by Jay McLean
MORE than ENOUGH
MORE THAN SERIES | BOOK FIVE
JAY McLEAN
MORE THAN ENOUGH
Copyright © 2015 Jay Mclean
EPUB Edition
Published by Jay McLean
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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Published: Jay McLean November 2015
Cover Design: Ari at Cover it! Designs
Edited by: Vanessa Bridges at Prema Romance
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Note to Readers
Part I: The Falling
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Part II: The Breaking
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Epilogue
About the Author
Dedication
To those who struggle to find peace amongst the chaos of your silence.
May your voices be heard.
Note to Readers
Please note than More Than Enough (More Than #5) is part #5 in the More Than Series and should not be read prior to reading More Than This (More Than #1), More Than Her (More Than #2), More Than Him (More Than #3) and More Than Forever (More Than #5)
MORE than THIS
MORE than HER
MORE than HIM
MORE than FOREVER
Part I
The Falling
Prologue
Riley
He smiles that half smile I love so much. “You’re kind of beautiful.”
I drop my gaze, waiting for the seconds to pass before the butterflies in my stomach settle. I wait and I wait, but it doesn’t seem to fade. It never does when I’m with him.
“Riley,” he says, and I can hear his smile through his words. “You’re blushing.”
I look up, ready for the onslaught on my heart that only he can create. He’s chewing his lip, his green eyes dancing with amusement. He shakes his head, then laughs and moves next to me. The warmth of his bare arm wraps around my shoulders. “You know how I feel about you but you still look surprised when I tell you. Why?”
“Because it still is a surprise to me—that you chose me over—”
He laughs again and settles a hand on my bare leg. “I had no choice,” he cuts in. “I’ve always wanted you. I’m just lucky you let me have you.” He runs his lips across my jaw, his hand drifting higher until his fingers reach my bikini bottom. “How long until the others get here?”
Wanting to feel more of him, I turn my head to the side, welcoming him. He doesn’t falter, not for a second. His lips part as they move to mine and I get lost in the familiarity of his kiss. Over two years we’ve kissed like this and it only gets better. He lies down on the rocky embankment and pulls me with him until I’m on top and his arms are around me. His hands drift lower down my back, lightly skimming my butt. He laughs into my mouth when I moan. I pull back, a glare already in place. His eyes are shut tight, his lips pursed, trying to hold in his laughter.
“You’re a tease,” I tell him, sitting back down next to him.
He shoves his hand down his shorts and adjusts himself. “It’s not like we can do much here.” He points to our surroundings. “People can come by at any time.”
I raise an eyebrow. “So?”
“Riley, you talk a lot of talk but you’d die if anyone caught us in the slightest of compromising positions.”
I roll my eyes, but we both know he’s right.
He waits for my laughter to settle. “Last thing off the bucket list, right?”
I follow where he’s pointing, to the top of the cliff edge twenty feet above the lake we just swam in. The grin on my face can’t be contained. Yesterday, there were two things left on that list. Making love for the first time was one of them. “Take The Leap,” I muse.
“The Leap” is what kids around here call it. Most seniors do it during the summer right before they leave for college and Jeremy and I are no exception. It’s almost like a rite of passage out of our childhoods and into the big, wide world.
Into reality.
“You ready?” he asks, standing up and throwing a hand out for me.
I take it, nodding as I do.
We walk up the path, made clear by the few hundred if not thousands of kids who have walked there before us.
“Holy shit!” he breathes out once we’re at the top. His eyes move quickly from the drop to me. He takes a couple steps backward, moving further away from the edge. His brows bunch, his bare chest heaving frantically. He looks like he’s in pain and I don’t know why. “I think I’m afraid of heights,” he murmurs.
I look over the edge, and then back at him. Then I laugh. “How can you be afra
id of heights? Or better yet, how did you not know you were until this point?”
He shakes his head with so much force that beads of water fly off his shaggy, dirty blond hair, some sticking to the tips of the strands. “I don’t know, Ry, but this is bad. This is really fucking bad.”
For a split second I think it’s a joke, but his face has paled and his breaths have become more erratic.
I step to him, taking his hands in mine. He doesn’t take his eyes off me. “Jer, if you’re really that afraid you don’t have to do it.”
His forceful breath hits my forehead. “Are you still going to?”
I nod. “Yeah, I think I am. Bucket list isn’t complete if I don’t. We can lie; tell people you did it too. No one will have to know.”
He pulls his hands out of mine and runs them through his hair. “I don’t care about that. I just…” he trails off and slowly walks closer to the edge. “Holy fucking shit,” he mumbles when he looks down the drop. His voice shakes. At first I think he’s laughing, but looking at him now, laughing doesn’t even come close. He walks past me, moving further away from the edge and starts pacing, his hands behind his head, his fingers linked, and his head tilted back eyeing the sky. “Okay,” he says, and then repeats it a few more times. He squares his shoulders and shakes out his hands. “We can do this,” he says, but there’s not a single hint of belief in his words. “Yeah,” he nods, “I can totally do this.”
He’s adorable. Beyond adorable. His six-foot frame and the manly muscles that take residence there seem so out of place with his current demeanor. He’s like a kid, afraid to jump off a four-foot-high diving board.
“Babe,” I say through a laugh, even though I know I shouldn’t. “It’ll be fine. I’ll hold your hand,” I assure. “We can run up, jump together. You’ll never even see the drop until we’re falling.”
He chews his thumb, his eyes boring into mine. I want him to laugh with me, as if he finally realizes how ridiculous this entire thing is. Especially for him. I guess even big, macho jocks get afraid sometimes. He steps toward me, his fingers linking with mine. Dropping his mouth to my ear, he whispers, “You gotta hold my hand, okay? And don’t let go.” He ends on a laugh, but it’s not from humor. It’s from nerves.
I pull back so I can see his face. There’s a shadow of doubt covering all of his features. His eyebrows pinch and his teeth clamp harshly around his bottom lip.
I kiss his cheek and start pulling him away, just enough so we can get a decent run up.
I stop at a suitable spot and turn to him. “You good?”
He nods, releasing my hand so that he can shake his out—once, twice, and then a third time for good measure. He tilts his neck to either side a couple times, relaxing the muscles I can see pressing out of his tanned skin. “I love you,” he says, as if it’s the last time we’ll ever see each other.
I laugh, not at him, but at the situation. Taking his hand and gripping it tight, I face the edge. “Ready?”
Not a second passes before I start running, holding his hand tight, not letting go—just like he asked me. It’s a ten-foot run up, nothing huge, but it’s enough so that he can’t see the drop beyond the edge. Three more steps and we’ll be airborne. One. Two. Th—
“NO!” he shouts, his hand gripping mine tighter.
I jump.
Resistance.
A resonating thud fills my ears.
Loose gravel hits my shoulders.
And I fall.
Dylan
A year and a half later.
“Does the air feel thicker here?” Dave mumbles, half turning to me with a lit cigarette in his mouth. With the kid’s fiery red hair and freckles all over his face—it’s pretty clear why the other boys in the unit have dubbed him “Irish.”
I kick the back of his boot, urging him to keep walking. “Not that I can tell. Maybe your lungs are dying. Quit smoking.”
He stops suddenly. “I’ll quit smokin’ when you quit preachin’.” He jerks his head, suggesting I walk ahead of him.
Our shoulders bump as I take his place in the line so his smoke won’t get to me. Not that I mind, but that’s all Dave. He’s always looking to take care of other people—something I worked out since I roomed with him during basic. See, Dave, unlike me—never wanted to be a marine, but when your old man’s the type with the heavy hand and an even heavier drinking problem and your mom’s left to take care of your three younger brothers, you hit a turning point. Dave’s point was when he walked in on his dad using his youngest brother in place of himself or his mom. Dave chose to turn the tables that night…
So, with Drunk Dad now in lock up it was on Dave (or Davey, as his mom calls him) to take care of shit. At barely eighteen, he found himself stuck with me twenty-four seven. He soon learned I didn’t have much to say, so he says enough for both of us.
He asked once why I chose this life. I told him a half-truth. I said I was avoiding. He said he was doing the same. I was too much of a pussy to admit that his version of avoiding and mine were on completely different spectrums.
Now here we are: kicking dry dirt in fuck-knows-where, Afghanistan.
“It’s bullshit they make us do this,” he says, and I can hear the frustration in his voice. Hell, we’re all frustrated, but only he has the balls to speak it.
“It’s our job,” I tell him.
“You think we trained all that time to be knocking door to door looking for threats?”
I ignore him and keep my eyes on my surroundings, bringing my weapon closer to my chest.
“D?”
“What?”
“Are you happy?”
With a sigh, I mumble, “Quit with this bullshit already.”
“D?”
My shoulders drop. “I’m happy enough, okay?”
“That’s a fucking lie if ever I heard one,” Leroy chimes in from in front of me.
“Who’s talking to you?” Dave responds.
Leroy shakes his head, never once looking back. “Anyone who says they’re happy in this shithole is a fucking liar.”
Dave steps up next to me. “Who the fuck are you to tell him he can’t be happy? Maybe D’s the kind to get off on being miserable.”
“Shut the fuck up, assholes,” First Sergeant Fulton whisper-yells from the front of the line. He places his weapon in position, eyeing the rest of us before knocking on what feels like the hundredth door of the same old dilapidated house we’ve seen every day for the last few weeks.
“Yo,” Dave whispers, coming up so close behind me I can feel the metal of his gun against my back. “How many more of these you think we got?”
“How the fuck am I supposed to know?”
We enter the house and go through every room, every crawl space. We open every door, flip over every piece of furniture. It’s a routine check, or at least it was. It’s not until I hear screaming coming from a far room that my pulse begins to pound and the adrenaline spikes.
“Put your weapon down!” someone yells.
Dave and I eye each other in the small, dark kitchen—the only source of light coming from a crack in the pieces of wood nailed over the window. Dust particles fill the air and now it’s silent again, all but for the beating of my heart.
“What the fuck we do, D?” Dave whispers. Gone is the frustration in his words, now replaced with something no one should hear, let alone show. Especially here. Amidst a fucking war.
I walk past him, nudging his elbow with mine as I do. I assure him that he’ll be okay even though I have no idea. But he’s young, and the fear in his eyes is something I’m sure he’s had to hold back in his past life.
We walk side by side through the narrow hallway, our weapons drawn, until we get to the other side of the house. The yelling starts again, only this time it’s louder and more than just one voice. “Put it down!” I hear over and over.
Then another voice.
A different one.
One of a kid.
He’s yelling back, hi
s volume matching that of my unit’s. He’s screaming; muffled words in a different language and my feet, though they feel heavy, find a way to keep moving forward.
“Don’t fucking do it!” Leroy yells.
I round the corner first, Dave behind me, to a room I’m sure was once a bedroom. Five of my brothers cramp in the space, all facing the corner just to my left, their weapons aimed, fingers on their triggers.
My gaze quickly moves to their target—to a boy no more than twelve holding a semi-automatic, his eyes frantic as his weapon moves from my brothers to me.
I was wrong. The air is thicker here.
“Put your weapon down!” Leroy screams, splatters of spit leaving his mouth and joining the dust flying through the dead air.
“Jesus Christ,” Dave says, stepping to my right. “He’s just a fucking kid.” He loosens his hold on his gun, one hand in front of him—a peace offering to a kid he’s never met who’s aiming a gun at us. Only here would this situation make any fucking sense.
I try to stop him from whatever he’s about to do but my feet are stuck to the floor, my hands glued to my gun, my finger on the trigger. Ready. Waiting.
No amount of training can prepare you for this. None. Not even in my nightmares, in the intense heat of the days or the shivering colds of the nights did I ever think I’d have to blink back the sweat falling from my brow while my finger shook—my weapon aimed at a kid—his life in our hands.
One wrong word is all it’d take.
One sound.
Or in Dave’s case, one move.
From the corner of my eye, I see him reach into his pocket. The pocket I know carries a picture of his family. But to this boy—this scared shitless little kid—whatever’s in there could be the end of him.
He screams, a sound so deafening it rings in my ears. But it’s nothing compared to the sound of his gun shot, or ten, as he raises his semi above his head, screaming, chanting the words of Allah.
More gun shots, familiar ones.
Not from him, but from us.
He falls to the floor.
More screams.
Davey’s in my ear now, yelling for it to stop.
