Bittersweet Symphony (The Damaged Souls series Book 2)

by Belinda Boring

  “Yeah?”

  “I don’t ever want to say goodbye to you.” It was the most honest thing he’d ever said—definitely the most vulnerable. “I love you.”

  Three words that every girl longed to hear and while it made my insides melt, it wasn’t the phrase that I held on tightly to—memorizing it so I remembered it for the rest of my life.

  I don’t ever want to say goodbye to you.

  We were beyond okay.

  Scared or not, this actually made us stronger.

  Throwing my arms around his neck, I climbed into his lap, craving the closeness. “I love you, too, Cooper. So much.”

  He softly stroked my hair before lowering his hand to the small of my back. “And should we discover there’s a baby in a month, we’ll take it from there . . . together. Don’t you worry about me, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”

  A sob escaped, muffled against his chest. “I was so worried.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry. For what it’s worth, I’ve been driving Bryce crazy all morning. I dropped a load of bricks earlier, busting a bunch. Then I added the wrong ingredient to the cement I was mixing, rendering it basically useless. In the end, he ordered me to get the hell away before I bankrupted him with my incompetence.”

  “He did?” The warmth from his body felt comforting.

  Cooper chuckled. “Yeah, he also told me to get my head out of my ass and to not come back to work until I made things right with you.”

  “You told him?” I asked, playing with one of the buttons with my fingers.

  “No, but he noticed that I got progressively worse each time I picked up my phone. He put two and two together.” It was Cooper’s turn to let out a weary sigh. “And just so you know, I’m clean. Last night was the first time I’ve ever messed up like that and it killed me that I’d been so irresponsible with you. I’ve made it a point to always use a condom because I didn’t want any surprises or added complications to my life.”

  I stiffened in his arms without thinking. “I don’t want to be a complication.”

  For some reason he found my comment funny. “You, sweet, beautiful woman, will never be that. Do you hear me? In fact, it’s because of you I’ve started acquiring the taste for surprises.”

  I inhaled sharply, sitting up straighter so I could see his face. “Cooper Hensley, you say the sweetest things. You should write songs!” I teased.

  “Maybe I will,” he fired back, throwing in a flirtatious wink with it. “In fact, I’ve got the rest of the afternoon off . . . I have no problem showing you how much I’ve fallen for you.” His finger twirled a loose strand of my hair, tugging on it before he dropped it in favor of drawing a soft line down the side of my neck and collarbone.

  I slapped his arm playfully. “Isn’t that how we ended up in this predicament?” Damn, it felt good to be laughing again.

  “True,” he admitted, not even trying to apologize for where his thoughts had naturally led. I wouldn’t have either. Mine were there as well. “How about . . . I make you something to eat?”

  My stomach rumbled—making any response I planned pointless.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” Cooper carefully stood, holding onto me before letting me slide slowly down his body until I was on my own two feet.

  “Yes.” I nodded, keeping a tight grip on his hand as he started pulling me toward the kitchen. “I’m famished.”

  Later on, when I lay in bed thinking over the day, one thing stood out above everything else—about how quickly life could change in the blink of an eye. I’d woken up deliriously happy only to have that contentment dashed upon the rocks of fear. I’d allowed those thoughts power and they’d marched destructively over my heart until all I could feel was a sense of hopelessness.

  I’d thought things were over and then . . . blink. Cooper had come and things stopped being so topsy-turvy.

  Not every situation ended in heartache.

  Not every situation meant certain death, just because I’d once blinked and Owen had died.

  Maybe Cooper wasn’t the only one who feared letting go of his demons. Maybe he wasn’t the only one still healing.

  Chapter Eleven

  Cooper

  Someone needed to rename this damn country the place of infernal heat. Once again, the sun was beating down on everything it touched without mercy.

  Growing up, I lived for days like this because it meant fun with my friends, especially in the summer when the pool was opened. Countless hours were spent splashing, diving, and bombing each other. Then there were the daily trips to the corner store for an icy, or something else to slake my thirst, before rushing out again—riding the neighborhood streets on my bike.

  Times were simpler back then.

  There’d be no hollering out, “Catch-me-if-you-can” to my best buddies. Well, that was a lie—it was just drastically different.

  Hide-and-seek was still the game.

  We played it with our enemies now.

  “Here we go, Coop. You know they’re going to ask.” That voice sounded familiar—painfully so. Glancing up, my breath caught in the back of my throat.

  I was dreaming.

  This wasn’t real, even though my racing heart contradicted that belief. I was back in Afghanistan, weapon slung over my shoulder, combat boots stirring up the dust from the ground.

  All around me, people milled about their day, used to seeing Marines patrolling—seeing us guard the peace and following orders.

  And that voice—the one that haunted me in my dreams and often while I was awake—that voice . . .

  Owen.

  I answered without thinking—the memory constantly fresh in my consciousness—frequently repeating while I slept. It was one of the more better, easier, things to be reminded of because on this particular day . . . no one died.

  “Sometimes I think we’re doing more good handing these candy bars out than anything else we’ve done, Sawyer.” I slipped my pack to the side as I carefully searched for the treats I’d purchased earlier. Others had a hard time understanding why Sawyer and I wasted our limited allotment on the native children—arguing that it didn’t make a lick of difference.

  I begged to differ. Good will was good will.

  Besides, in my eyes, the children were yet another casualty in a war they’d never agreed to be a part of. They couldn’t control what happened around them or the choice their parents and leaders made.

  What I also didn’t add, whenever I was asked, was I also had a selfish motive. For each smile received, each blissful cry of enjoyment I heard from those taking that first bite of American candy, it made the screams and the scenes of devastation grow dimmer. My hope was, given time, I’d stop imagining the aftermaths of bombs denoting—of children caught in the crossfire—their bodies strewn across the wreckage because they’d been deemed . . . dispensable.

  We all had a role to play.

  We all had our orders.

  But that didn’t mean the consequences weren’t brutal. At the end of the day, we each had to find something to cling to—to believe in—to focus on because the alternative was unacceptable. I refused to become so conditioned and dead inside that the slaughter of innocent people—regardless of which side of the battle they were on—turned me into a monster.

  Owen had felt the same. Now it was a thing we did—something we continued doing until . . . we couldn’t.

  Even now it surprised me how much I missed those moments of simplicity while the world raged all around us. Who would’ve thought I’d find a semblance of human kindness and peace in the midst of war.

  Deep down, though, I knew I was fooling myself. As the village’s children saw us, their little legs racing toward us, it was hard not to imagine some of the scenes I’d witnessed—the realization that even children could be forced or raised to further a political agenda.

  Anyone could be a suicide bomber.

  Anyone could be a target.

  It was the kind of thing that tormented a person—that per
vaded even the strongest of resolves to banish the horror to the deepest, darkest recesses inside.

  It stripped away innocence, making even the most vigilant doubt themselves. As eager hands clapped, excited for candy, a nagging voice whispered: only trusting what your eyes could see was dangerous.

  Serving as a Marine had added countless lessons to my education. Never in my wildest dreams did I believe it would involve skepticism of young children. Walking onto that first scene and being struck by the onslaught, the utter contempt and disregard for life had forever corrected that oversight.

  And yet, here Sawyer and I both were—the Willy Wonkas of our unit.

  There was a tugging at my sleeve—a little girl maybe five-six years old—her small face smudged with dirt and sweat from playing outside in the heat. Her eyes were bright and curious . . . it was faces like this that made it hard to remember the possibility that one day she could walk into a crowd with a bomb strapped to her body—willing to sacrifice her life in the name of her God.

  No amount of candy or chocolate would change that.

  I recognized this memory—grateful that it was one of the more pleasant that I held onto. There were only so many nightmares I could stomach . . . so many demons I could fight.

  “Hey, sweetheart.” I smiled, pulling out a treat. A quick glance at Sawyer showed he had his own excited kid begging for something sugary. A group was starting to gather—something we’d been told to try and avoid. We couldn’t remain cognizant of our surroundings if our entire focus was on the little people currently vying for our attention.

  Remember protocol.

  The mission came first.

  Don’t become predictable.

  Never forget that looks could be deceiving.

  “Make sure you share with your brother,” I counseled, pointing to the timid toddler peering from his hiding place, his gaze never leaving who I guessed was his sister. I’d seen them running around together the last time we’d passed through their town on patrol. There was a protective element to the way she placed herself in front of him.

  She’d deemed us safe—just not safe enough to risk her younger sibling.

  It reminded me of Bryce. For the hundredth time today, my heart ached for my own family. It wouldn’t be much longer before we were reunited. A few more months and then I’d be home.

  “You finished?” Sawyer asked, staring at me questioningly. Sure enough, he’d already handed out his, shifting the focus onto me.

  Knowing we’d lingered long enough, I finished giving out the three or four bars I had left before holding my hands up. “All gone.” My declaration was answered with a chorus of disappointed cries, words spoken in the local dialect. I’d picked up enough to recognize their queries for more.

  From the corner of my eye, I noticed the small girl retreat into the dusty background, her steady footsteps making a path to where her brother still hid, sheltered from prying eyes.

  Judging by the state and shabbiness of his clothing, I wondered whether these two were in fact orphans—left to the care of the village. Where were their parents . . . their family? Were they dead or had they answered the call of local insurgents—determined to sacrifice everything in order to win?

  “Daddy?”

  The crystal clear voice, totally void of accent, drew my gaze away from the street urchins to the small figure at my feet. Blinking rapidly, I wasn’t hallucinating, even though this dream, or whatever it was, had changed.

  There was never a young girl in a frilly yellow dress the color of sunflowers and sunshine. With delicate brown curls that framed her freckled face, there wasn’t a blemish that marked her skin—her clothes clean and freshly laundered.

  She resembled the children who used to gather Easter Sunday on the local church’s lawn to hunt for Easter eggs.

  “Daddy? What about me? Do you have something yummy for your baby girl?” Her impish eyes twinkled with happiness, completely foreign to everything else surrounding us.

  Suddenly, an overwhelming need to gather her in my arms and run as fast as I could beat down on me. She was mine—mine and Caylee’s. I knew that as strongly as I knew my own name. With Owen standing next to me, watching the interaction with curiosity, I wanted to scream . . . to apologize.

  Caylee wasn’t mine then . . . now . . . whenever this dream was.

  But there was no denying this little girl was ours because she had her mother’s beauty and my smile. My heart ached each time her lips curled—the resemblance all too familiar.

  She was the perfect blend of us.

  She was what we could have in the future . . . that is if I ever woke and didn’t screw things up. That last part was still somewhat iffy just because of who I was.

  I had a long history of fucking up.

  Sometimes, I felt it was inevitable.

  “Who’s this, Coop?” Owen asked, his brow crinkled as he studied us both. Fuck, I wonder if he could see it too?

  “Yes, Daddy, tell him who I am!” The innocent way she peered up at me with complete trust was like a bittersweet knife plunged in my heart. If left alone, there would be a good chance I’d survive. Twist it and it would shred everything it touched—leaving me to bleed out and eventually die.

  Wetting my lips, and praying for a miracle, I cleared my throat. No words came.

  “Is this your daughter?” Owen pushed, ignoring the now growing crowd who’d stopped to watch us, the slight breeze carrying their hushed conversations. “Cooper?”

  Shaking my head, desperate to know what to say, I scrambled to think of anything. “Owen . . . I—”

  Say it, you coward. Tell him how you will later betray him, that after failing to protect him from the future ambush, you went home and would eventually fuck his wife.

  The crassness of that last thought made me shudder. But truth was truth, even when it wasn’t wrapped neatly with a frilly bow and glitter.

  Would I ever not feel guilty for being in love with Caylee?

  Would there ever come a time where that buried piece of myself didn’t flinch whenever I remembered I wasn’t her first love? That I was responsible for her grief?

  Even in my dreams I was a nut job.

  A small hand slipped into mine, squeezing it in support. “Come play with me, Daddy.”

  Wait . . . what? That voice. How the hell was this even freaking possible?

  “Play with me!” Gone was the syrupy sweetness. Gone was the freckled face of youth. Gone was my daughter.

  Marty. She’d morphed into my best friend and band mate—the scowl and unshaven stubble unmistakable.

  “What the . . .?” I stammered, stepping back as I dropped her . . . his hand. In slow motion, the body grew, all while still wearing the yellow dress. If I weren’t completely stunned and weirded out, I would’ve laughed my ass off at the sight of a grown man with hairy legs standing in the middle of the street wearing a summer dress.

  “Look what I can do, Daddy!” And in a nightmarish turn of events, Marty revealed the ignition device in his hand, his thumb pressing on the switch as he rambled on about how he was given a special job that would make me proud.

  “Cooper!” Sawyer yelled, swinging his gun around and pointing it at Marty’s head. Marty didn’t even notice, however, his focus was squarely on me and my reaction to his surprise.

  “Wait!” I replied, flinging my hand out to keep Owen from firing his weapon. There was no way this was truly Marty or my future anything. This was an illusion—my mind playing tricks while I slept, but fuck, did it feel real.

  My head said to walk away or better yet, wake up.

  My heart said something different, though. It said protect at any cost.

  Sawyer’s finger rested on the trigger, steady.

  Marty’s thumb didn’t move either.

  “Wake up, Cooper,” I cursed beneath my breath. Everything around us had stilled—all eyes watching the stand off currently happening. Reaching for my mike to call for assistance, I found nothing. Reaching for my own w
eapon, it too was mysteriously gone.

  “It’s time, Daddy.” Marty giggled, scrunching his nose in excitement.

  “Stand down,” Owen ordered, releasing the safety.

  “I love you,” Marty whispered, and like a dramatic scene in a movie—the ones where everything drastically slowed down, dragging out the anticipation and suspense—he released the trigger, the air igniting instantly.

  As the explosion blasted me off my feet, the only thing left to do was scream and scream and scream . . .

  Chapter Twelve

  Caylee

  It took all my strength not to go to him—the shrieks of terror piercing my heart and leaving me trembling where I sat in the kitchen.

  Lunch had been perfect—the tension I assumed would be between Cooper and I non-existent. For all the worrying and panicking over him leaving, Cooper was by far the calmer one.

  It had surprised and pleased me. That was, after the mortification passed. No matter how many times I apologized for my temporary visit to insanity, Cooper refused to let me dwell on it. According to him, everyone was entitled to a meltdown once and a while.

  When I’d tried to argue more, he’d simply stopped what he was doing and kissed some sense back into me. Sure enough, my apprehension evaporated under his determination. In fact, as soon as he released me, loosening his embrace, I’d struggled to remember my name—the blissful fog that surrounded us overwhelmed my senses to the point where all I could do was stand there looking goofy.

  He’d thought it was hilarious—content to tease me over the course of the afternoon until I shooed him away with the excuse I had homework. Scholarship genius or not, the extra funding would do me no good if I flunked out of my classes.

  He’d retreated to the living room, remote in hand, excited to catch up on some T.V. It hadn’t taken long before his soft snores caught my attention.

  There was something to be said about watching him when he slept. The frown lines that often creased his brow were smoother as he rested, his body not so tightly wound. He was still the sexy-as-hell man I couldn’t stop thinking about, but it didn’t stop me from standing there in the entryway observing him. I wished there was something I could do to ease the burdens he carried—anything to see him capture the carefree expression he wore every now and then.