Miles

by KB Winters

  Miles

  Special Forces Book 3

  By

  USA Today and Wall Street Journal Bestselling Author KB Winters

  Copyright © 2017 BookBoyfriends Publishing

  Published By: BookBoyfriends Publishing

  Copyright and Disclaimer

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination and have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 BookBoyfriends Publishing

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of the trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Contents

  Miles - Special Forces Book 3

  Copyright and Disclaimer

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Special Epilogue

  Special Forces Series Epilogue

  Free Book!

  More From KB Winters

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  Chapter One

  Miles

  “Good evening, Master Warren.”

  I boasted an impressive list of nicknames, each one earned through some antic, on the short list of my favorites were: Sergeant Desert Dog, Officer Asshat, and—only in very specific circles—One-Night Warren.

  Master Warren wasn’t on my preferred list and made me want to throw myself out the nearest stained glass window.

  However, that wasn’t an option, even though I was fairly confident I could pull off a rather impressive, tuck and roll—and look damn good doing it—through the gaudy windows that flanked the large doors of the house. Oh, I’m sorry. Estate.

  I tucked away my James Bond fantasies, plastered a polite, thin-lipped smile on my face, and allowed the butler at the door to remove my thick outer coat. “Hey Jeeves, where’s the rest of the party?” I asked, peering into the expansive foyer.

  It was too quiet.

  I’d purposely arrived twenty minutes late as I found that to be the sweet spot for one of these shit shows. By that mark, everyone in attendance would already have some alcohol cruising through their system, and my parents would be so engrossed with their very important guests that they would leave me the hell alone. I could make a beeline to the bar and get a drink or two for myself by the time they were able to extract themselves from their scintillating conversation and come over to berate me. And even then, their scolds were said through faux smiles and even faker laughs. Which was still highly irritating but much less likely to start a cold war. It was a perfect system that had served me for years, but it was failing me tonight.

  The party should be in full swing by now.

  Something was wrong.

  “Master Warren, your parents would like to see you in the drawing room,” was all the man said in response, not even bothering to offer me his real name, to take my standard placeholder, Jeeves.

  Great. I glared over at the man, resentful that my parents changed household staff more frequently than most people changed the oil in their car. In my teen years, I had a pretty good system in place and could break in new staffers within a couple of weeks, swaying them over to my side. Mostly because that’s about as long as it took for them to realize how truly monstrous my parents were. By then, they’d be begging for an ally, and they found me.

  However, it had been a long time since I’d called Warren Manor my home. Thank God. I’d escaped that particular madness just in time. I left eight years ago, and these days, made my home in Georgia. I lived near the Fort Benning Army Base where I’ve served as a Staff Sergeant with the US Army Rangers program for over six years.

  Now, I returned to my childhood home to see my parents once a year, and only because I didn’t have a choice.

  A while back, my parents struck a bargain with me, in which I get to keep my trust fund in exchange for making my appearance at their annual holiday bash. With Thanksgiving just passed and Christmas rapidly approaching, I made my annual trek to upstate New York like some weird kind of gigolo. If I showed up and played nice with all the other snooty families for the weekend, I’d go home to Georgia with my trust fund secured for another year.

  “The drawing room, huh? Why couldn’t it have been the kitchen?” I muttered, starting off across the foyer for the grand staircase. My stomach rumbled in agreement with the sentiment. Airplane food—even in first class—wasn’t enough to tide me over for long, thanks to the wicked amount of muscle mass I’d packed onto my six-one frame over the past few years. I was always hungry and mentally planning my next meal.

  That was one of the only perks to these galas, endless food from the most exclusive caterers in the country and an open bar with nothing but top-shelf choices to roll through all night.

  When I reached the top of the stairs, two voices carried to me, and I slowed my steps to listen.

  “He’s not going to take this well, Jeremiah,” the first voice belonged to my mother, Ruby. She sounded worried. But that was normal. She spent all year planning this event, and had near paralyzing anxiety in the weeks leading up to it.

  “I don’t care,” my father snapped. “It’s far past time for him to settle down and grow up.”

  I stiffened. This wasn’t about the event. This conversation was about me.

  “Shit,” I whispered. What the hell are they up to now?

  “I agree with you. I just don’t know if this is the best way…”

  I took deliberately loud steps towards the doorway. With a sigh, I pushed the door open the rest of the way and entered the drawing room, which was a fancy-ass term for what most people would say was a miniature version of a library. Although, then again, there are probably counties with smaller public libraries.

  “Darling!” My mother pushed to her feet from one of the wingback chairs by the large fireplace that anchored the room. “You look wonderful! You’re always so dashing in a black suit.”

  I gave a polite nod. “Hello, Mother. Father.”

  My father was standing at the fireplace and pushed away from the mantle to offer me a hand. I shook it and then swooped to give my mother a quick embrace. “How was your flight?”

  “Fine.” It was best to keep answers short and clipped. “It looks like I might have misread the time on my invitation though,” I added casually. I knew it was a gamble, calling them out on their trick, but I wanted to get the conversation over with as fast as humanly possible. I wasn’t going to dance around it and talk about mundane details of the gala, such as the pedigree of the caterer, the genius of the floral designer, or the detailed menu that alone would have taken my mother months
to craft.

  Talking about food would only make me hungrier and increasingly edgy.

  My father glanced sidelong at my mother as she smoothed down the front of her immaculate evening gown. Whatever was about to happen—it wasn’t going to be good.

  My father cleared his throat, drawing my attention. “Your mother and I wanted you here early in order to have a very important conversation. A family meeting, if you will. It’s not the type of conversation we wanted to have with guests in the house.”

  I forced myself to hold back an impatient sigh and waited for him to continue.

  “And, as you always have a tendency of showing up just past the point of fashionably late, your mother had a special invitation sent to you,” my father explained.

  At this point, my mother looked up from fussing with her dress and met my stare. Of the two of them, she was the one that I still had some level of hold over. She could be just as stubborn, headstrong, and demanding as my father but somewhere, buried under years of resentment and disappointment—I was still her little boy and only child. Her eyes were soft but once we made contact she refused to look away. Bad sign. It meant that whatever my father was about to drop on me, she was on board as well.

  I looked away, cutting a sharp gaze at my father. “Charming. I appreciate how you thought the best way to start an open, family meeting type of conversation was with a lie.” I shook my head, still in disbelief—although I probably shouldn’t have been—that they’d gone to such lengths to get me alone.

  My father set his jaw. “You are to show some respect, Miles. If you wouldn’t be so difficult, about everything we ask of you, then we wouldn’t need to stoop to such tricks.”

  “Difficult?” I scoffed. “This is me being difficult? No, no I assure you, this is actually me being quite amiable. I’m here, I’m dressed in a designer label monkey suit I didn’t want to wear, and so far I haven’t attacked the open bar or groped any tipsy socialites,” as I rambled off my list, I ticked off each item with a finger. I held them up to my parents. “So, you can drop the martyr act and just get on with whatever it is you need to tell me.”

  Both of their cheeks flared red and I knew my attitude was riling them up. I didn’t care. I didn’t have the time or the patience to stand there and listen to them pontificate when I just overheard them plotting something, presumably major, in regards to my life and how they thought I should be running it.

  My father’s eyes blazed with heat and rage as he flicked them from mine to my mother. “See? I knew this is what we would get. Just the typical, smart-mouthed, disrespect.”

  My mother started to object but I cut her off. “Just tell me what it is you want.”

  She stepped closer to my father and laid a hand on the sleeve of his dark suit. “Miles, your father and I have decided that it’s well past time that you settled down and started a family.”

  Oh boy, this again?

  My mother continued, “We’ve been asking this of you for years and haven’t made any progress. Now that you’re getting ready to make a decision in regards to your future with the military, the rest of your career, really, we think it’s the perfect time to ask that you find a suitable woman and get married.”

  I groaned and raked my hands through my military-grade short hair, instantly regretting the decision as soon as my fingertips were met with the stiff, styling paste that I’d applied back in my hotel room. “I really can’t believe this is the conversation you want to have right before your big gala. How many times have we gone over this in the past five years? Seriously, how many times?” I paused for a moment but neither of them made a move to answer my semi-rhetorical question. We all knew it would be impossible to give a fixed number. “My answer hasn’t changed. Will not change. And if you continue to pester me about this then I’m going to—”

  “Do what?” my father interjected, his tone dark and angry. “You might run all over Fort Benning with a patch on your arm that gives you a little bit of power, but make no mistake, Son, here, in our house, and in our family, you have no power. If you want to continue receiving your trust fund payments, then you will find a way to make us happy. Is that clear?”

  Every fiber and cell in my body raised from orange to red alert. This was no longer a hostile territory. It was a full on war zone.

  My mother dropped her hand from my father’s arm and flicked her eyes back to mine. “Miles, we only want the best for you.”

  “Oh, well that’s great. What a relief!” I shook my head, my jaw clenching and flexing. “Obviously, if you think this is the right answer, that marriage is the cure to all my so-called problems and failings, then it must be! Thank you, dear parents for always having my best interest at heart.”

  They both riled at my twisted, sarcastic reply. “Miles, so help me…” my father roared, taking a step in my direction. “You come into our home and run that mouth of yours like a rebellious teenager. You’re twenty-eight years old. Grow the hell up.”

  My mother grabbed for his arm and reined him in before he could finish stepping into my space. I would never physically harm either of my parents, but it was hard to recall the last time I’d been so angry with them. It was impossible to back myself off the rage that was bubbling inside of me. The conversation served as a reminder of the worst parts about our tumultuous relationship. The lies, demands, and threats. I couldn’t even remember the last time we’d had a meal that wasn’t mostly comprised of thinly veiled sarcastic and cutting remarks, whether alone or in front of others.

  “I’ve done as you asked for the last five years since we originally had this conversation. Your terms have been met. Every year I show up, properly dressed, and promise not to make an ass of myself during your holiday gala. I spend the weekend in the city, playing the part of the ever doting son that you’ve always wanted. And at the end of the game, I return home and my trust fund remains untouched. Now, five years later, and you’re spitting in my face by revoking your earlier agreement. And you really thought I’d come in here, nod my head, and sign away the little slice of life that I’ve carved out for myself, away from this circus. No, I’m not going to do that.”

  “Miles,” my mother said like I was a petulant child throwing a tantrum over a pack of gum in the supermarket line.

  I held up a hand to her. “Let me finish. I want to make sure I got this right. You’re saying that one weekend a year isn’t good enough anymore. Now you want more. Now, if I want to keep my money, then I have to rope some poor woman into marrying me. Did you even think that maybe there’s a reason I haven’t gotten married yet?”

  “Because you’re hot-headed, arrogant, and prefer running all over town, and can’t commit to anything,” my father offered, his tone cool and detached.

  My hands balled into tight fists but I kept them anchored at my sides. “If you’re serious about this plan, if I either find a wife or get the fuck out. I gotta say, the get the fuck out option is looking more and more attractive.”

  My mother reared back as though I’d slapped her across her perfectly made-up face. “Miles! You wouldn’t.”

  I shrugged. “Why shouldn’t I? This may come as a shock to you but I actually don’t care about the money. Or at least not to the degree that you do. I don’t ever have the intention of owning some giant assed mansion, maintaining my own small army of staff, or retiring to some private island off the coast of Jamaica. That’s never been who I am despite my genetics. Yes, I use the money in my trust fund to go and travel when I’m on leave. I have a nice house in Georgia with nice things. I have a souped-up car and an even more souped-up bike that I wouldn’t trade for anything. Beyond that? I don’t think there’s anything I need. So, if the only way to stop the constant escalation of blackmail from the two of you is to walk away, then consider this your notice.”

  Through the rage and anger, a stab of sadness found its way right between my ribs. No matter how pissed my parents could make me, or what stunt they tried to pull, there was a tiny shred of me that he
ld out hope that maybe someday things could be repaired and we could settle into an actual relationship. Most of the year, we ignored each other, catching up on a once a month phone call, but come the holidays, everyone is talking about spending time with family, making memories, and having that as the centerpiece of the season. A few days before the bash, I’d find myself at the bottom of a bottle of whiskey and rally myself enough to go out and get fitted for a new suit, book a flight, and return my RSVP card.

  This year had been the first where my mother hadn’t called every other day in the weeks leading up to the gala to make sure I was on top of things. I’d taken that as a sign that maybe things were finally improving between us. Now, standing in front of them with the stench of their tainted offer hanging over us, it hit me that the only reason they left me alone for the past few months was because they were saving all of their arguments for this intervention.

  Outstanding.

  “Miles, you can’t mean that,” my mother exclaimed. “You can’t just walk away from us.”

  She reached for my arm but I jerked it away, out of her reach. “I’m not the one who’s making that condition. You are.” She looked back over her shoulder and I could imagine the pleading look in her eyes as she stared at my father. “Jeremiah...”

  My father heaved a sigh. “This isn’t what we want, Son. We don’t want to cut ties with you. All we want is to see you move forward with your life and to give us some assurance that a new generation of Warren’s will go forward.”

  Aha, so that’s where this is coming from. My parents were both pushing seventy, having had me late in life thanks to a long, drawn out fertility battle. They both remained in good health but obviously they were starting to feel the effects of their mortality sink in.

  The confession, along with the change in my father’s tone, softened me momentarily. “I understand you want me to settle down and even to give you grandchildren. That’s normal. I’m your only son and the heir to all of this,” I waved around the posh drawing room with its dark wood bookshelves, expansive windows overlooking the meticulous grounds, and the antique pieces that completed the polished feel of the space. “I get it. But you have to see that using our wealth and forcing me into this isn’t the right way to do it.”