and don’t ever try to touch her again. She’s not a pet.” I let her growl for a second to make her point.
“Relax,” I told Havoc, running my hand down the side of her neck. Tension immediately drained out of her body, and she collapsed on my leg, blinking up at me like it had never happened.
“Damn,” he whispered.
“Don’t take it personally, New Kid,” Mac said. “Havoc’s a one-man woman, and you sure as hell aren’t the guy.”
“Loyal and deadly,” I said with a grin, petting her.
“One day,” Mac said, pointing to the letter, which had slid onto the bed next to my thigh.
“Today is not that day.”
“The day you crack it open, you’re going to kick yourself for not doing it sooner.” He leaned over his bunk and came back up with a tub of peanut butter cookies, eating one with the sound effects of a porn.
“Seriously.”
“Seriously,” he moaned. “So good.”
I laughed and slid the letter back under the pile.
“Get some sleep, New Kid. We’re all action tomorrow.”
The kid nodded. “This is everything I ever wanted.”
Mac and I shared a knowing look.
“Say that tomorrow night. Now get some shut-eye and stop knocking over my stuff or your call sign becomes Butterfinger.”
His eyes widened, and he sank into his bunk.
…
Three nights later, New Kid was dead.
Johnson. He’d earned his name and lost his life saving Doc’s ass.
I lay awake while everyone else slept, my eyes drifting to the empty bunk. He hadn’t belonged here, and we’d all known it—expressed our concerns. He hadn’t been ready. Not ready for the mission, the pace of our unit, or death.
Not that death cared.
The clock turned over, and I was twenty-eight.
Happy birthday to me.
Deaths always struck me differently when we were out on deployment. They usually fell into two categories. Either I brushed it off and we moved on, or my mortality was a sudden, tangible thing. Maybe it was my birthday, or that New Kid was little more than a baby, but this was the second type.
Hey, Mortality, it’s me, Beckett Gentry.
Logically, I knew that with the mission over, we’d head home in the next couple of days, or on to the next hellhole. But in that moment, a raw need for connection gripped me in a way that felt like a physical pressure in my chest.
Not attachment, I told myself. That shit was trouble.
But to be connected to another human in a way that wasn’t reserved for the brothers I served with, or even my friendship with Mac, which was the closest I’d ever gotten to family.
In a move of sheer impulsivity, I grabbed my flashlight and the letter from where I’d tucked it into a journal on mountaineering.
Balancing the flashlight on my shoulder, I ripped open the letter and unfolded the lined notebook paper full of neat, feminine scroll.
I read the letter once, twice…a dozen times, placing her words with the pictures of her face I’d seen over the years. I imagined her sneaking a few moments in the early morning to get the letter written, wondered what her day had been like. What kind of guy walked out on his pregnant wife? An asshole.
What kind of woman took on twins and a business when she was still a kid herself? A really damn strong one.
A strong, capable woman who I needed to know. The yearning that grabbed ahold of me was uncomfortable and undeniable.
Keeping as quiet as possible, I took out a notebook and pen.
A half hour later, I sealed the envelope and then hit Mac in the shoulder with it.
“What the hell?” he snapped at me, rolling over.
“I want my cookies.” I enunciated every word with the seriousness I usually reserved for Havoc’s commands.
He laughed.
“Ryan, I’m serious.” Whipping out the first name meant business.
“Yeah, well, you snooze, you lose your cookies.” He smirked and settled back into his bunk, his breathing deep and even a few seconds later.
“Thank you,” I said quietly, knowing he couldn’t hear me. “Thank you for her.”
Chapter Two
Ella
Letter #1
Ella,
You’re right, your brother outright ate those cookies. But in his defense, I waited too long to open your letter. I figure if we actually do this, we should be honest, right?
So one, I’m not good with people. I could give you a bunch of excuses, but really, I’m just not good with them. Chalk it up to saying the wrong thing, being blunt, or just not seeing the need for mindless chatter or any other number of things. Needless to say, I’ve never written letters