by Marie James
“Stay with me,” I beg. “I got you.”
I run my hand up his right leg, looking for the wound. Finding the tear in his cammies, I shove my finger into the bullet hole. God damn it, I think but barely keep the words inside. Inside of his right leg, he’s been hit in the femoral artery. I hate the feel of his pulse as each burst pushes more blood past my finger, and I struggle to keep the injury plugged against the force I’m working with.
“Fuck,” he hisses.
“Sorry, man,” I mutter as I use my free hand to pull my belt off.
It isn’t until it’s wrapped high on his leg and pulled as tight as I can get that I pull my finger from the bullet hole and reach for his night vision.
“You’re crying,” he whispers, voice already growing weak and ragged from the blood loss.
My eyes flutter closed when his fingers reach up and caress my cheek.
“Don’t get all soft on me know,” I tease as I situate the headset.
I told myself not to react, no matter how bad he looked, but I can’t help the cuss word that slips from my mouth when I look down at his leg. What I had assumed was a small puddle is actually a full on pool of his blood.
“I’m cold,” he says and I can hear the shiver in voice.
“Don’t,” I hiss. “Save your energy.”
“I love you,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t be what you needed.”
In the green haze of the goggles, I see his eyes close. I did the same thing when my back was against to wall earlier because it’s easier to zero in on your other senses that way. The pained look on Itchy’s face, however tells me his eyes are closed due to loss of strength.
“Please,” I beg him. “Stay with me. You’re all I’ll ever need. I love you, too. Please open your eyes.”
They flutter but he no longer has the strength to obey my order. Before resting my head on his chest, I tug on the belt turned tourniquet around his leg and get it a quarter inch tighter. His breaths are shallow and intermittent and his pulse is thready.
“I love you. I love you.” I chant over and over. I confess the words for the first time out loud with each compression of his chest.
I’m repeating it still when I feel someone’s hand on my shoulders. I’m still saying it when the lights are turned on and I’m staring down at the ashen grey body of my best friend, lover, and the greatest man I’ll ever know.
We Said Forever
Sneak Peek
Rock bottom.
They say the only way to go from there is up, but what is “up” when you’re born into someone else’s rock bottom?
At ten, football became my first love. It’s what got me out of the house away from my self-destructive family. My love for football landed me at Las Vegas University with a full ride scholarship, and the orange on my jersey was my favorite color…until my eyes landed on the red dress Fallyn wore the night we met.
At twenty-one, I jumped off the cliff into the unknown the second Fallyn McIntyre danced in my arms at a party. I had the greatest girl in the world and the opportunity to play college ball every Saturday. My rock bottom was looking up, thanks to my two first loves.
Parties, sex, and football—life was perfect. But one drink too many, and my world came crashing down. When I chose pills over my second love, my head told me it was the best decision I ever made. The pills keep me warm and protect me from the distance Fallyn created. Percs don’t judge me. They make me feel alive.
Threes.
They say the best things come in threes, but one leads to a stable future, one is my salvation, and the other drags me to hell—a hell I’d willingly burn in for eternity…if it weren’t for my second love.
Prologue
The stagnant, filthy air of the one bedroom apartment stings my nose as I make my way down the short hall to the living room. The worn, tamped down carpet sticks to the soles of my shoes, the years of built up grime well past the point of being able to be cleaned.
My stomach roils in disgust, the shame of where I live and what I deal with daily sitting heavy in my empty gut. A familiar buzz surrounds me, and I swat at the fly permeating my space—one of God knows how many. My gaze darts to the couch, and true to form, my mother is passed out, a rubber band around her arm and needle sticking out of her vein. I drag my hands through my hair as a sigh bursts from my lips. Exasperation, desperation, disgust—it lands straight in my sour stomach. She couldn’t even be bothered to pull the frequently used hypodermic needle out of her arm before passing out. Closing my eyes, I pinch the outer shell of the needle with sure fingers, tug it free of her arm, and place it next to the empty baggie and heroin residue on the weathered piece of wood that’s served as the coffee table for as long as I can remember.
Muscle memory is all that’s involved as I grab the tattered blanket from the end of the couch and pull it over her sleeping form, her chest rising and falling with each shallow breath. Gooseflesh is already visible on Mom’s skin—a surefire sign she’s coming down from her high. Helping her isn’t out of love, but a sense of survival, self-preservation. Waking up warm decreases the chance of an altercation when I get home from school this afternoon.
I used to love my mother—years ago, when alcohol was the only thing she needed to get through the day, when she used words rather than her fists. Taking care of Mom always allows thoughts of my deadbeat father to trickle in—the man who ruined my once loving mother when I was eight. One tiny bag of chunky brown powder was all it took for my mother to turn from a semi-functioning alcoholic to a full-blown heroin addict. He got her high, beat her bloody, and left like he always does. I took care of her when he deserted us again. I held her to my chest and begged her never to do it again as her stomach emptied on my clothes. She promised me she’d stop it all. No more drinking, no more drugs, no more Dad.
Those promises lasted as long as the high did. Six hours later, she was gone, looking for her next fix. That was four years ago, and every day since has gotten progressively worse.
I shake my head, trying to rid my thoughts of the failure my parents saddled me with as I walk out of the apartment. Pulling the broken door closed is the best I can do. The lock and door jamb were busted long ago, but that’s what happens when a drug dealer comes around looking for payment. Sometimes she’s able to trade with stolen goods or cash, but most often, she settles her debts on her back—another thing a twelve-year-old boy should never have to see when coming home from school.
Tears sting the backs of my eyes. One minute—that’s all I ever give myself for self-pity each day. For sixty seconds, I allow myself to wish things were different while cursing God for giving me this life.
I hitch my backpack farther up on my shoulder, the weight of my football uniform and second-hand cleats a welcome distraction. Football is my escape. The smell of the grass, the thud of shoulder pads as they collide, the sound of Coach’s whistle when we can do better…all of it helps me clear my head—helps me keep hope alive that one day my life will be different.
“If you don’t like it, change it.” Coach’s words, his mantra, echo in my head as I take the three flights of stairs to the ground level. I hold my head high as I walk out of the apartment building in ratty clothes. There’s something to be said about living and surviving a childhood in East Las Vegas. Not many people know some of the worst neighborhoods in Sin City, even competing with the ganglands of Los Angeles, are a mere ten miles from where millions of people vacation each year. Unbelievable to many, but true nonetheless. Mention the area surrounding UMC Hospital to anyone from around here and wait for the crinkle of their noses—it’s inevitable.
This may be my life now, but there is nothing about this situation that will be involved in my future. I look up at the sky—blue, cloudless, much like my destiny.
Chapter 1
Fallyn
“No freaking way.” I cringe at myself, then look over my shoulder at Charity’s reflection in my mirror. Familiar narcissistic emotions tingle at the edge of
my subconscious. I despise the awareness after it’s been dormant for years.
“You look hot,” she cajoles as her hands swipe down the front of her equally ridiculous dress.
“Where in the world did you even find clothes like this?” I tug at the bottom hem of the micro-mini, only to have a nipple pop out from the top. If the length of the dress doesn’t scream slutty, the red, shimmery fabric ensures everyone who sees it will think just that.
“From that novelty store near Excalibur.”
I glare at her in the mirror. “That’s not a novelty shop, Charity. It’s a damn sex toy shop.”
She shrugs, pushing me out of her way so she can apply the fourth layer of lipstick to her already bright red lips. “Semantics. This party is a big deal,” she assures me.
“For you, maybe. You know parties don’t interest me at all.” I’ve managed to separate myself from the college party scene the last two and a half years, sans one other, which cemented the notion that I don’t belong in that world. Why I relented tonight, I’ll never know. I give up on stretching the dress and pull on my favorite denim jacket. At least I won’t be flashing everyone my breasts the second we arrive. I can’t say the same about my ass.
“The Tigers will be there—all of them,” she explains, referring to the players for the Las Vegas University football team. “It’s the weekend before the Championship game, so the house is going to be filled with them!”
Her excitement over possibly scoring with a college-level football player is almost admirable. Almost.
“I don’t know a damn thing about sports. I won’t fit in.” I don’t want to fit in.
She narrows her eyes at me, and she chuffs an indignant laugh. “I know for a fact you give zero fucks about fitting in. It’ll be fun, I promise. You’ll regret not going. Plus, football players just mean hot, sexy, incredibly fit guys, which honestly has nothing to do with sports.”
“Tons of fun,” I snipe, walking out of the cramped bathroom in our off-campus apartment. “Just what I need, egocentric, self-serving jocks who think they’re God’s gift to every woman.”
I stop long enough to grab my purse from the table and walk out the door, Charity on my heels. The energy radiating from her is palpable. The girl acts as if this is the very first party she’s gone to with football players in attendance. How easily she forgot the party after the first game of the season and the player who told her to “get fucked”—his words, not mine. At least she’s resilient. My plans for tonight include drinking water and blending into the wall until she’s so wasted and rejected, she begs me to get her home, just like the one and only other party she convinced me to attend last fall.
I glance down at the time on my cell phone as we huddle together in the brisk January air calculating how long it will be before I can crawl back into my warm bed.
“At least pretend to be excited,” she chastises with a quick shake of my shoulders. “It’s New Year’s Eve, Fallyn, second semester of your junior year. Eventually, you’re going to have to act like a damn college student.”
I nod, my lips clamped in a thin line. “Right. College student. Getting messed up and sleeping with random guys—”
The smile on her face halts my words. “Exactly,” she mouths.
I watch the puff of warm air mix with the cold around us until it dissipates completely. “Why don’t I just skip the trip to the free clinic next week by going back inside and watching the damn ball drop on TV? It’s nearly midnight on the east coast, so I could be in bed within the hour.”
“Unbelievable,” she mutters as the cab pulls up to the curb. She shoves me into the back and climbs in behind me, giving the driver the address to a house on the other side of campus.
I regret agreeing to do this as much as I’m going to regret the blisters I’ll have on my feet from these ridiculous shoes and the frost bite that will cover more than half my body when I wake up tomorrow. What a way to start the New Year.
***
My head pounds in rhythm to the beat the DJ seems to have on repeat. I ignore the catcalls and wandering eyes of the beyond drunk people surrounding me. Safely tucked into the corner of the room with my back against the wall, I contemplate using drunken college parties and the failure rate of students who attend as my thesis next year, but then I remind myself my degree is in marketing and that makes no damn sense.
I look at my phone for the millionth time since arriving at this near orgy and realize it’s only been six minutes since the last time I looked at it. With a soundless sigh, I push myself off the wall and weave through the group of half-naked, gyrating bodies. My water bottle has been empty for the last forty-five minutes, and if I have any hope of surviving the humid air in the small living room, a refill is mandatory.
“Orange,” I mutter, squeezing past a girl with her legs wrapped around a tall guy in a jersey. Her dress is to the point of indecent hanging around her hips as they dance together—and by dance, I mean practically have sex in front of a group of easily a hundred people.
His jersey, her dress, and the tiny scrap of lace between the cheeks of her ass—all of it is orange. Welcome to an LVU party. Does anyone involved in picking colors for colleges even consider how hideous the color looks against tan skin and dark hair? Gag me. I’m drowning in it. Everywhere I turn, orange and white assaults my vision. School colors were the furthest thing from my mind when the college offered me a partial scholarship, and since I’m not one with very much school spirit, it wasn’t really an issue.
Firm hands grab me as I attempt to squeeze through another clump of rotating hips and breathless, slutty moans.
“No thanks,” I say without even looking over my shoulder, swatting at the unrelenting grip on my body.
Turning to face the guy who is either too stupid or too drunk to take a hint, my eyes land on the handsome face of a tall blond with the lightest blue eyes I’ve ever seen.
The smirk on his face clearly indicates he believes I should be impressed. And I am. There’s no doubt about it. I’m completely fascinated by the ego this douchebag emits with one simple look. Without a word, I let my eyes trail from the top of his purposely mussed hair that probably took longer to fix than mine to the orange chucks adorning his big feet.
He allows the perusal, awaiting my approval. Cocking an eyebrow at his blatant, pompous attitude, I push his hands off my hips.
“Not a chance, buddy,” I say before turning back toward the kitchen.
My legs tremble, wobbling on my already unsteady heels. I release a long, slow breath, hoping he disappeared into the crowd. The last thing I need is for him to notice the way my eyes lingered on his stubbled jaw and the muscles of his chest even his clothes can’t hide. I’m almost certain he could sense my quick, unmasked arousal. One look was all it took for this man to creep his way under my skin and throb in my core. He’s got self-entitled, bad boy, asshole written all over him—character traits I would have dropped anything for a few years ago. Not today, though. Those are flaws I left in Utah when I graduated high school.
The same firm grip reaches for me again, wrapping all the way around my body and pulling my back against an incredibly strong chest.
I close my eyes for a moment, allowing only a second of contact before turning around and readying my hand to slap him across the face for taking such liberties without my permission—just another alpha asshole attribute that used to make me swoon.
“You need to get your—”
His finger covers my lips, preventing me from getting my words out. My attempt at what I’m sure was going to be a very eloquent threat against his manhood falters as he pulls me closer to his body. His leg somehow finds its way between mine as he squats a couple inches to decrease the differences in our height.
The steady hand that has reached for me twice tonight is around my back, fingers splayed against the thin red fabric. The finger that halted my words trails down the column of my damp neck before gripping around at my nape. Gooseflesh follows the trail,
racing over my fevered skin. He holds me against him, guiding me to the rhythm I hated until this very second. Like the traitorous slut she is, my body molds against him, every soft inch against his hardness.
“I don’t,” I begin again, only to have his hand leave my neck to push another finger against my parted lips.
I watch, enthralled and utterly stupid, as his bottom lip rolls between his teeth at the same time his thumb sweeps over mine.
I cave, wholeheartedly capitulating to the moment. Ignoring the warning bells going off in my head, screaming at me to bolt through the front door and not look back, I grip the silky athletic fabric of his jersey and pull him closer. A knowing grin lights his face and sparkles in the crystal blue of his eyes.
One song blends into another as our bodies close every millimeter of distance. No words are spoken as the countdown begins. No promises are made when the clock strikes midnight. No way I’ll survive this man when his breath becomes mine. No chance I’ll see him again when swaying all night turns into dancing tongues. No possibility of keeping my promise of no bad boys when one hand grips my nape and the other squeezes my ass.
Alcohol has never really been my thing. The memory of the first time I drank heavy liquor in high school is enough to make my stomach sour, but the bourbon on this guy’s lips is the perfect mix of sweet and spicy. It’s, hands down, the most satisfying thing I’ve tasted since the ice cream I had after getting my tonsils removed when I was seven. I savor every fraction of a second, every slow glide of his tongue against mine, each time his lips pull back a fraction and turn up to smile against mine.
Without so much as one spoken word, this man has managed to master my body, persuading it to beg for more, coaxing whimpers from my mouth when he pulls away, only to ensure it pants a seductive moan when those skilled lips find my neck.
