Survivor (First to Fight #2)(18)

As I pull out the medical kit from the bottom drawer to doctor my nose, I think about my unit. They’ve deployed recently and I need to email one of those bastards to see how they’re doing. It’s always with a mix of anxiety, though, because there are times when those emails hold the things my nightmares are made of. Someone’s been hurt. Someone’s been killed.

Someone who could have lived if I had stayed.

I open my laptop as a reminder to get on that shit before I forget, then open the handheld mirror from the kit and prop it up on my laptop screen to examine the damage. It’s swollen and blood has already pooled and hardened on my upper lip. My nose has been broken multiple times so I’ve given up going to the emergency room to treat it. There’s nothing I can do until the swelling goes down anyway. I open an antibiotic wipe and clean up the blood, grimacing through the sharp bite of pain.

That done, I clean up a couple other cuts I’d gotten from one round or another. I throw the used wipes in the bin and pack the kit away for the next time Ben gets up the sack to break my nose.

I close the drawer and my phone rings. “This is Jack,” I answer.

“Yo, bromigo. How’s it hangin’?” comes the response.

“Grady Williams, you sonofabitch. How the hell are you?”

Grady and I had deployed a couple times, until he jumped on a f*cking grenade to save my life and the lives of our team members. The resulting injuries meant a brutal recovery, but he was making it day to day. Like so many other Marines that had fought and bled for their country.

Or died for it.

“PT is a bitch, man, but I have the hottest therapist. An ass like you wouldn’t believe.” He chuckles over the line and I have no doubt what’s on his mind. “Anyway, what about you?”

“Oh you know,” I reply, rifling through the mail on my desk. “Same old.”

“So listen,” he says, “I just got an email from one of the guys and before you give me shit, I think you should seriously consider it.”

Bright red ink catches my eye and I pull out a letter from our mortgage company. The word overdue burns itself into my retinas.

“They haven’t announced it yet, but one of my old higher ups forwarded the info to me.”

I rip open the envelope and say, “Oh yeah? What’d it say?”

“They’re recruiting for service members with prior experience. Sweet bonuses, too. I saw it and thought of you. I know how much you miss the Corps. And I know you hate being a f*cking business owner.”

“Fuck you. What does the Corps need with a washed up grunt?” I try to mask my interest, but I’m sure I fail miserably.

“I’m forwarding the info to you now.” His voice turns serious. “I know that place means a lot to you man, trust me. But I’m telling you. You shouldn’t pass this up. You miss the Corps like I do, man. And I’d go back in a second if I could.”

“I know you would.”

“You’ll think about it?”

“Yeah, man, of course I will.” I toss the foreclosure notice onto the desk with the others and lean back into the chair. I run a hand over my face. “You sending it over now?”

“Already done.”

“I appreciate you having my back.”

“Always. Anyway, hit me up if you do re-up, you lucky bastard.”

“Go suck a dick,” I say in response.

Grady clicks off and I toss my phone on the desk.

My eyes flick over the wall in front of me and land on the photo of Sofie, smiling huge for the camera. For me. The picture was taken the day before she left my life for good.

I get to my feet and turn off all the lights. Now that the boys are taken care of, getting out of Nassau doesn’t seem like such a bad idea after all.





Past



TEARS WELL IN my eyes and blur the darkened parking lot. I squeak out a protest against his sweaty palm as he starts to drag me behind the gym. My feet scrabble against the cement as I try to keep up with his long strides. There’s no breaking his hold—it’s like trying to fight against solid rock.

He shoulders his way through a door propped open with a brick and plunges us into darkness. My heart trips over itself and white spots dance in front of my eyes. I can’t seem to catch my breath and I choke on the stale air from the deserted room he pulls me into.

This can’t be happening.

One shove sends me flying through the shadows and I trip over my own feet, landing on a pile of old mats that smell like plastic, sweat, and feet. I turn to my back and try to get to my feet, but a hand appears and shoves me back down on my back.

“God, you’re f*cking gorgeous,” he says, his hands running over my shirt, cupping and squeezing my breasts through the material. “Now,” he whispers against the shell of my ear, “now you’re all mine.”

My thoughts grind to a halt and I panic, freezing as they slip underneath my shirt and grasp at my bra. For an eternity he fondles, pinching and tugging his way underneath the cups until he touches bare skin. At that, everything speeds back up and I surge up, slapping away his hands, biting, and clawing.

He sits up on his knees and draws his right arm away, then backhands me so hard my teeth clank together and I taste blood. “Fucking bitch.” His left hand comes to my throat and presses me into the mat, my head vibrating from the blow and the rapidly decreasing availability of oxygen.