Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 130761 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 654(@200wpm)___ 523(@250wpm)___ 436(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130761 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 654(@200wpm)___ 523(@250wpm)___ 436(@300wpm)
I could barely make my legs move, I was so fucking exhausted. I glanced down at my hand and saw the fucker shaking.
“You good?” Bones asked.
I looked at my spotter and closest friend. His face was white too, but I could tell he, like me, was manning the fuck up. A weird mix of adrenaline and guilt ripped through me when I thought back to the last two days. The sound of my bullets releasing from my barrel and slicing through the fuckers’ skulls. “Direct hit!” sounding from Bones beside me as I kept my eyes on my targets.
“Three,” Bones said, his gangly arms reaching up to take off his helmet.
I nodded in acknowledgment, but didn’t say shit. Wasn’t sure my mouth would work anyhow.
Fucking three.
Each one a direct hit.
Then I saw him, coming from his tent. He rushed toward me. “X!” he called. I stopped dead, my feet crunching the sand.
Bones’s hand came down on my shoulder. “See you later, yeah? Get some sleep.”
“Yeah,” I replied. Bones walked away, and I looked up at my brother.
“I heard on the radio.” Devin put his hand on my head before lowering it to my shoulder. My hair was gone now. Shaved. Jarhead through and through. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I said, then laughed. I had no fucking idea why I was laughing. “I’m good.” I looked around us—the tents, the Marines milling about, the trucks being loaded and unloaded. It was fucking weird—out there versus in here. Out of the gate and inside, two completely different worlds.
“Three.” I felt Devin’s hand fall away from me. “I got three of the fuckers.” I laughed again and felt a nervous smile pull on my face. But my heart was pounding. And my hand wouldn’t stop fucking shaking.
Devin put his arm around my shoulder and led me from the entrance of the base. “Come on, X. You need a drink.” I let Devin lead me to his tent. But even as he sat me down and handed me a whiskey, I didn’t let go of my gun. I could see him watching me with worry, but I didn’t care. I’d just killed three people. My first ever confirmed kills.
When my cup was empty, Devin filled it back up. “It gets easier.” He sat on the edge of his cot, right in front of me. I met his eyes. “From this moment on, it becomes second nature and don’t bother you as much. I promise.”
I took a deep breath and let his words sink in, hoping he was right . . .
The smell of bacon frying ripped me from my dream. My heart beat like crazy as I recalled that day. My hands shook as if I were back there in the dry heat. On that damn base . . . with Dev. Calm the fuck down, I told myself, trying to push the memory from my head.
It took five minutes for it to fade.
My eyelids felt like ton weights as I cracked them open and winced at the sun streaming through my window. I groaned and grabbed my head when the effects of last night’s tequila slammed into my cranium, yelling a huge fucking hello, remember me?
“Shit,” I growled as I kicked my legs over the side of my bed and waited for the room to stop tilting to the side. Once the rocking chair in the corner had stopped spinning in circles, I pushed to my feet and stretched out my stiff neck.
Something on my chest pulled tight. I looked down; I had fucking claw marks stretching from my neck to my groin. I’d slept in my jeans, clearly too fucking wasted to undress.
What the fuck had happened? I slammed into the bathroom and closed my eyes as I pissed about a quart of tequila from my system.
I moved to the sink and drenched my face with cold water, then swilled my mouth with mouthwash so it didn’t taste like something had fucking climbed inside and died. I pushed out of the door and followed the smell of bacon. Ash stood at the stove, already dressed in jeans and his Hangmen shirt. A fucking mini-Flame in my home. Tattoos, piercings, and those black-as-hell eyes.
He looked up as I entered the kitchen. The little fucker had the audacity to smirk at me. I gave him the finger and slumped down at the table. Two glasses landed in front of me: a glass of orange juice and a shot of tequila.
I groaned as I knocked back the Patrón, then downed the OJ until the glass was done. “Thanks, kid,” I said, then heard the little shit laughing.
“How the hell are you not this hungover, you little fuck? Last I remember, you and Slash were doing shots of Jameson with Vike.”
He shrugged. “I was. Just don’t really get hangovers.”