Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
I finally turn over the engine and head to the market.
3
CHANCE
In the home gym I grip the pull-up bar, knuckles white, shoulders screaming. Muscle memory carries me through my morning routine, with every rep reminds me I’m still here.
Still alive.
Still on this side of the world.
Still in a house perched above a valley where the wind cuts clean and the snow sits heavy on the pines in winter. Through floor-to-ceiling windows looking out at the mountains, I stare at a view that couldn’t be more different from the place my mind often goes.
A place that had been dull and sandy. A place where fall-colored leaves and lush greenery under a clear blue sky had never existed. Not in my experience, anyway.
For a second, though, I slip and my mind wanders the way it always does when it has nothing better to latch onto. The next moment, I’m back in Afghanistan, smack in the middle of a mission that had gone sideways so fast, it’d left a scar on my brain.
We’d been clearing a village. Simple recon, quick extraction. That was the word they’d used. Simple.
Now, call me crazy, but to me, simple doesn’t include the hum of gunfire in your ears while you realize someone on your team isn’t coming back. It doesn’t include the look on a kid’s face when he runs straight into danger because someone has to cover your six.
On that mission, I’d stepped into that dark side, cold, precise, and unyielding. I’d gotten those I could out alive, and I’d come back with medals, PTSD, and a reputation I never wanted.
Montana has been my salvation. Fresh air, wide skies, and mountains that don’t care about my past. A place where the three of us can build something lasting, our business and our home. It’s our little patch of peace.
Except lately, the peace has been feeling restless. Something gnaws at the edges of it, an itch I can’t scratch with pull-ups or long runs on the trail that snakes away from our back door. I know I’m the only one feeling it.
Boone has been staring off into the distance a lot more than usual, as much a slave to the demons that haunt him as I am. Dillon has been baking so much that it’s like he thinks he can slay the restlessness with a stick of butter and a whisk.
I drop from the bar, my muscles burning and sweat slick on my back. Flicking the cap off a bottle of water, I bring it to my lips and am halfway through draining it when Dillon strolls in.
“Hey,” he says, holding up a half-eaten chocolate chip cookie like it’s a trophy. “Want one?”
I roll my eyes. “No. And it’s ridiculous that you eat like that and still somehow stay in shape.”
He grins, as proud of his metabolism as if he’d handpicked it. “It’s a gift. Don’t hate me for being built like a god. I can’t help it.”
“Whatever.” I sigh and grab a pair of gloves, sliding them onto my hands before I move across the room. “Hold the bag.”
He saunters that much-too-tight-for-all-that-sugar ass over and braces one hand against the punching bag, the cookie still balanced in the other. “See? Easy. I really am a god.”
“You’re insane, is what you are.” I shake my arms out at my sides, bouncing a little on the balls of my feet. “You’re also going to fall over if you’re not ready when I start.”
“Insane. Hungry. Lonely,” he says before taking another bite of the cookie, speaking around it. “I’m always ready, though. Do your worst. I won’t fall over.”
I jab at the bag hard enough to throw him a little off-balance, but not enough to make him fall over. At least he shoves the last of the cookie into his mouth and steps fully into position on the other side. “We need a woman.”
I exhale hard and keep jabbing, throwing every ounce of my own frustration into each punch. “You know it’s not that easy. We’re looking. Be patient.”
“Patient? You sound like Boone.” He slaps the bag lightly with the back of his hand. “I got blue balls here, man. That’s not patience, that’s torture.”
I don’t stop punching. “Then maybe you should work out more. It’s a great stress reliever. We’ve got a nice, heavy bag right here and I’m doing sprints later. It’ll make you forget all about your balls.”
He groans, leaning back against the wall and forgetting all about the bag. Raking both hands through his sandy blonde hair, he drops his head forward and inhales deeply. “A stress reliever? I think what you mean to say is that it’s torture by sweat.”
“It’s better than whining.” I jab again. “And it works. Guaranteed.”
Looking up at me, he scratches absently at the inside of his wrist, right over the tattoo of a padlock worked into an intricate circuit board snaking up his forearm.