Cocky Soldier: A Military Romance (Cocker Brothers of Atlanta Book 6)
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Cocky Soldier
A Cocker Brothers Novel
Faleena Hopkins
Hop Hop Publications
Contents
1. Meagan
2. Meagan
3. Jeremy
4. Meagan
5. Jeremy
6. Jeremy
7. Meagan
8. Jeremy
9. Meagan
10. Jeremy
11. Meagan
12. Jeremy
13. Meagan
14. Meagan
15. Jeremy
16. Meagan
17. Jeremy
18. Meagan
19. Meagan
20. Jeremy
21. Jeremy
22. Jeremy
23. Meagan
24. Meagan
25. Jeremy
26. Meagan
27. Jeremy
28. Meagan
29. Meagan
30. Jeremy
31. Meagan
32. Jeremy
33. Jeremy
34. Meagan
35. Meagan
36. Jeremy
37. Meagan
38. Jeremy
39. Meagan
HANNAH COCKER
Oh hell yes! Bonus Scenes!
JAKE COCKER - COCKY ROOMIE
JETT COCKER - COCKY BIKER
JAXSON COCKER - COCKY COWBOY
JASON COCKER - COCKY ROMANTIC
JUSTIN COCKER - COCKY SENATOR
A HONEY BADGER X-MAS
WEREWOLVES OF NEW YORK
About the Author
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher. Reasonable portions may be used for review and promotional purposes.
Cover Image licensed from Shutterstock.com
Cover Designed by Faleena Hopkins
Published by Hop Hop Publications
Copyright © 2016 Faleena Hopkins
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-1542552035
ISBN-10: 1542552036
Created with Vellum
Love is like war: easy to begin but very hard to stop.
H. L. Mencken
Meagan
Something is sniffing my fingers. Where the hell am I? Okay, not scary at all, but I’m blinking at a black, huge, beast of a dog with tan markings, larger than any I’ve ever seen before. He’s less than a foot away from my face. He’s stepping backwards like he didn’t think his dinner would wake up, and that gives me a greater view of a living room with virtually nothing in it in terms of furniture. Bryan’s mansion doesn’t have that creepy curtain-less window. My head is pounding. Why does my face feel crusty in places, wet in others?
If I’m at a spa in a facial mask they really need to spruce up their vibe. Add some Enya crooning in the background instead of that deep, male voice talking to someone other than me. Wait. I’m not alone.
“Where am I?!” I scream, sitting up like a shot.
Leaping in front of me—one hand out, the other holding a phone to his ear—is a shirtless guy so handsome that upon sight of him my open mouth clamps shut. His naked chest is sculpted, olive skin shadowed in all the right places, and there’s a tattoo of spindly lines and the letter C carved into the top of his left pectoral muscle. But there’s red stuff on his perfect chest that looks an awful lot like blood!
He gives an address into the phone then mutters, eyeing me, “She’s awake.”
“Yeah! I’m awake!” I croak, glancing behind me to see if he’s alone. “Did I ruin your evil plan?”
Back there is a sliver of a bare kitchen through a cracked-open door.
And that closed door to my right might lead to a coat closet…or to a basement where this guy keeps all his victims. The dog is between me and the front door.
In this bare bones room is a coffee table and a ratty chair. No art. White walls with scuff marks. A beat-up bicycle, tires inflated. Maybe that’s how he gets here. This couch is older than my grandfather’s grandpa’s mother. Just ahead awaits a hallway leading to other crappy places I never want to see.
None of it fits in with how intensely handsome and seemingly normal this guy looks. This is not just some bachelor pad. It doesn’t even look lived in.
Which means I’m in trouble.
He must be coo-coo-for-Cocoa-Puffs crazy.
This isn’t where he lives.
It’s where he stashes us.
“Tell whoever the fuck you’re talking to that you picked the wrong girl to kidnap! I know self-defense, asshole!” Jumping off the couch I kick at his knees to topple his abducting ass to the ground, but he jumps backward out of reach. No, he didn’t jump, exactly. He glided without effort as though he’s had training of his own, dark-chocolate eyes sharpening in an instant.
And now I’m on the ground. Nice. The hound from hell makes a sound like it’s embarrassed for me and we lock eyes. As I moan under the weight of the pain in my skull, its ears cock back on a head tilt.
“Calm down!” the guy orders me. “You need to be careful.”
My eyes shoot up and meet his. “Says the kidnapper.”
He frowns into the phone, “Hurry. Her head’s not on right. She’s combative.” After a pause, he mutters, “No, I’m not worried about that. I can handle her. I’ve dealt with worse. I’ll be waiting.” He hangs up and tucks the phone into his sweats’ pocket.
“You’ve dealt with worse? You get off on it or something? Huh?! HUH?! Good-looking guy like you can get any girl he wants so instead he steals and tortures them? Does that make you hot, sick fucker?!”
I try to kick at him again, but he backs up and sighs, crossing his arms, which makes his biceps spread out and look enormously strong. I stare at them thinking I might not be able to overtake him after all. I lied about the self-defense. I’ve been meaning to take classes. And right now I wish to God I hadn’t put that off.
He leans down and engages my stare. “I didn’t ‘steal’ you. Get back on the couch and stop trying to attack me. I’m not the enemy, and you have a concussion.”
Stunned, my hand floats to my head, and horror waves into me. “Is this my own blood?”
“Yes.”
Real fear takes hold—all bravado gone. “Okay, please don’t hurt me,” I whisper.
“I’m not going to hurt you, you freak! You drove into a tree. I had to get you to a phone. Couldn’t leave you out in the cold bleeding like that. An ambulance is on its way. Now, just calm the fuck down.”
We stare at each other while he tilts his stunning head, waiting for me to catch on.
“You actually live here?”
“Yes,” he mutters, annoyed. “And you almost hit me and my dog.”
My reckless driving quickly jumps up and replays in my wounded, delusional mind like a game of charades. Three syllables. Car accident. Wait, that’s four. Whatever. Suddenly it all makes sense to me.
Meagan
Seventeen minutes ago.
If I blow through this red light, what’s the worst that could happen?
The guy who invented snooze buttons needs to be punched out cold and when he wakes up nine minutes later, punched out again. I’ll do the honors, shouting after round three, “How does it feel?! Refreshed?!”
I think it’s sa
fe to run this.
No cops to my left or my right.
There’s a single, blue Kia with a busted muffler and one broken taillight, which I can see only because it’s buzzing away from me. He doesn’t care if I break the law. Other than him, 14th Street is empty.
As the morning sky inches toward a lighter shade of grey, there’s nobody to witness this illegal move save for totally screwed, late-for-work, little ole me.
What time is it?
5:55 A.M.
No problem. I can make it there by six.
If someone invented time travel and I went back eighteen minutes.
Dammit!
I hate being late. Every morning.
“Just floor it, Meagan. No one’s gonna know.”
Slamming the gas pedal with my stylish boot I smoke the red and launch into a residential area. Can’t afford to pay for another speeding ticket just because my boss is an unforgiving genius and I’m afraid of losing my job, so I give a quick glance over my shoulder to make damn sure the rearview mirror wasn’t lying. No cops. Fuck yeah! I’m the luckiest rebel on the planet.
I whip back around to face front.
My eyes snap open wide as they can get. One of those ridiculously large speed bumps they randomly install in residential neighborhoods has materialized before me.
Too late. Can’t slow. Here I go!
My hot pink Prius catches air like it never has—or ever should. The front wheels crash onto the pavement first. The rear two catch up a million feet later. I whoop with rebellious joy followed by a peal of laughter that most people pay good money for and have to shove into a bong to get.
I have personally kept my guardian angel solidly employed for every single one of my twenty-five years. I’m surprised she hasn’t quit, but she’s still with me, so here I am, ripping a good 55 MPH in a 25 MPH zone, loving every second of it.
This character flaw drives my mother crazy.
She says that because I am young I believe I will live for eternity. I don’t believe I’ll live forever. I know I will. Not in this flesh, but in some dish I have yet to create that people will share the recipe of for centuries to come. That’s the goal.
With Beethoven’s ‘Ode to Joy’ blasting my eardrums to bits from speakers that can barely handle the pain, I grin like crazy. Even if I’m late to Bryan’s house, what an adventure this morning has been so far!
It’ll be worth the ass chewing I’m in for. He’s going to growl and threaten to fire me, but he won’t follow through with it.
I kinda wish he would.
And I kinda wish he wouldn’t.
Because I kinda have a crush on him.
Okay…I very much have a crush on my boss, and we’re kinda sleeping together.
Most talented chefs are extremely hard to deal with, so I’m fine with him being a total dick at times. There have been many when I wanted to quit, slap him, or both, and not in that order. But then there are those dreamy blue eyes and that amazingly confident smile that both stop me from doing anything but whatever he says.
He’s charismatic, as many egotistical people are. So full of himself that you want to be full of him, too. Pun intended.
What time is it?
6:01 A.M.
I am officially one inexcusable minute late.
Dammit, my phone is vibrating.
I mutter, reaching for my cell, “Was he sitting there watching the clock?!”
In my reach I accidentally turn the wheel to the left. Not much. Just a little. Unfortunately, in the swerve, my phone slides right off the passenger seat and onto the floor, still ringing, his name ominously glowing from the screen: Bryan Marchand.
“Hang on. I’m coming,” I mutter, leaning down to reach. My cell slides further to the right, nestling in the corner of the floor among the ignored lint and dead leaf fragments. I grunt, “Get over here you stupid phone,” and stretch my right arm as far as it can go while my left steers with no one behind the wheel.
The very tips of my fingers finally touch plastic. Just a little farther! Reach, reach, and, “Gotcha!”
Bryan’s name disappears.
“Fuck! I missed it.”
He’s been sent to voicemail, which he’ll hate.
Groaning I straighten up, look out the windshield, and scream.
I’m speeding toward a stop sign.
On the other side of the street.
There’s a jogger.
He’s got a dog.
They’re heading for the crosswalk.
I’m going to hit them.
He and I lock eyes.
Turn the wheel, Meagan!
Jeremy
“No, buddy. We’re sleeping in today,” I mumble into the pillow.
Instead of curling back up on the ratty rug by my bed, Aslan continues staring at me with the kind of persistence I’m not in the mood for. The mattress sinks under his furry chin as he doubles the effort with sad eyes.
“C’mon, buddy,” I grumble. “We always get up early.”
He thumps his heavy paw on the bed.
“Just one morning, can I sleep in?!”
He thumps again.
I roll over so I don’t have to look at him. “Give me one more hour!”
Rottweilers, as a breed, talk, so he lets me know what he thinks of my procrastination by a short howl so fucking unignorable that I have to throw my legs over the side of the bed and stand, rubbing my eyes while shaking my head to clear out the dust.
“Fine. I’m up. Better than having that dream again,” I grumble.
I slept like I was back in Fallujah, not here in Atlanta, Georgia, the city I was raised in.
In other words, I slept like shit.
Panting with happiness, Aslan’s nubby tail bobs back and forth. He backs up to give me room while I drag navy blue sweats up my legs, slam a matching blue hoodie on my torso.
“Did you know I was havin’ a nightmare? That why you woke me, boy?”
I give his super soft, huge head a pat, then shove sneakers on my bare feet, forgetting all about socks. The house keys get swiped off my rickety coffee table along with his leash that I fasten around his collar in less than a heartbeat of time. As soon as we clear the front door we’re off and running, leaving the single-story, one-bedroom, house I bought when I got out of the Marines in our wake.
Every slap of my soles against the sidewalk, every intake of fresh morning air in my lungs, and the past steadily loses its grip on my psyche.
Aslan’s gait matches my rhythmic pace and I glance to him, take in his happy, carefree concentration and wildly flapping tongue. God…so lucky I found him. Without this guy I’d be in bed until dinner every damn day.
He needs these runs, sure.
Every dog does.
But I think my buddy knows I need them, too.
I didn’t want to wake up, but now that I’m running I feel better. Relieved. Ghosts are left behind me. Just me and my dog and the blissful silence of dawn. My home is in a quiet neighborhood, a deliberate choice. At this hour the streets are always empty.
If I lived in a busy neighborhood I’d be tense from all the unexpected noises.
I’d be searching for an oncoming fight that never comes anymore.
Silence is necessary to my sanity.
But what I don’t need is a Prius so quiet I can’t hear it coming.
My eyes lock with the driver’s. She’s headed right for us.
Adrenaline shoots into me like I’ve been punched.
I yank Aslan’s leash back.
His paws struggle to run backwards, the fur around his neck stretched under his chain-collar.
The girl’s hands dig into the steering wheel, turning to the right.
Her car skids away just in time, so close that wind touches my face like a whisper from The Reaper.
But she’s not so lucky.
With that quick turn she over-corrected and I shout as she crashes right into the oak tree on the corner, the one diagonal from where Aslan and I
stand. She wraps right around the damn thing like her car is made of tin.
Everything goes silent again. Except in my own fucked up head. Rifles explode as I race to the wreck. I know they’re not real, just a fucked-up mirage from my memories I might never be able to shake.
Put Jeremy Cocker on the front lines.
He’s the quickest to react.
Jeremy was made to fight.
He’s never scared.
Yeah, right. I’m scared all the time, like everybody.
I just ignore it.
I make it to the crumpled hunk of metal and yank on the locked door handle, scanning her bloody face like a robot calculating data. The airbag is splattered liquid red and ballooned around her. I shout through the glass. “Hey! You alive?!”
She doesn’t answer, eyes closed, lips parted.
“Aslan, go there!” I shout and point him to the sidewalk. Pulling off my hoodie, I wrap the thick cotton around my right arm and slam my elbow through the driver’s side rear window, glass shattering. Reaching over shards of it I unlock the driver’s door and rush to yank it open and lift her out of the car.
I’ve gotta call an ambulance.
Cops, too.
They’ll need a report.
The car is totaled.
Left my cell phone at home. Hell, I hardly use the thing, so of course I don’t have it with me. “Aslan, come!”
As we rush back, his leash dragging unmanned, I keep checking on her and repeating, “Hang in there. Don’t die on me,” but the sight of her bloody in my arms is jarring. I grit my teeth and shut the ghosts out. Jesus, how many times have I carried the wounded?
Too many.
Meagan
Back to present time.
Slinking up onto the couch, all I can manage is an embarrassed, “Oh. Oops. With how this place looks I thought…”
He cocks an eyebrow, waiting for me to finish insulting him.