Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75478 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75478 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
That was… insane.
But people did insane shit all of the time.
And grief could really fuck you up in the head. Especially if it was some kind of mistake.
I didn’t like to think about that. But, yeah, in war… there were sometimes mistakes. Bad intel, bad choices. Sometimes people died who never did anything wrong.
It was something that, in the moment, it was somewhat easy to compartmentalize things. You were always on the way to the next fiasco.
It wasn’t until it was all over that you really got to start processing that shit.
But the end of my military career included, well, a different kind of shitstorm that buried everything that came before.
Processing that…
Well, I hadn’t really processed that, had I?
I’d been too busy seeking the fun, leaning into the light, filling myself up with other, better, shit.
If I stopped, I was sure I’d have no choice but to process. Which was why I never stopped, why I was always leaping from one new fun project to the next.
“Enough,” I grumbled to myself, flipping the vest over.
“Talking to yourself?” a voice asked, making me turn to find that Nave had made his way down the steps to join me. “Not usually a good sign,” he added, passing me a beer.
“Can’t get my mind straight on this,” I admitted. “Makes no sense.”
Nave moved closer, staring down at the vest.
“Don’t know shit about bombs,” he said. “But I do know a thing or two about batshit crazy people.”
Nave said shit like that sometimes. Hinting at a past he refused to tell anyone about. The kid of one of the OG members, Nave was a legacy. He was always going to get in the club. But instead of joining immediately after he aged up, he skipped town. Then was gone for years. Doing fuck-knew what. Except we did know it meant his knuckles were covered in scars. And he had a bullet wound scar on his stomach.
I guess the only people who knew what his life was like before the club were Fallon and Brooks, who didn’t let us have many secrets, and maybe his parents.
Oh, and Dezi, who he knew from those old days. But neither would ever fess up to it for some reason.
“Yeah?” I asked. “And what do you think this says about this particular crazy person?” I asked, waving to the vest.
“That he’s not done,” Nave concluded. “That he plans to mentally torture you before he finally offs you.”
I nodded at that as I took a sip of the beer.
“Sounds about right.”
“Who would hate you that much?” Nave asked. “I mean, you’re a pretty likable guy. With an annoying habit of beating my ass at poker. And a fucking awful sense of style…”
“Pretty sure the fashion police aren’t out to kill me,” I said, shooting him a smirk.
“Know bombs tend to be women’s work,” Nave said. “But what about a girl you hooked up with being behind all this?”
“It was a man who did it,” I reminded him.
“Sure. But pretty girls—and you are a connoisseur of pretty—always have jealous exes, situationships, or creepy stalkers who would take issue with you putting your hands on his girl.”
“That’s… an angle,” I agreed.
“Any chance you actually keep track of the women you fuck?” he asked. “Club girls, aside.”
“I know names. Sometimes addresses.”
“Maybe that’s an angle to go in. You can at least ask them if they have an ex who fits the description. Maybe one who is a little unhinged or has been threatening her? I know you likely have a past I don’t know dick about to consider too, but it’s another angle to consider.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. Though, I had to admit, that was a very large fucking pool of women. I know ‘drowning in pussy’ was just a saying. But in this case, it was possible.
“If you need—“ Nave started, only to get cut off by a loud cry. “What’s—“ he started.
“Bonnie,” I said.
Then I was running, tearing up the stairs and running down the hall.
I didn’t pause to knock or ask if I could go in. I could hear her gasping from the other side of the door, Bonnie’s frantic, uneven breaths.
“Heya honey,” I said, tone a lot calmer than I felt. Her panic was getting my heart slamming.
She was sitting up against the headboard, knees to chest, arms circling her legs, breathing heavy.
“Bad dream?” I asked.
“Except it was just a memory,” she admitted, pressing a hand to her chest. “I can’t breathe,” she panted.
“Sure you can,” I countered. “Want to breathe with me?” I asked, sitting down at her feet.
Her tight nod was her only answer, but she tried to take deep breaths with me, holding when I held. But it only lasted a minute or two, before the panic was back just as strong as before.
“Alright. What else do you do when you’re anxious?” I asked, rubbing a hand up and down one of her legs, slow and steady, trying to offer her something else to focus on.