Read Forever Mine: Callaghan Brothers, Book 9 Online
Authors: Abbie Zanders
Forever Mine: Callaghan Brothers, Book 9 (31 page)
“Is everything alright?” Celina asked when she’d taken several bites from her sub and he had barely managed one.
“Not hungry,” Kyle rasped, pushing the plate away. Jamie was looking at him strangely again, well aware that under normal circumstances, Kyle had the appetite of a linebacker. Celina was watching him again too, but her eyes were ... curious. She reminded him of a little girl peeking through the bars at the lions pacing around their cages at the zoo, one without enough sense to be afraid.
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C
elina: Connelly Cousins 1
is available on Amazon now:
Germany:
http://bit.ly/CelinaDE
Canada:
http://bit.ly/CelinaCA
Australia:
http://bit.ly/CelinaAU
... and other Amazon locations
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K
eep turning the pages for some amazing excerpts from authors Elaine Levine, Jessie Lane, and Tonya Brooks!
A
bbie Zanders loves to read and write romance in all forms; she is quite obsessive, really. Her ultimate fantasy is to spend all of her free time doing both, preferably in a secluded mountain cabin overlooking a pristine lake, though a private beach on a lush tropical island works, too. Sharing her work with others of similar mind is a dream come true. She promises her readers two things: no cliffhangers, and there will always be a happy ending. Beyond that, you never know...
Contemporary Romance
Dangerous Secrets (Callaghan Brothers, Book 1)
First and Only (Callaghan Brothers, Book 2)
House Calls (Callaghan Brothers, Book 3)
Seeking Vengeance (Callaghan Brothers, Book 4)
Guardian Angel (Callaghan Brothers, Book 5)
Beyond Affection (Callaghan Brothers, Book 6)
Having Faith (Callaghan Brothers, Book 7)
Bottom Line (Callaghan Brothers, Book 8)
Five Minute Man (Covendale Series, Book 1)
All Night Woman (Covendale Series, Book 2)
Celina (Connelly Cousins, Book 1)
Johnny (Connelly Cousins, Book 2)
Michael (Connelly Cousins, Book 3) – also includes bonus series novella
Jamie (Connelly Cousins, Book 1.5)
The Realist
Celestial Desire
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Time Travel Romance
Maiden in Manhattan
Raising Hell in the Highlands
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Paranormal Romance
Vampire, Unaware
Black Wolfe’s Mate (written as Avelyn McCrae)
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Historical
A Warrior’s Heart (written as Avelyn McCrae)
b
y Jessie Lane
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L
ucas
Letting the love of my life go was not the hardest thing I’ve ever done. No, that particular duty had been much worse. It was pushing her away when every fiber of my being told me she should be mine, but couldn’t be mine.
See, when you let someone go, there’s that whole cliché phrase we’ve all heard that if the person loves you, they’ll come back to you, and then they are yours forever. When you push the person you love away... well, that’s a whole different story.
My parents raised me to cherish and protect the ones I loved. Bonds formed in my lifetime had always run strong. The very core of who I am came down to the ideals of loyalty and responsibility. Some may say it’s the first born child mentality, I don’t give a shit what anyone calls it. When it all comes down to the bare bones of reality, those strong bonds were eventually what led to me ending up as I am now. Alone.
Ginny DuBois was the girl who lived across the street during my childhood. She was my baby sister’s best friend. The scared girl with big blue eyes and the face of an angel. She worked her way into my heart, and once she had it, I never wanted it back. Too bad, she doesn’t know what she has carried with her for all this time.
I had settled myself years ago to not having her the way I wanted. To be brutally honest, it was more than mere want with Ginny. She was a craving I couldn’t fulfill. An addiction I couldn’t ease. Eventually, I realized that she was the oxygen I needed to breathe to survive. It feels like I’ve been slowly suffocating for years.
My strategy to keep her at a distance was to protect her from the dangers and heartbreaks of the life I lived. It didn’t mean I ever planned on letting her go. Not entirely. Never once had I planned on living a life where I didn’t see her sweet face every once in a while. Although, not having her the way I wanted her was never supposed to mean not having her in my life at all. Only to keep her at a safe distance. Enough contact to make sure that she was breathing easy, living life and happy. Now I see why they say the path to hell is paved with good intentions.
The sweet agony of my plan to give her up blew up in my face when she disappeared without a single trace. The sooner I could find her, the sooner she would know just how deep my feelings ran. The time has come for her to know what she has had all along.
Warning:
This is the first book (50,000+ word novel) in a three-part serial spin-off from the Ex Ops Series. Each of the three books will feature a piece of Lucas & Ginny's story and leads directly into the next installment.
IN OTHER WORDS, THIS STORY ENDS ON A CLIFFHANGER.
Also, be fair warned their story will make you laugh, cry, and possibly throw your e-reader at the wall. <-
You've been warned.
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weet Agony
is available on Amazon:
http://goo.gl/CbKtqr
b
y Elaine Levine
H
e couldn’t breathe, couldn’t hear, couldn’t stand, but his goddamned eyes could still see. Everything.
Women hurried in random directions, their faces filled with terror, their mouths open and straining with silent screams. Most of them were still in their house clothes, exposed in their panic to the eyes of men. Children were clinging to their mothers. Others cried where they stood. Or worse, lay silent and bleeding in the dirt.
He pushed himself up to his elbows and looked behind him.
Dust fell like snow. Not dust. Ash. Debris rained down on him. A boot. A brick. An arm. A scream pushed its way from his gut, cut through his heart, and erupted from his mouth.
Silent, like all the others.
Rocco landed on his stomach, his hands clasped to his ears. He pulled a deep breath, felt the air scrape his raw throat, then screamed again.
And woke himself up.
People surrounded him. Faces he didn’t know. A room he couldn’t remember. Where the hell was he? Men pulled at him. The jagged noise of their shouts slammed into his head like knives. They yanked him up to a sitting position, dragged him into the light, shaking him and gesturing.
“No. Don’t. Don’t touch me!” he shouted to everyone around him, in this reality and the one he’d just left. “Don’t touch! Get the fuck off me!” They looked at him with odd expressions.
Christ, what language was he speaking? He looked at his clothes, seeking a clue from what he wore where he might be. He had jeans and a T-shirt on. Not a
shalwar kameez
. He was not in Afghanistan, then. He should have spoken in English or Spanish.
“What’s he saying?” one of the men asked the others.
“Who the hell knows? He’s still hallucinating. Shit, can’t a man get a little sleep?”
“It ain’t English. You heard him.”
“It’s Pashto. I served over there. I know that language. Look at him. He ain’t American. He’s a Pashtun, a goddamned haji.”
More men gathered around, frowning, reaching toward him. He pushed himself back with the heels of his bare feet, shoving and tearing at the people around him as he did a crab-walk shuffle to the nearest wall. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t get free. And the blood. The blood was everywhere. Tears spilled down his cheeks. He let loose a roar and shoved again at everyone around him, punching them, warning them.
But it was too late.
The burned flesh was already drying, sticking to him, to them, to everything. He leaned to his side, bucking against the dry heaves squeezing his ribs. He sucked in a harsh breath, smelled the smoke of the burning village, and heaved again.
Rocco leaned against the wall as he wiped the spit off his mouth with the back of his hand. The cinderblock was cold through his sweat-dampened T-shirt. Keeping his eyes closed, he drew small breaths through his mouth. He didn’t dare smell the air, fearing it would stink of smoke and ash and burning flesh. This world and the other kept flashing in and out, back and forth, like a TV that flipped between two channels. He squeezed his head between his fisted hands, trying to make it settle on a single reality.
Let it have been a dream. Just a dream.
Nausea writhed in his stomach like a living thing. God, he couldn’t take seeing Kadisha’s home collapse again, tracking the cloud of dust that had risen from what had been her house. It wasn’t real, this. It was a dream.
He cautiously opened his eyes. Someone had switched on the fluorescent panels, flooding the room with sterile, white light. He looked around, blinking, unable to reconcile where he found himself with where he’d just been—where his soul still was.
“Everything all right?” Reverend Daniels asked. He leaned toward Rocco, but didn’t touch him.
“Hell no, it’s not all right, Rev,” one of the men said. “You heard him screaming. All of Cheyenne heard it. Ain’t none of us can get any sleep with him here.”
Rocco looked at the man who spoke. In deference to the minister, his fellow vagrants had moved a few steps away. But they stood in a tight circle, staring at him as if he’d sprouted feet out his ears. The bus from DC had dropped him here three days ago. Faithful Heart Homeless Shelter. A holy fucking Mecca to all drifters, hungry and lost men, women and children.
“You ain’t lettin’ him stay, are you, Reverend?”
“He does this every night. He could hurt someone.”
Rocco’s gaze slashed toward the new speaker. He
could
hurt someone. It would be so easy. He bent his ankle, feeling for the strap of his knife’s sheath. It was gone. All of his weapons were gone. No matter. An arm around the forehead, a quick twist. The end would be the same.
Sweet, goddamn silence.
“I’m sorry, son. I’m afraid they’re right.” The minister set his hand on Rocco’s shoulder. Rocco jerked free, sending a quick look from his arm to the preacher to see if the blackened flesh had moved.
It didn’t. Of course it didn’t. It wasn’t real. He held his arms up and looked at them, seeing only his bare skin, damp with sweat. He felt like vomiting again, but knew nothing would come up. He’d not eaten since he’d been here. He’d taken only water as his body rid itself of the meds the shrinks had pushed on him at Walter Reed. That shit fucked with his head. He needed to get clean, to start thinking straight.
“Get your things, son, and come see me. I’ve got some coffee on in my office,” the minister offered. Having nothing else better to do, Rocco moved to his cot. Someone had set it back upright. He shoved his feet into his still-new combat boots, struck by the oddity that after ten years’ service, he didn’t have a pair of boots that was broken in. Forcing himself to stay focused, stay present, he grabbed his jacket and green duffel bag, then followed the older man.
Reverend Daniels poured two cups of coffee. He was stirring sugar and powdered creamer into one. “How do you like yours?”
Rocco ignored the question. Answering it would involve too many decisions about preferences he didn’t have. And way too many words. He shrugged. He’d drink it however it was served him. It wasn’t as if food tasted like anything anyway. He took the proffered mug and sat in one of the chairs in front of the minister’s desk.
“You got a place to go, son?”
“Yeah.” That’s why he was staying in this shithole.
“You serve overseas?”
“Yeah.”
“Come back recently?”