“Passed out after my run,” I state.
Quinn and I have been friends for a few years. We both went to the same training site in Nevada and kept in touch. When I found out I was heading to SEAL Team Four, I was glad I at least knew a few guys.
“Been a while since you worked out, huh?”
“I’ve been busy,” I say and signal for a beer to the bartender.
He looks at me and smirks. “Busy . . . right.”
“That’s what I said.”
Quinn nods and looks at the game on TV as I look around the bar. He’s right. This place is crawling with women looking for some attention. They’re not even subtle. Fine by me.
“So, what’s been going on? I haven’t heard from you.”
“I’ve been helping Natalie get stuff done. Since Aaron wasn’t active, the Navy is no help.”
“Yeah, I heard about that. Aaron was a good guy. Sucks about how he died.” Quinn taps my beer and we both take a gulp.
“It’s fucking weird. The whole thing.”
“What do you mean? The IED in Afghanistan?” He looks at me as if I sprouted another head. “Tell me where the weird part is.”
My training tells me there’s more to that explosion. “Why the fuck was he there? Why was his caravan hit? I know these assholes don’t give a shit, but Jackson’s company isn’t stupid. They know that region. Then the fact that Cole was shot when he went to the site doesn’t add up. Why and who is targeting Cole’s company?”
The thing about Quinn is he’s an easy read. Which is why he’s a sniper on our team and not intelligence. “Don’t start trying to look for shit that’s not there. He was killed by an IED and you said it yourself—they don’t care. So they killed him because they could. Plain and simple. As to why Jackson was shot, again they’re American—enough said.”
“Sure,” I reply to placate him. I don’t think it’s plain and simple, but Quinn is too stupid or self-absorbed to give a shit. He’s simple and follows orders, never thinking about it again. I, on the hand, don’t do either well.
“Hi there,” I hear from behind me. Quinn’s eyes widen as he takes in the company we have.
I shift and see the two women. One has black hair cut right above her clearly fake tits. The other has blonde hair pulled to one side. She’s fucking hot.
“Hi, ladies.”
“Is that seat taken?” the blonde asks, biting her lip. I’m fucked . . . and hopefully she will be soon too.
“What’s your poison?”
She smiles and sits on the stool next to me and crouches down, showing me her rack. Her fingertip traces the wood right by my arm and my cock stirs. “What’s your name?”
“Liam,” I reply and lean closer.
“Well, Liam . . . I’m Brit. How about you buy me a shot of whiskey and we’ll find out what else is my poison?”
On a normal day, this type of shit would piss me off, but today, Brit seems to be just what I need.
The hours pass and we drink and spend the evening with Brit and her friend, Claire. They’re both practically begging to go home with us. I’ll never understand what these bitches think. Why would any man want to take you home to Mom if I was able to fuck you the first night we met? That’s not the kind of girl I want to have a life with. That’s the girl I’m going to fuck and forget.
“I’m probably too drunk to drive,” Brit whispers in my ear.
“Want me to give you a ride?” I ask, and her lip is back between her teeth.
She nods and her tongue darts out and licks the red marks. I’m going to lose my shit.
“Let’s go then,” I sweep my arm forward and Brit stumbles into my arms.
“Yes. Let’s.”
“Shhh, it’s okay, Aarabelle.” I’m starting to get nervous. It’s been almost two hours straight of her screaming. Tears fall and nothing is soothing her. It’s almost two o’clock in the morning and I don’t know what’s wrong. I gave her medicine when she felt warm before, but she’s still not calming.
She wails over and over and I can’t get her to take a break. She still feels hot to me, so I grab the thermometer, and my heart races when I see her temperature.
Throwing things in the diaper bag, I need to get her to the hospital. She’s running a 105.2-degree fever. I grab my phone and toss it in the bag. When I turn to get her, I see her eyes roll back and she begins twitching on the floor.
“Oh my God!” I scream and run over to her.
Her body convulses and I turn her to her side. Aarabelle’s limbs flail and panic grips me. I hold her as she shakes and tears stream down my face. It only lasts a minute, but my heart is in my throat.
“Aarabelle!” I burst out as she starts to cry again and I rummage through my bag for my phone. I dial 9–1-1. I lift her in my arms and hold her tight.
The dispatcher’s calm voice comes through, “9–1-1, state your emergency.”
“My daughter. She’s had a seizure I think. I don’t know. Her fever . . . it’s high . . . and I don’t know what to do!” I blurt trying to gather my wits. I’m frazzled and frayed. Aarabelle cries loudly as I rock her back and forth in my arms.