Lukas (This is Our Life Series Book 4)

by F. G. Adams

  The real torment, deep inside, I’ve hidden from everyone. Easily camouflaged by my quick tongue and wisecrack taunts. Covering the hopelessness that binds me at the present. A bottomless pit of purgatory I can’t shake loose.

  With one hand, I pull the heavy glass to my lips and once again sip the rich and robust vanilla flavor of the Canadian blend. At this point, the sting is no longer in attendance. I’m beginning to feel the sweet numbing affects I hunger for every second of every day. My other hand is grasped tightly around the grip of my 9mm Beretta, lying snuggly in the bend of my lap.

  Tonight is the night of the end.

  Flashbacks of things I don’t wish to remember cause my stomach to flip upside down. A rumbling in my chest develops from the cringe worthy shit-stick I’ve been handed. I toss my head back and forth against the chair, bringing the gun up to my temple, rubbing furiously. I’m desperate in the effort to escape the demons dragging me to hell.

  The nightmares come and go, a constant reminder of that pivotal day in the desert years ago. I’ve pondered the reality of life and my existence since then. What is the point in all this aimless wondering if I can never be one hundred percent, unmarked, undamaged? Is that why she left?

  I had a great fall, and unlike Humpty Dumpty, the shattered pieces that remain are splintered and too microscopic to be put back together again.

  In a split second, my life was changed forever.

  One minute, the guys and I were climbing up the steep rock cliff to the top of the ridge, the next it’s Armageddon all around us. I’m thrown down, knocked out cold.

  The next thing I remember is Keagan's large head towering over me, striking repeatedly on my chest, yelling for me to wake the fuck up. He wouldn’t let me die on his watch. Not in that Godforsaken land.

  The most horrific pain I’d ever felt coursed through my limbs. Glancing down my body to where the throbbing and burning emitted the most, I glimpsed the twisted, mangled flesh. My leg was blown to bits and I was bleeding out. I believed my life was over, but I still held hope until I woke up in the hospital. My leg was gone. And soon after, so was she.

  A perpetual nightmare from which I can never wake up.

  Over time, I’ve learned my worst enemy and my greatest ally is my mind and my memories.

  I pull the last drag from the cigarette and dash it out in the ashtray; a tear escapes my watery eyes and I huff a few short breaths. Drawing the gun up to my lips, I open my mouth, placing my military-issued handgun directly inside.

  It will be so easy to pull the trigger. This is it. What I’ve been waiting for. Placing my finger on the trigger, I count in my head to three. One. Two. Three. Click. Click. Click.

  Nothing. Fuck. Blurry eyed, I glance over to the table where the magazine clip sits on top of the note I wrote earlier. Dammit.

  I place the gun back onto my lap and swallow another shot of whiskey. I inhale deep, fluid breaths, psyching myself up for round two or ten. Whichever way you want to look at it. I’ve been practicing my finale for months.

  The truth? My missing leg is a constant reminder and evidence of the physical torment I bear. Not by choice or desire, and a constant reminder of her running away. It’s not the cool ‘chicks dig scars’ kind of deal either. Nope. Losing a limb sucks ass. Unlike breaking a leg or cutting yourself deep. Those will eventually heal. It’s gone. Poof. Forever.

  Sure, I’ve been fitted with the best and most expensive prosthetic on the planet. I happen to come from a wealthy family, and I have the military backing, too. Purple heart recipient and all.

  It just can’t replace what I’ve lost. I’m no longer in one piece. No longer a solid, unscathed man.

  In the beginning, it hurt so damn bad, but I was hopped up on morphine and painkillers for about a year.

  For a while there, I thought everyone was pranking on me, telling me that my leg had to be amputated right below my kneecap. I pleaded with Ollie to pull the sheet back and show me the truth of it, to see for myself. Unwillingly, he finally complied. Low and behold, I had a stub.

  Yet, I could still feel it. Sometimes, I still do. But it’s just the fucking phantom limb pain. During the healing of my nub, I experienced other sensations, too, like tingling, heat, and cold in the area below my knee that was removed. It was all kinds of fucked up.

  Doc said I’d get better, just had to give it time. Yeah, right. What did she know anyway?

  Months after the initial shock, I returned to the States and was sent to the country’s number one institute for prosthetics in Lakeview. Low and behold, she was assigned to my case.

  “Be strong, Lukas, and eventually you’ll stand, walk, and run again. All on your own. You’ll see.”

  However, what did she know? She has all her limbs. As a physical therapist, it’s her job to encourage. But she’s dead wrong about me. I won’t keep going.

  I’m such a coward. A diabolical, fucked in the head mess of a broken man.

  Those deep brown eyes pierced into my haunted soul the day she imparted those words. The same day she reassigned my case to another doctor. We had to cut the strings or some bullshit, because I wanted her.

  Picking up the phone, I dial her number. The one I have memorized. Yeah, I’m a sack of jizz-cock, alright. I crave to hear her voice once more.

  “Huhumm. Hello?” a sleepy, sultry voice comes over the line.

  I don’t utter a sound. I can’t. It’s not meant for us in the cards or stars, according to Dr. Do-Gooder. Whatever the fuck that means. We had one month of utter bliss. That was all it would ever be. I’d had her before the incident, and I thirsted for another taste. I craved more.

  “Hello? Who is this?”

  The woman on the end of the line, freshly aroused from sleep, sounds agitated due to the early morning hour.

  I hug the phone to my chest, pretending to hold her in my arms. The complicated feelings she provokes are foreign. Why can’t she feel the same? I should end this call. Bringing the phone up, I hear her.

  “Hello? Whoever this is, do you know what time it is, dammit? Lukas Rogers? Is that you? I know it’s you. I can hear you breathing. Talk to me, Luc.”

  I hang up the phone. I’m caught. In the miserable state I’m in, it’s exactly what I deserve.

  With all the late-night calls and hang-ups in the past, I should’ve known she’d figure me out.

  I don’t need to be talked down from the ledge. A hollow ache rushes deep within me, supplying just enough strength to finish the job.

  I slide the clip into the barrel and lock it firmly into place. Click. Clack. The safety is on and I grip the metal handle solidly in my large hand.

  Unfolding my lethargic frame from the chair, I stand up, making a full pass around the interior of my home to confirm that all the windows and doors are locked and fortified. It takes about twenty minutes to secure the perimeter before I go back into my private sanctuary.

  With one last glance at the alarms on my phone, I verify the message to Keagan and Oliver will be delivered first thing in the morning, after I’m gone. Fucking coward.

  Yeah, it’s a shit way to go out. And I’m a dick-weasel for punching out this way. They’re going to hate me, for a little while. And I deserve it for the candy-ass man-baby I’ve become. I’m not built like either one of them. I’m weak. The note I’m leaving will explain. I just hope they’ll forgive me…one day.

  As I sit down for the last time in my favorite plush brown leather chair, I place my phone onto the table. I lean my disheveled head against the headrest as the suffocating emotions trample through my mind. It’s almost over. Plucking the weighted gun from my lap, I click the safety off and once again fill my mouth with the cold, hard steel.

  The acrid odor of gun residue slows my progress temporarily.

  Huffing and puffing in and out, I ready for the anticipated closure. In my mind, I begin to count. One. Two.

  Knock-knock. Knock-knock.

  What the fuck?

  Ignoring the intruder, I begin
to count again. One. Tw…

  Knock-knock. Bam. Bam. Bam.

  The pounding on the door escalates to an annoying roar in my head. Followed by a ruckus that I’m not prepared to hear.

  “Lukas, open up! I know you’re in there. Please, open the door,” the angelic voice from my fantasies shouts through the front door. Although her voice is not angel-like in any way. She sounds frustrated and concerned?

  I freeze in place. Not moving a muscle, with the Beretta still lodged firmly in my mouth.

  What in the shit is she doing here?

  “Lukas, I’m gonna give you till the count of five to open this door, or so help me, I’ll bust it down, you crazy-ass son of a bitch. And don’t think I can’t do it, because I can. So, open the goddamn door. NOW!”

  Her yelling spurs me into action as I withdraw the gun from my mouth, closing my lips tightly together. Busted. This is not how I planned to go quietly into the night.

  I stand up quickly, gathering the bottle of pills along with my gun, and place it in the drawer of the side table. All the while I hear a countdown coming from the front of the house. Ironic, really.

  I move swiftly to the door as a loud thud originates from the other side of the entrance door. As I focus on the door, it shifts and bows slightly from the impact of the physical force pummeling against it on the other side. My posture perks up as I examine further. Awestruck by the fortitude displayed.

  Quickly, I twist the lock before the wood gives way, and throw open the door just as a luscious body falls solidly into my arms. She’s dressed in her pajamas as if she got right out of bed and rushed over.

  Dark chestnut-colored eyes penetrate my hazel stare. For a moment, I’m lost in the heaven they represent. Until the beating against my upper body begins. The goody-two-shoes doctor whales on me, punching hard. Damn, she’s strong.

  “You big, good-for-nothing, rotten piece of shit,” she hisses, catching her breath. “Lukas Rogers. You scared the living daylights out of me. This has got to stop. Do you hear me?” The tempo in her tone cracks a little.

  “I’m sorry, doc. I really am. I was busy baking cookies.” Smiling, I try for a lie, but she’s just not buying any of it.

  “Don’t pull that Jolly Green bullshit with me, Lukas. I know what you’re up to. I felt it…somehow,” Sage mutters. Bewilderment crosses her face as she pushes pass me and enters my home.

  “Hold on, wait one minute there, doc. Where are you going?”

  I watch in amazement as she wanders from room to room around my home like she owns the place, until she reaches my office. She stops right in front of my chair.

  I scramble into the room after her, grappling for the note I neglected to stash away. The statement partially hidden underneath the bottle of whiskey. Poking out just enough to mock me.

  Without hesitation, she scoops up the note and begins to read it as I approach. Reaching out, I swipe once, striving to get hold of it. We begin a game of keep-away, but with my every strike, she moves faster. My movements are slow, almost to a crawl from the overuse of drugs and alcohol.

  The sadness and disappointment portrayed in her expression with the intensity surging around the air as she shakes her head sobers me instantly.

  “I knew it. You…What? Are you just gonna give up? Just like that, Luc?” She snaps her fingers. “I sure didn’t peg you for a quitter.”

  I attempt to brush off the harsh tone and stumble, grasping the back of my chair for support. How can I respond? She’s right.

  My plan to end my existence dwindles with her presence in my home. It’s time for Dr. Do-Gooder to exit.

  “I just—it’s none of your fucking business anymore, doc. You…you need to leave. I didn’t invite you here. This is my…my domain. I think you need to go, now,” I reciprocate in a stern tone, my speech slurring in the process.

  Placing both hands on my hips, I square my wide shoulders, determined. I loom over her smaller frame and stare into the desolation of her emotionally-charged eyes.

  Lifting her chin and stiffening her shoulders, in a firm tone she announces, “I’m not going anywhere, stubborn ass. Not until we talk about this. Not until you see reason, Lukas.”

  Her reply brokers resolution, and she thrusts the handwritten letter into my abs.

  Knocked off kilter, I’m speechless. This little woman has spunk and fire, and I admire her more. Fuck! She’s perfect. The doc has balls of steel.

  Sage is taller than average, which appeals to a guy who’s six feet seven. Still, the idea she couldn't stop me from hauling her up and carrying her ass easily out the door or to my bed arouses me. A ball twister.

  “You put on a fake smile to hide the pain, yet wish someone would look closely enough and see how broken you really are inside. Well, I see you, Lukas. I noticed.” She takes a breath from her heartfelt words, bowing her head. Then she lifts up her chin, a gleam in her eyes, and interjects with vengeance in her tone, “I’ve told you that you need help. Professional help. And I’m committed to help you get it.”

  The pigheaded set in her jaw tells me she means business. How the fuck am I going to get out of this?

  I’m startled when a small, soft hand reaches out to grab my own. She squeezes lightly to solicit my attention. I’m transfixed by her intoxicating gaze, and I don’t dare move an inch.

  Fear and hope shine from this brave and beautiful woman. A longing for something that I can never have induces a fast, steady rhythm in my heart. After all, I’m only part of a man now. I have nothing to offer a highly educated, exquisite woman like her. My posture shifts and I cross my arms in front of my chest.

  “Listen to me, Lukas. Please.”

  Her pleading causes my chest to thump like a piston. I close my eyes at the touch of her hand on my body. The electrical energy coursing through her to me. Hunger and desire stir my parched body and soul.

  “Let me help you,” she encourages again, and I’m lost in the significance of her presence here, in my home.

  Yearning overrules my best-laid plans, because a single moment alone with the woman I’ve desired above all else is better than nothing at all.

  A battle wages in my brain. A little while ago, I was ready to call it quits, lights out for good. Before the good doctor banged on my door and stormed into my home. Halting my plan of action.

  Did fate step in, or the man upstairs? I’m at a loss for words as my shoulders slump and I hang my head in shame.

  “You’re right,” I pause because I did want to make it all end.

  I’m tired of playing the jokester for another day. Subsequently lying to everyone I care about in my life.

  “You’re not well, Lukas. Let me help make you whole again.”

  I revel in the possibilities of what she’s offering me. To feel normal. Craving to be whole. The realization slams into me, knocking me off balance. There’s no possibility my intentions will come to pass this evening, or any night for that matter. Now that the virtuous doctor has found out my intention.

  I stroke the stubble on my jaw and then the back of my neck, massaging the tension in the muscles there. The only choice is to concede and maybe come out on the other side in one piece. No pun intended.

  “You know, life itself can’t give you the joy and peace you’re looking for, Lukas. I’ve learned this firsthand. But life does give you time; it’s up to you how to fill it. So, what do you say, Jolly Green?”

  Sage smiles her million-dollar smile in my direction. The same one that captured my heart when I first met her in the bar years ago.

  Her enchanting expression wakes me up, and I finally see reason. She’s my savior. Sage showed up at my darkest hour because my time isn’t up. It’s as if we are connected somehow. If I go dark, I’ll never know what could be.

  Taking a deep breath as a tear slips down my cheek, I answer honestly, “I’m broken. Half a man and in the dark all the time,” I huff bowing my chin to my chest.

  I startle when featherlight strokes from a tiny hand caress my c
heck, a thumb brushes back and forth against the hair of my jawline. My flaming heart burns out of my chest. She tugs on my chin until our gazes meet again, and I’m drowning in the connection simmering between us.

  “You’ve got this, Lukas. I’ll be right there with you,” she whispers and nods her head.

  “Alright, Sage. I concede,” I declare in a war-torn state. Only as friends.

  “We’ll do this together, Lukas.”

  “Help me, doc. Help me get rid of the pain. Please make it go away.”

  2

  Sage

  Present Day

  What would I pay to spend a day warm on the sand? If only. I’m almost certain in previous lives, I had multiple rebirths as Hans Christian Anderson’s fairy tale characters, or at least today it’s his little mermaid. Growing up, I found strength and comfort, escaping to make-believe places. It kind of stuck as an adult. Hey, don’t judge me. I can believe whatever helps me to get past this moment, okay? Truth is, I’m frantically searching for a way out of the crazy world, or in this case, the situation I stumbled into, even knowing how it would turn out.

  I knew with every fiber of my being coming here today, I would see him again. I would have to pretend I had never felt his warm fingers caress my heated skin into a fury. A fact only he has accomplished—no other man has even come close. I would have to forget how his magical lips delivered me into an erotic oblivion time and time again. I would have to forget the shape of his body against mine as he thrusts tirelessly over and over into my welcoming pussy. Ahhhh…one unforgettable night that jumpstarted the insane, fucked-up relationship Lukas and I have become accustomed to over the past few years.

  It could be possible that he’s my Hulk and I'm his Black Widow. Forbidden, but the yearning for one another remains. My superpowers equalized by him. I strive daily to squelch the need for him, but each time we touch, an uncontrollable desire takes over, and boom—all sense of intelligence disappears in the wind.

  A deep clearing of a male’s throat forces me back to reality. I stare up into the teasing eyes of Tanner Mason aka Moose. Many times since meeting the easy-going, panty-dropping man, I’ve wondered how in the world he got the name Moose. You would think it was due to the fact he liked to hunt or something about he’s hung like a moose, who knows. I haven’t figured it out. He did grow up in the swamp lands of Louisiana. No help there. He won’t tell me either, and neither will any of the Trident Security guys. Guess it’s a puzzle I’ll have to solve on another day.