Gunfire rips through the hot afternoon air, peppering the sandstone building we’ve taken shelter behind. My fucking arm is on fire; both numb and throbbing at the same time and soaked in blood. I can see what’s left of our convoy. One truck is a black ruin and the others are belching thick, greasy smoke into the air. I can see the bodies, too. Every one of them a knife to my gut, hurting more than a bullet wound ever could. Those are my men out there. Dead.
All I can think of is how badly I want these bastards to pay. These fucking fanatical, ignorant assholes.
It can’t have been more than five minutes ago that we ran over the first IED. I’m still trying to wrap my head around it all. A few minutes and so much has changed. The finality of it hits me like a fucking punch in the gut. Gone. Because I volunteered us for extra patrols. Because I thought we could use a little sharpening up after our near-miss on the catch and grab a few weeks back.
Only two of my men are still alive, but they’re in worse shape than me. We’re sheltered behind a crumbling sandstone wall. Liam is lying on the ground, head propped against the wall, face strained and covered in dirt. He hisses as he tries to raise his rifle. Jake is clutching his shredded leg, free hand holding his rifle at the ready. My training tells me to hunker down and wait for reinforcements to clear the area. But I know there can’t be more than two of the enemy out there. I would’ve heard more gunfire by now. They are just two fucking cowards who set a trap and waited for us to walk into it.
Most men would wait. They’d take the safe route. The smart route. But I’m not most men. And I’m not about to make the men who lost their lives wait a minute longer to get the revenge they deserve.
“Hold these positions,” I say to Liam and Jake. “The cavalry is coming soon.”
Without waiting for a response, I jump out from behind the wall. I run faster than I’ve ever run, feeling the bullets tear through the air inches from my body, knowing death is only a whisper away, but not caring. I’m going to get these fuckers, even if it kills me.
I slide behind a building on the other end of the street, somehow making it there unscathed. I suck in air, risking a look around the corner of the building toward the hostiles. A man in white rags and a turban stands up from behind a broken wall, aiming a rocket launcher. I shoulder my rifle and squeeze off a three-round burst, but he launches the rocket just before I drop him. The black projectile trailed by a plume of white smoke hisses through the air, gaining speed rapidly as it rips past me. I turn my head just in time to see it collide with the wall Liam and Jake are sheltered behind. The wall explodes in a shower of rubble and dust.
The pot of tea hisses on the stovetop, startling me out of bed. My Glock is in my hand and I’m naked as the day I was born. My body is coated in a thin sheen of sweat and my heart is racing. I glance out the floor to ceiling windows lining the far wall expecting to see sand and hostiles, but all I see is a concrete jungle.
The war is over, I remind myself, at least for me. I pinch the bridge of my nose in frustration. Four years ago. I lost my men four years ago and that was the point everything started to fall apart from under me. I thought getting out of the service would stop the flashbacks, but it only made them worse. The only thing that really helps is drinking enough to pass out and fucking hard enough to clear my head. I usually settle for a mixture of the two.
I sigh, looking down at my hand and hating how good it feels to hold the gun--how well it fits my large grip. I tuck it back under my pillow and frown when I notice the pillow beside mine has a soft dent in the center. There’s a pair of lacy pink panties on the floor beside the bed and a pair of black pumps.
Apparently, I was drinking again last night. My only memories are hazy. Another bar somewhere, another woman, another night trying to distract myself from the past.
When I got back a year ago, the war only came to me at night, haunting my dreams. Now even a clattering plate or firecrackers have me bordering on panic. They died because of you. I blink rapidly, pushing down the thought. Those same fucking words have been playing on repeat ever since that day. Time has done nothing to dull the pain they bring.
I rub the back of my aching head, moving into the kitchen toward the hissing sound of the tea. A long-legged beauty with black hair stands in my kitchen wearing one of my t-shirts. When she reaches to grab cups from the overhead cabinets and I catch a glimpse of her bare, round ass, I realize that’s all she’s wearing. My cock doesn’t even stir. It seems like the only time I can enjoy fucking anymore is if I’m drunk.
“Want some tea?” she asks. Her eyes wander my body hungrily, lingering on my cock.
Hmm. She’s British. That’s a new one. “I’m okay. Why don’t you make yours to-go. You can keep the cup.”
She frowns. “What?”
“I’ve got a full day. So you need to leave,” I say flatly. I round the corner and head to the bathroom. I splash water on my face and look up at myself, wondering how women don’t see what I see. They don’t see the broken man just beneath the surface, the selfish killer who put revenge before his men.
She storms into the bathroom, fists planted on her hips. “So that’s it?”
I glance at her from the corner of my eye. “What did you expect?” I ask.
She huffs, shaking her head at me in disbelief. “You’re a fucking asshole.”
“Sounds about right,” I grumble, cupping a handful of water and sucking it down to ease my dry throat and wash away the memory of sand. Of blood.
I hear her grabbing her shit from my bedroom and wait, leaning on the sink, stretching my tight muscles.
“I’m keeping the fucking shirt,” she says.
I ignore her, stepping in the shower after I hear to my apartment door slam shut. I don’t take any pleasure in what I do to women. They are a release. A distraction. That’s all. If I let them stick around too long they get to be an annoyance. I cut them loose before things get complicated. Simple as that. Maybe it makes me a prick, maybe not. I couldn’t give a shit.
The water hisses from the five showerheads, blasting me from every direction. The hissing sound and steam that rises up brings up an image of the rocket streaking past me, toward the wall where…
I crank the temperature down to freezing cold and let the icy water shock my system out of the memory.