THE CRAZY GOOD SERIES - Rachel Robinson Page 0,106

no gray area. Black or white—pick one and live your damn life. Trust her and be with her, or don’t and walk away. If her friendship with Nash bothers you so much, break it off. Is it a deal breaker?”

My chest tightens. Nothing is a deal breaker. I’m fucking sick in the head. I’ll take Windsor in any form. “No,” I say simply.

I click on my messages again and find no new replies. I shut the laptop. “Let’s go to the gym,” I say. Stone doesn’t say anything else about Windsor or my insane outburst. His silence is steadfast and comforting. It says he’ll forget this whole thing happened. “I have to work this shit out of my system before tomorrow night.”

Grabbing a set of ear buds from his bunk, Stone says, “fuck yeah you do.” He follows me out of the shitty ass door.

_______________

She deleted the photo. I came back from my workout and the photo was magically missing from her Facebook page. She sent me a reply message and didn’t mention anything about Nash joining them.

Now, I’m not a fan of the saying “omission is a form of lying” because I’m a large offender. If you want to know something, ask. If it’s something you don’t know you should be asking—that’s one thing. But Windsor knows I saw the photo. She should explain it. I messaged her back asking if any guys joined them. Her reply? You’re my guy. Evasive. Guilty. Something must have happened between her and Nash. It’s the only explanation. I’ve felt sick for the rest of the day, my stomach grumbling with fucking unease.

I remember listening to a teammate whine like a fucking baby because he couldn’t trust his girlfriend back at home. He was all over the place that day, like a God damned loose cannon. I couldn’t fathom something so stupid fucking up my game that badly. But it did. Now I know why. I can’t think straight.

I’ve never wanted to not think about something more in my life. I’m ready to go earlier than I usually am. All my gear is on and double-checked, my guns are loaded, and I’ve gone through my mental checklist three times. It pisses the other guys off when someone gets jocked up early because it makes them feel like they’re behind. Everything is a competition in my world—even when it’s not. All the guys are outside getting ready. Stone stands beside me, also fully ready to rock with his ear buds in. I hear screaming rock blasting into his ears, drowning out the sound of the 47’s blades beating the hot night sky. His head bobs to the beat, his eyes straight ahead—he’s in the zone. The sight of him gives me pause. He’s ready…I’m not. My brain is somewhere in cyberspace analyzing my girlfriend’s body language and cryptic messages.

A slight restlessness is still present when I go over exactly what I’m going to do tonight. I replay the favorable scenario in my head over and over in a methodical practiced manner. We’ve practiced tonight’s mission over and over, every minute detail is fine-tuned, and if something goes wrong? I know exactly how to handle it. It’s not a back-up plan; it’s just option B, or C—all the way down to Z if need be. It’s not about luck, it’s about skill, and that I have. I can’t listen to music like some of the guys. I need my thoughts clear. That’s where I find my zone.

My thoughts clear even further on the short helo ride to the target compound. The adrenaline hits my system when the dust starts swirling at the helo’s approach for landing. Our advance is silent by most people’s standards, but the bad guys won’t be sleeping after we land. They’ll know we’ve fucking arrived. Apache helos swarm the air around us to protect the slower 47 we ride in. The noise is like death for those who know exactly what the sound means. To me? It lulls me—lets me know it’s game time. The second the helo touches ground, our boots hit the ground too, breaking into a sprint.

By the time my eight buddies hop out before me, rushing to be the first in line to be the first on target, I’m there, in that perfect place where skill meets Thomas Maverick Hart. Stone is in front of me with his hand pressed by his ear, listening to the radio as we move, fanning the huge fucking compound. When the