Just One Moment (Just One Song #4) Read online

  Then I glanced back down and quickly, but carefully, I began typing: P-e-p-p-e-r-o-

  Something made me glance up, and just as I did I heard the squeal of tires—but it was too late.

  I didn't have time to jerk my steering wheel as a car flew straight at me.

  Blue.

  That was all I saw before I slammed right into it. The front of my car hit its side as it tried to jerk out of my path.

  My foot slammed onto the brake.

  Sounds exploded in my ears.

  Metal on metal.

  More braking squeals.

  The shattering of glass.

  And then the smell. It assaulted my senses. Burning rubber.

  It was the last thing I remembered before my head slammed forward into the steering wheel and everything went black.

  ***

  "No!" I scream and fling myself up in my bed.

  My pulse pounds in my ears and one of my hands flies to my chest as if the motion can keep my racing heart inside my ribcage.

  I squeeze my eyes closed and open them quickly, blinking several times to erase the dream.

  Not a dream—a nightmare.

  It never leaves me.

  "Shit," I heave on a breath and swing my legs to the side of the bed. I need a glass of water. Maybe a sleeping pill.

  The dreams don't come every night, but they come often enough that I know on a night like this I won't be able to escape my past.

  I just have to remember to only take one pill.

  I can't go back to how I used to be. I've come too far. I know this.

  But some nights...it's tempting. When all I want to do is forget, but my past is like oily tendrils, refusing to be washed away.

  I shuffle to the kitchen and quietly fill a glass of water and reach for a pill. I do all this carefully so I don’t wake up Kennedy.

  I'm still getting used to having a roommate again after not having one for several years.

  After I take my pill and rinse my glass out and set it in the sink, I head back to bed, practicing deep breathing techniques I learned years ago.

  After I took too many pills.

  After the memories became too painfully loud.

  After my regret and guilt began to bury me alive.

  "I'm fine," I whisper once I'm sitting on the bed. I dig my nails into my palms to remind me, fighting the darkness and the demons I always feel hovering. "I'm good now. Better."

  I force myself into bed, resting my head against the pillow. I practice tightening and relaxing the muscles in my body, starting at my toes. Tighten for a count of five, relax them for a count of five. I move upward and by the time I get to my abs, I'm usually asleep.

  But not tonight.

  I need a distraction.

  I need someone like Lynx.

  In the last couple of weeks, he’s done an incredible job of being the distraction I need to keep me from nights like this.

  It was why I agreed to try this exclusive-sex-only relationship he thought up the last time I saw him.

  I haven’t felt this overwhelming suffocation in months.

  Tonight he isn't here, and it’s in the middle of the night, so I can’t call him for a quick booty call.

  All I have are memories. I cling to those good ones, the nights when he’s driven me wild before driving me over into ecstasy, often repeatedly.

  It's those thoughts that make my fingers slide beneath the waistband of my pajama shorts and then beneath the waistband of my cotton thong.

  It's those thoughts that have my sex warming and pulsing, tingling as my fingers brush against my already swollen clit.

  It’s those memories I focus on as I lose myself with pleasure.

  And when I'm done, I have no problems rolling over and drifting off to sleep—memories of Lynx and his fantastic cock quieting my demons.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  LYNX

  I TASTED DIRT in my mouth and spat. It was no use: we always had a gravelly taste in our mouths in the desert. It was never-ending in Afghanistan, but today it tasted thicker.

  Dirtier.

  I longed for a clean bath with hot water and soapy shit that would make the bathtub fill with bubbles. I had never taken a bubble bath in my life—at least not since Landon and I were five, when my dad had declared us "little men" and old enough for showers.

  But fuck if I didn't want to get back to the States and soak in a fucking tub with bubbles. Maybe jets to massage my back.

  I was always fucking sore. Strung tight with tension as we patrolled. That feeling didn't dissipate when we headed back to base, either.

  I was proud to be a soldier.

  I was proud to serve the United States Army and I was proud to serve my country.

  My grandfather had done it. My father had done it.

  Landon and I had enlisted before we were eighteen, with our parents’ permission, because we knew there was no way in fuck we could afford college. No way in fuck we wanted to spend the rest of our lives paying off student loans, either.

  We headed to the army and we've been together, night and day, training side by side, ever since.

  "Yo," I called out to my buddy, Garrick Munson, as we patrolled the evacuated streets. Bombed-out buildings surrounded us. Piles of rubble and overturned cars left hiding spaces for insurgents to hide. We'd been clearing this area for days.

  We hadn't seen anyone.

  Only two more blocks to go, and then we could head back to base before another fucking sandstorm blew in.

  I couldn't wait to get into my bed and dig into the box of Baby Ruths Ma had sent us earlier that week.

  I could almost taste it over the lingering gravel stuck between my teeth.

  "What is it?" Munson asked and fixed his gaze where I was pointing. What used to be a four-story building was behind us. Now, it was the color of ash and had only one windowpane left. Half of it had been blown to smithereens, and it was missing most of its roof.

  Even with that, I swore I had seen movement in it.

  "We clear that building?" I asked Munson. He wasn't my brother by blood, but he was still my brother. We'd been paired together as battle buddies as soon as we hit basic training, and next to Landon, there wasn't anyone in our unit I was closer to.

  Munson whistled and got Roy's attention. He snapped his head in our direction and, at Munson's silent commands, turned his body toward the building. "That empty?"

  Roy nodded. He was our commander—and at thirty, a decade older than us. Landon, Munson, and I were used to being the babies. We were young, but we'd grown a fuckuva lot over the last year. "Last night and first thing this morning did a quick walk-through again."

  I stared at the building and tiny hairs pricked at the back of my neck.

  "You see something?" Roy asked, hustling over to where Munson and I were hunkered down beneath a pile of rubble.

  I shook my head and shrugged. "Don't know, swear I saw something when I turned my head. Might have been the sun or some shit."

  Fuck. Maybe I was getting paranoid. Always ready to be shot and killed could do that to a person.

  I had a sixth sense about this shit, though, and Roy and the other men in our unit had long since learned to trust my instincts even if it went against our plan.

  "Let's check it out," Roy muttered.

  He signaled the rest of our eight-person unit and then jogged down the street back toward us.

  Landon crouched next to me and bumped my shoulder with his. "What is it, brother?"

  "Don't know." My eyes stayed fixed on the building. It had probably been a shadow. But damn it. I swore I had seen red.

  There was never color out here. Not anymore. Even clothing and rugs that used to be bright and vivid were now blackened and covered in soot.

  "Thought I saw a flash of a red jacket or some shit."

  He nodded and stood. Landon never doubted me.

  While he'd talked about heading to Ranger Training School after this current stint, and had recently started
talking about making the army his life plan, I was anxious to head stateside.

  At night, I dreamed about Ellie Stanton, my prom date and the girl I'd lost my virginity to weeks before heading out for basic training. It might have made me an asshole to do it that way, but Ellie and I had been good friends in high school. She wanted to give it up to someone she trusted, and I was willing to take it. When the lights went out at night, thoughts of sliding my dick into warm and tight pussy kept me from going insane.

  Landon wanted to be a soldier for life.

  I wanted to get home and find more pussy—

  After a fucking bubble bath.

  "Let's head out," Roy commanded, standing up. He gave more silent orders, flashes and signals with his hands and arms and then one quiet whistle. I quickly got in line behind him and Munson while Landon was given the order to stay back.

  "Stay safe, dickwad," he called out when I started to step away.

  "Get my back, asswipe," I returned.

  I didn't have to look back to know he was chuckling.

  It was a good thing I didn't, too, because as we took another step out, that flash of red I thought I'd imagined earlier grew more lifelike, and for a moment our entire unit stood frozen to our spots, rifles raised to shoot.

  A boy—not much older than seven or eight, I estimated—walked straight out of the building in front of us and began opening his jacket.

  Roy shouted at him in Dari, one of the more common Afghan languages, to stand down and keep his hands at his side.

  The kid didn’t have a single hint of fear in him, only sheer determination on his face. I would learn later that his expression would haunt me late at night.

  He ignored Roy's rants as our men on the sides of the street rushed forward, but none of us were fast enough.

  He opened his coat and lifted his hands high in the air. In the distance I heard Landon shout, "Lynx, get the fuck down!"

  I didn't have time to listen.

  He had bombs strapped all the way around his chest, and the fact that he wasn’t holding a detonator was telling.

  Someone else was going to push that button.

  I rushed the kid in order to stop him from blowing himself to pieces, but my efforts were in vain.

  I was several feet away from him when the ground shook and I went flying.

  Shouts and gunfire rang in my ears as I fell to the ground.

  Something hard hit the side of my head.

  Something sharp sliced through my side.

  I rolled over, immediately clamping my hand over my side only to pull it back.

  Blood soaked my fingers and vomit rose in my mouth as a hand curled over my shoulder.

  "Lynx!" Landon shouted, his voice full of panic and fear. "Lynx!"

  I couldn't answer.

  I stared at the blood while Landon continued shouting. "Lynx, you fucking asshole!"

  ***

  "Lynx!"

  Warm fingertips wrap around my shoulder, and I react instinctively to the touch.

  I snag the hand on me and sit up, twisting at the same time. As I move, my other hand reaches out, and without opening my eyes I make a fist and swing.

  I feel the crunch of skin and bones on my knuckles and the hand on my shoulder loosens before it falls away.

  "Fuck, brother. You're such a dumb shit."

  It's my voice.

  No. Not mine. Landon's.

  Fuck.

  I open my eyes at the same time I blow out a breath and sit up. "Fucking Christ, Landon."

  My hands fly to my head and I clasp them together at the back. I rub them against the stubble on my head and cringe. I need to shave again. I'm getting so sick and tired of shaving all he time, but I like having my hair different from Landon’s.

  Mine is now nonexistent. At first it was done on a dare from Landon, because mine used to be long and fall in my eyes when I was fighting. It drove him crazy.

  We made a met on the Bears versus Packers game years ago. Even though we both hate the Packers, he knew there was no way in hell the Bears were going to win at Lambeau.

  I refused to turn on our team.

  I ended up drunk off my ass, razor and shaving cream in hand.

  Landon ended up with three hundred and twenty-five likes on the Instagram photo he clicked of me taking that first swipe against thick, black locks.

  "You weren't waking up," he groans and stands to his feet. One of his hands covers his cheekbone. A small amount of blood drips down his face when he pulls his fingers back.

  "Sorry." I cringe at the sight of the blood. It's too similar to what I just remembered. Needing the reassurance that it was just a dream, one of my hands drops to my waist and my fingers slide along the scar just above my hip. "Nightmare."

  "I fucking figured that out when I walked in here and you were thrashing all over the place and shouting out."

  I scowl at him when he takes his hand off his cheek. The cut is barely visible and the blood is already drying. He's had worse hits in the cage, so I feel slightly less like an asshole. "Then you know better than to fucking touch me."

  He stands and drops his hands to his hips, giving me that "I'm older than you by two fucking minutes so you have to listen to me” look.

  "What the hell are you doing here anyway?" I ask and swing my legs off the bed. Without giving a shit that I'm butt-ass naked, I snag a pair of jeans on the floor and pull them up and zip them.

  "Sunday dinner, asshole."

  Damn. My family pretty much kicks ass. My dad is a mechanic and my mom has always stayed home. Now that her kids have grown up and moved out, considering we did that thirteen years ago, she works part-time at a jewelry store in town to help pass the time.

  She likes helping people pick out things that will make them or their partners happy.

  It's as giving as she's always been, so damn concerned about other people's happiness.

  Which is why the Sunday dinners she instituted as soon as Landon and I returned from the army are such a pain in my ass.

  She can always tell when we're not happy.

  By the way my fingers are still shaking, the tremors of a nightmare that refuses to go away remaining, I know today is going to be filled with sad, side-eyed glances and downturned lips.

  I fucking hate that I can't kick this shit. Years of therapy after we returned from the army, and I still have the damn night terrors. They used to be worse.

  They used to be nightly.

  But even now, when they come, they leave me shaken for days, jonesing for a way to get my damn mind off everything I saw in the three years I was overseas.

  Not that most of it was bad. It wasn't. And I'm still proud as hell that I fought for my country.

  I was just so damn young that I don't think I ever grew the maturity needed to deal with the shit I saw.

  At least that's what one of my therapists believed.

  Not that it does me a lot of fucking good now—being thirty years old and too damn afraid to share the bed with a woman overnight just in case a nightmare hits.

  I could kill someone smaller than me.

  Case in point, Landon's eye that is quickly swelling and turning pink. It'll be purple by the time we get home.

  "You okay?" Landon asks, and I realize I've been staring at my hands. "That one bad?"

  "Same old shit," I tell him and head toward the door. "Just a different day."

  He sighs and follows me. After I was medically discharged, Landon stayed in the army. He ended up finishing our tour and going to Ranger school. He finally discharged five years ago.

  He didn't come home nearly as damaged as I still am, and that thought alone, knowing he saw so much darker and nastier crap than my mind can even imagine, makes me feel like a world-class pussy around him.

  "I can give excuses to Ma," he says, following me into the kitchen.

  I wave him off without looking. "Like she'll buy that. She'll probably show up at the gym tomorrow to make sure I'm okay."

  "Are you?
"

  I sneer at him, looking up from pouring my first cup of coffee from the pre-set and ready machine.

  "Just drop it, Landon."

  He straightens to his full height, which matches my six foot three frame. Sometimes having a fucking twin sucks. Like when you know you're equally matched in height and strength so there's no way you can actually beat the shit out of him.

  Like I want to do now.

  "You been laid recently? That always helps me forget shit." His arrogant expression says everything.

  "Fuck off," I mutter and press the mug to my lips. "Don't want to talk about Sarah."

  "Your repeat woman."

  "I said fuck off." I snap the words harsher than normal, because damn it, I don't want him thinking about her like that.

  I don't want him thinking about Sarah, period.

  Never, in all of my years of getting laid, have I ever come up with some bullshit plan to get a woman in my bed.

  But what I won't tell Landon, and what I will never tell Sarah, is that on the nights I've had her, the memory of her lingers long enough that I don't have to worry about nightmares after I'm done with her—or the next night.

  This last nightmare is the first I can even remember having since before Vegas.

  For two months I've been free of them.

  When we split ways after the weekend we met in Vegas, I didn't actually plan on calling her again.

  Then, for three weeks I dreamed of her small, tight body straddling my hips or my face while I rocked her against me, drawing out her orgasm while she cried out my name.

  When I finally called her up and she was willing to get together, she was fucking fantastic.

  It was even better that she didn't mind hopping out of my bed and then getting the hell out of my loft apartment without expecting more from me.

  She's like me, but in sexy-as-hell chick form.

  I don't even want to know why, because if she truly is anything like me, she's gotta have her reasons for not doing sleepovers. I just like that she seems okay with the plan we made weeks ago when she was here.