Chapter Twenty-Seven

Briggs

Thirty-day mandatory convalescent leave.

And it might as well be the fucking kiss of death. It’s not enough my chest is caving in, but I get the luxury of reliving every second of the last four months of my life ‘for the record.’ I’ve managed to escape therapy, but I knew my request to go immediately back to work stateside was a red flag. I asked for special consideration on the mandatory part and was abruptly scrutinized and forced to back down. I should’ve kept my damned mouth shut. Either way, I’m fucked, on base or off.

I have no clue what to do with myself.

I’m a soldier in an army that can’t use me.

At least for now.

Tilting the whiskey glass in my hand, I swirl the liquid around and suck the residue off my lips. It’s not the answer—it’s stupidity in liquid form—but I need a sip to take the edge off. And another to numb the parts that sting. My mother was an addict, and I’m determined to ensure that if I have that gene, it will remain dormant. But I’m reeling where I sit, the images of the past few months threatening to break loose in my mind. I’ll deal with it the way I always have, one image at a time. Some of them I’ll carry with me because I’ll have no choice.

Jones and Morrero have already been laid to rest with proper funerals. I don’t even have the fucking moral support of the aftermath to look forward to. I know soon I’ll have to face Jones’s widow. She’ll need to hear the words from me. My cell buzzes in my pocket, and I don’t even have to look at the screen to know it’s my Gran. I was supposed to have shown up hours ago, but I can’t bring myself to get there, and with the way I’m drinking, I won’t. Tossing some liquid back, I revel in the burn as the bar begins to fill. I’m twenty miles outside Chappell Hill in a bar I’ve never been to. Rap blares from the speakers, and typically that’s my cue to leave, but instead, I watch two girls get out on the dance floor. It’s their movement that draws my interest—so carefree, like their world could never come to the same fucking halt as mine has.

I lift the rest of my drink toward them as they squeal and sway their hips then swallow it back.

“Another?” the bartender asks, and I shake my head.

“Katy!” Someone yells from behind me, and my whole body tenses. Looking over my shoulder, I see a woman rising to her feet at a cocktail table as she calls out toward the door, “Patty! Over here!”

I repeatedly rub my palms in frustration over my forehead as the ache threatens to break through.

“I won’t regret it,” I mumble out to whatever the fuck it is that’s torturing me. “Give it your best shot, but I won’t fucking regret it.”

“What’s that?” A man pulling up a stool next to me asks as I stand and reach for my wallet.

“Nothing,” I mumble as I sort through the bills.

“Don’t leave, man. I was just about to offer you a drink.”

“It’s appreciated, but I’ve had enough.” I don’t bother to look up as I’m stopped by his voice.

“Come on, Soldier. It’s early.”

It’s not hard to miss the tags hanging around my neck. He wins no awards for his guess. I look up, see his cut, and know instantly—he’s retired.

“Nam?”

He nods. “Two tours, and you can handle another drink.”

“I’m not drinking here.”

“I know a place up the road and a motel nearby.” Just by looking at him, I know he’s not offering a shoulder to cry on but an ear, if I need one. It’s a brotherhood that stretches beyond familial bond and past decades. I’m not interested in his ear, but his experiences—and I know it’s a ticket out of my own head, at least for the night.

Pulling on my jacket, I nod toward the door, and he follows. “Let’s do it.”

He pipes up behind me. “I’ve got to be home by midnight, or my wife will have my dick in a sling.”

I chuckle as we escape the noise into the cool air. “That bad?”

“I’d rather relive Nam than deal with it.”

I can’t help my laughter as he starts up his truck and I follow, lagging behind as he drives like a bat out of hell. I decide whatever motel is close by is my safest bet.

Who in the fuck you playing it safe for, Briggs?

Out of nowhere, I let defiance win and gun the gas.

Remote in hand, I thumb through the news stations on the motel bed as the clock at my bedside table flips to 3:00 a.m. My search is fruitless; it’s not the news I need. My fingers itch to dial a number I don’t have, while my whiskey-induced heartbeat speeds in my ears. I toss the remote aside and pace the room.

She’s at home, in her bed, with him.

Jealousy consumes me at the idea of him holding her—the constant reminder that it’s his place isn’t helping shit.

I need her.

I need to lay eyes on her.

My fists clench at my sides as I walk the ancient green carpet with bare feet and a matching soul.

Skin burning with need, I stumble to the shower, turn it on, and leave the temperature cold. Freezing water rolls down my back as I’m burned alive with the memory of her lips, her touch.

I need her.

My cock rises, and I fitfully clutch it in my fist, stroking hard. Eyes burning, I bite my lip until I taste copper. Despair leeches on as I come, long and hard, without feeling an ounce of relief. Stepping out of the shower, I barely towel off before I study my reflection. My tags hang just above my new burn scar. Anger breaches next, and I react, my fist connecting with the mirror. I swing until my knuckles bleed, until the room resembles what’s inside. The shards lying on the floor mirror what’s left of me.