by Cole Gibsen
Chad.
I push to my feet and try to run to him. But the sand won’t let me. The same goddamn sand that scratches my eyes, coats my throat, and covers every inch of my skin. My legs sink up to my knees, making each step forward a battle in itself.
“Chad.” I try to scream his name, but the wind kicks up, carrying my voice away and filling my throat with more shit-flavored dust, until I can’t breathe. I cough, choke, and claw at my throat with blood-crusted fingernails.
Chad.
His screams go quiet.
My heart slams against my ribs, threatening to burst through my chest. No. Not again.
An arm shoots out of the dune beside my leg. The sleeve is distinctly military camo, but the hand at the end is skeletal. It snatches at my thigh, twisting into the fabric and ripping it with bony fingers.
The first arm is followed by a second, then a third. Suddenly several burst through the sand all at once, each clawing at my legs, pulling me deeper into the ground.
Burying me with them.
I struggle, kicking, thrashing, but it’s no good. The skeletal fingers only yank me down faster. They drag me deeper until I’m up to my waist in sand, then my neck, until it’s at my mouth, filling my throat, drowning my screams.
“Reece!”
My eyes fly open.
I’m in the dark, legs restrained. I fight and kick, even with my bum knee throbbing, to get the ropes off me. Only when my hands find them, I realize it’s not ropes holding me captive, but a sheet twisted around my ankles.
“Reece?” A woman’s voice. That’s new.
I turn toward the sound and find her standing in the doorway. Blonde. Tattooed.
Wait. Not just a woman. A really sexy blonde in a tank top and lace panties. Emily, the name flashes in my mind.
Slowly, the pieces fall into place. I’m not under attack. I’m at Emily’s apartment. I think we had sex.
No, wait.
We definitely had sex.
Really amazing sex.
Damn.
I suck in a ragged breath as I unwind the sheet from my legs.
“Nightmare?” She hugs her arms across her chest.
I ignore her question. Questions lead to talking, and talking brings back the past. I’m haunted enough without willingly seeking out my demons. I swing my legs over the side of the bed. “I should go.”
Something dark passes through her eyes—barely a glimmer—and it’s gone before I can decipher it. “Yeah, probably.” She’s silent a moment then shrugs. “But there’s no hurry.”
The need to get back to the familiarity of my own house has me practically twitching. I force myself to dress slowly. We both agreed nothing would come out of our night together. Still, I don’t want to be the kind of asshole who screws a girl and then leaves a cloud of dust in his wake.
I scan the room for my jeans and find them strewn halfway across the floor. My cane is a good several feet away. Shit. I hate people seeing me limp.
It makes me weak.
Vulnerable.
“Would you mind?” I nod to my jeans.
She gives another shrug and pushes off the doorframe. “Sure.” She picks up my jeans and walks them over to me, hesitating, with her arm held out. “That sure is one hell of a nasty scar you got there.” She nods at the jagged pink line across my knee.
Ignoring her comment, I snatch my pants from her grip. “Thanks.”
She turns her gaze to the mangled bullet hanging at my neck. Her eyes widen. “Where did you get that?”
“The desert,” I mutter, fighting the urge to flinch from the pain searing up my leg as I pull on my jeans.
“Was that—was that—inside you?”
“Nope.” I fasten the button.
“So how did you get it?”
I grunt and meet her eyes. She sure asks a lot of questions for someone who promised no strings attached. “You know you’re not supposed to ask a soldier about what happened in the desert, right? It summons the demons.”
She opens her mouth to answer. Before she can, I notice something else different about the apartment. There’s a heavy scent wafting through the doorway. Sugary. Buttery. Warm.
“Have you been baking?” I ask.
She levels my gaze with her own. “Yeah. So?”
“At four in the morning?”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
I don’t challenge that. I can certainly relate.
“That reminds me. Don’t leave just yet, okay?” She disappears, only to reappear seconds later with a cupcake in her hands. “Would you try this for me? It’s been ages since I made anything, and I’m not sure I got the recipe just right.”
“Uh, sure.” I run my hands through my sweat-damp hair. Sex and cupcakes? I mean, sure, it’s been a long time since I got laid, but this can’t be normal.
She hands me the yellow cupcake piled high with vanilla frosting and then steps back. Watching me, she knots her fingers together, biting on her bottom lip.
I’ll be damned, I think, as I peel the paper cup back. This tough-as-nails girl is actually nervous. I cross my fingers that the cupcake is good. I’d hate to let her down, and I’m a terrible liar.
Turns out, I didn’t have to worry.
As soon as I bite into it, I’m rendered speechless by the taste of buttery cake and sugar. “Oh my God,” I mumble with my mouth full.
She grins, bouncing on her toes like a child. “That means you like it, right? You like it?”
I nod and take another bite. “This is the best thing I’ve put in my mouth, ever.
She gets a devilish grin. “Really? Ever?”
I know she’s implying what happened last night. I can’t help it, I grin back. “Well, almost ever.” I pop the rest of the cupcake into my mouth. “Did you find that recipe on Pinterest or something?”
“Oh hell no.” She jerks back. “That’s a secret recipe straight from my Grandma.”
“She was smart to keep it secret.” I fold the wrapper into a small square. “If the world knew about these, there would be wars fought over them.”
Her grin widens. “I’ll get you another one.” She bounds off and returns a moment later with another cupcake in hand. This one is chocolate with chocolate frosting.
“You made two different kinds? How long was I asleep?”
“I went a little overboard,” she says, handing me the cupcake. “It’s better than drinking.”
I tip the cupcake in agreement.
She sits beside me on the bed, swinging her legs. “You don’t drink, do you?”
Shaking my head, I bite into the cupcake. Just like the one before, this one dissolves in my mouth. Good thing we agreed this was a one-time thing. This girl and her baking skills would be murder on my workout regime. “I haven’t touched alcohol since the night before I left for the desert.”
She frowns. “So how do you deal with—you know?” She nods at me, as if my PTSD were an infection covering my entire body. Actually, I realize, that’s not an inaccurate assessment. “Did they give you pills or something?”
“I have pills for when things get bad.”
Her eyes widen. “Tonight wasn’t bad?”
“Last night was a vacation in the Bahamas compared to bad.” I got to hand it to her, this girl knows how to get me talking. I shove the rest of the cupcake into my mouth and reach for my shoes.
Emily watches me without a word as I get dressed, even hands me my cane when I’m finished. Once I’m on my feet, I realize just how heavy the awkwardness between us has become. It settles on my shoulders, thick and hot, like a wet towel pulled too-soon from the dryer. I rub the back of my neck. I’m itching to flee, but I’m not sure how to make the first move. “So I guess I’ll—”
“Don’t,” she says cutting me off.
“Don’t what?”
She grunts. “Don’t say you’ll call me or you’ll see me around. Don’t feed me any lines. We both know what last night was—two consenting adults having a bit of fu
n.”
I nod, even though at the time it felt so much more than that. “Right. Fun.”
She sits there, perched on the end of her bed, swinging her legs. I’m desperate to return to a familiar setting, my safe place, but she looks so vulnerable right now. I want to take her in my arms and hold her against me.
But that wasn’t part of the deal.
I swallow hard. “I’m gonna get going.”
She nods, glancing at the floor before meeting my eyes. “You know, Reece, you’re not as stuffy and uptight as I thought you were.”
I chuckle. “Thanks? You’re not as loud and obnoxious as I thought you were.”
She laughs before falling quiet. After a brief silence she says, “I’m glad we did this. It was bizarre, awkward, and I thought we might be going to jail for a minute there. Still, I had fun.”
“Me, too.” Though, I’m not sure fun is the right word to describe it. Last night, when I held her in my arms, a piece of myself I thought was dead and gone returned to life.
“Promise me one thing, Reece?” She tilts her head to the side.
“What’s that?”
“Don’t be a stranger, okay? Maybe we can exchange numbers?”
I nod, even as I study every line of her body, trying to commit it to memory. I want to remember how she is in this moment—messy hair, no makeup, and smelling of sugar. I want to remember her, because I, the Boy Scout, lied. I won’t be dropping by her apartment, and I won’t be calling. As amazing as she is, she’s too dangerous to be around.
In the military, we’re trained to survive. Last night, this woman found a way through to my humanity, but I’ll be damned if I let her into my heart—whatever little there is left of it.
Chapter Fourteen
Reece
Emily is all I can think about. Her smell. The feel of her body. The sound of her laugh. The way I claimed her when she was beneath me—for that brief moment, she was mine. And now, she’s another ghost I’m cursed to have haunt me. It’s my own damn fault for letting my guard down.
So damn weak.
The following Monday, I avoid the coffee shop where Em works. When I walk into school without my usual cup, Tonya questions me. I tell her I didn’t have time to stop, even though I made it to school thirty minutes early.
I avoid Em’s coffee shop again the next day, and the day after that. I tell Tonya the tar-like coffee at the chain place is so much better. She always answers with a skeptical look, but she never questions me. How can I admit to Tonya—or to myself—that it feels like the tattooed barista somehow unzipped my skin and wriggled her way inside? The more I think about Emily, the more terrified I become.
And I was already a terrified mess before she asked me out on that fake date. If she has me this messed up after one night together, I sure as hell can’t risk anymore. I want her out of my head. If that means playing the asshole, I guess that’s the role I’ll have to take.
Self-preservation. It’s what soldiers do. No matter how much it hurts.
The days of avoiding Emily turn into weeks, and the weeks stretch into a month. I still feel that little tug inside trying to pull me in the direction of the coffee shop every time I drive past. But every day that passes, every hour, every minute, our night together fades just a fraction more, loosening Em’s hold over me.
But it’s still not enough.
I’m pacing my apartment like a caged lion, even after riding my bike for an hour. Not even Sheila can lessen the itch this time. Anxiety buzzes beneath my skin like an electric current. For the first time in my life, I wish I drank. I’m on the verge of a bad attack. I can feel it rolling closer like the charge before a storm.
There’s only one thing that can help me when I get this bad.
The lake.
Too bad it’s a Thursday and I have class in the morning.
I’m desperate. Sometimes just getting ready for a fishing weekend is enough to calm my nerves.
I open my closet, grab my tackle box, and settle onto the couch. I have a couple fishing lures that could use a little tweaking. Unfortunately, after rummaging through my box, my needle nose pliers are nowhere to be found.
Damn it. I bet I left them on the shore, which means they’re long gone now. I slam the lid closed and snatch my keys off the coffee table.
With nothing better to do, and in desperate need of a distraction, it looks like it’s off to the hardware store I go. There’s a small, locally owned place not even five minutes from my house. Since I haven’t eaten, I can grab a sandwich on the way back and make a night of it.
I wonder how pissed Chad would be if he knew the sad, pathetic life he died saving. I bet if it were the other way around, he’d be graduated from the veterinary school he was always going on about and well on his way to saving puppies and kittens. Just thinking about it makes me clench my teeth together so hard my jaw aches.
What a fucking waste.
When I arrive at the hardware store, it takes me a minute to locate the pliers. The local place is quite a bit smaller and definitely more unorganized than the big chain stores. The ceiling is low, and the aisles narrow—too narrow. Anyone could be hiding around the corner, and I wouldn’t be able to spot them until too late.
The second the thought crosses my mind, my heart starts with palpitations, signaling an oncoming panic attack. There’s an abandoned cardboard box lying on the ground. It’s the perfect size to hold a bomb.
My palms slicken with sweat.
Down the aisle a way, a guy in ripped jeans examines the boxes of conduits. His boots are dirty, his fingers stained. He’s probably a contractor, electrician, or plumber. Even as my palms grow sweaty and my throat tightens, I watch him with growing envy. I bet he didn’t even look twice at the fucking cardboard box. Why would he?
Jealously rolls through my veins fire-hot. What I wouldn’t give to trade lives with him. To have an existence where nobody’s ever tried to kill me, where dead bodies weren’t a daily occurrence, and where I never watched a good man be murdered in front of me.
Something clatters an aisle away, making me jerk flat against the shelves. Overhead the lights glow brighter and brighter until they become the sun itself, reflecting off of mountains of sand. A dust storm swirls around, rubbing grit into my skin. Sand coats my throat.
In the distance I hear a crash. Or is it an explosion? Before I can investigate, a bullet whizzes past my hair, so close it ruffles my hair.
I flatten myself against a boulder.
“Not real,” I murmur. “Not real. Not real. Not real.”
In the distance I hear screams. Chad’s screams.
A sob swells up my throat, and I quickly swallow it down. I’ve been trained too well to let my emotions get the best of me and give away my position. For once I think about doing the opposite. I consider screaming at the top of my lungs loud enough for every damn fucker in the entire desert to find me.
At least then it would be over.
And that’s what I want more than anything.
When I’m praying in bed. When I’m running from my ghosts. When I’m back in the desert.
Please God, just let it be over.
Chapter Fifteen
Emily
I can’t believe I actually thought for a millisecond J.Crew would be any different. Even more baffling, I can’t believe I wanted him to be.
The day after Reece spent the night, Ashlyn called begging for details from our date. Of course I gave her the fluff version; we ate pizza, we talked, it ended. I sure as hell wasn’t going to tell her I slept with him. Ash would never tell me she disapproved of some of my choices, but I could always hear it in her voice. And sleeping with a guy on the first date would guarantee a one-syllable “Oh,” so heavy with disappointment it would practically ooze out my end of the phone.
But I’m not disappointed. And I don’t regret it. Sex with Reece, while so damn hot, was also something more. And while I can’t come up with what exactly that more is, I can admit that stupid
, stupid boy left an impression.
I can’t stop thinking about him.
And that pisses me off.
Usually with a guy, I’m out the door before my orgasm is even done pulsing, never to be seen again. And I’m good with that because it works. It keeps things simple. Neat.
But there’s nothing simple about Reece “Monsieur Asswipe” Garrett.
Because that fucker ruined casual sex for me.
For the first time in my life¸ I’m craving seconds, and I can’t figure out why.
Maybe he’s just different enough to be interesting. On some level, despite our differences, we make a weird kind of sense. He’s damaged; I’m damaged. He has issues with his parents. I have issues with my mother. He doesn’t believe in relationships. I—don’t even know anymore.
Because he got to me.
And I hate myself for letting him. Caring makes me one of those girls—the kind Ren and I make fun of. The first couple days after our night together, I found myself spending my coffee shop shifts watching the door, impatient for him to come in and order his usual Americano.
The second week, I kept my phone in my apron, set to vibrate, so I wouldn’t miss his call.
The third week, I entered his name into every social media site.
Nothing. Nothing. And more nothing.
The man slept with me, and he disappeared.
I can’t fault him for it. I more or less told him to. Still, I’ll be damned if it didn’t hurt. At first, the pain was more interesting than alarming. I honestly believed I couldn’t be hooked by a guy—especially not one as straight-laced as J.Crew. When weeks stretched into a month, my self-exploratory interest waned, replaced by honest to God pain.
Which doesn’t make sense. Yeah, our night together was fucking amazing, but it wasn’t like I’d fallen in love with him or anything. So why did I let it get to me when he never called? Why, after grabbing a burger from the drive-thru, did I turn my car around when I spotted his bike in the hardware store parking lot? Why did I park my car, walk into the store, and am now wandering the aisles looking for him, when I have no idea what to say?
Because you’re a fucking idiot, the voice in my head answers back.