GAGE: A Bad Boy Military Romance (27 page)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The last time I’d seen someone nearly collapse like that was after Sammy was killed, and Mayer went down. He was alone in his cell—no one there to catch him or to help him drink any cold water. Mayer had seen a few deaths before. It wasn’t like he was some kind of pansy or anything like that—he was a field medic, after all. Mayer’s sanity only went downhill after that.

Watching one friend lose their mind was enough for me.

Kyla needed to go lay in the bed until she could see straight again. I slid my hand behind her back and under her arm to help her up. She perked up, tense, and snapped her head towards me. “What are you doing?” she asked with wide eyes.

“I’m helping you up,” I said.

“Oh,” she said, her body carefully relaxing. She let me help her up. I hesitated putting her in the same room she’d slept in. It had a window that was big enough to crawl through if she decided to try and run into the woods. I wasn’t willing to find out if Greg really would shoot her, so I took her to Greg’s room where there were no windows.

She didn’t seem to notice the change in venue. Her mind was elsewhere, probably back in Nintipi where that ex-Marine jackoff was getting ready to beat her half to death. That bastard was leaving more than bruises on the poor girl, he was turning her brain into mush. I remembered Kyla’s being spacey when we were young, her mind always slipping away to some big fancy scientific topic I’d never understand. But this was different. This was eating away at her soul.

She was a victim of emotional warfare. A warfare I knew all too well.

I helped Kyla down on the bed.

“Hunter?” she said.

“Yeah?”

“Did you ever tell Sammy about us?” Her eyes locked on mine, wide, unblinking as she awaited my response.

“No.”

“What do you think he would have said if he knew?”

It was a question I’d spent a lot of time thinking about—and never knowing what the answer could be. “I don’t know,” I said. I liked to think he would have said something along the lines of, “Eh, I was going to dump her anyway,” though that was probably just me being optimistic. I didn’t like to think of what he might actually say. It probably wouldn’t have been quite as dismissive.

“He hits me,” Kyla said.

I laughed. Laughing seemed to make the thoughts hurt less. “Well, not anymore,” I said.

“Liam,” she added. “Liam hits me.”

“I’ll kill him.”

“Please don’t.”

She stared at me, waiting for me to say something, as if she’d asked a question. I already knew that Liam hit her, but I guess it helped for her to admit it. What surprised me was that she stuck around and let him get away with it. “So leave the piece of shit,” was all I could think to say back.

Her eyes began to water. “I can’t,” she said.

“Why not?”

She shrugged and pressed her lips thin. I wanted to shake her and yell, ‘Say it, damnit! Just say it!’

She did. “I’m scared.”

“Scared of what? I won’t let him hurt you, Kyla. If he even tries to put a finger on you, I’ll break both of his arms.”

A tear rolled down her cheek. “I’m not scared of Liam.”

“What does that mean? Who are you afraid of, Kyla?”

She shrugged again. Was she afraid of Sammy’s perv brother, Roger? Why would he care what she did? “Kyla?” I prodded.

She shrugged and looked away. Her lips parted but she hesitated. The urge to shake her came back but I resisted. “Everyone,” she said. “When Sammy died—it was horrible. I can’t do it again.” She stopped holding back her tears, letting a seemingly endless stream flow down her cheeks. “I can’t,” she said.

I tried to put my arm around her for the sake of being comforting but she became tense and wiggled free. “I’m sorry,” she said, but when I tried again, she did the same thing. Something about me touching her just seemed to make things worse. Jesus, the poor girl was worse off than I’d thought. She needed time alone.

“Get some more sleep,” I said, standing up.

She grabbed my arm, stopping me. “Don’t go,” she said.

“You need to rest or you’re going to have a stroke, for Christ sakes.”

“Just sit with me,” she said. “Please.”

I did. I reached around to comfort her again but I didn’t even need to touch her before she became tense. So I kept my hands to myself. I didn’t know what she wanted me to do—just sit there, I guess. So that’s what I did, I just sat there while she cried.

And she cried for a few minutes. Then, she finally gave in, turning and nestling her face into my bare chest, letting me put my arm around her without her springing free like a feral cat. She started telling me about everything she went through while I was away, getting her college acceptance revoked, getting stoned in the street, getting thrown from a truck—by the sounds of it, I was better off in the prison camp in the Congo.

I didn’t understand why she thought there would be the same reaction if she left Liam. Why would anyone care? I didn’t understand why Greg thought he’d be killed by Kongies if he let his guard down either. There’s no understanding people sometimes, it’s the way that grey lump in our skulls works. Just accept it.

She wrapped her arms around me and cuddled in closer. “Just tell me it’ll be okay,” she said, her grip tightening against my side.

“It’ll be okay.” It came out completely monotone. It was an awkward thing to say aloud. I don’t even think I believed it myself.

Her body was warm, soft, just like I remembered it being. I put my hand down on her thigh, my Achilles’ heel. I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to feel those legs for five long years—those long, thick, soft, warm, smooth legs. She didn’t seem to mind, or maybe she didn’t notice.  I slid my hand up slowly, inching inwards to the point where her thighs pressed together. No gap. Fuck the gap.

Her grip loosened on my side and she gently slid her fingers down towards my abs. My heart jumped. I could feel my cock getting harder. She must have known. Her eyes were aimed right at it and there was nothing but my thin boxers obscuring the view. It was possible that her eyes were closed—I could only see the back of her head. Her fingers continued downwards; my heart rate increased with very inch. Shit.

Her head was tilting up very slowly, and mine was tilting down. It was only a matter of time before we were looking each other right in the eyes. Her fingers paused at the waistband of my boxers and I could feel them tremble against my stomach. Were they going under or over? Judging by her hesitation, she was trying to decide the same thing. It didn’t matter much either way, another inch or two and they would wrapped be around my half-erect cock.

My own fingers were facing a similar dilemma, already nestled between her thighs, mere inches from her pussy. I didn’t want to go any further until I was sure it was happening, until I had some confirmation that she wanted to stroke my cock while I rubbed her clit. I was waiting for her to make the first move. It was a standoff. If she held back for much longer, I wasn’t sure I could do the same.

Our foreheads touched and she stopped, so I did the same. Her free hand moved up and settled into a spot on my chest. We were now both frozen, waiting for the green light, permission to fire.

Fuck, I wanted her to grab my dick so badly. I wanted to push her down onto the bed, pull down those tights, and finger-bang her until she came and squirted all over my hand. I’d fuck her senseless. Raw. Once I was finished, she wouldn’t even remember that ex-Marine’s name. I knew she was waiting for my move, so what was holding me back?

Her hand was stopped right on my tattoo.

Born Strangers. Died Brothers.

Right before that Kongy pulled the trigger—right before Sammy died—Sammy told me his biggest regret. “Hunter, if you get out of here, tell Kyla I loved her and I’m sorry.” There was a long enough pause for me to tell him I slept with his girlfriend. But I said nothing.

Bang.

His dying words.

When the Kongy pressed the tip of that barrel against my skull, I was actually hoping that he would pull the trigger. I deserved to die. I was a piece of shit. He didn’t pull the trigger, and I spent four more years in that hell hole.

And nearly five years later, I was still a piece of shit, about to rub salt in the bullet hole in the middle of Sammy’s forehead.

“He loved you,” I said.

Kyla remained still, but I could feel the mood shift a full one hundred and eighty degrees. “What?” she said.

“Sammy loved you. Before he died, he told me to tell you. And he’s sorry, too.” It took a moment to sink in. I knew when it did, because she pushed me back and recoiled her hand as if she’d just touched a cockroach.

She stuttered. “What?”

“I tried to tell you before.”

“You did? When?” She was crying again, this time not holding back any tears.

I opened my mouth to speak, but I didn’t know what to say. I’d wanted to tell her earlier but I never did try, and she knew it.

“Get out,” she said, snapping her face away to hide her misery.

It was the reaction I’d feared. There were no words to make her feel better, relieve her guilt. I got up and left the room, closing the door behind me.

I could hear her crying, through the walls for about fifteen minutes before she became silent. The silence was worse. Silence is always worse. Silence is torture. They could be upset, they could be furious, or they could even be suicidal. But the real agony is that glimmer of hope that things might be better. The hope is the worst part. Hope is ruthless.

Greg returned an hour later, his beard white with frost and his skin pale. As he opened the door, a violent plume of snow blew into the room. The blizzard must have started. He was short on breath, as if he’d been out running. He looked cautiously around the room before speaking. “Where’s the girl?” he asked in a low voice.

“She’s sleeping in your room. She’s not feeling well, and the other room was too bright,” I said. Greg had burning look in his eyes. He was still holding the hunting rifle.

“How did you say you knew her again?” he asked.

“She’s an old friend of mine.”

“How do you know she’s not with them?” he asked, lowering his voice even further.

I wanted to slap some sense into him, but no one in their right mind would slap a man holding a high-powered rifle—especially one who was far from being in his right mind.

“Did you have a chance to look through the files?” he asked. He was referring to the files he stole from Bremkin’s house—the dog vaccination records. He kept telling me they were full of top-secret information.

I tried to look at them, just to make him happy. But I couldn’t do it. The header that read “Nintipi Animal Hospital” was enough to make my heart ache. Greg used to be normal. He was the smart one, the funny one. He was the one that was supposed to talk sense into
me
. He was supposed to be the glue. I couldn’t look past the first few pages of the vaccine records. Every page was just another reminder that Greg was far gone.