“Tomorrow morning in the eastern wing, six o’clock sharp.” His reply was monotone, losing any hint of his snide personality. I nodded, turning on my heel, but he cut me off before I could walk away. “Oh, and Oren, don’t forget to stop by our barber beforehand. Cutting hair with a knife isn’t really my forte.”
Great. Roommates, short hair, and an asshole. A triple threat I couldn’t wait to indulge in, but at least he couldn’t take away my personality. “Can I at least have a name to praise in the morning? Too early to call on Christ,” I said with a shrug.
“Thorne,” he responded indifferently. “Thorne Graves.”
“ThorneGraves?” I chuckled, stepping back with a little more pep. “What an interesting last name. Bet with one like that, you’ve honored it. How many peoplehaveyou put in the grave?”
Silence. Unearthly silence.
No reply. Not a word.
His quiet startled me, the first round I think I’d won. “Only asking to make sure I stay alive, ya know?”
Seconds ticked by, and without a reply, I rubbed the back of my neck.Later.I had roommates to win over after all.
CHAPTER TWO
THORNE
Wrapping my hand around the glass of bourbon, I glanced up at the clock—11:00 a.m.It’s five o’clock somewhere, right?
I swiped a whiskey glass from the counter, knowing Matthew would have a fucking aneurysm if he came into our quarters and saw me downing a whole bottle of sin before lunch hour had even hit.
That fucking recruit, with his cheeky-ass grin and his near-intolerable personality, had hit a spot that I pretended I’d stitched shut. A spot that harbored the demons of my past and all of my failures on the battlefield. There were far too many instances where I’d misjudged and lost men I viewed as family, as brothers, and that was something I’d never fucking forgive myself for.
And somehow, someway, thisOren Valenshad sniffed out the fractured pieces of my soul. Yet, in the same breath, there was something about him that I couldn’t put my finger on—something that I wanted to… explore.
“Hell, Thorne,” I groaned under my breath, running a hand down my face. Talking to myself in my room over some fucking guy? Christ. Maybe I needed his cross necklace.
Or, you know, a good fuck with a man or woman. I didn’t give a damn about the nuances, just something to clear my sick mind.
In an attempt to calm my thoughts, I unscrewed the cap, flicking it from its position and watching as it bounced across the granite countertop. As the chime of transgression ceased, I tipped the bottle toward my glass, filling it nearly to the rim.
Staring at the amber liquid, thoughts of my father stirred. I’d never wanted to become like him—a brute, an alcoholic—but somehow I’d found myself slipping down the same path no matter how deep I dug my nails into the dirt.
He’d served and climbed the ranks as fast as I had, promoted to a Commander in just under a year. That was until he was discharged because losing his men,his friends,ultimately became too much. After that, he withdrew from our family and turned to drugs as a means to cope with his unrelenting thoughts, thoughts I’d come to understand too damn well.
Just when I’d thought my life couldn’t have become more of a dumpster fire, the police showed up at my apartment door when I was eighteen, informing me that my family home had burnt down. My dad started the fire, finally succumbing to his suicidal tendencies. My mom and sixteen-year-old sister were in there when he lit the match, and even though he hadn’t known better, he took their lives alongside his own.
How was I able to assume such things of a man I once looked up to? Because a week later, a letter showed up, an admittance to the atrocity handwritten in his unmistakable script. It was a note I kept pinned on the bulletin board in my room alongside a photograph of my mom and sister; reminders of the psychological mess I’d gotten myself into when I agreed to join Special Operations.
My only saving grace, the anchor amidst the tumultuous storm that was my existence, was my best friend Matthew—the last standing original member from our class of recruits and the men I led.
He was my sole survivor and the only thing keeping mealive.
Cursing, I grabbed the glass, bringing it to my lips in every attempt to drown my demons in one of the few ways I knew how—alcohol or blade. The liquid roared down my throat, searing my empty stomach with what I would assume was easily over twelve shots. An immediate euphoria flooded my senses, numbing the agony my heart had continued to carry, which I masked with my stoic exterior.
I dropped the emptied glass, nudging it across the countertop alongside the bottle, knowing damn well that if I didn’t step away, I’d down a fifth of bourbon before the weekend had even hit.
A sigh escaped me as I shoved myself from the kitchen, sinking into the couch. Still clad in my uniform pants and our more ‘casual’ squadron t-shirt, I kicked my boots up onto the center table. It was a behavior I knew Matthew would reprimand, but he wasn’t here, and God only knew when he’d return.
Hopefully not for a while, so I could get my ass back up and put my insidious coping mechanism away before he noticed.
Resting my head against the cushions, I closed my eyes only to be greeted by that defiant, stormy blue gaze and untamable blonde curls, curls I’d love to?—
“No,” I mumbled to myself, shaking my head. “You’re not doing this.”
Interest was a weakness because it led to relationships, and relationships were a typhoon waiting to destroy everything you believed you ever had. I’d gotten close to far too many when I’d joined the ranks, and after I’d watched them bleed out in my arms, I’d promised myself it was something I’d never do again. Loving inherently meant losing, and losing wasn’t something I could bear. Not anymore.
