The lights dimmed in the corner bedroom overlooking the front yard. Nothing frantic or urgent or rushed, he caught the outline of Asher and Sophie undressing each other, savoring each touch, each kiss.
Giving them their privacy, he headed straight home, checking from the window that Freya made it back home okay. Maybe he’d give his sister a call after all, take her up on the offer to sublet her apartment.
6
Drunken Burpees
He couldn’t make himself pack again. Couldn’t drive across the damn country again, and no way in hell he was going back to the east coast. Even drunk Zane knew better.
Checking his email, Zane shook his head. Fuck. He didn’t know why he even bothered. For all his parents knew, he was getting shot at again. Or was dead already. Would the government have tracked them down until they could deliver the information firsthand, or would they give up after multiple failed contact attempts?
Why did he even bother trying to reach out? How many school functions had he been the kid to hitch a ride home with the neighbors? To take the subway home from football practice? They’d helped with enough of his first year of college to get him into the exclusive program but then he saddled the debt he thought they’d planned to share. They’d been heavily involved in his wedding, but hadn’t offered more than a quick condolence at his divorce.
Just often enough to keep him coming back, they would pretend to be parents of the year. His first major deployment, they’d mailed regularly, thrilled when he’d gotten home safely. Each deployment, they seemed less interested, apparently not realizing his survivability didn’t increase with experience.
Unkillable, he dodged every damn bullet. He’d sprained his ankle once, but that had been his own stupidity in a training exercise, showing off, jumping out of the chopper when it was too high off the ground.
Sitting on the top step outside his apartment, overlooking the driveway and the moonlit front yard, he didn’t have the guts to sit on the bench he knew Freya favored. Hell, he’d hardly slept the last few nights, imagining what might have happened if she hadn’t been drunk. If that prick hadn’t called to ask her out.
If she hadn’t been wearing panties. If he’d had the guts to pull her onto his lap, to peel that top off and appreciate those spectacularly rounded breasts without any fabric between them.
Groaning, he closed his eyes and fought the image, yet again. He glared at the empty beer bottle, and the two behind him. Shit, wait, it was three behind him. Four. And another that had rolled down the steps, miraculously unshattered. When had he downed so many?
No longer on active duty. Not beholden to anyone, why the hell not? He hadn’t touched a drop the night Jack died.
His eyes welled at the awful memory. The call that his friend was septic in the ICU not two days after Zane was out of the Navy. That Jack had been fucking with heroin.
He’d been dodging Zane’s calls, usually responding with a quick text that he was fine, that they’d get together and celebrate Zane’s honorable discharge next weekend. The back of his throat burned with stupid fucking mucus, salty tears coating his cheeks. How many surgeries had Jack had to go alone while Zane was too busy, waiting on the damn discharge to go through so he could take care of his friend? If he’d just held on a few more days.
Looking over Jack’s pasty corpse in the ICU, his ribs crushed from failed attempts to revive him, the machines dark now that he’d gone, Asher hadn’t let Zane stew. Said he had two weeks to get his ass to Foothills.
Head swimming, throbbing from the fucking cryfest, Zane tugged his shirt over his head and cleaned the soaked mess of his cheeks. Leaning to round up a few bottles, his head spun from the awkward movement and he nearly upchucked his lack of dinner.
At long fucking last, he heard Seth’s practical sedan coming down the drive. No dust kicked up, he drove politely over the freshly filled potholes that Zane had courteously taken care of that morning.
Coming to a stop, perfectly calm, good-natured Seth leaned across the center console. Freya met him halfway. Too pansy-assed to kiss her properly, Zane watched through the windshield as they exchanged a polite peck on the cheek.
Grinning as she climbed out of the car, Freya waved at her boytoy.
She headed toward the house, then paused when she caught sight of Zane. He drained the last of his beer and air toasted. Fuck, she looked so damn good. The black dress draped low in front with a taunting cowl, a crisscross laced back let him know she’d ditched the bra. Those long, shapely legs were on full display, the dress ending just below her mid-thigh, her heels defining those fucking spectacular calves. A few weeks ago, he would have claimed he was a boob guy through and through. Might be a leg guy now. But damn, even braless, that was a perfect–
Freya shook her head, turning and walking toward him. He bit his lip as she strolled up the stairs, tilting his head in the foolish hope she wasn’t wearing any panties. The movement nearly knocked him over, his head swimming from too much to drink.
“Alright, Sailor. Let’s get you to bed,” she grinned, reaching forward to give him a hand up.
“Yes, ma’am,” he winked, waggling his eyebrows up and down to let her know he was fully on board.
Eyeing the empty bottles behind him, she tucked her wild hair behind her ears and set his empty bottle with the rest, and then gave him a hand up. “Oh boy, and here I
