If You Leave: The Beautifully Broken Series: Book 2 (39 page)

But it’s not.

“If the baby is a boy, I want to name him Elijah,” I finally say to Maddy. “Is that OK?”

Her eyes well up and she nods. “As long as his middle name is Gabriel.”

Warmth floods through me. “Deal,” I manage to say, lacing my fingers through hers.

“You might not want to talk about it,” she tells me gently. “But our son will hear about what a hero you are. Just so you know that.”

She lets go of my hand, gripping my arm instead, and I think about the words beneath her fingers.

Death before dishonor.

Mad Dog is dead and there is nothing I can do about that. He died with honor. Along with Ara Sahar and all those other women and children. But I’m still alive. So there’s only one thing I can do. Live for them.

Live with honor.

“You ready?” Brand asks, glancing at me.

I nod. “Yeah.”

And finally I am.

We walk away together, leaving the past behind us where it belongs.

I spent a lot of time secluded in my office while I wrote this book. So I have to thank my family for putting up with me. For never complaining about eating out so much. And for not making fun of me (too much) when I forget to shower or eat or when time gets away from me. I’m blessed that you’re so supportive and I love you so much.

Amy Pierpont, my rock star editor from Forever. Oh my Lord. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you during this book. Thank you for being patient through the four revisions and for not killing me whenever I added new stuff. And thank you for being awesome and for your amazing insight.

To Lt. Col. (Ret) Gerritt Peck and SPC Desiree DeCoteau. Thank you both SO freaking much for answering all my questions about life in the military and Afghanistan. I know you’re both busy, so it meant so much that you were willing to take the time to answer everything I asked. You’re both heroes.

To my BFF and partner in crime M. Leighton. I have to thank her in each and every book because she practically holds my hand when I write. If I have a problem or a question, if I’m stuck, if I’m neurotic, if I’m unsure… I call M. And she talks me off the ledge or drops whatever she’s doing to take a look at the scene and give me her input. She’s crazy awesome. And someday, hopefully, we’ll live in the same area—next door to each other with adjoining wine cellars.

To my dream agent, Catherine Drayton. You’re amazing and I still find myself in shock sometimes when I see your name in my in-box or on my phone. Thank you for taking a chance on this rural farm girl.

To my talented and amazing PR/marketing team… Kelly Simmon from Inkslinger PR and the amazing ladies at Hachette: Jessica, Marissa, Jane and Tanisha. You guys are simply the best.

And to the bloggers and readers who read my work. Each of you is awesome. And I appreciate each of you more than you’ll ever know. Thank you so much for all that you do, for reading my books, for your kind notes and e-mails and Facebook posts and tweets. You’re the reason I get to do what I do and I will be eternally grateful.

As of the writing of this book, around 3,460 Congressional Medals of Honor have been bestowed on US military personnel who have acted with outstanding valor and courage.

The recipients of that honor deserve that recognition.

So do the thousands of military personnel doing their jobs both around this country and around the world.

And so too do the many soldiers who have fought in combat and came home with PTSD, often to a debilitating degree. According to statistics, in 2012 more soldiers lost their lives by suicide (averaging one per day) than on the battlefield. That is staggering.

And heartbreaking.

Soldiers face the things that we don’t want to face, things that we don’t
have
to face because they do it for us. Because they face it, because they look fear in the eye, they come home scarred on the inside.

We shouldn’t forget that. We shouldn’t forget
them
.

There are scores of websites and groups out there, all designed to help injured soldiers and soldiers with PTSD. If you’d like to support a cause, if you’d like something to believe in, I’d highly recommend looking into one of them to become active in. One that I found during my research is the Wounded Warrior Project (
www.woundedwarriorproject.org
). You can start there and learn ways to help.

I have a special place in my heart for soldiers, which is one of the reasons this book came to be.

Before I quit my job in the corporate world for my dream job of writing books, I had the enormous privilege of working with a team of former military officers and soldiers. Each of them embodied the traits of the kind of person we should all aspire to be.

Honor, dignity, loyalty, bravery, discipline. These guys showed me firsthand the amazing people that soldiers are.

Also, my own grandpa served in WWII. I remember the stories my grandma would tell of not hearing from him for months (because letters were delayed). Then when she went to the movies one night, there was footage of soldiers boarding a ship bound for overseas and she saw my grandpa. She said, “I knew it was him. No one had a walk like Olen.”

Those boys were boarding a ship to go fight against unknown terror, things they’d never seen the likes of before. Yet they did it with honor. They did it with dignity. All of them found out firsthand that fear is a choice. They faced fear so that everyone back home didn’t have to. It gives me chills to think about.

My grandpa, who has passed away now, embodied every one of the traits I mentioned above. He was quietly dignified, strong and brave. He never talked about what happened to him in the war, because many men of that generation didn’t. It was too horrible to speak of.

Things have changed, though, and soldiers are encouraged to talk about the things that scarred them. They are encouraged to deal with their internal demons… demons they acquired in the line of duty.

Demons they acquired when they were protecting
us
from harm.

This book is my way of honoring each one of them. It’s a reminder that they fight for the things that people like me take for granted. Like Maddy said in the story, soldiers fight so that we can rest easily. They guard us against the things that go bump in the night.

They serve with honor so that we can live free.

They’re all heroes and I’ll never forget that.

I hope you won’t, either.

Courtney Cole is a
New York Times
and
USA Today
best-selling author who lives near Lake Michigan with her family. She’s always working on her next project… or staring dreamily out her office window. To learn more about her, please visit
www.courtneycoleauthor.com

Please see the next page for a preview of

Before We Fall
.

I shouldn’t be watching. I know that as I stare down from my balcony, looking past the shimmering pool below, looking past the rippling water that sheds blue light on everything around it, the images wavering in the night. Knowing that I
shouldn’t
watch is what keeps me from turning away.

I take another drink of whiskey, watching them quietly as I lean against the railing.

The girl bites the guy’s neck, then murmurs into his ear. He smiles, lifting her legs onto his shoulders as he thrusts into her. Hard. Then he frees one hand and grabs her neck. Hard.

She likes it. I can tell that by the way she scratches his back and moans for more. I can tell by the way she bucks her hips up to take him even deeper. I can tell by the way she doesn’t even try to take his hand away from her throat. It always fascinates me when I see women who like getting debased, the ones who like it rough, the ones who want to be dominated.

It doesn’t make any sense, but I see it all the time, more and more. Around my pool, in my hot tub, on my lawn. People seem to lose their inhibitions when they pass through these gates, which doesn’t make any sense either. None of them know me, not really. But it doesn’t stop them from making themselves
very
at home here.

Sometimes, like now, it works to my advantage.

I glance back down at the couple, watching the guy’s face contort and twist and watching the girl moan and writhe beneath him. They’re definitely making themselves at home, completely oblivious to the fact that I’m watching.

I feel myself getting hard and I shift, easing the pressure of my jeans away from my dick. I brush my hand against the denim covering my crotch, stroking myself. Just a little. I’m not going to get off right out here in the open. The press would have a fucking field day if pictures of
that
leaked out.

If I were decent I’d back away from the balcony and give them privacy. But fuck that. I’m not decent. Not anymore.

And I like to watch.

Before long the guy pulls out of her and yanks her off the chaise, forcing her down in front of him. I can read his lips.

Suck me.

She shakes her head, trying to scramble away, but he holds her fast by her hair, making her take him into her mouth. Making her suck her own taste off of him.

She swings her arms at him, but he holds her hair tightly, wrapped around his hands, refusing to let her go.

Fuck.
I sigh. People come here and get drugged up and out of control. It’s not worth it. Especially when I only have the parties in the first place because my publicist says they keep me relevant. Whatever the fuck that means.

I throw back the rest of my drink and head down the stairs, across the lawn and onto the stones leading to the pool. I grab the guy from behind and yank him backward. He yelps as I toss him on the ground.

“Get the fuck out,” I snap at him. “No one gets forced against their will here.”

“That bitch wanted it,” he protests as he climbs to his feet. “She was asking for it.”

I shake my head. “The last time I checked, no means no. It’s not a new way of asking for something. Get the fuck out of here.”

The guy stalks away without another word and I grab a pool towel and wrap it around the girl’s shoulders. Her shirt is barely hanging around her waist now, apparently ripped in their scuffle.

“You OK?” I ask gruffly. She nods, sniveling, just as another girl, a gorgeous blonde, rushes up.

“Holy shit, Kaylie. What the hell happened?”

Kaylie explains about the asshole and I turn to disappear back into the shadows, but she grabs my arm, then wraps herself around my waist.

“Thank you,” she tells me shakily.

“It’s not a problem. But you might want to stay out of situations like that. There won’t always be someone to step in and save you.”

The girl looks up at me in shock, too drunk or high to even respond. But her friend isn’t so silent.

Big brown eyes snap at me angrily. “Why are you lecturing her? She was just violated, in case you didn’t notice.”

I roll my eyes. “Is that what you call it? She was having rough sex with that asshole right out in the open. It looked to me like it was an incident that just got a little out of control. I stopped it for her. You’re welcome.”

Her friend stares at me dumbfounded. “Are you trying to insinuate that she’s not a victim, that it was her fault this happened?”

I sigh. “Of course not. I’m saying that she shouldn’t be messing around with coked-up drunk assholes in the first place. Good night.”

But she’s not done. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” she demands. “You might not have heard, but you really shouldn’t blame the victim.”

“I’m not—” I begin, but I’m interrupted by her gasp as I step fully into the light and she sees my face.

“Holy shit,” she breathes. “You’re Dominic fucking Kinkaide.”

I can’t help but smile, just a little, just enough to pull the corners of my mouth up. “Dominic will do. I tend to drop the ‘fucking.’ ”

She smiles a breathtaking smile that should affect me. But it doesn’t. Because nothing affects me anymore.

“I’ve heard you’re trouble,” she announces matter-of-factly. “That’s lucky, because I happen to like trouble.”

“I bet you do,” I answer back, trying to ignore the way she’s acting now that she knows who I am. They all act like this. Every one of them. It gets old. “Nice to meet you.”

I turn around and walk back toward the house, but she takes two steps and grabs my arm. I pause.

“But you didn’t,” she says hesitantly. “You didn’t meet me. My name’s Jacey.”

I sigh. “Your name doesn’t matter.”

I keep walking, ignoring the way she sucks her breath in, the way she calls after me in agitation.

I might be an asshole, but I don’t lie.

Her name doesn’t matter.

Not to me.

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