Breakaway (Playmaker Duet #0.6; Prescott Family #3; Love In All Places #5)

by Mignon Mykel

  Yes, at being a Marine—something that still didn’t feel like a truth, mostly because it wasn’t something I could say I grew up wanting. But more because of the knowledge that I was walking through those doors and on the other side, I would be someone different.

  Still Genev—Asher Spence, but a changed version of her.

  Through those doors—hatches—we were ushered, where next, we were issued gear. The Marine there was male and his yelling wasn’t to the same decibel of the female’s but still demanded just the same. Demanded more, really. We were issued bags and had to quickly move from one section to another.

  Clothing, hair, medical.

  Everything was done in a quick fashion.

  At the very end of the long night, when it was nearing three in the morning, we were granted our single phone call. I was supposed to call Marie—a final send-off of sorts.

  I stood in line, taking in the girls surrounding me. Each one of us had a bun secured at the back of our heads; one or two girls had hair short enough not to go back in a bun. I wasn’t sure how they were going to get through training. They should have grown it out in the months leading up to their ship dates.

  Girls were on the wall-mounted phones as Drill Instructors yelled when their times were up. I shifted my eyes to the girl directly in front of me. She was blonde but other than that, I hadn’t noticed much about her at the previous stations.

  “Recruit Douglas! Phone.”

  The girl with blonde hair moved to an open phone and when the phone next to her opened up, I was issued toward it.

  I dialed the number I had memorized from years of use, and waited for my former case worker to answer. I overheard the girl next to me—Douglas—talking to her parents quickly. Others were talking slowly and being cut off mid-conversation but this girl seemed to know what she was doing.

  “Asher.”

  I smiled and returned my focus to my own phone call. Marie had made a point of using my new legal name from the moment it was notarized.

  “I’m here. I’m good,” I said, taking note from Douglas beside me. She was now being told to hang up her phone. “I’ll call you when all is said and done, just to say hi.”

  “Ok. Thank you for calling. Stay safe, Asher. You’ve got this. You are strong.”

  I smiled slightly. “Thank you, Marie.”

  No sooner than the end of her name was out of my mouth, I was being told to hang up. “Goodbye,” I added before doing so, saying goodbye to more than just my case worker for nearly seventeen years of my life, but to the life I once knew.

  The life I was never looking back on.

  Douglas turned out to be a girl named Carter, and she and I were in the same platoon. We bonded over our male first names, even though mine was once technically a middle name. She was a cool girl. Had I made friends in my last high school, Carter would not have made the cut.

  Here in the recruit world, she and I were similar, yes, but she was the girl who was gorgeous and undoubtedly popular back home. Home for her, I learned, was in Montana, where she was one of seven. She had one sister, younger, and every one of her brothers was older than her and in the service.

  No wonder she knew what to do during our receiving night call.

  After one particularly rough day, she and I were whispering in the dark well after lights out. We both had an upper bunk which made talking easier. Some girls spoke to one another quietly, some slept, while others wrote their letters. It was the only time you could write home, the dark hours between lights out and the wake-up call.

  Carter had finished a letter that night and asked why I didn’t ever write anyone.

  I stared at her in the dark, chewing on my upper lip.

  Could I open up to her? Could I truly find a friend in this process and not be alone for the first time in my life?

  “I don’t have anyone to write to,” I finally told her in the dark, hoping, trusting, I could make a true friend in her. “I was in foster care,” I added, somehow feeling like that mattered.

  “Not even like, your bio mom or anything?”

  I shook my head. “No. I don’t know who she is, or was, or anything. I’ve been in foster care my entire life.”

  “You were never adopted?” Carter asked in disbelief. I could see her eyebrows pulled down, her eyes frowning in my direction.

  “No.” I shrugged it off with a grin. “But it’s all good. I’m in a good place right now. Emotionally,” I added, causing her to laugh lightly across the way. Boot camp was mentally and physically draining, but I would do it again in a heartbeat.

  I was on my way to being a person who had purpose.

  My career choice was still going to be in the art field—I was going to be a combat photographer. So, not artsy in the way I typically released thoughts and emotions, but art just the same. And my photography wouldn’t be the same as the pictures I was used to taking, but it was still photography.

  Carter and I had our nightly conversations. We ate in the chow hall together and I learned a lot about different processes in boot camp from her. I was as prepared for upcoming battles as I could be, thanks to the knowledge her siblings passed on to her.

  During the days, I worked hard, pushing myself to my fullest potential. It was tough, but I found I enjoyed myself.

  At night, while everyone else was writing their letters in the dark, I sketched out random drawings, drawings that would come to life if only I had paint with me. Still, the black and white sketches were a great outlet.

  Two weeks after telling Carter I’d been in foster care and didn’t have anyone to write to, I received a letter of my own.

  That night, I frowned as I ripped open the business sized envelope with no return address. Most of the others were sleeping; today had been pretty grueling. Carter was in her bunk, furiously writing letters. I was pretty sure she wrote three a night to her people back home.

  I pulled out the loose leaf paper and my frown deepened at the masculine hand writing scrawled on the college-ruled paper. It wasn’t a penmanship I recognized.

  Curious, I read.

  Asher-

  Nice to meet you. I’m Hunter, one of Carter’s brothers. She probably doesn’t refer to us by name. She never does. Anyhow, she mentioned you never got letters. Reminded me of my buddy Shane, a guy I went to boot with and I’m still really good friends with.

  So I stole an idea from my buddy Mac and decided to write you. Everyone should get letters or something—helps the twelve weeks not seem so damned daunting.

  Carter says you’re one of the more impressive girls there, which says something. We come from a family of Marines and SEALs so if she says you’re tough, you must be. Just keep your head up.

  I’m stationed up at Cherry Point. Few hours north of you (ok a lot of hours north) but I’m working on getting leave for your graduation. I look forward to meeting you.

  Remember: some of the friendships you make in boot will continue through your career. Some won’t, but some will. Even if you don’t have family, you do now—Carter’s claimed you, you’re now a Douglas. So welcome to the family, sis.

  --Hunter

  I read it again, and once more for good measure, before I folding the paper back up and stuffing it into the envelope.

  “Who was that from?” Carter asked as I put the envelope under my pillow for safe keeping. I looked over at her and she looked genuinely curious.

  “Your brother.”

  Her eyes lifted and shock crossed her face before she grimaced. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. Which one?”

  “Hunter.”

  Her eyes relaxed and she smiled, although I could see a hint of mischief in it. “He’s trying to pull a Shane-and-Kellie on you.”

  “His friend who didn’t get any letters in boot?” I asked, referencing Hunter’s letter.

  Carter simply continued to smile, all while shaking her head. “Mmhm. You see, Shane, Hunter, and Travis were best buds in boot and when it
came out that Shane didn’t have any one, Travis told his sister who, in turn, started to write Shane and bam. The two are engaged.”

  My eyes widened, following the events. “I’m not…I don’t… I’m only seventeen!” I was nowhere near old enough to get engaged.

  Carter giggled quietly. “Hunter’s a catch but… He’s like my twin. He’s not much older than you,” she said, giving me a wink. “But I’m sure it’s innocent. There’s a girl our sister knows that he likes. Was he nice to you, at least?”

  I smiled lightly and nodded. “Yeah. He told me I was a Douglas.”

  Carter relaxed down in her bunk, pulling her cover up and facing me. “Well yeah. Shit, haven’t I told you that yet? Good night, Asher.”

  Like everything else in my fucked up life, something that was good—that was setting my life on the first right track it had been on—was too good to be true.

  “You’re being medically discharged.”

  Week nine of my new life, and already…

  I failed.

  I didn’t know what I was going to do.

  Who I was going to call.

  Marie. I could call Marie. But then I’d likely be stuck in Tennessee for who knew how long.

  By pure luck, my platoon was filing back into the barracks as I was heading out.

  “You ok?” Carter asked, checking over her shoulder for a Drill Instructor. The last time I saw her or the rest of my platoon was eight hours earlier.

  Eight hours I sat in medical, cords hooked to my chest and fingers, a mask on my face, changing from just oxygen to some combination of medicines.

  I kept trying to tell them I’d be fine, but every time I went to do something, tried to stand and move across the room, I went weak. Finally they determined I couldn’t be deemed medically stable, no matter how hard I wanted the opportunity.

  It wasn’t worth the risk.

  Not when the situation that sent me to medical could happen at any time during my Marine Corps career.

  I gave Carter a tight smile and shook my head. “No. I’m out.”

  Her blonde brows rose. “Are you shitting me?”

  I shook my head again.

  “What are going to do? Where are you going to go?” There was panic in her voice and I found myself semi-grateful that I had opened up to her. In a fucked up way, it was nice knowing that someone cared about my next steps in life, when I didn’t have any solid ground behind me.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Can you memorize a number?” she asked while walking back toward her bunk.

  “I can try.”

  I watched as she quickly grabbed her shower gear.

  That was one thing I wouldn’t miss—the cold, two minute showers.

  She rattled off a number; I repeated the first six digits in my head, over and over, as I mentally pictured the last four. “Ok. Got it. Who is it?” I needed to know who I was calling.

  She gave me a grimace. “It’s Hunter.” Then her face turned comical as she tried to relieve me. “He’s the closest person I have around here! He’s in North Carolina. Call him and tell him I told him to set you up with a car or something. He’ll do it.”

  Now I frowned. “No…” I shook my head. “No, Carter. No.” I wasn’t about to owe someone something.

  “Asher, what else are you going to do?”

  “I have money.”

  “And you’ll do what with it? Fly where? You could rent a car I guess, but c’mon. Do this. For me. It’d give you a reason to not go all ghost on me.” In the nine weeks we’d been friends—because that was what Carter was, and she was my first real and true friend at that—she obviously knew me well enough from my stories that I would leave and likely not look back.

  Nearly everyone else had left the barracks. “Shit, I have to get going,” she said when she realized how empty the room had gotten. “Tell me Hunter’s number.”

  I clenched my jaw and breathed heavily through my nose before reciting it back to her.

  “Good. Call him.” She pointed at me when we reached the point we would have to split apart. “I expect to hear from you in a few weeks, Asher Spence.”

  If I was a hugger, I thought that this would be a good time to do that, but I wasn’t.

  So I didn’t.

  “Alright. Good luck with the Crucible,” I told her retreating back. The Crucible was the end-all for boot camp. It was the hike of all hikes, and was the final battle before becoming a Marine.

  Something I would never—now, could never—be.

  “I’ll see you later, Spence!” she said over her shoulder, rushing to get to the showers before she was punished for being late, leaving me alone.

  Alone in the hall.

  Alone in life.

  Just alone.

  PRESENT DAY

  I was getting tired, and it was hardly even eleven in the morning.

  Rachel Platten’s “Fight Song” came on the radio and I reached forward to turn it up, not caring if any of the cars around me could hear the bass through the closed windows. I needed these words right now.

  I started singing along, softly at first and playing with the earrings in my right ear. I replaced all six piercings in that ear—the four lobes, the snug, and the helix—as well as two lobes and the tragus in my left ear. My nose piercing closed up, but it had been a pain in the ass anyway.

  I went and pierced something else, though. I spent the last of what was set aside as pleasure money—after the tattoos—on a Monroe piercing, a rich, pretty black stud in my upper lip made to look like a beauty mark.

  I was no longer the Asher Spence who graduated from Chattanooga High—the outcast, the foster kid, the loner.

  I was a newer version of her and I vowed to try and love her. I was going to have to forgive myself of my failings.

  I shook my head, tuning back in to the music. I was so trapped in my thoughts that I missed damn-near the entire song. I sang out the last of the chorus, drumming my hands on the steering wheel during one of the bigger moments.

  I was nearing a town and I saw as a traffic light ahead of me turned red. I turned down the music and eased to a stop, my eyes momentarily going to my rearview mirror out of habit. I settled back into my seat and let my hands drop to the lower curve of the steering wheel, ready to sit.

  I should have stayed on the freeway. These traffic lights were killer when you were tired.

  I reached over to the passenger seat, intending to grab another can of Monster—my heart could kill me later from this caffeine overuse—but before I could reach it, the car was jarred forward.

  I braced my hand on the passenger seat, gripping the wheel with my other. With the forward action, my seatbelt jarred into my left arm and through the soft area of my stomach.

  I sat up, looking over at my arm where the belt cut into me and saw an angry red mark, before looking into my rearview mirror again. Where there were once no cars, there was now a folded up gray one.

  Oh my God.

  I did a quick mental check of myself before rushing to unbuckle myself and getting out. I brought my hand to my mouth at the damage to the car behind me—screw the car I was borrowing.

  I mean, I’d have to call Hunter sooner than I wanted—the back end of the car was pretty beat up—but the car behind me was wrecked.

  Apparently, though, the driver was fine.

  The door pushed open and out charged a pissed off blonde who looked to be about my age.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” she yelled, paying me no mind and turning back to the car behind her. She waved a hand out toward her car, pointing to the driver behind her.

  “Do you have fucking eyes?” she continued.

  Aside from the bitching women I just left back at Parris Island, I didn’t think I ever met a girl who swore as much as I could. I mean, Carter could, but she was different.

  I pulled the sleeves to my long-sleeved t-shirt down so I could hold on to the sleeve hems
with my fingers, walking near the girl. “Hey, are you ok?” I asked her, but she didn’t hear or notice me.

  “The light was fucking red!” she continued on as a guy came out of the third car. When he straightened, the blonde gasped out loud. “You!”

  “Ace, it was—”

  “Don’t you Ace me, Caden Jax Morgan!”

  I lifted my brows. Ok, so they knew one another.

  “Avery—”

  “Were you following me?” she continued to rant.

  I puffed out my cheeks. Apparently this wasn’t going to get resolved quickly. I left my cell in the car but before I could go back to get it, I could hear a police siren.

  “And then you can’t even watch where you’re fucking going?!”

  I looked back to the ranting blonde. She was livid.

  But then again, looking at her car, I would be too. She’d been the pickle in the middle and there was no insurance company that would deem that car not totaled. The front was pushed halfway in, and the trunk area of her car matched the front. He had to have been going pretty quickly for him to push her into me as hard as she was.

  “Avery, it was an accident.”

  She crossed her arms and shook her head. “I’m so pissed at you right now, CJ,” she mumbled through her teeth, finally turning toward me, her face morphing from the raging woman to a sincere female. “I am so sorry,” she said, addressing me. Her tone, too, took a complete one-eighty. “Are you ok?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Are you? Ok?”

  “I’m fine. My car’s not,” she said, projecting it over her shoulder at the blond guy who was CJ, “but I’m fine.”

  I took in both of these people. He was buff and easily six foot. She was about my height and while I certainly wasn’t a weakling—I could do my share of pull-ups, after all—her arms were decently cut for a girl, her toned shoulders bared by a tank top on this warmer fall day.

  This was Wisconsin. Land of cheese and beer. What the hell did these people do to look like that? Both of them, too?

  A set of cop cars came to a stop behind our accordion of cars and four cops total moved from their cruisers and toward us. One of the cops addressed us all, making sure everyone was ok, before he went to the CJ guy, and two of the others came toward the girl—Avery?—and me; the fourth cop was walking around the wreckage and taking pictures.