I had a few days left to sort my head out, but I was losing hope. I had great friends back home in Baybridge. Blake, Jesse, and Trace have been patient as my shit has crept up on me like a soul-eating fog. I’ve been a master of keeping a lid on things, but lately I’ve been screwing up and I ran away as it all came to a head. Small stupid mistakes at work. Forgetting to do things I’d promised. Dreaming of things I’d never have.
My buddies were all happy and living the dream with wives and growing families, while I was stuck in the trenches of my bloody past. Alone.
It was unfair to burden anyone with what I’d experienced, what I’d done. No one would look at me the same if they knew. I did not want their pity or their help. I just wanted peace. So I kept my head down, my mouth shut, my hands busy.
But even my VA shrink knew I was barely holding up the weight of it all, desperate rage threatening to consume me much of the time. To survive, I faked it. I couldn’t speak of my true pain. I couldn’t touch the tattered pieces of history. I couldn’t relive it, other than what my brain forced me to, a hostage to my dreams.
And, so, I run.
Dead branches cracked under my feet and a squirrel scurried away from me as I spun to head back to my campsite. I’d thought about ending it all about a million times since coming home from Afghanistan. What good was half a man? Yet some elusive something kept me going that I couldn’t quite pinpoint. My family and friends? Sure. But I knew it was something more. A glimmer of hope that life didn’t have to be this forever. That the blackness inside might give way to the light. That I’d find redemption and know it deep, deep in my bones.
Back at my site, I made myself a sandwich. As I chewed, my mind drifted home. My friends were probably all snuggled up with their women, their children safe in their beds or playing in the yard. I could imagine cozy meals and the scents of home. Clean laundry, dinner simmering on the stove, those frilly candles the women loved.
All I had to look forward to was my empty apartment. Nothingness to fill my nothingness.
God, I was pathetic.
My cell phone dinged with a text. My first word from humanity in days. I dropped my half-eaten sandwich back in the bag and dug my phone from my backpack.
Sorry to interrupt your me time . . . another girl was raped and now scared women are flocking the shop asking about your class. I thought you quit. What should I tell them?
I frowned at Blake’s words. Some sick bastard was running around terrorizing women and I couldn’t figure out why they hadn’t caught him yet. I’d somehow been talked into teaching self-defense by my Krav Maga sparing partner’s wife, but I wished there wasn’t a need. I’d just as soon stay home and not have to interact with people. Women, really. Young, beautiful, blond women, in particular. It made my chest ache with a desire that was both foreign and painful. But, like everything else, I’d bottled that away and done my part to make Baybridge safer for the one blonde whose shy smiles and deep green eyes hinted at a pain as deep as my own. I could never have her, but I’d die to protect her.
I punched out my reply without a second thought. I’m coming home.
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Copyright © 2015 by Shauna Allen
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Books by Shauna Allen
About Throttle
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Epilogue
Dear Reader,
Acknowledgements
Coming Soon - Rev
Copyright Notice