“I’m just saying. This fucking blows. The sand, the heat, the constant fear of being sent home in a box. You all know it.”
Skinner leans forward to get in Williams’s face. “We all knew that getting into it. This isn’t some glorified World War I bullshit where we didn’t know what to expect.”
Williams shoves at Skinner’s shoulder, and I place an arm between them before the two hotheads make a shitty situation shittier.
“I’m allowed to say what I think,” Williams grumbles, shaking both of us off and staring down at his hands. “I’m allowed to say what we’re all thinking. There ain’t no fucking curse that’s going to come because I spoke the truth.”
Less than ten minutes later, we find out he’s wrong.
Williams gets sent home in a box.
So do the rest of them.
Suddenly time both speeds up and slows down, and a second later I’m on the ground holding on to Alex, and he’s trying to talk but the only thing that comes out of his mouth is blood.
There’s too much blood. Mine. His. It’s all one bitter, metallic mess.
I try to understand what Alex is telling me. I try to understand his dying wish, try to comprehend his last word, but there’s too much blood.
There’s always too much damned blood.
It’s not the first time I’ve woken up in a pool of sweat.
But it’s the first time since those early days in the hospital that someone’s been there when I wake up.
I don’t remember the nurses well, but I’m pretty sure none of them looked like Olivia Middleton, kneeling on my bed, wearing only a tiny white T-shirt and pink boxer shorts. What is it with her and pink?
And then I comprehend that she’s here. In my bedroom.
I comprehend why she’s here.
The dream. I was yelling, and she came to find out why.
“Get the fuck out,” I say, pushing myself into a sitting position and rolling out of bed on the other side before she can touch me. “Get the fuck out!”
“You were screaming,” she says calmly as she climbs off the bed and turns to face me, the king-size bed separating her from my sweaty, amped-up self.
“Of course I’m yelling. It’s goddamned war.”
It takes me a second to register my words, and I run my hands over my face, trying to wake up. Trying to see anything but Alex dying.
“Get out,” I say again.
“How often does this happen?”
I ignore her and move toward the sideboard, where I pour myself a glass of whatever’s in the closest bottle.
“Water would be better,” she says. “You’re soaked with sweat; the alcohol will just make it worse.”
“Yeah? Water would be better? Water will fix it all?” I ask snidely. “You don’t know a fucking thing, Goldilocks.”
“Nice,” she snaps. “Really original. And I don’t mind the occasional bit of profanity, but you’re starting to get repetitive.”
I toss back the whiskey, relishing the burn. I pour another, wondering how many it will take this time. How many drinks to numb the pain.
Cool, slim fingers wrap around my wrist. “Don’t.”
I jerk my hand away and push her back. Not hard, but enough that she stumbles a little.
A tiny, decent part of me starts to reach out to steady her. To apologize. No, to beg for forgiveness, because Paul Langdon is not the type who takes out his issues on women.
But she’s too close, and her presence is so wrong, and instead of apologizing, I turn my back to her and place my hands on my head, trying to take deep breaths when really all I want is to slide into nothingness and never come back.
“Paul.”
“Don’t,” I snarl. “Just because I played nice and let you ramble on about your childhood pet over pot roast doesn’t mean you get to come in here in your minuscule pajamas, trying to wipe my damp brow and comfort me on shit you know nothing about.”
“So then tell me about it,” she says, her voice all calm reason, pissing me off even further. “Or tell someone.”