Rich Soldier: The Dirty Thirty Pledge Book 2 Page 3

I pressed a kiss to her neck. "Just thinking about graduation."

  "And what comes after?"

  "Yeah."

  She rolled away from me and laid down on the blanket, patting the space beside her. "What are you thinking?"

  "Same thing I've been thinking for a while," I said. "The army."

  Her face fell a little. "You mentioned that before. Are you sure that's really what you want? You'll be gone for a long time."

  I heard her implication, that we'd be a part. "It won't be all that long. And you'll be gone too, at college."

  "I guess that's true," she said. "But I'd just...I'd really miss you."

  "Believe me," I said, "I'm going to miss you too."

  I pulled her closer then, and kissed her. Not just kissed her, devoured her. And before long our clothes were a mess and it seemed like we were heading for the point of no return. We broke apart and her chest was heaving like mine. I could see the moonlight reflected in her eyes and her voice was breathy when she spoke. “I want to.”

  "Are you sure?" I asked her. I would stop if she asked, but I was praying to every god that existed that she wouldn't.

  "Yes," she whispered, and we rolled back into each other.

  I pull myself back from the memory, keeping myself from falling deeper into it, keeping myself from taking myself in my hand and getting off to the memory of her every curve. Hell, I'm so hard that I'm half-way there. But I can't. I don't think that she'd want me to think of her like that, and if I let myself go there, all I'd be thinking about tomorrow is the way she felt underneath me and wondering if she smells the same. Tastes the same. Would she feel the same underneath me, all softness and heat and pure, sheer, pleasure?

  No. I have to live with this. And I shut my mind off, just like I used to do when I couldn't afford to feel. Because there are nights when feeling will get you killed. I let my mind fade into that blackness and try to get some sleep.

  4

  Wallace

  Three Years Ago

  Being back in Green Hills is like something out of a dream. I’m not used to all the green. When I was growing up, I never thought about the fact that the town's name was literal, and now I can't get over the fact when it's staring at me in the face. I can't help it. For the last however many years, I've been staring at what feels like nothing but brown. Sure, there was the occasional palm tree or plant, but the desert in Afghanistan is incredibly brown. And hot. This seems like an oasis in comparison, though I don’t think I would have thought that when I was younger.

  The lush heat of summer in Tennessee seems like paradise in comparison. And everything else, too. It's strange. When you're over there, where every decision is life and death, it doesn't seem like a place like Green Hills can exist. Kids are walking down the street, people are living quiet lives, and time moves on like nothing is happening on the other side of the world.

  Everything is different here. And that's good.

  I don't think I would have ever come back here if it weren't for the funeral. And for Tia.

  Thanks to First Shot, I have enough money to go anywhere I want. And I was planning to. But unfinished business has a way of pulling you back in, and I have plenty of unfinished business here.

  I missed the funeral, and I don't pretend to be a good person by being relieved that I never have to see my father again. He's the reason I left this town in the first place, and I won't miss him. Anyone who knows the truth would understand. Living in that house alone is weird, but it's better than living in it with him. I’m going to tear it down and build a better one. The house I’ve always wanted to build, and with my own two hands. The house that Tia and I talked about building together when we were young and the world seemed filled with absolutely endless possibilities.

  But right now I’m stuck in the house that’s there, and it's mostly empty. So I need food, which is why I'm pulling up to one of Green Hill's grocery stores in my dad's beat-up truck. A new car is on the list of things to buy, too. I don’t plan on keeping anything of my father’s if I can help it. I came home to more money than I know what to do with, thanks to Frankie and Glenn. They took our idea and ran with it while I was on the other side of the world. They didn’t have to include me in the profit, but they did. So I think I’ll be okay to buy a car now that I have millions in my bank account.

  I laugh, shaking my head. Fuck, I never thought I’d be a millionaire. And I never thought I’d be famous, either. But when you own a business that’s as successful as First Shot, people know who you are. Especially here in town. I’ve been back for only a few days and it seems that people recognize me wherever I go. Some try to stop me and talk to me, others try to thank me for my service, but you can tell what they’re really after. They want to be near the fame. I’m not sure if they’re thinking that I’ll buy them drinks or if they just want to say that they met me. But even in the short time I’ve been back, I recognize the look in their eye. It’s going to take some getting used to.

  Hopping out of the truck, I stretch. Probably been five years since I went proper grocery shopping. In the army you get fed, and you eat what they give you. End of story. I'll have to take some time and actually learn to make some things that aren't pasta. That sounds kind of nice, learning something that has nothing to do with war. Or bloodshed. And it’s not like I have to skimp. Maybe I’ll hit up a kitchen store and buy some stuff there. My father has a few dishes and maybe two pots. His diet consisted mostly of alcohol. He wasn’t doing a lot of cooking.

  I shove the thoughts away and shut the truck door, heading inside. Grabbing a cart, I start filling it with the first things that I see that look good. Some greens for salads, cans of soup, a loaf of bread. It’s nothing groundbreaking, but the idea of making a sandwich the way I like to eat one is incredibly appealing. I go up and down every aisle, looking at the variety and picking out things to try. Some things that I’ve never thought of having. I even look up some recipes on my phone, to see if I can find something good to go with the rice noodles I just put in my cart.

  I'm working hard to ignore the nagging feeling that I should be doing something else, something more important, that I should have fought my discharge harder than I did so I could still be fighting. The feeling of satisfaction that I’m getting from the shopping and the urge to be active, still running drills and training, is intense. It’s building up inside so much that I almost get dizzy. I have to stop for a second and breathe. It’s been happening a bit, that feeling that I shouldn’t be here. That I need to go back. To do better. To make up for what happened by throwing myself back into the fight and taking it to those bastards that did this to me.

  But that’s not possible.

  That feeling's probably not going to go away for a while. It was strongly suggested to me that I should talk to someone when I got home, but I know this town, and even with a therapist's promise of discretion, it would get out. Wallace Monroe. He left to join the army and came back crazy.

  I can hear the whispers now. He killed someone and couldn't take the guilt. His whole unit was killed and he was the only survivor. Being in the desert so long drove him a batty.

  And a lot of those things would be true. Better to suffer in silence than suffer with everyone watching. Especially now that everyone wants to know my business. Another reason that I wanted to disappear and never come back. But I couldn’t abandon Frankie and Glenn that way. I needed to at least see them. And her. I couldn’t not try to see Tia again. It seems like a lifetime ago that I left. But there’s never been anyone else but her. Now that I’m back, I’m praying there’s a chance that we can make some of those things we always talked about come true.

  I sigh as I turn the corner around a giant pyramid of cereal boxes, and I stop in my tracks. Tia. She's turning the corner a couple aisles down, facing me, and my heart kicks into high gear. I haven't seen her in...years. And the reality of that slams into me. I haven’t seen her since I left. Every single day I've regretted that I didn't say goodbye. But I had to leave. I
had to get out of here and I didn't want to break her heart if I didn't come back, because she would have waited for me. I know it deep in my gut, as surely as I know that I still love her.

  She takes my breath away. Tan skin and dark hair and curves that have matured while I've been gone. She's perfect, and I don't think I can move because I'm frozen to the spot. Her eyes meet mine, and she freezes too. This could be like the scene out of a movie. Until she doesn't smile. Until her eyes are filled with anger and hate, and I can see her jaw clench in fury.

  Tia doesn't even hesitate, ramming her cart forward into the pyramid of cereal boxes, which collapse on top of me, and suddenly I'm on the floor covered in cardboard and little crispy pellets. I slap boxes away and start to lift myself from the floor when Tia's face appears above mine.

  "You have a lot of nerve coming back here," she says. "After what you did."

  And she throws the box down before I can say anything back to her.

  I lay there staring up at the grocery’s fluorescent lighting for a second.

  Fuck.

  That didn't go how I expected.

  Well...I probably should have expected that, given that I left without saying goodbye. It's just that I never forgot her, and I hoped...

  I hoped that maybe she would remember me for all the good stuff and not for all the bad stuff. But that was dumb. I close my eyes and let the weight of the boxes press down on me. Yeah, this feels about right. And yet, the feeling when I saw her, I wouldn't trade it for the world. Tia Vance can push a stack of cereal a mile high onto me any damn day that she wants to. I'd be fine with that.

  There's a shuffling and I can hear boxes being moved, so I shove upwards with an effort, managing to get partway free. "Hey man, are you okay?" A kid with a grocery store vest on asks me.

  I nod. "I'm fine. I'm just glad it wasn't something heavier."

  "Seriously," he says, clasping my hand and helping me to my feet. A shower of crisps falls to the floor from my body.

  "Let me help you clean this up," I say. "And let me know how much the damage costs."

  Another voice comes from behind me. "That won't be necessary." It's a man with silver-grey hair and a button-down shirt. "I'm Jerry, the manager. I saw what happened. You weren't at fault."

  I give him a small smile. "I know, but still, someone should pay for the damage."

  Jerry raises an eyebrow. "Miss Vance will, once I contact her. I'm friends with the family."

  "No, please," I say, feeling the blood drain from my face. "Please don't do that. I insist on paying for anything. I'd rather her not have to deal with this any more than necessary. I have more than enough money to take care of it.”

  He gives me a hard look, but nods slowly. "If you insist. You're the Monroe boy, aren't you?"

  I swallow, fighting off flashbacks of being called that by people who seem a lot less kind than Jerry. But I don’t see that look in his eye. He knows who I am but he doesn’t want anything from me. Yet. "Yes, sir."

  "Heard you came back from the army."

  "I did."

  Jerry holds out a hand to me. "Thank you for your service, son. Finish your shopping, and I hope to see more of you around here."

  I blow out a breath in relief. I thought he'd say something about my dad and how I wasn't a good son for missing the funeral. Or how my dad was an integral part of the community. Anything but this. "Thanks."

  I feel bad walking away from the giant mess that's on the floor, but I've been around enough people in my life to know that the look on Jerry's face is final, and he isn't going to let me participate in any part of that. I finish wandering through the aisles, filling my cart with enough food to last me for a week. Probably more than, if I’m being honest.

  I get to the check out and there's a woman with a kind face waiting. She gestures me through the line and makes small talk while she rings up all the items. And then she tells me to go ahead.

  "I haven't paid," I say, pulling my wallet out of my back pocket.

  She waves a hand. "You don't need that. Jerry's got your groceries today. Told us coming back from a war is hard enough for a while without having to worry about this too. Now you get going and enjoy your day."

  I open my mouth to protest, but she just shakes her head and shoos me away. Walking out of the store doesn't feel like it's real. Tia, and then Jerry. I wasn't expecting kindness from the people of this town. I never really received it before, and I didn’t see it happening with my new status as a shiny object. But maybe there are still a few good people here. Maybe coming back here wasn't the mistake that I was afraid it was.

  That's really all I can hope for.

  I’m going to make sure I pay for more than what that cereal is worth, to show Jerry my gratitude. And then I’m going to pray that with Tia, I hopefully get a miracle.

  5

  Tia

  Present

  My coffee spills over my hand as I lose my balance getting out of the truck, and I curse under my breath. I've been off-kilter all morning, so it's not exactly a surprise. Now I'm late and heading straight to the roof replacement site. It's way behind and it needs to be finished. Today is definitely a fucking Monday.

  I fully blame Wallace Monroe for me being late. Because of him and his stupid, delicious body, I barely got any sleep last night. Scratch that. I barely got any sleep this weekend. Last night’s dream was filled with him and me. Both flashbacks and new material, fucking on the floor of the warehouse covered in brick dust, and in my bed, and anywhere else we decided it would be good. So now I'm restless and aroused, I overslept, and there's coffee on my boots.

  Work is already underway I see, with a few men stripping away the last bits of old roof, and a few more starting on the other end with the replacement. How we got so far behind is a mystery to me, but if we have this many guys on it today, we should be able to finish it. I could even push through some overtime if there's anyone who wants it.

  Suddenly I feel like I'm having déjà vu and that my eyes are once again tricking me, because Wallace is here. He's climbing up a ladder with a pile of shingles in one hand, and I can't help but notice the way the muscles in his arms are bulging. It's early, but the sun is already high and he's sweating. His shirt is tight, and the fact that he's built isn't hidden. If anything, that shirt is celebrating the fact that he's ripped. Fuck, it might as well be painted on. God, this isn't going to make those dreams disappear.

  But why the fuck is he here? Didn't I tell him to go away yesterday?

  I stomp across the yard, throwing what's left of my coffee into the dumpster. "Wallace Monroe," I call, and he turns, looking down from the roof.

  When he sees me, there's a goofy grin on his face. "Yeah, boss?"

  I take a deep breath. "Can I see you down here for a second?"

  He swings down the ladder with an ease that's breathtaking, doing that sliding thing all the way down that I've never been able to manage even though I've tried. "What's up?"

  "What are you doing here?" I ask, tilting my head to look at him. Damn it, he's too fucking hot for his own good, and I hate how very, very aware my body is of his. How very much I want to pull him into this empty house and recreate some of those dreams that I had last night.

  "Your father told me that you were short on hands to get all your projects done. He offered me a job and I took it."

  Of course he did. "My father offered you a job."

  "He did."

  "And you thought it was a good idea?"

  "I did."

  I glare at him. "Why?" He doesn’t answer for a second, and I ask him again. “Why on earth do you need a job? It’s not like you need the money.”

  Wallace sighs. “No, I don’t. I actually told your father that he didn’t have to pay me, but he refused. I’m here because I want to work. Just because I have money now doesn’t change who I am. Who I’ve always been. And that’s a person who needs to work.” He searches my face. “I didn’t do it to make you angry.”

  It shou
ldn't startle me, the earnestness in his tone, but it does. For some reason, I didn't consider the fact that he might actually want a job. In my head, people who are successful in the way he is don’t need to work. It doesn’t make sense to me why he’s here when he could do whatever the hell he wants: travel, buy anything, relocate to someplace exotic and tropical. So why is he really here? In Green Hills? Working for me?

  “You need to work?”

  “I like having something to occupy my time and I still enjoy construction,” he says, referencing his past work when we were younger. “And besides, the company is good.” He smiles, and I know he means me. This is not what I need today. I don’t need him coming into my life and confusing me. For the past decade I’ve had a very solid, very clear stance on Wallace Monroe. Clearly after those dreams my body and brain need a refresher.

  That doesn’t include him standing in front of me like he could be in a magazine editorial. I straighten and try to think rationally.

  Wallace has always been one of the most capable people I know. I'm sure that if my father offered him a job he's perfectly capable of getting a job somewhere else. Somewhere where I won't have to look at his stupidly perfect face or the body that seems to light mine on fire, even if I don't want it to.

  I look over to find my father, and he's looking at the plans, spread over a makeshift table of plywood and sawhorses. "Dad," I say, walking over to him without dismissing Wallace.

  He glances up with a smile. "Morning, darling. You get a late start?"

  "Yeah," I sigh. "I had a fight with my coffee. It won, but I'll live." He chuckles. "Can I ask you something?"

  "Sure," he says, "but if it's about the schedule I already approved it and it's on your desk at the warehouse, along with the paperwork for the two new hires that we needed."

  I cross my arms. "It's not about the schedule, it's about why in the hell you hired Wallace Monroe to work for us."