeons. Two doctors. Eleven nurses. And me, a psychiatrist. Brogue had gone ahead of us and come back. He’d been a medic in Bosnia and Kosovo and now ran our medical unit. We’d all been reassigned to Balad ahead of a push into Fallujah—because nothing creates an unmanageable number of casualties like a push into battle.
“Do they have their own psych team?” I asked.
“Not at present.” Brogue was in his sixties with tight, white hair and a chest built like a cinderblock wall. Old school. He thought real men didn’t need mental health specialists but could probably have used one himself. “It’s all you, and we’re headed into a major offensive. We need you focu
sed on keeping the surgeons sharp.”
Not healthy. Sharp. Welcome to the army in wartime.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
I saw Ronin in my peripheral vision, nodding. I wondered what he was doing here, but he’d never say until he had to.
We blew by corrugated metal trailers used for housing and more permanent plywood structures that had been there when the base was run by the Iraqi Air Force.
As everyone got off the truck, I said to Brogue privately, “I’d like to meet the surgeons first. I’d like to have an idea of how they handle stress before the choppers start landing. Can we set up intakes?”
“Army guys, sure. Air Force has to go through their command.”
“Got it.”
I got out of the back of the truck. We were in front of a tin hangar with tents being erected on each side. The gravity of the situation became clear with the sight of those tented areas. The hospital wasn’t big enough for what was coming.
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