by Cole Gibsen
I pick the glass up and clink it against hers. “To freedom.”
Ren goes back to taking orders, and I settle into my seat. The whiskey warms the pit of my stomach and fills my head with a delicious haze. I lean against the bar as the day’s tension slowly unwinds from my shoulders. Work was a bitch today. It was bad enough the people wanting lattes was never ending, but top that with a fifteen-minute lecture from some granola mom on the poisonous properties of cow’s milk and it was truly the day from hell.
I glance at the drummer bent over his kit as he adjusts the mic stand in front of the bass drum. His jeans are so tight very little is left to the imagination. Maybe he can feel the heat of my gaze searing into his backside, or maybe fate is finally on my side. Either way, he looks behind him and meets my eyes.
He winks.
I can’t help but smile as I trace the sticky rim of the shot glass. At least now things are looking up.
Chapter Two
Reece
The words on the page blur to inky pools, and I know I just don’t have it in me to read one more essay on the Industrial Revolution and its effects on modern commerce. I squeeze my eyes shut and rub my hands down my face.
“Rough night?”
Startled, I jerk back, blinking my eyes to find Tonya, an eleventh grade geometry teacher, standing in the doorway of my classroom. I always thought she was cute, but today she crossed the line into sexy, with her pencil skirt, black-rimmed glasses, and hair pulled back in a bun. For the millionth time I consider asking her out. She’s exactly my type—nice, pretty, educated. My parents would love her.
Maybe that’s what stops me from asking.
Or maybe it’s the bullet hanging from the chain around my neck.
Either way, the words knot inside my throat until I have no choice but to swallow them down. “Yeah.” I lean back in my chair and pinch the bridge of my nose. “Industrial Revolution essays. Twenty of them.”
“Oof.” Her face scrunches in a sympathetic pout—it’s adorable. “That’ll do it.”
I nod, gathering the papers in a stack then stuffing them into my leather messenger bag. “I wanted to be done by now—looks like I’m going to have to DVR the game.”
She leans her head against the doorframe. “Cards versus Cubs?”
I zip my bag shut and look at her. “You’re a baseball fan?”
She grins. “Don’t tell on me, but I’m a Cardinals fan. Big time.”
“Really?” In Springfield, Illinois, where allegiances typically run toward all things Chicago, declaring yourself a Cardinal’s fan was almost an act of treason. “Me, too.”
“I know.” Before I can ask how, she says, “I was going to ask if you wanted to grab a beer and catch the game…” Her words lilt with an edge of hopefulness.
Christ, how long has it been since I had a beer with an honest to God woman? It was before I became a teacher. Before the bullet. Before my leg.
I can’t help but glance at the cane propped against my desk. All those “befores” added together equal another lifetime—one I can barely remember.
Tonya follows my gaze to the polished wooden staff—a gift from the parents of a soldier who didn’t make it home—a gift I don’t deserve. “Cane today, huh?”
As if summoned by her words, the pain in my thigh pulses fire-hot. I try not to wince as I rub the ache through my pants leg. “Yeah. Some days are worse than others.”
She opens her mouth to say something but apparently thinks better of it before closing her jaw with a snap. I want her to go because she reminds me of everything I once had and can’t anymore. I want her to stay because she makes me feel a fraction human again.
I stand, wobbling a bit on my bad leg before settling on my good leg. Tonya moves like she might try and help, and I shoot her a look that freezes her in her tracks. To prove my point, I tuck the cane under my arm, even though pain jolts up my left thigh. I can walk without it, just slower. And honestly? I don’t mind the pain.
I deserve it.
Tonya raises an eyebrow. “So, that beer?”
I stop in front of her. She smells so foreign and feminine, like a rose garden. A far cry from the hot sand and diesel fumes that haunt my dreams. I almost relent, almost choose the garden over the phantom stench of decay always following me. But then I move and the bullet sways against my chest. Though the metal is cool, it feels as if it might sear its way through my skin all the way to my heart—where it was meant to be all along.
“Sorry.” I pat the messenger bag at my hip. “Papers.”
“Right. Industrial Revolution.” Her smile tightens. “Rain check?”
“Rain check.”
Even though she’s smiling, the disappointment is evident in her eyes. Way to fucking go, Reece, I scold myself. Not that I should have expected to do otherwise. All I seem to be able to do these days is disappoint people.
She points a finger at me. “Okay, Mr. Montgomery, I’m going to hold you to that.”
“I hope you do,” I say, and mean it.
Her smile softens. She turns on her heels and sashays down the hall. As I watch her hips rock from side to side, I say a prayer I can find the strength to say yes. A woman would be good for me—the problem is I need a woman strong enough to withstand the darkness I live in. A woman who won’t question the ghosts I talk to. A woman who won’t flinch when the scent of blood filling my nostrils is strong enough to make me fall to my knees and heave.
In other words, a woman who doesn’t exist.
I readjust the bag’s shoulder strap and force my hobbled steps into awkward strides as I head out into the parking lot where my motorcycle waits, gleaming like a scorpion under a streetlight. With summer just around the corner, the nights are growing warmer and the humidity thicker. Beads of sweat prick along my shirt collar as I cross the empty lot.
Sheila, my 2010 Victory Vegas 8-Ball, is every bit as sexy and sleek as her name. Before my military tour, I never had an interest in bikes, let alone pictured myself owning one. Chad, however, talked nonstop about buying one once he made it home. That’s the funny thing about dreams, sometimes they live on even when we don’t.
I unbuckle one of the leather saddlebags and shove my messenger bag inside. Next, I strap my cane to the bag with a pair of bungee cords. I’m in the middle of fishing the keys out of my pocket when the shot rings out.
Despite my injured leg, I’m flat on the ground, tucked behind my bike in seconds. My training is so ingrained, it’s practically instinct. But knowing what to do doesn’t stop the dread from squeezing my chest like a vise. I’ve played this game before, only to lose. So why is it happening again? Why here? Why now?
A memory smashes into me with enough force I can’t escape it even with my eyes open. I risk a glance around the bike’s saddle. The parking lot asphalt is gone, replaced by the rocky terrain of Afghanistan. The distant echo of screams carries from beyond a distant hill. Chad. My heart jumps inside my throat, threatening to choke me. This time I won’t fail. This time I will save him.
But when I try to move, pain like fire washes down the left side of my body, paralyzing me. I look to my leg to find the fabric of my pants sticky and dark. There’s a bit of twisted metal protruding from my thigh—a piece of the Little Bird. Instantly the tang of blood burns down my nostrils, and I gag.
The screams ring out again. Wound forgotten, I snap my head in their direction. Not this time, you son of a bitch. I reach for my gun, but it’s not there. Fuck it. I’ll kill the bastards with my bare hands if I have to. I try and push myself to my feet, but the pain is too much. It sizzles down my leg, frying nerves and destroying tissue. I collapse back to the ground.
The screaming continues.
I press my palms to my eyes as the agonized sound swirls inside my head. Fuck. Not again. I claw my fingers into the hot dirt and pull myself forward, one excruciating inch at a time, dragging my bleeding leg behind me. This time I’ll save him.
I’ve only made it a couple of feet
when the screams grow silent.
No.
My throat is thick with dust, blood, and smoke. It takes me several swallows before I can form a word. “Chad!” When he doesn’t answer, I try again, louder, “Chad!”
“Mr. Montgomery?”
The unfamiliar voice forces me to blink. The barren hills dissolve, and I find myself back at the high school, lying on the warm asphalt.
“Mr. Montgomery?” Caesar, one of the school’s janitors stares down at me, his brow furrowed with concern. “Are you okay?”
My breathing comes in rapid bursts that stretch tight across my chest. None of this makes sense. “The shot—someone was shooting—”
“Yeah, sorry about that.” Caesar sweeps a hand through his dark hair and juts his chin toward the rusted blue pickup truck parked several spots away. “That’s my Bess. She’s older now and in need of a tune-up. She backfires every so often.”
“A backfire.” I touch my pants to find no metal and no blood. Cautiously, I push myself to my feet. The phantom pain dulls to a throb. “Right.”
“You need some help?” He offers his arm, which I wave away.
“No. I need—” Actually, I have no fucking clue. Nothing works. Counseling, pills, visits from therapy groups with Golden Retrievers—nothing’s been able to rid me of the guilt swelling inside me like a storm. “A beer. I need a beer.”
Caesar smiles at that. “Don’t we all? Too bad I got toilets to clean.” He sighs and turns toward the building. He gives me one last glance over his shoulder before he goes. “You take care of yourself, Mr. Montgomery. When my grandfather came back from Vietnam, he wasn’t the same. The war was his personal cancer—ate him from the inside out. Whatever you do, don’t close yourself off, okay?” He doesn’t wait for a response before he turns and walks toward the school.
Which is for the best, as I’m not sure what response I could give. Even though I think he means well, I’m not a fan of getting advice, especially when it comes to my personal business. And while I can appreciate the horror his grandfather endured in Vietnam, the fact of the matter is, I’m not him.
I climb onto my bike but hesitate before putting the key in the ignition. Instead, I close my eyes and let the silence of the night wrap around me, hoping it’ll empty my head. Unfortunately, a dark parking lot does nothing to eliminate the tremor of unease fluttering beneath my skin. For that I need a boat, fishing pole, and the sound of soft waves slapping against a dirt shore.
I open my eyes. I can’t go fishing tonight, so I need the next best thing—wind, enough to drown out the screaming. I slip my helmet on, turn the key, and rev the throttle loud enough to rattle my teeth. The knots of anxiety wound inside my gut loosen a fraction. I can finally breathe. I might not be able to outrun my demons, but I’ll make ’em run like hell to catch me.
I twist the handle and the back tire catches gravel, swerving slightly before surging ahead. I turn onto the road and gun it. Sheila growls beneath me and I urge her on, giving her more gas until the dotted lines of the road blur together and the wind claws my cheeks.
Together we fly.
I know I’ll never fly fast enough or far enough to escape the guilt. But at least for a little while, I’m free. It’s that time on my bike, when I’m just a man, with no injuries, no ghosts, and no blood on my hands. Even on my worst days, it’s enough to get me through to the next.
It’s then I can almost feel what it was like once, when I wasn’t a soldier. On my bike, I can almost remember a time when I ventured out of my house for baseball games, and did my grocery shopping before midnight because I wasn’t afraid of crowds.
I can almost remember what it was like before I was sent to that sand-covered hell on earth.
I can almost remember when I still felt human.
Chapter Three
Emily
My drummer throws a stick into the crowd and I watch, amused, as several girls claw over each other to claim it. Poor things, they have no idea their struggle is in vain. The battle is already over. Even though I’ve drank enough to blur the edges of my vision, I know the prize is mine.
The lead singer mumbles something into the mic. The crowd cheers. A second later, the lights turn on. Several people groan and shield their eyes. Ren screams for last call at the far end of the bar.
I raise my finger.
Ren frowns and gives a quick shake of her head before snatching several empty beer bottles off the bar. “You know I love you, Em. But you’re cut off. Friends do not let friends get blackout drunk and you, my dear, are teetering on the edge.”
“Bullshit.” I rub my eyes, but it’s no use. The two Ren’s wavering in front of me refuse to melt into one. “I’m not even buzzed.” I slide off the stool to prove as much, only to wobble on my heels. I grab the bar top to keep from falling over while the floor rolls beneath my feet like ocean waves. “Okay, maybe I’m a little buzzed.”
“You know I’m all about having a good time. Buzzed, tipsy, even drunk are all good as long as you have a ride. You, however, crossed the line into blitzville an hour ago.” Ren pops the top off a beer and hands it across the bar to a waiting girl. “Sorry, lady, but it’s my bar and my rules. I say when you’re done, and you are done.”
Anger burns hot beneath my skin. God, even with my brother finally off my back, I still can’t escape people telling me what I can and cannot do. “I don’t have to deal with this shit,” I say, the words fumbling off my strangely thick tongue.
Frowning, Ren folds her arms. Before she can argue, I spin away from the counter. My goal is to storm off in outrage, but my gelatin legs threaten to buckle with each step. Luckily, a hand snags my arm to steady me.
“Where you going, gorgeous?” a deliciously silky voice whispers in my ear. “You’re not leaving me all alone, are you?”
I blink several times until the drummer I’ve been making eyes with all night falls into focus. I have to admit, I’m disappointed. Even with my beer-goggles on, it’s abundantly clear he’s a Monet—hot from a distance but not much to look at up close.
Damn.
Still, I’m not about to give up my hard-won prize to the ravenous dogs casting dirty looks in my direction. Because if one thing on this planet can make me forget about my shitty life better than booze, it’s a good tumble with a hot guy—or in this case, a semi-hot sweaty guy. Being a drummer gives him just enough points to make up for his shortcomings.
I turn into his grip so only inches separate our chests. “Leave you?” I tilt my chin and smile. “Sweetie, I was coming to find you.”
He grins. “Yeah? Why’s that?”
I trace a finger down his muscular arms. His ink is nice, but not as good as mine. “I have a question I’ve been wanting to ask you all night.”
He arches an eyebrow, waiting.
I push up onto my toes so my lips hover over his ear. “Your place or mine?”
He gives a surprised laugh. “I don’t even know your name.”
“Does it matter?”
He leans back and appraises me, his eyes traveling the length of my body. “No,” he says finally, a smile curling his lips. “No, it does not.”
“Good. Then we have an understanding.” I bunch both straps of his tank top in one hand and pull him toward the door.
Three girls scowl at me from barstools as we approach. “Slut,” one of them calls as we pass.
I ignore her because I’ve never been able to take that particular word as an insult. Do I like sex? Yes. Does that make me a bad person? Hardly. Besides, no one’s shouting names at the drummer as he follows me. I think I even saw one of his bandmates give him a thumbs-up. How is that even fair? If a guy likes sex, give him a high five. If a girl does, better order a chastity belt.
If my brother Lane were here, I can only imagine what he’d say. Probably something along the lines of, “Jesus, Em! You don’t even know this guy’s name!” As if that’s a bad thing. When you give someone your name, you give them a piece of you, and I’m not na
ïve enough to think for one second this guy’s interests in me lie further than my body. So why bother with the whole getting-to-know-you thing? I know how this ends—he’ll be gone in the morning, leaving me slightly sore and hopefully satisfied. As long as I’m having fun, not hurting myself or others, where’s the harm in that?
I’m almost to the door when Ren calls my name. She’s got a hand on her hip and her lips pressed into a thin line. “You’ve had a lot to drink. You sure…” She bites back whatever she was about to say. “I mean, I can call your brother.”
“Thanks for the offer, Mom.” I roll my eyes. “I’m a big girl, Ren. I know how to handle myself.”
Her frown deepens. Fuck if I care. She’s supposed to act like my friend—not like my boring, overprotective, not to mention all of a sudden prude, brother.
I push the door open. My foot catches on the doorframe and I tumble forward until drummer boy grabs me around the waist.
I fall into a fit of giggles as I collide against him. All that drumming must have paid off, because there’s nothing but hard lines beneath the thin cotton of his shirt. I brace a hand against his chest and muscles deep inside me tighten in appreciation of the definition beneath my fingers.
The drummer laughs and curves an arm around my waist, hitching me against his side. “Where’s your car?”
I tear my eyes away from his perfect chest. “Why?”
“I don’t have wheels, babe. The guys and I share a van.”
“Oh.” Somewhere deep inside my booze-hazed mind, I realize this is a problem. “I can’t drive; I’ve had too much to drink.” I mentally congratulate myself for having the aptitude to realize this. I almost feel like texting Lane just to tell him how responsible I am. Tonight I really feel like I’ve earned my motherfucking adult trophy.
He smirks. “I can drive.”
I hesitate. Normally I wouldn’t let anyone drive my baby—the 2005 MINI Convertible I bought with years of saved babysitting money when I was sixteen. But since he doesn’t have a car of his own, I don’t really see another way around it.