I scrubbed the green body makeup off my chest, the saccharine sweet aroma filling the shower—at least it smelled better than the coppery scent of blood. I flashed back again to that night, the image of my buddy’s brains strewn on cammies before my body imploded. No matter how many fucking therapy appointments I had, no matter how many bottles of vodka I drank, no matter how many girls I fucked, every time I closed my eyes, I was right back in Iraq.

Black Widow, AKA Isa, however, had done something that no girl had done since I’d been back. She didn’t abandon me after one of my episodes. In fact, she chased me down to make sure I was okay.

I had been shocked she ran after me. Her presence calmed me down faster than I normally would have had I been alone.

I never realized how much I needed someone to care about me.

After forty surgeries, flat-lining twice, and excruciating rehab, I definitely had my share of freak-outs. Fireworks, of course, were an obvious trigger, but lesser things set me off too. The sound of dogs baying in the night, the scent of diesel, the crush of a huge crowd. After a few too many flashbacks, my ex-girlfriend flipped out, packed her bags, and left without looking back. Fuck that bitch. All those nights in the hospital, dreaming about her, and she left me the second she could conjure up an excuse. But I knew the truth—it wasn’t because of my nightmares; it was because she couldn’t stand to be dating a circus freak. Her new boyfriend was one of those collegiate pretty-boy types—lean body, shaggy hair, looked like he could be an Abercrombie & Fitch model. He could blend in at her country clubs, where I’d always stand out like a mutant.

But I couldn’t blame her for not wanting to deal with my problems. Even in Beauty and the Beast, at the end the Beast turns into a prince. I would always remain a one-eyed jackass.

I stepped out of the shower. By now, I’d given Isa enough time to flee the scene of the crime. No matter how she tried to hide it, I saw her look of disgust when she saw my face. And this girl had recognized my name—she’d definitely find an excuse to bail.

Back in the bedroom, I was shocked to find her still naked, curled in a ball on my bed. I’d expected her to already be dressed, phone and keys in hand, ready to make an exit.

She was so fucking hot and I’d seen her somewhere before, but I couldn’t remember where, which wasn’t surprising with my memory loss. Looked like an angel—well, the Victoria’s Secret kind. Her long hair cascaded around her chest, the wisps barely covering her nipples. Her green eyes were the color of kryptonite, and her tanned skin was completely smooth. And her body—full, natural breasts, tiny waist, and a tight, round booty.

I recognized her, but where the fuck from?

Before my injuries, I never forgot a face, which was why I knew I would’ve made an excellent scout sniper, my dream job. But I would never qualify anymore with one eye and a spotty memory.

Her pupils appeared dilated and she pulled at her hair. “Hey.”

Yup, she was definitely looking for a reason to bail. “Hey. I’m going to drive you home.” I walked over to my dresser, threw on some boxer briefs, gray sweatpants, and a T-shirt.

Her shoulders slumped. “Oh, okay. I hoped I could hang out for a bit.”

Kickass. Maybe I’d read her wrong and she was up for another round. Maybe she even could look past my face. “Okay. You want some pizza?”

She hopped out of bed, and I stared at her naked ass as she walked into the bathroom. This chick was fine as all hell. She looked like a movie star—she definitely didn’t want to date a guy who looked like the Terminator.

When she came out of the bathroom, I handed her a T-shirt of mine, hoping that when she finally grew sick of looking at me, she’d leave it behind and her scent could comfort me for a few days.

God, when did I become so fucking pathetic?

That was easy—the night my face was blown up.

She went into the living room, slipped on her panties, and sat down on the sofa.

I warmed up some slices of Round Table pizza. The silence was awkward. I shouldn’t have told her my fucking name. Now she’d probably interrogate me and I’d have to relive that night. Not that I could ever forget it—it played on an endless loop in my head.

I sat down next to her and handed her a plate.

Her lips widened into a smile. “Thanks. So, just wanted to tell you not to worry about what happened at the party. I’m a psych major, and I want to apply for a doctoral program in clinical psychology after I graduate. I’m a really good listener if you want to talk.”

Great. I fucked a shrink. Well, a future shrink. This chick wanted to lay me down on a sofa and instead of riding my cock, force me to confess my deepest sins. Most women tried to fix men anyway, but this woman was going to school for that shit. I didn’t need her to pity me.

“I’m good. Talking never solves anything.”

She pursed her lips, and I turned away when I caught her staring at my face. “I disagree.”

My breathing accelerated, and I could feel my pulse quicken. “Yeah? Well, you don’t have a fucking clue what you’re talking about. All the shrinks I’ve met do nothing but try to numb me on drugs. This one jackass told me that I should just get over my friend dying, treat his death like a bad breakup with a girlfriend. Fuck that dude. I have shrapnel from my buddy’s skull embedded in my neck and my fucking psychiatrist thinks I should just get the fuck over it?”

She inched over to me on the sofa and placed a cautious hand on my thigh. I liked the way she touched me. She stroked my forearm, and I imagined her stroking my cock.

“Your therapist was clearly incompetent. But there are treatments that work,” she said, her tone warm and soothing. “I just read a study that Transcendental Meditation really helps people with PTSD.”

“Sounds like some quack hippy bullshit to me.” I glared at her. “Fucking you was the best therapy I’ve had in months.”

She bit her lip and removed her hand from my thigh.

“Hey, I’m sorry.” Man, I shouldn’t have said that. My grandma would whip my ass if she ever heard me talk to a girl like that. These days I’d lost my impulse control. The sooner Isa realized that I’d become a complete asshole, the sooner she would leave.

But I wanted her to stay.

“It’s okay.”

We finished our food in silence.

“So are you getting out of the Marines?”

“I don’t want to, but I’m pretty fucked up, so I’ll probably get forced out—it’s for the best. I don’t wanna be some fucking POG stuck at a desk, a twenty-year staff sergeant.”

Her brow crinkled. “I don’t understand. What’s a POG? I thought you were a sergeant?”

I’d forgotten how to talk to civilians. “Person Other than Grunt. I am a sergeant. I meant that being a scout sniper was the only thing I ever wanted to do. I’d been selected for sniper course, but because I lost my eye, I’m ineligible. So I’m nothing but a grunt.”

Grunt, that’s who I was.

A warrior.

A motherfucking beast.

“Oh. Well, you can do anything now. You’re a hero. Go to college, go on one of those cheesy reality shows, write a war memoir . . .” Her voice trailed off.

Fuck that. Why was everyone nagging me to go to college? I wasn’t a dumbass, and I didn’t need a goddam degree to prove that I was smart.

I hated reality television. My buddies gave their lives for our freedom and no one remembered their names. Yet these asshat celebrities posted selfies of themselves licking donuts and wearing American flags and were treated like gods.

As for writing a book, that sounded worse than therapy. I never wanted to be a public figure. The last thing I wanted to do was to have the details of my fucked up childhood exposed for the whole world to read.

“I’m not cut out for college because I can’t remember shit with my brain injury. And actually, a producer asked me to be on that dumbass dance show—Dancing under the Stars. I guess every year they try to get some fucked up vet to compete, to balance out all the fame whores. I told him I’d rather go back to Iraq.”

She closed her eyes for a second, a pained look on her face. “Don’t blame you. I hate that show. It’s so fake.”

Her tone sounded bitter, but it was refreshing to meet a girl who didn’t seem to be obsessed with celebrities.

“And I’ve had several agents and writers hassling me about writing a book, but I can’t write and I don’t trust anyone with my story. So that’s never going to happen.”

Her mouth gaped, as if she wanted to say something else, but instead she just took another sip of her beer.

This sucked. I didn’t want some chick telling me what to do, trying to inspire me. I yearned to take care of a woman, have her need me, not the other way around. “Why do you want to be a shrink? You must be pretty messed up—all the shrinks I’ve met had some serious issues.”

She shifted in her seat and stared toward my balcony. “My mom died four years ago. I went through a really rough time, so studying psychology helped me.”

Fuck, I was being a complete dick. I wasn’t used to people being this open with me. Most girls just blew smoke up my ass. Even so, Isa clearly saw me as a project, someone to fix. Not as an equal. Not as a man. Definitely not as potentially her man.

“Sorry about your mom. My dad left before I was born, and then my mom abandoned me—I haven’t seen her in years, though she must think I’m rich because she keeps trying to contact me ever since I got my medal. My grandparents raised me.”

She nodded, and I could almost see her mind racing, creating some kind of psychological profile of me, pieced together from her knowledge of my actions that led to my Medal of Honor, the flashback she witnessed, my scarred face and body, and the brief tidbits I’d just offered.

Enough. This session was over.

I turned on the TV, landing on a channel airing the Country Music Awards. I didn’t want to talk anymore, but I didn’t want her to leave.

I never wanted to go out anymore—I’d become a recluse, holed up in my own world, alone with my demons. I’d only left tonight because I could go in costume, and look how that turned out.

Even so, I felt comfort in sharing our silence. After a few more songs, I knocked back my beer and knelt in front of her.

I lifted the T-shirt off of her body and just stared at her, sitting on my sofa in nothing but her black lace panties. Her cheeks were flushed; her breasts were soft and round, real. Her nipples looked like ripe cherries.

Her gaze focused on my face. She reached her hand out to touch my skin, and I recoiled.

“No, let me look at you,” she whispered.

Fuck it; I wanted to get laid again, so I’d do whatever it took. If she wanted to examine me like some sort of circus side-stage attraction, I’d let her. Her soft fingertips traced my flesh, the charred remains of my ear, my scarred body.

“Can you see well? I mean, is your vision okay?”

“I see perfectly. I see your soft lips, I see your hard nipples, I see your trimmed pussy.”

Her face turned pink. Guess she wasn’t used to a man talking to her like that.

Enough of this bullshit. My hand grasped her neck, and our mouths met, my tongue probing her mouth. She made the sweetest little groan—less of a sigh, more like a purr. My cock became even harder, and my mouth focused on her nipples. I took one into my mouth, sucking, teasing, and my hand worked its way down her incredible body. Her belly was taut yet soft. I pressed on the fabric of her panties, her warm flesh slick with wetness.

A wicked smile graced her face, and she spread her legs wide, so fucking wide I was impressed. She was flexible as fuck. My mind filled with images, thousands of different positions I could fuck her in. I quenched that thought—this would probably be just another one-night stand.

But the night was not over yet. I rubbed her clit, and she writhed under my hand but kept her eyes focused on my face. Why? Why would she want to look at me? Did it get her off to examine my wounds? I didn’t need a pity fuck. I flipped her on the sofa and pulled her panties off.

She gasped but pressed her ass backwards.

“Don’t fucking move.” I sprinted to retrieve another condom.

When I returned, she was in the same position—her curvaceous booty propped right up in the air. She gave me a coy glance over her shoulder.

I resumed my post, slapped her ass, and pumped my cock into her slick slit. Man, she felt incredible—wet, warm, tight as fuck. I kissed the back of her neck and rubbed her clit.

“Yes, ohmigod, Grady. Yes!”

I loved the way she said my name. My heart beat strong.

She let out a yelp as I drove deep inside her. I could fuck her for days. I could fuck her forever. But we might not have forever; as far as I knew we could only have tonight.

Her face flushed with pleasure. “Oh, baby, yes, just like that.”

I loved a girl who knew what she wanted. This woman moved with the grace of a dancer as her hips swiveled around me, her pussy clenched and released my cock. I pumped her hard, my hand working her pussy, desperate for her climax. Desperate for my own, the only moment when I could experience pure joy and erase my pain. Forget for a few blissful seconds who I was and what I’d seen, what I’d done.

“Come for me, baby. Come all over my cock.”

“Grady, oh, Grady. Yes!”

She exploded into moans, her pussy pulsating around my cock, the sensation pushing me over the edge. One deep groan and our physical connection, the moment we’d shared, was over.

I pulled out, gave her a pat on her ass, and walked over to the trash to throw the condom away.

I wanted her to sleep beside me, but I was afraid that I would scare her, wake her in the night with my screams, or even worse, choke her in my sleep. As much as I wanted to find someone to take care of, someone who could learn to love me, I couldn’t risk endangering her.

And it went deeper than that. Even my closest friends weren’t aware of all the dark stuff that existed in my mind. If Isa ever learned how clearly fucked up I was, she’d want nothing to do with me.

I wanted so much for a woman to truly see me—as a sexy man, as a protector, as her true love.

But I doubted I would ever allow myself to rely on a woman.

I’d had enough organs broken in my life; I didn’t need a broken heart.