Only the warm slick blood that flows around my throat.
I close my eyes, grateful that it’s over, when something smacks my cheek.
“Sarge! Get up!” Schmitt’s over me and for the first time since I’ve known him, he looks scared. “Dustoff inbound!”
Dustoff. Medivac?
The ground shakes.
A bomb dropped.
“Our backup is here!”
He heaves the weight off my chest.
A flash of brown hair coated in blood and gray matter hits my vision.
With renewed strength I push myself up and—oh God . . . “No!” I grip Grant’s vest and shake him, knowing it’s pointless. One side of his head is gone. “No!”
It was Grant who fell on top of me.
He took that bullet for me.
After I ignored his concerns, he sacrificed his life . . . for me.
“Sarge, we gotta go!” Schmitt pulls my arms off LaRoy and I scramble to my feet. Bombs continue to shake the walls and small-round fire is still popping off randomly.
Crouched low, we maneuver over bodies. More fire. We duck behind a flipped-over table.
“You go!” I fire off a round. Feeling numb and sick I push back all thoughts and allow my training to take over. “Al-Bishi is mine!”
“I’m not leaving you!” He lifts his head up and takes a few shots, then falls hard to my side.
I shove him away with my elbow. “Go! That’s an order!”
He continues to press against me.
“Schmitt, dammit! I gave you an or—” He stares up at me with lifeless eyes. Blood forming rivers from his nose and mouth. Smoke curling up from the small bullet hole in his forehead.
Red coats my vision.
I stand to my full height.
The sound of gunfire stopped.
The room is silent.
Dead bodies litter the floor.
Shock overtakes me. My hands shake but I feel nothing.
Only one thought pumps furiously through my mind.
It should’ve been me.
ONE
Present day . . .
SAWYER
“I think we should break up.” I sip from a tangy margarita, wishing it would cool more than my mouth as the sweat that lies between my skin and my pantyhose is beginning to chafe.
Having just shoveled a heaping forkful of meat dripping in red sauce into his mouth, Mark freezes. He glares at me from behind his fork and strings of cheese dangle from his chin. The four-piece mariachi band starts up a few tables down and even the upbeat rhythm doesn’t cut the tension between us.
I probably should’ve eased into it a little rather than dropping it right on the table between us, but I figure it’s like a Band-Aid. The faster the better.
He wipes his chin, chews, and swallows hard before leaning forward to prop his forearms on the table. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Mark . . .” I point to the dollop of red sauce under his pristine white sleeve. “Your shirt.”
He doesn’t take his eyes off mine, as if he didn’t hear me or maybe he’s refusing to. “Things have been so good between us.”
I sigh internally because he only thinks things have been good between us. I’ve been entertaining ending what little we’ve started for weeks now. “I’m sure this seems out of left field but . . .”
He adjusts his position, further rubbing his crisp dress shirt through the offending sauce.
My fingers itch to dig out my Tide stain stick and go to town on what is sure to end up being an ugly and permanent reminder of tonight. “I just don’t think we’re compatible.”
He shoves his plate aside almost violently and I add his emotional outbursts to the list of reasons why I can’t stay with him. “You’ve been living with me for two months, Sawyer. How long have you been thinking about our compatibility?”
“About a month.”
“Fuck.” He leans back and runs two hands through his usually perfect chestnut hair, flashing that red stain that taunts me. “I knew it was too soon to ask you to move in.”
He’s probably right about that. At the time it made logical sense—I should know, I made the list. I checked off all the reasons to against all the reasons against and determined living together solved a lot of our problems. It was more affordable, his place was closer to the office, I was able to make bigger payments on my student loans. The only downside was I wasn’t in love with him. And despite the way he’s looking at me now—the turned-down lips and puppy dog eyes—he doesn’t love me either.
He continues to tug at his hair and the chaos of it has me run my hands over mine in response. “I’m sorry to do this now. I wanted to wait until we got home.”
“Wait until we got home.” He repeats my own words, then laughs, but I fail to see what’s funny so I jut my chin out and wait for him to explain. “Like that would’ve been easier? We’ve been together for six months. We have a great time together. Why are you doing this?” His eyes narrow and I catch a hint of the Mark Abbot, CPA to the filthy stinkin’ rich I see at the office every day. “Is this because I closed on McMillan?”
My fingers dig into the sleek material of my pencil skirt. “Please, Mark. I’m not that petty.” Although his swooping in on my client when I was reeling him in was a Grade-A dickhead move, it’s only one of many reasons I’m ending our relationship.
He throws his hands up in defeat. “Then what is it? Why—”
“Can I get you another margarita?” Our waiter clears the empty basket of chips as he eyes my uneaten food. “Would you like a box?”
“We’re fine, José!” Mark snaps at the man.
I flash the guy a warm and what I hope is an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, but no. Just the check, thank you.”
He gives Mark a warning look that my soon-to-be-ex doesn’t seem to notice or care about, then retreats.
“First of all, his name is Juan. Not José. Second, it’s not his fault we’re breaking up, so don’t take it out on him.”
“We aren’t breaking up, Sawyer. You’re breaking up with me. I get no say in this, do I?”
“My mind is made up.”
“Can you at least tell me what I did wrong? It scares the shit out of me that I’ve been somehow pushing you away and not even known it. Or that I’ve been so delusional to think things between us have been great when the whole time you’ve been miserable.”
If that isn’t the unanswerable question I don’t know what is.