Murder_ A Sinful Secrets Romance - Ella James Page 0,23

me up. I hear the rat-tat-tat of a semiautomatic, hear Breck curse, then fire. My stomach hurts. You can’t pass out.

I swallow. Move. Don’t be a fucking pussy.

“You’re gold, man. We’re almost there.” I hear bullets zing around us. “Fuck!” Breck’s body bumping mine; the wall behind me. I can’t lift my gun. Fear makes my heart beat so hard.

I hear a groan and then I’m down. The world is tilting. I can’t see a fucking thing. Breck grabs my shoulders. I curse as his upper back bumps under my pecs; I feel him lift me up, my torso over his shoulder, my legs dragging behind. Every step he takes is murder on the shoulder and…my head. It’s hurt…bad. I feel like I’m going to throw up.

I feel him stop. I hear my teammates’ voices. Then I’m being lifted up the ramp, into the Bradley’s belly. I feel hands on me. I fall against one of the seats.

Voices…shouting. The Bradley rocks, and for a second, I go deaf. Where is Breck?

Hands are pushing me. My shoulder! I try to sit up but I’m dizzy.

And then I hear Breck groaning. Screaming. That sound gets me in the fucking gut. I’m up, turning toward the sound as someone hoists him into the Bradley and he plows into me, clutching at me as he pants and groans. Other groaning, shouting men scramble in behind him. I can only see Breck’s face…

The way one eyelid bubbles, sizzling with phosphorus…but he tries to keep his eyes open. The sound of a tooth cracking. Because he’s clenched his jaw so hard one of his molars broke. The hard, deep breaths that turn into low moans. He never lets himself break down, even as the chemicals from the Willie Pete round eat through him. My last memory of Breck is his eyes squinted with pain, his round cheeks drawn up, almost like a smile—except it is a grimace. And the sounds. My best friend’s awful whimpers, then my name.

“Bear?” I can see his fingers fumble at the wrist of my long-sleeved FORTREX combat shirt.

“Don’t…don’t dream about me. Okay?”

His brows are knitted low over his eyes.

“Don’t be a quitter, motherfucker!”

“Tell…my mom…”

I lean down, fumbling at his shoulders, trying to pick him up. I can see him going and I want to have him up against me so he doesn’t feel alone the way I do at night when I’m crying in the snow or watching the Iraqi boy bleed out in the dirt.

Sometime later, tubes…machines. I think my eyes are opening and closing. I’m aware I’m shaking. In the ICU at Landstuhl with my head sliced open and pieced back together.

Breck is gone.

“Don’t…don’t dream about me. Okay?”

The dirt comes into focus—dark, moist dirt; not desert sand—along with my bent knees. I realize I’m kneeling on the ground—the cold ground—and I look around.

How long was I here?

Something stings, and I remember: my head. Gwenna White.

Gwenna kicked me in the head. I didn’t block her.

I stand up, cold and shaky, tracking everything a half-second too slow. My body feels stiff and achy as I head toward the basement door, the one punched into the stone foundation, that leads into a wine cellar.

I manage to get it open, even as dark dots swim in my eyes.

“Let me look at it. I’ll drive you if you need to go somewhere.”

I climb the stairs, telling myself I’m okay. While I’m climbing, I forget to inhale through my mouth. The smell of blood makes my gut clench. Pain moves through me in tight waves.

“Don’t…don’t dream about me. Okay?”

Fuck, I hate it when I hear things over and over.

I have to climb up the other flight of stairs to my room, where I’ve got my shit. A first aid kit. I take it to the bathroom and open the box. Maybe I lick my lip. I don’t know, but I get blood on my tongue and start to shake again.

I shut my right eye—my only working eye—so I can’t see, and bring my mostly numb left hand up to my face. I need to use the Dermabond I have to glue the wound shut.

“Let me look at it. I’ll drive you if you need to go somewhere.”

This shit with her is fucked up. So fucked up. I put my right hand on the partial wall that separates the toilet from the sinks and shut my eyes.

“My name is John, and I’m from Breckenridge. I heard you’re Bear from California. You like vodka? Cause I’ve got