Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
THORNE
I swiped a whiskey glass from the counter, knowing Matthew would have a fucking aneurysm if he came into our quarters and saw me downing a whole bottle of sin before lunch hour had even hit.
That fucking recruit, with his cheeky-ass grin and his near-intolerable personality, had hit a spot that I pretended I’d stitched shut.
A spot that harbored the demons of my past and all of my failures on the battlefield.
There were far too many instances where I’d misjudged and lost men I viewed as family, as brothers, and that was something I’d never fucking forgive myself for.
And somehow, someway, this Oren Valens had sniffed out the fractured pieces of my soul. Yet, in the same breath, there was something about him that I couldn’t put my finger on—something that I wanted to… explore.
“Hell, Thorne,” I groaned under my breath, running a hand down my face. Talking to myself in my room over some fucking guy? Christ. Maybe I needed his cross necklace.
Or, you know, a good fuck with a man or woman. I didn’t give a damn about the nuances, just something to clear my sick mind.
In an attempt to calm my thoughts, I unscrewed the cap, flicking it from its position and watching as it bounced across the granite countertop. As the chime of transgression ceased, I tipped the bottle toward my glass, filling it nearly to the rim.
Staring at the amber liquid, thoughts of my father stirred. I’d never wanted to become like him—a brute, an alcoholic—but somehow I’d found myself slipping down the same path no matter how deep I dug my nails into the dirt.
He’d served and climbed the ranks as fast as I had, promoted to a Commander in just under a year.
That was until he was discharged because losing his men, his friends, ultimately became too much.
After that, he withdrew from our family and turned to drugs as a means to cope with his unrelenting thoughts, thoughts I’d come to understand too damn well.
Just when I’d thought my life couldn’t have become more of a dumpster fire, the police showed up at my apartment door when I was eighteen, informing me that my family home had burnt down.
My dad started the fire, finally succumbing to his suicidal tendencies.
My mom and sixteen-year-old sister were in there when he lit the match, and even though he hadn’t known better, he took their lives alongside his own.
How was I able to assume such things of a man I once looked up to?
Because a week later, a letter showed up, an admittance to the atrocity handwritten in his unmistakable script.
It was a note I kept pinned on the bulletin board in my room alongside a photograph of my mom and sister; reminders of the psychological mess I’d gotten myself into when I agreed to join Special Operations.
My only saving grace, the anchor amidst the tumultuous storm that was my existence, was my best friend Matthew—the last standing original member from our class of recruits and the men I led.
He was my sole survivor and the only thing keeping me alive.
Cursing, I grabbed the glass, bringing it to my lips in every attempt to drown my demons in one of the few ways I knew how—alcohol or blade.
The liquid roared down my throat, searing my empty stomach with what I would assume was easily over twelve shots.
An immediate euphoria flooded my senses, numbing the agony my heart had continued to carry, which I masked with my stoic exterior.
I dropped the emptied glass, nudging it across the countertop alongside the bottle, knowing damn well that if I didn’t step away, I’d down a fifth of bourbon before the weekend had even hit.
A sigh escaped me as I shoved myself from the kitchen, sinking into the couch. Still clad in my uniform pants and our more ‘casual’ squadron t-shirt, I kicked my boots up onto the center table. It was a behavior I knew Matthew would reprimand, but he wasn’t here, and God only knew when he’d return.
Hopefully not for a while, so I could get my ass back up and put my insidious coping mechanism away before he noticed.
Resting my head against the cushions, I closed my eyes only to be greeted by that defiant, stormy blue gaze and untamable blonde curls, curls I’d love to—
“No,” I mumbled to myself, shaking my head. “You’re not doing this.”
Interest was a weakness because it led to relationships, and relationships were a typhoon waiting to destroy everything you believed you ever had.
I’d gotten close to far too many when I’d joined the ranks, and after I’d watched them bleed out in my arms, I’d promised myself it was something I’d never do again.
Loving inherently meant losing, and losing wasn’t something I could bear. Not anymore.
Oh, what the hell was I even thinking? He was a new recruit. Fresh meat to the higher-ups like me and the more refined men on my squadron. It was his first fucking day, and I was sitting here hung up on the thought of him while moping like a fucking stray dog.
Maybe that’s because that’s all I was—an abandoned mutt. But I knew one thing for certain: I was extremely efficient at sitting on my soapbox. That, as well as fucking and killing. I was a troubled but well-rounded man.
I got off on pain and pleasure, and wasn’t ashamed to admit it.
My drinking habits spoke loudly enough of that fact.
Still, at least drowning myself in liquor this early in the day meant I wouldn’t be hungover tomorrow morning—one stern talking to from Matthew would be enough, especially once he found out I’d done so on an empty stomach.
Who had time for breakfast anyway? I didn’t. Not when I had enough on my plate, duties I’d signed myself away to as a means to protect our country. Or perhaps it was because I had no other choice. Life wasn’t really fair in any definition of the word.
But maybe, maybe life could be a little more sunny, a little lighter, if I’d just—
The door clicked, announcing the one person I was hoping would stay busy long enough for me to sober up.
Matthew walked in, exuding an air of confidence.
There was no way to hide my transgression, and I was less than willing to listen to him scold me.
There was no way to hide it, and I was less than willing to listen to him scold me.
Matthew sat down, his boots slapping the table with enough force to rattle it. “You smell like a bottle of bourbon and the cheap kind.” There was no rise in his timbre, only steadiness that didn’t help to ease any of my burdens.
He ran a hand down his face, cropped hair slightly damp from the workout I assumed he came from.
His stubble was eating through his jaw, but not as hard as the scowl etched onto his skin, tanned from constantly working outside under the never-ending heat here, in the Nevada desert.
He untucked his shirt from his pants, wiping a bead of sweat from his slick forehead as he waited for my reply.
“I’m glad you are acquainted with liquor enough to decipher the smell between cheap and expensive.” I lolled my head to the side to look at him thoroughly. “And before you get on my fucking ass, I know.”
“If you know, why’d you do it?” Matthew was always sincere, a genuine person, a friend, someone more acquainted with me than I was with myself.
There were no snide remarks, no condescending tone.
It would come after the why. At my silence, he pressed further.
“Look, there are only a few things that get you to down liquor to this degree. What is it?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” I quipped, turning my attention back to the ceiling before closing my eyes again. “Besides, I don’t need parenting. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself, Matt.”
“Nah, that shit doesn’t fly with me. I’m not parenting. It’s called caring, and you should know that by now.” He shifted, settling further into the couch. “Right now, I’d say you’re far from taking care of yourself. Was it a hit to your ego?”
“Harveil,” I snarled, the near-animalistic sound encapsulating his last name, the only warning I’d offer him. “Don’t.”
“So it was that. Do I need to beat someone up?” he asked, his tone softening. “It’s not often someone gets under your skin. I’d like to meet the poor soul before you kill them.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Clenching my jaw, I swallowed the building emotion. “Just another rebellious recruit. Nothing we can’t handle.”
“Wait, rebellious recruit? You don’t mean Valens’ son, do you? The guy who’s starting today?”
Oh, fuck me.
“You met him?” I asked.
“Hell no, but who hasn’t heard of Oren Valens? The spoiled son of General Valens, who gives zero fucks and all the fucks at the same time?” Matthew whistled, olive-green eyes staring at the ceiling. “What a privilege it must’ve been to be the first to meet him, or well, have a crack at his ego.”
Privilege? Privilege?
“Yeah, something like that,” I replied half-heartedly, running my tongue across my teeth. “One thing’s for sure; the kid loves to run his mouth.”
“What do you expect? He’s never had to experience the hardships we’ve gone through.
His dad pays for everything,” he said while raising his arms. “Imagine that. A life served on a silver plat—wait, you’re not in charge of the brat, are you?
Don’t tell me you agreed to something detrimental to your sanity? ”
“You know his father.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you can’t say no. You do everything that man tells you to.”
“Because I have to, Matt. He’s our fucking Commander-in-Chief. Disobedience isn’t an option with him, not without repercussions.” Running a hand down my face, I exhaled heavily. “He reached out to me and asked if I’d take his son on as a member of our squadron.”