When she came out of the bathroom, I handed her a T-shirt of mine, hoping that when she finally grew sick of looking at me, she’d leave it behind and her scent could comfort me for a few days.
God, when did I become so fucking pathetic?
That was easy—the night my face was blown up.
She went into the living room, slipped on her panties, and sat down on the sofa.
I warmed up some slices of Round Table pizza. The silence was awkward. I shouldn’t have told her my fucking name. Now she’d probably interrogate me and I’d have to relive that night. Not that I could ever forget it—it played on an endless loop in my head.
I sat down next to her and handed her a plate.
Her lips widened into a smile. “Thanks. So, just wanted to tell you not to worry about what happened at the party. I’m a psych major, and I want to apply for a doctoral program in clinical psychology after I graduate. I’m a really good listener if you want to talk.”
Great. I fucked a shrink. Well, a future shrink. This chick wanted to lay me down on a sofa and instead of riding my cock, force me to confess my deepest sins. Most women tried to fix men anyway, but this woman was going to school for that shit. I didn’t need her to pity me.
“I’m good. Talking never solves anything.”
She pursed her lips, and I turned away when I caught her staring at my face. “I disagree.”
My breathing accelerated, and I could feel my pulse quicken. “Yeah? Well, you don’t have a fucking clue what you’re talking about. All the shrinks I’ve met do nothing but try to numb me on drugs. This one jackass told me that I should just get over my friend dying, treat his death like a bad breakup with a girlfriend. Fuck that dude. I have shrapnel from my buddy’s skull embedded in my neck and my fucking psychiatrist thinks I should just get the fuck over it?”
She inched over to me on the sofa and placed a cautious hand on my thigh. I liked the way she touched me. She stroked my forearm, and I imagined her stroking my cock.
“Your therapist was clearly incompetent. But there are treatments that work,” she said, her tone warm and soothing. “I just read a study that Transcendental Meditation really helps people with PTSD.”
“Sounds like some quack hippy bullshit to me.” I glared at her. “Fucking you was the best therapy I’ve had in months.”
She bit her lip and removed her hand from my thigh.
“Hey, I’m sorry.” Man, I shouldn’t have said that. My grandma would whip my ass if she ever heard me talk to a girl like that. These days I’d lost my impulse control. The sooner Isa realized that I’d become a complete asshole, the sooner she would leave.
But I wanted her to stay.
“It’s okay.”
We finished our food in silence.
“So are you getting out of the Marines?”
“I don’t want to, but I’m pretty fucked up, so I’ll probably get forced out—it’s for the best. I don’t wanna be some fucking POG stuck at a desk, a twenty-year staff sergeant.”
Her brow crinkled. “I don’t understand. What’s a POG? I thought you were a sergeant?”
I’d forgotten how to talk to civilians. “Person Other than Grunt. I am a sergeant. I meant that being a scout sniper was the only thing I ever wanted to do. I’d been selected for sniper course, but because I lost my eye, I’m ineligible. So I’m nothing but a grunt.”
Grunt, that’s who I was.
A warrior.
A motherfucking beast.
“Oh. Well, you can do anything now. You’re a hero. Go to college, go on one of those cheesy reality shows, write a war memoir . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Fuck that. Why was everyone nagging me to go to college? I wasn’t a dumbass, and I didn’t need a goddam degree to prove that I was smart.
I hated reality television. My buddies gave their lives for our freedom and no one remembered their names. Yet these asshat celebrities posted selfies of themselves licking donuts and wearing American flags and were treated like gods.
As for writing a book, that sounded worse than therapy. I never wanted to be a public figure. The last thing I wanted to do was to have the details of my fucked up childhood exposed for the whole world to read.
“I’m not cut out for college because I can’t remember shit with my brain injury. And actually, a producer asked me to be on that dumbass dance show—Dancing under the Stars. I guess every year they try to get some fucked up vet to compete, to balance out all the fame whores. I told him I’d rather go back to Iraq.”
She closed her eyes for a second, a pained look on her face. “Don’t blame you. I hate that show. It’s so fake.”
Her tone sounded bitter, but it was refreshing to meet a girl who didn’t seem to be obsessed with celebrities.
“And I’ve had several agents and writers hassling me about writing a book, but I can’t write and I don’t trust anyone with my story. So that’s never going to happen.”
Her mouth gaped, as if she wanted to say something else, but instead she just took another sip of her beer.
This sucked. I didn’t want some chick telling me what to do, trying to inspire me. I yearned to take care of a woman, have her need me, not the other way around. “Why do you want to be a shrink? You must be pretty messed up—all the shrinks I’ve met had some serious issues.”
She shifted in her seat and stared toward my balcony. “My mom died four years ago. I went through a really rough time, so studying psychology helped me.”
Fuck, I was being a complete dick. I wasn’t used to people being this open with me. Most girls just blew smoke up my ass. Even so, Isa clearly saw me as a project, someone to fix. Not as an equal. Not as a man. Definitely not as potentially her man.
“Sorry about your mom. My dad left before I was born, and then my mom abandoned me—I haven’t seen her in years, though she must think I’m rich because she keeps trying to contact me ever since I got my medal. My grandparents raised me.”
She nodded, and I could almost see her mind racing, creating some kind of psychological profile of me, pieced together from her knowledge of my actions that led to my Medal of Honor, the flashback she witnessed, my scarred face and body, and the brief tidbits I’d just offered.
Enough. This session was over.
I turned on the TV, landing on a channel airing the Country Music Awards. I didn’t want to talk anymore, but I didn’t want her to leave.
I never wanted to go out anymore—I’d become a recluse, holed up in my own world, alone with my demons. I’d only left tonight because I could go in costume, and look how that turned out.
Even so, I felt comfort in sharing our silence. After a few more songs, I knocked back my beer and knelt in front of her.
I lifted the T-shirt off of her body and just stared at her, sitting on my sofa in nothing but her black lace panties. Her cheeks were flushed; her breasts were soft and round, real. Her nipples looked like ripe cherries.
Her gaze focused on my face. She reached her hand out to touch my skin, and I recoiled.
“No, let me look at you,” she whispered.
Fuck it; I wanted to get laid again, so I’d do whatever it took. If she wanted to examine me like some sort of circus side-stage attraction, I’d let her. Her soft fingertips traced my flesh, the charred remains of my ear, my scarred body.
“Can you see well? I mean, is your vision okay?”
“I see perfectly. I see your soft lips, I see your hard nipples, I see your trimmed pussy.”
Her face turned pink. Guess she wasn’t used to a man talking to her like that.
Enough of this bullshit. My hand grasped her neck, and our mouths met, my tongue probing her mouth. She made the sweetest little groan—less of a sigh, more like a purr. My cock became even harder, and my mouth focused on her nipples. I took one into my mouth, sucking, teasing, and my hand worked its way down her incredible body. Her belly was taut yet soft. I pressed on the fabric of her panties, her warm flesh slick with wetness.
&nb
sp; A wicked smile graced her face, and she spread her legs wide, so fucking wide I was impressed. She was flexible as fuck. My mind filled with images, thousands of different positions I could fuck her in. I quenched that thought—this would probably be just another one-night stand.
But the night was not over yet. I rubbed her clit, and she writhed under my hand but kept her eyes focused on my face. Why? Why would she want to look at me? Did it get her off to examine my wounds? I didn’t need a pity fuck. I flipped her on the sofa and pulled her panties off.
She gasped but pressed her ass backwards.
“Don’t fucking move.” I sprinted to retrieve another condom.
When I returned, she was in the same position—her curvaceous booty propped right up in the air. She gave me a coy glance over her shoulder.
I resumed my post, slapped her ass, and pumped my cock into her slick slit. Man, she felt incredible—wet, warm, tight as fuck. I kissed the back of her neck and rubbed her clit.
“Yes, ohmigod, Grady. Yes!”
I loved the way she said my name. My heart beat strong.
She let out a yelp as I drove deep inside her. I could fuck her for days. I could fuck her forever. But we might not have forever; as far as I knew we could only have tonight.
Her face flushed with pleasure. “Oh, baby, yes, just like that.”
I loved a girl who knew what she wanted. This woman moved with the grace of a dancer as her hips swiveled around me, her pussy clenched and released my cock. I pumped her hard, my hand working her pussy, desperate for her climax. Desperate for my own, the only moment when I could experience pure joy and erase my pain. Forget for a few blissful seconds who I was and what I’d seen, what I’d done.
“Come for me, baby. Come all over my cock.”
“Grady, oh, Grady. Yes!”
She exploded into moans, her pussy pulsating around my cock, the sensation pushing me over the edge. One deep groan and our physical connection, the moment we’d shared, was over.
I pulled out, gave her a pat on her ass, and walked over to the trash to throw the condom away.
I wanted her to sleep beside me, but I was afraid that I would scare her, wake her in the night with my screams, or even worse, choke her in my sleep. As much as I wanted to find someone to take care of, someone who could learn to love me, I couldn’t risk endangering her.
And it went deeper than that. Even my closest friends weren’t aware of all the dark stuff that existed in my mind. If Isa ever learned how clearly fucked up I was, she’d want nothing to do with me.
I wanted so much for a woman to truly see me—as a sexy man, as a protector, as her true love.
But I doubted I would ever allow myself to rely on a woman.
I’d had enough organs broken in my life; I didn’t need a broken heart.
6
Isa
Okay, I was officially ashamed now. I’d slept with a man I’d just met twice in one night. This wasn’t a date; this was a hookup. Exactly what I hadn’t wanted.
And oh my God—how crazy random was this night? A producer asked Grady to be on Dancing under the Stars? What a nightmare. I could never tell Grady that I’d been on that show.
And even worse—he’d been approached about writing a book. I mean, of course he had, but I wondered if my father or his agent had asked Grady. I knew my dad had his sights on him. Dad kept waxing poetic about Grady’s heroics. He’d even made a point to mention that he would love it if I dated a man like Grady. Ha! If he only knew where I was now, I don’t know if he’d be ashamed or thrilled.
Grady walked out of the bathroom, silent. I gathered my clothes and dressed. My costume barely fit with my sweaty body clinging to the fabric.
When I emerged, Grady sat on the sofa, blankly staring at the screen.
Okay. Awkward. “I’m going to go back to the party. It was nice meeting you.” Isn’t that what you were supposed to say after these hookups? How was I supposed to act? Was there any way I could turn this night around?
He stood up, and I admired his body again.
Stop it, Isa. He probably sees this as a one-time deal. He wanted to drive you home earlier and you insisted on staying. He hasn’t mentioned seeing you again, asked what you like to do for fun, or shown any sign that this is more than just a hookup. Cut your losses and leave.
“I’ll walk you back.”
“You don’t need to. It’s just a block.”
He grabbed his keys. “I said I’ll walk you back. It’s late; lots of guys have been drinking. A girl was assaulted on campus last week.”
My belly fluttered—he was being protective over me, but it probably meant nothing. Was this some military honed instinct? He was a Medal of Honor recipient—I was sure this was just how he acted toward every woman. Whatever his reason, I enjoyed being the object of his concern. “Suit yourself.” He probably wanted to head back to the party and find another Black Widow.
We left his apartment, the stars now shining over the San Diego night. We walked in silence to where Marisol had parked, but her car wasn’t there.
Dammit.
I tried to think of a lie because I didn’t want Grady to know I didn’t have a ride. I didn’t want him to feel guilt-tripped into driving me home. “My friend’s car’s gone. Let me text her real quick.”
He grabbed my hand as it slid into my purse. “Gone? She left without texting you?”
I checked my phone. Yup. Nada. “Well, technically I left without telling her, though I did text her that I’d met someone. I’ll call a cab.”
He turned me to him. The starlight shone in his glass eye. “I don’t trust cabs. Stay with me tonight, and I’ll take you home tomorrow.”
I couldn’t get a read on him. Earlier he offered to drive me home; now he was telling me to spend the night. Did he really want me to stay or was he just worried about my safety? “Well, I trust cabs so I’m going to just call one.”
“Stay.” His grip tightened on my arm, but still I felt safe.
“Okay.”
He put his arm around me and we walked back up to his apartment.
Now it was awkward.
He nodded, and then sat down, this time across from me. His gaze leveled me.
After a long swig of his beer, he finally spoke. “Where have I seen you before?”
Great. My insides quivered.
My gut wrenched as I thought about telling him the truth. If I had any hope of dating this man, this hero, I’d better not lie to him. After all, he’d been honest with me. But this situation was awkward enough. If I told him, I was sure he’d see me as some spoiled, rich reality star—the polar opposite of him being famous for saving his men’s lives. But I wasn’t spoiled or rich. I’d left that life. I wanted to help people who had gone through trauma. People like Grady, people like my mother.
People like me.
My hand rubbed my face. “Not sure, I guess I have a familiar face.”
He shook his head. “No, it’s not that. I may have only one eye, but I never forget a face. I’ve fucking seen you before. Don’t lie to me.” His voice was now gritty, rough, angry—a wave of fear flashed over me. I was alone in an apartment with a Marine with PTSD. He was trained to kill. Hell, he probably had killed.
This was it. This was the moment, one of those pivotal moments I was certain I would agonize over for years to come. I could tell this man my truth in the hopes that we could turn this one-night stand into something more. But I knew from experience that the second he knew I had been on television, he would probably assume I was one of those trampy celebrity types who went home with everyone they met. Most men saw me only as a conquest once they learned about my past.
That fluttery feeling that I had had in my belly was now replaced by knots.
No, I couldn’t allow a man I didn’t know, didn’t trust into a part of my life I’d said goodbye to forever.
“I’m not sure. Maybe you’ve seen me at another party or around town.”
He exhaled, an audi
ble sound of his disgust. He could probably tell I’d lied to him.
Great. I had just ruined this night.
After a few moments in silence, his phone rang. Saved by the bell.
“Hello? . . . Yeah, man, hold one sec.” He looked at me. “It’s my buddy, his wife just left him. Make yourself at home.”
He opened the sliding glass door and stepped onto the balcony, closing the door quickly behind him. I wanted to give him some privacy, so I grabbed my purse, headed into his bedroom, and went into the bathroom.
One look in the mirror, and I almost didn’t recognize myself. My hair was wild, my eyes had mascara pooled under them, and my cheeks were splotchy.
I left the bathroom and something shiny caught my eye. His nightstand drawer was ajar, and a glimpse of steel deflected off the moonlight.
A gun.
A motherfucking gun.
My blood chilled. A flash of my mom’s skull busted open, blood staining her gorgeous black hair, the smell of gunpowder, the lethal weapon still clutched in her hand, a final reminder that she’d given up the will to live. She’d never see me walk down the aisle; my future children would never know the love of their nana. After she’d taken her own life, I’d lost the desire to ever dance again.
My hand shook. Only an hour ago I’d seen Grady suffer from a combat flashback. He’d been blank, out of his mind, unreachable. What if he had another flashback and no one was around? What if this truly turned into nothing more than a one-night stand? Did he have someone to talk him down off the ledge? Would he call someone for help? I’d recently read an article about the suicide rates of vets and the lack of mental health care they receive. He’d even told me that he didn’t believe any of the therapies worked. A grenade had blown Grady up. He’d watched his best friend die. Was he suicidal?
I peered out the window—he was still on the phone.
Luckily, I’d gone shooting with my dad many times prior to my mom’s suicide, and I knew how to operate a weapon, though I hadn’t seen a gun since I’d discovered her. My hand shaking, I slid the magazine out—it was empty. But I saw a single round in the chamber.
TRITON: A Navy SEAL Romance (Heroes Ever After Book 2) Page 18
