Five years later and I could claim without arrogance that I was good at it. Who knew my gritty times in the field and trenches would have an audience? Avid readers were patiently—and not-so-patiently, according to various DMs and emails—waiting for the next book in my ongoing series, Sniper Behind the Lines, featuring a better version of my ornery ass, Brett Maverick. Given I couldn’t talk about most of my missions without being arrested for treason, I had to make changes to ensure the stories were fictional. However, I knew enough and had seen enough that scenarios proved easy—usually—to develop. Then there were the sensory details I could relate. How the grit of the Middle East clung to the skin and tongue, the feel and weight of the rifle, the way I’d sink into a trance as I lined up a shot, the adrenaline of battle. According to reviews, I knew how to suck a reader in and make them feel as if they were actually there.
Seeing as how my last two novels hit the bestseller lists, the pressure mounted to produce a sequel that wouldn’t suck. Hard to do when I just wanted to wallow in my misery.
My high school sweetheart, who’d seen me through all the physio sessions and held me when I woke shouting from nightmares, suddenly decided—after I found fame and fortune—that she wanted a different man. One without a bum leg. One who liked to dance. A guy who could give her kids. In other words, someone who wasn’t broken.
I shoved away from the desk as self-pity overwhelmed.
Fuck me. I wanted a drink so bad, but I’d intentionally left booze off my weekly deliveries, and the two times I’d gone to town I’d avoided the temptation to buy a bottle. Because one bottle led to two, and next thing I knew I’d find myself pissing in the most inappropriate places. Apartment building vestibule. My own fucking shoe by my front door.
Not cool.
Despite that, I craved the mindlessness that came from lots of alcohol. Maybe a dip in the hot tub would relax my ass. I needed to clear my head so the words could flow.
Throwing on a robe, with my feet loosely shoved into my boots, I headed out to the deck with its awesome view of Mount Amiata. Located in the Tuscany region, the long dormant volcano was a popular spot for hiking in the spring, summer, and fall, and skiing in the winter. A winter that started out slow until after the New Year. Within the last week, a layer of snow had fallen and covered everything in a blanket of white. Pretty but cold. With its arrival, just about every rental and hotel in the area was about to get booked solid. I didn’t have to worry, though. I had this place for as long as I needed since the owner didn’t usually rent during the winter months because of the difficulty getting to and from the chalet.
Given I didn’t have to worry about being seen, I stripped naked and sank into the hot tub, my muscles immediately relaxing in the bubbling, hot water. Sigh. I did enjoy this particular amenity. It eased the almost constant ache in my leg. It had me thinking of buying one for my place. The house I’d gotten to keep in the divorce. The place that killed me with memories every time I walked in the door.
I really should sell. Get myself some place new. One bedroom, since there would be no kids. Or maybe two, so I had a place to put my hot tub and sauna. I’d have asked my therapist what he thought, only I didn’t trust him anymore since he’d gotten together with my ex.
He’d almost died for it. I’d had the doctor in my scope’s sights a few nights as I lay on the roof of the building adjacent to his condo. My finger had tensed on the trigger, but in the end, I couldn’t kill Gary. Yeah, he was banging Elodie. Yeah, he was the one Buster now pissed on in excitement when he got home from work. But what would killing Gary do? It wouldn’t change the fact Elodie didn’t want my broken ass and I couldn’t exactly keep Buster with me in a jail cell.
I’d ended up being the bigger man. I let him live. And got drunk to numb the pain. A pain that never ended. Or was it the loneliness killing me? Either way, I would never escape. My leg would never fully heal, couldn’t with the missing chunk. As for ever finding love again? Why bother even trying when Elodie, a woman I’d loved for seven years, left because I wasn’t man enough anymore?
God, I wanted a drink.
No drink. Think of your abused liver.
Fuck my liver.
You need a clear head to write.
Fuck the story.
You’ll be fucked if you don’t turn it in.
I had two months. If I could do even a measly thousand words a day, I’d have a manuscript. Now, I just needed an idea. Something to lighten the darkness that kept creeping into the few chapters I’d struggled to spit out already.
What could I do to my hero, Brett, to give the book the flair I was known for? As one reviewer put it: For such a serious subject matter, Mr. Milner manages to inject a lighthearted repartee that keeps it from being depressing. Funny how I could that in books, just not real life.
My head tilted back, my eyes closed, and I relaxed. Until I heard a splash.
What the fuck?
I jolted upright and stared at the bubbling water. I was alone, so what fell in the tub? No trees overhung the spot, so not a nut or branch. I stood to look, but the frothing from the jets made it impossible to see anything below the surface. A press of a button and the motor went quiet, the only sound the occasional pop as the wood that kept the tub warm burned. The liquid settled and the lights on the inside of the tub showed me who’d jumped in.
Or should I say, what?
As if sensing my regard, the cat-sized creature rose from the bottom, the top of its head emerging first, then its big eyes, followed by its snout. Definitely a reptile. I might have thought I hallucinated, only I remained sober. No drugs for the pain. No booze. Nothing to explain the lizard eyeing me with a hint of caution. Had my drinking finally caught up to me and addled my mind?
I blinked but the lizard remained. I rubbed my hand over my bristled jaw. “Well, fuck.”
What to do?
Nothing. I wasn’t about to wrestle a reptile that size while naked.
I exited the tub and grabbed my terrycloth robe. As I wrapped it around my shoulders and slid my feet into my boots, I glanced at my scaly guest floating in the hot water. “Enjoy. I’m going back to work.”
Because miracles of all miracles, I had an idea. My hero, Brett, was about to get himself a reptilian sidekick.
