CHEAP SMUT: Four Erotic Romance Novels (Boxed Set)

by Scott Hildreth

  “Whatever. Good for you. Fine. Speak for yourself. It’s going to kill me. I hate to even think of doing this. I used to love art shows. Stupid fuckers will come up to me for the entire weekend and hit on me. They always do. I’ll just tell them I’m spoken for,” she sighed.

  I swallowed a lump which had developed in my throat and reached into my pocket. As I pulled my hand out and rested it into my lap, I took a shallow breath. She was shaking her head lightly and looking around the restaurant as if the thought of being away disgusted her. I reached my cupped hand over the center of the table and curled my index finger toward my palm. At some point in time, each and every time we ate at Adrian’s, this had become my signature. Me motioning her to the center of the table to whisper in her ear and kiss her. As Karter smiled and leaned into the edge of the table, I moved forward in my seat and met her in half way. I puckered my lips and closed my eyes slightly. As her soft mouth met mine and we embraced in a shallow kiss, my body tingled from head to toe.

  She’s the one, Jak.

  The only one.

  I uncupped my hand and pointed into my palm, “Wear this if you’ll honor me by doing so. It may keep them away for a little more than the weekend.”

  The diamond engagement ring glistened in the dimly lit lighting of the restaurant. She looked into my hand and stared.

  “Jak?” she raised her hands slowly to her cheeks.

  “Jak?”

  I swallowed heavily again and looked up, “What I feel for you defines love in the purest sense, Karter. It’s inevitable. We’re destined to spend our lives together, forever. Begin forever with me. Karter Wilson, will you marry me?”

  The words came easier than I expected. Karter reached toward my palm and hesitated. As she looked at me, her eyes glistened. They were brown tonight with green specs, her natural color. Slowly, her mouth formed a smile of deep satisfaction. Her fingers hovered over my open hand. As reassurance, I nodded my head slightly. She carefully pinched the ring between her thumb and forefinger and held it in her hand.

  “If it’s not what you were expecting…”

  “Just stop,” she sighed as she wiped the back of her free hand against her eyes.

  “Yes. Shit Jak, I’m sorry. I forgot to answer. Yes. Fuck yes, I’ll marry you. That’s the dumbest question I’ve ever heard. Will I? Jesus. I was placed on this earth for you. You and I both know it. Now aren’t you supposed to put this big fucker on my finger?” her voice cracked as she attempted to speak.

  I reached out and took the ring from between her fingers and pinched it between my thumb and forefinger. As she leveled her shaking hand over the center of the table, I raised my eyebrows and slid the ring onto her finger, “So it’s a yes?”

  “Yes,” she sighed as she looked down at the ring.

  The best and the worst life offers are separated in our mind as differing memories by our brain’s ability to recollect them accurately. Our mind simply categorizes the various events. In a mission in one of Africa’s small countries, we were dropped onto the roof of a large compound. It was to be a simple extraction of a military official who believed genocide was the answer to the countries level of poverty.

  As I entered the window of the upper floor, a young man no more than eighteen reached for an AK-47. My training and experience took over and I reacted. A single round entered his skull above the brow line. He was fifteen feet from me. In the very well lit room, I watched as his head exploded. It was my first kill. My mind recalled the memory of it nightly until I killed my second. By the time I had so many kills I was either incapable of counting or no longer felt the need, I stopped recalling it on a steady or daily basis. It still lingered with me, as it should. It now lingers, however, as a memory. Without a doubt, the first person I killed was the saddest day of my life.

  The best, and arguably the proudest day of my life had been the day I graduated BUD/S training and became a Navy SEAL.

  Until now.

  Karter accepting the request to become my wife far exceeded any level of pride I had ever felt or could ever expect to feel again. Comprehending her allowing me to be her husband was close to impossible. For now, I chose to simply accept it and wallow in the thought of her being for me as good as I knew I’d be for her.

  “I love you,” I smiled.

  “Jak, you have no idea how happy I am,” she said as she looked down at the ring.

  “I’ve got to pee,” she smiled.

  As I watched her walk toward the bathroom in her signature Karter stroll, I felt an odd relief of my life being in order. A certain fear prior to retiring from the Navy caused me to look at my retirement day as a curse, and not a blessing. Visions of depression, guilt, and becoming another PTSD suicide statistic filled my mind. Now, watching Karter walk away, nothing could be further from the truth.

  “Jak Kennedy!” an unfamiliar man’s voice exclaimed.

  No one here should know me.

  Shocked, I turned to my left and stood in a somewhat defensive posture.

  “Damn, killer. Settle down. Just thought I’d say hi. You don’t remember me, do you?” he asked.

  I studied his face. I had no idea who he may be.

  “Pete Townsend?” he said softly as he pointed at his face and smiled.

  I shook my head.

  “Little Petey? I was a couple years younger than you in school.”

  The last thing I wanted was to see someone from school. Those memories were long since passed and I wanted to keep them forgotten. In an effort to be kind, I smiled.

  “I vaguely remember. I’m sorry, nice to see you,” I said as I extended my hand and shook his lightly.

  “So, you and Shelley’s daughter out for dinner? She’s kind of young for you ain’t she?” he chuckled.

  My head began to spin. My face felt hot. I was becoming confused.

  “Shelley?” I muttered.

  “Yeah, Shelley Peterson. Hell, you used to date her back in the day, didn’t you? Before you became a Marine or whatever?” he said as he slapped my shoulder.

  My heart began to race. Shelley Peterson. The last name I wanted to hear, and the primary reason I would never return to my hometown. But Karter’s last name was Wilson and she was from Connecticut. He was clearly confused. I swallowed the lump in my throat and intended on ending the conversation quickly. As I reached for my wallet, removed a hundred dollar bill and dropped it onto the table, he continued.

  “Hell, I hadn’t seen her since she was a kid. Maybe five years ago, when she left her mom and moved from town. Her mom’s nuttier than a fuckin’ fruitcake, so it was no surprise she left her like that,” he chuckled.

  I looked up from the bill I dropped on the table and blinked my eyes.

  Focus Jak.

  “Well, it was nice seeing you again, Petey. I’ve got to get,” I said as I slapped his shoulder and began turning toward the rear of the restaurant.

  Appearing somewhat confused, he shrugged and smiled, “Alrighty. Nice seein’ ya.”

  As I briskly walked to the rear of the restaurant, my head began to spin. If what he said was true I…

  It can’t be true Jak, think. It’s impossible.

  I shook my head and attempted to think of times and dates. My head slowly became a fog of memories, events, and faces I had long since forgotten. As Karter stepped from the bathroom and smiled, visions of my high school prom filled my head.

  And I began to feel ill.

  JAK. “The air conditioner is fixed, it was the contactor,” I said as I walked into the kitchen.

  “Well, it doesn’t feel fixed. I’ll call the repairman,” my mother complained as she snuffed her cigarette out.

  “Mom, it’s fixed. It’s fine. Close the windows and it’ll be cool in here in a few minutes,” I sighed as I walked to the bathroom.

  I washed my hands and looked into the mirror. I felt all of the things I expected to feel with retirement, but reserved hope I wouldn’t. Standing and looking at my reflection, a different man looked bac
k at me. I was tired, lonely, depressed, angry, ashamed, and unwilling to accept my past was coming back to haunt me. I felt mentally mixed up and I was physically ill. Although my mind was a mess, I needed to do my best to mask it and determine just what was going on in my life before something terrible happened.

  Something even I could not resolve.

  I leaned into the kitchen slightly. My mother remained sitting at the table with the windows still opened and the air conditioning blowing full force.

  “Mom, where’s my box of stuff from the old house? The one I kept all my high school stuff in?”

  “I put it up,” she snapped.

  “Where, mom?” I sighed.

  “You don’t need to go digging in that box. Graham’s gone Jak. Don’t go digging him up,” she said softly.

  I tried to tell myself I didn’t hear her, but my mind began to race again. Since Karter and I left the restaurant, I hadn’t slept. Recounting past events and memories, my mind began to question everything. I had some things I must do, and if what I hoped to be a mistake proved to be true, my only resolution would be to leave this city and never turn back or…

  Become a PTSD statistic.

  “Mom, where is it. I just want to look at a photo, and then I’ve got to run. I’ll be back in a few days,” I lied.

  “I put it downstairs. It’s in the spare bedroom with everything else. Don’t go upsetting yourself, Jak. When’s Karter coming home?”

  “In a few days, mom. Alright. I’ll say goodbye on my way out.”

  I ran down the stairs and into the spare bedroom. In the corner of the room was a large light green wooden chest. I knelt at the front of the chest and took a deep breath. As I opened the box I saw the photo album on top, right where I hoped it would be. Without opening it, I removed it, tucked it under my arm, and stared into the chest.

  Hundreds of unopened letters filled the chest. Stacks and stacks of bound envelopes side by side filled the majority of the box. For the first two years of training, I had sent each and every letter home, unopened. The only mail I opened or responded to was from my mother. In my opinion, considering all things at the time, reading anything from friends would only cause me grief and potentially diminish my chances of successfully completing my training. As I stared at the stacks of letters, I wondered now what they may contain. Frustrated and unwilling to attempt to relive my entire past, I shut the lid to the chest.

  I stood in the doorway and looked into the room as if I expected some form of response from the within the chest. I needed answers, and to get them I was going to go where I felt I had no business being. It wasn’t going to be a comfortable situation, but it had to be done. As much as I didn’t want to know, I knew I had to find the answers. Without knowing the truth, I couldn’t continue to live with Karter in my life, or even alone for that matter. I flipped off the light and turned from the room.

  “Mom, I grabbed a few photo’s. I’m going to home for a bit and then I may have to go meet Commander Warrenson,” I said from the top of the stairs.

  “You retired, Jak. Why do you have to go see him? Why Jak? And come give me a kiss. Since when do you leave without kissing me? What’s wrong with you, Jak?” my mother whined.

  I placed the photo album on the floor and stepped over it and into the kitchen. As my mother scowled at me, I wrapped my arms around her and held her. She was the only woman I felt I could truly trust.

  “I love you, mom,” I breathed.

  “I love you too, Jak. What’s going on?” she asked.

  “Nothing mom. I just saw a guy last night and he made me think of a few things. It’s not about Graham. I just wanted to see a few people. Nothing to worry about,” I assured her.

  “Alright. Well as soon as Karter gets back, you two come over here for dinner, okay?”

  I hope so, mom. I sure hope so.

  “I’ll let you know,” I said as I turned toward the stairs.

  “I’ll let you know if you don’t straighten up, Jak,” she huffed.

  I grabbed the album and walked to my truck. I opened the door, and tossed it into the front seat. I gripped the keys in my hand and inhaled a deep breath. I really didn’t want to do this, but I knew I had to. It wasn’t quite thirty miles to Potwin, and even in my old truck shouldn’t take thirty minutes.

  The longest thirty minutes of my life.

  JAK. If Bin Laden couldn’t hide in Pakistan, Shelley Peterson couldn’t expect to remain hidden in a town of 900 people. After asking the local cashier at the only gas station in the city, I had quickly found her address. Although I didn’t know for certain what she was going to do or say, I knew what I expected. This was certainly going to be a reunion I wasn’t looking forward to.

  I parked the truck a block from where she was supposed to live. It was the same vehicle I had driven since I was in high school, and I feared she’d recognize it if i drove it in clear view of her home. If she did realize it was me visiting, she may not answer the door. I pushed the photo album under the seat and pulled the baseball cap I’d purchased down to my brow. I shut the door, locked the truck, and walked down the street of a neighborhood I had not seen in over twenty years. Reluctantly, I walked up the driveway and onto the porch. After a short pause and prayer, I inhaled a deep breath and knocked on the door. Almost immediately, it opened.

  She remained petite and still rather attractive. It was obvious by the look on her face she had no idea who I was. As my heart began to race, and I mentally prepared for the worst, she broke the uncomfortable silence.

  “Something I can do for you?” she asked.

  I reached up and removed the baseball cap, “Shell.”

  She stared as if she’d seen a ghost. After what seemed like an eternity, she began right where I expected her to, “Jak fucking Kennedy, war hero. You know Jak, it doesn’t matter how many people you think you may have saved in that war; you still killed him. Doesn’t really matter how long you were away, it’ll never change. You need to leave and not be bringing memories back here talking about shit I’m trying to forget.”

  I took a deep breath and exhaled, “It’s not why I’m here, Shell. Can I come in?”

  She swung the door opened and turned toward the living room. Hesitantly, I stepped into the house and attempted to settle her down, “Shell. We’ve been over this. I didn’t kill him. It was a motorcycle accident. An absolute accident. Sometimes things happen, and we have no control over them.”

  “You son-of-a-bitch. Accept it. Admit it. You know I wouldn’t hate you if you’d just admit it. You two were drunk and you were racing. If it wasn’t for you, he’d still be here,” her voice became unsteady and she sat down on the edge of the couch.

  Graham, Shelley, and I were best friends since we were ten years old. We were close at a much younger age, but became inseparable in middle school. Shelley and I dated all through high school, and most who knew us expected we would become married. Although in our latter years she had become somewhat unpredictable in her actions, I always believed I loved her. When Graham and I announced our intent to join the Navy and attempt to become SEALS, she was livid. She spent many a long night with Graham attempting to talk him out of going to the Navy. I believed she felt all along if she could stop him form going, it would prevent me from proceeding with my plan to become a SEAL as well.

  We remained together up to the point Graham died. She blamed me solely for his accident; and after his funeral we separated. A matter of one day after his funeral, I left for training. She hadn’t spoken to me since, nor did I have any expectation of her doing so. Shelley and Graham were like brother and sister, and Graham’s death was far more difficult for her to accept than anyone else. No one quite understood the connection between them, or the pain she felt, but I did. She and Graham were like family.

  “I’m sorry you feel the way you do about it all, Shell. I suppose I reserved a little hope you’d feel different about it now. I’ve never refused to believe what happened actually happened, but I chose to set th
e memory of it aside. I guess at least until the other day. I uhhm,” I paused and thought of how to word the remaining portion of my question without giving too much information away.

  “Graham’s bike was green, wasn’t it?” I asked.

  Since opening the chest and driving to her house, I had begun to remember things about my former life I hadn’t remembered in years. If someone would have asked me two weeks prior what color Graham’s bike was, I wouldn’t have been able to answer. Now, I was recalling things about my early years with each tick of the clock.

  “You know what color it was,” she growled as she stood from the couch.

  “Shell, if I did, I wouldn’t have asked. Like I said, it’s really difficult for me. I have a hard time remembering any of that part of my life,” I said as I stood.

  She turned to face me and scowled, “Yes, dark green. Is that why you came here?”

  I pulled the ball cap tightly onto my head and crossed my arms, “Not entirely. I thought I saw Graham’s old bike the other day, but with a few different parts on it. I wasn’t sure. I knew you bought it from his parents after the wreck, but I wasn’t sure what you ever did with it.”

  “It’s gone,” she grunted.

  “Well, is it around here?” I asked.

  She shrugged, “Hard sayin’, I suppose it could be.”

  “What did you do with it?” I asked.

  “I gave the motherfucker away, Jak. After fifteen years, I couldn’t stand to look at it anymore,” she snapped.

  I better leave that one alone for now.

  “You ever get married?” I asked.

  She crossed her arms and sighed, “No, and it’s none of your business, Jak. Jesus, why’d you come here? To cause me pain? Maybe you should go.”

  “I just wanted to ask about the bike. It was a Harley, right?” I asked.

  “Just stop, Jak. Please,” she paused and placed her hands on her hips.

  “Why didn’t you respond to my letters, Jak?” she sniffed.

  “What letters?” I asked