Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 101001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 505(@200wpm)___ 404(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 505(@200wpm)___ 404(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
Air whooshed from his lungs as a ghost’s gaze connected with his.
Impossible.
“The fuck is this?” he spat out, stumbling backward. A loud screech sounded as he backed into a table, dragging the legs across the concrete flooring.
“Hello, Scott,” she said in a low, smoky tone. “I’m Olivia, though you probably heard me called Liv or Livy.” She smiled, presenting a row of straight, gleaming teeth, and held out her hand, also perfect with pink manicured nails, a shade darker than her dress. “I’ve heard so much about you from D… uh…” She cleared her throat. “From Deke.” Those two words came out in a whisper.
He stared at the hand as though it held an unpinned grenade. Images bombarded him from all angles.
Deke in basic training, sweating and filthy.
Deke, drunk off his ass the night he turned twenty-one.
Deke, saving him from a bullet by slamming him to the ground.
Deke, beaten, bloody, and tortured.
Deke, lifeless on the filthy ground. Dead.
Because of him.
Guilt pressed so hard on his chest, he couldn’t draw in a breath.
“I… uh, I’m Deke’s sister,” she said, her forehead wrinkled. “Well, half-sister.”
Of course, she seemed confused by his reaction. All her family had been told was that Deke was killed behind enemy lines by a terrorist. Nothing more. Lucky for them, they’d never know the details. Never know how Deke fought or how he suffered. They’d never know his best friend was the one who signed his death warrant.
PTSD. Survivor’s guilt. Anger issues. Neat little labels the Army’s psychologist pinned him with. Yeah, no fucking shit, he was angry. Those buzzwords did squat to scrub the memories from his brain. Same with all the bullshit tricks and techniques that hack had tried to teach him. It wasn’t his fault she recommended pointless nonsense like journaling. Wasn’t her fault a lobotomy would be the only way he’d ever scrub the horror of Deke’s death from his nightmares.
“Are you okay?” Olivia asked when he did nothing more than glower at her. She glanced to the right, where Curly had stepped out of his office.
No, he wasn’t fucking okay, and he wouldn’t be okay until she got her swanky ass out of his clubhouse.
“I know who you are,” he said, straightening as he advanced toward her. She needed to leave before he lost his shit.
Her eyes widened, but she held her ground. “Oh, good.” She tried for a smile, but it wobbled.
Most men cowered under his glare, so he wasn’t surprised this snowflake couldn’t hang.
“I’m p-pleased Deke mentioned me. May I… um… may I have a word in private, please?”
So formal. So fucking stuffy. “You’re Deke’s half-sister.” He tapped his chin, coming to a stop a few inches from her. She wasn’t tiny, maybe five-foot-eight, but she had to lift her chin to see him at his six-two. “How did he describe you? Oh, right, the pampered princess living off your daddy’s golden teat. Never had to work for shit. Never had to fight. Never abandoned by your family. Yeah, I know who you are, Olivia.” He smirked. “Now get the fuck out of my clubhouse, princess.”
He had to give her some credit, though he’d never admit it aloud, she only sputtered for a second before squaring her shoulders and affecting a haughty smile. “Excuse me?” she asked, her tone dripping with ice. “Who do you think you are to speak to me that way?”
He sprang forward, crowding her against the bar. Satisfaction flashed through him when her eyes flared. “I was Deke’s best friend. The one who was there for him when your precious Daddy Moneybags kicked him the fuck out of his home. Was it fun being the only child? No competition for Daddy’s attention. Or his money.” He grunted. “Spoiled fucking brat,” he said as he turned to walk away.
“Uh, Spec, maybe you should back off a bit.”
“Stay the fuck out of this, Tracker.”
Just the thought of her and everything she stood for disgusted him. So maybe Deke hadn’t been nearly as harsh when he described his sister, but what was a best friend for if not to stand up when Deke couldn’t. This princess had no idea what her brother endured after their father kicked him to the curb. He’d lived on the streets for months until meeting an Army recruiter in a food bank.
“My relationship with Deke was complicated, yes,” she said, cold as fuck. “He called me a pampered princess?”
“Sure did.” Kind of. He said she’d been raised as one, but he’d also admired her grit and determination to remain as grounded as possible as an adult.
“Well, he told me you were the best man he knew. That if something ever happened to him and I needed help, you’d be there, no questions asked.”
Ouch.
“So,” she continued. “Clearly, he was a shit judge of character.”
He snorted out a laugh that quickly turned to a growl. No way would this woman get on his good side with a joke or a quip.