in to the onrushing fury, which never failed to drag the crushing head pain along for the party. Terry groaned and pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, his mouth watering at the thought of his recently favored remedy for this—the warm comfort of a fifth of whiskey.
“Excuse me,” a female voice said from behind him yet from very, very far away. “Can I help…oh my God. Terry.”
Moving at glacial speed, as if his entire body was mired in quicksand, he rose, turned, and felt the muscles and tendons in his legs, hips, shoulders, and neck creak and flex even as his vision narrowed to a pinprick in self-defense against the horrific, gut churning pain in his brain.
A woman stood in the open door. A stranger, to him. But yet, familiar.
“Renee,” he grunted. “What the fuck are you…move,” he barked, shoving her aside and thundering into the cool tile foyer, past the dining room through the kitchen and to the back hall half-bath. He made it right before his stomach surrendered its contents.
Chapter Seven
When he came to, it took him a few seconds to sort out what he was staring at. But once he did, he scrambled back, wiping his dry lips and trying to wrap his aching head around how he’d managed to end up in the downstairs bathroom of his house in Kentucky.
The vivid dreams of sand, and sweat and Operator camaraderie; of heat and familiar, rough, loud voices had been so realistic he’d honestly figured on waking up back in that damn tent. His last assignment.
Delta Force didn’t live on a base. They scattered when they weren’t drilling, training, working out, surveilling bad asses, or freeing hostages in some far-flung hellhole. It was a wholly different life than the one he’d imagined for himself as a boy. Even the one he’d envisioned as a young man, in the throes of early success as a soccer stud. But he’d grown used to it in the years he’d spent as an Operator.
He missed it, badly.
He wanted it back even worse. It had a proscribed rhythm, a regimen, a set of tasks to be done every day, regardless. Not too far off his life as a star athlete being looked at by teams in Europe—real teams, plus all those hopped up nobodies in the MLS. The life he had turned away from, left voluntarily, in a fit of horrified agony.
But here he was, back home now. The last place on the planet he’d imagined for himself, a thirty-two-year-old grown-ass man, with a few thousand bucks in his pocket, an overpriced Harley in the driveway, the entire contents of his life zipped into an olive green duffle bag. Sitting on the floor of the bathroom of his house in fucking Lucasville.
He groaned, but the pain had retreated into its cage, growling and grumbling, promising a re-appearance if he didn’t keep his temper and blood pressure steady. Focusing on the toilet seat, then up to the sink, he noted that the place had been divested of his mother’s somewhat overwrought decorating style.
Gone were the lace curtains at the small window overlooking the backyard. Same for the little chair that had held goofy “Bathroom Reading” books, copies of Road and Track, and Sports Illustrated. The line of smelly candles on the windowsill was missing, as was the tall floor vase that had held a varying array of eucalyptus stalks and other dried or fake flowers. He blinked fast, clearing his vision further, taking in the cool, gray-green paint with bright white trim—sans the floral wallpaper border.
Where in the hell was he, really? He slumped against the wall, refocusing his attention on keeping his head from lurching into pain mode again. A light knock on the door forced his eyes open.
“Terry? You all right?”
Holy step-mama, he thought. That’s right. That’s what had torn it , he realized. A quick glance at his phone’s cracked screen revealed he’d been in here almost an hour.
“No,” he said, his voice croaky and dry. “I’m absolutely not. Please tell me you’re here to drop off food,
“Excuse me,” a female voice said from behind him yet from very, very far away. “Can I help…oh my God. Terry.”
Moving at glacial speed, as if his entire body was mired in quicksand, he rose, turned, and felt the muscles and tendons in his legs, hips, shoulders, and neck creak and flex even as his vision narrowed to a pinprick in self-defense against the horrific, gut churning pain in his brain.
A woman stood in the open door. A stranger, to him. But yet, familiar.
“Renee,” he grunted. “What the fuck are you…move,” he barked, shoving her aside and thundering into the cool tile foyer, past the dining room through the kitchen and to the back hall half-bath. He made it right before his stomach surrendered its contents.
Chapter Seven
When he came to, it took him a few seconds to sort out what he was staring at. But once he did, he scrambled back, wiping his dry lips and trying to wrap his aching head around how he’d managed to end up in the downstairs bathroom of his house in Kentucky.
The vivid dreams of sand, and sweat and Operator camaraderie; of heat and familiar, rough, loud voices had been so realistic he’d honestly figured on waking up back in that damn tent. His last assignment.
Delta Force didn’t live on a base. They scattered when they weren’t drilling, training, working out, surveilling bad asses, or freeing hostages in some far-flung hellhole. It was a wholly different life than the one he’d imagined for himself as a boy. Even the one he’d envisioned as a young man, in the throes of early success as a soccer stud. But he’d grown used to it in the years he’d spent as an Operator.
He missed it, badly.
He wanted it back even worse. It had a proscribed rhythm, a regimen, a set of tasks to be done every day, regardless. Not too far off his life as a star athlete being looked at by teams in Europe—real teams, plus all those hopped up nobodies in the MLS. The life he had turned away from, left voluntarily, in a fit of horrified agony.
But here he was, back home now. The last place on the planet he’d imagined for himself, a thirty-two-year-old grown-ass man, with a few thousand bucks in his pocket, an overpriced Harley in the driveway, the entire contents of his life zipped into an olive green duffle bag. Sitting on the floor of the bathroom of his house in fucking Lucasville.
He groaned, but the pain had retreated into its cage, growling and grumbling, promising a re-appearance if he didn’t keep his temper and blood pressure steady. Focusing on the toilet seat, then up to the sink, he noted that the place had been divested of his mother’s somewhat overwrought decorating style.
Gone were the lace curtains at the small window overlooking the backyard. Same for the little chair that had held goofy “Bathroom Reading” books, copies of Road and Track, and Sports Illustrated. The line of smelly candles on the windowsill was missing, as was the tall floor vase that had held a varying array of eucalyptus stalks and other dried or fake flowers. He blinked fast, clearing his vision further, taking in the cool, gray-green paint with bright white trim—sans the floral wallpaper border.
Where in the hell was he, really? He slumped against the wall, refocusing his attention on keeping his head from lurching into pain mode again. A light knock on the door forced his eyes open.
“Terry? You all right?”
Holy step-mama, he thought. That’s right. That’s what had torn it , he realized. A quick glance at his phone’s cracked screen revealed he’d been in here almost an hour.
“No,” he said, his voice croaky and dry. “I’m absolutely not. Please tell me you’re here to drop off food,
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