again. It wouldn’t be healthy. From what you told me, Grady needs help. Real help. I’m not saying that you guys could never find common ground, but I just don’t want you in danger.”
I turned my head away from her and stared out to the ocean, fixating on a rock with a bunch of brown pelicans perched on it. Marisol was right. I’d fought so hard to overcome my depression and fear, to stop blaming myself for not realizing my mom was hurting. But my healing came from within. Grady needed to find a way to live with his injuries and his memories. Playing house with him wouldn’t solve anything.
17
Grady
M y buddies threw me a “going to fuck a reality star” party. I couldn’t believe Isa had actually agreed to my demands. As a show of good faith, I’d exchanged a few emails with her father and his agent. Her father was incredibly excited and passionate about the project, and I felt confident that he would completely dedicate himself and write an honest, heartfelt memoir. His agent was certain he could sell the memoir at auction for six figures—apparently the American public was hungry for “heroic tales of valor.” I embraced the idea of writing the book once I realized that I would be able to tell my story my way, without embellishing it. But I refused to sign the contract with the agent until after my vacation with Isa, just to make sure she kept her promise to me.
Some patriotic Silicon Valley multimillionaire I’d met at a fundraising function had offered to let me use his mansion, his vacation home, whenever I needed to get away. He owned a waterfront house in Incline Village. I’d initially told him there was no way I could accept his offer, but he’d said it was his honor to lend his home to a hero. I still felt uncomfortable being praised, but I thought some time to detox would do me some good. Better yet, a free house to fuck Isa in wasn’t the worst idea in the world. My favorite type of therapy.
Beau, Diego, and Trace all took leave for a few days to party with me in Tahoe before Isa arrived. These men were my brothers—we’d all fought together, we were the survivors of the attack.
Beau raised a bottle of Sierra Nevada Celebration Ale. “Here’s to the best Devil Dawg I know. Get some!”
We all drank, and the other men milled around the cabin. This place was sick. Had its own sandy beach, a hot tub on the deck, nestled in the pines. Maybe I could find some peace out here, besides losing myself in Isa’s pussy.
Beau smirked, his eyes reflecting on the lake behind him. “Man, I can’t believe you fucked Isa. She’s fucking gorgeous.”
“Yup. But she’s just another stuck-up celeb. She’s only agreeing to spend time with me if I let her dad write my memoir. I’m not doing the book for her, I’m doing it to tell my story and honor Rafael. And the money is nice. Maybe I can buy a place out here so I have somewhere to go since the Corps finally decided to kick my broke ass out.”
Beau placed his hand on my shoulder and I brushed it off. I was jealous of this motherfucker. Before my injury, the two of us would hit the clubs, compete to gain the attention of the hottest girl in the bar. There was no competition now—he’d win every time. He had everything going for him. He rocked his boy-band smile, was in perfect shape, had just completed sniper school, and had escaped our attack unscathed. He had a future in the Corps, for as long as he wanted it.
“Whatever, dude. The Corps medically retiring you is a good thing—groups will pay you to speak, politicians will milk your Medal of Honor for all it’s worth.”
I sighed. “But I don’t want that—I hate public speaking. I don’t want anyone pitying me. I want to go back overseas. I want to fight. I want some action.”
Beau again put his hand on my shoulder, and this time I didn’t remove it. “You’re looking at this all wrong. Write your book, rake in the cash, fuck your hottie girl, get out of the Corps, and you
I turned my head away from her and stared out to the ocean, fixating on a rock with a bunch of brown pelicans perched on it. Marisol was right. I’d fought so hard to overcome my depression and fear, to stop blaming myself for not realizing my mom was hurting. But my healing came from within. Grady needed to find a way to live with his injuries and his memories. Playing house with him wouldn’t solve anything.
17
Grady
M y buddies threw me a “going to fuck a reality star” party. I couldn’t believe Isa had actually agreed to my demands. As a show of good faith, I’d exchanged a few emails with her father and his agent. Her father was incredibly excited and passionate about the project, and I felt confident that he would completely dedicate himself and write an honest, heartfelt memoir. His agent was certain he could sell the memoir at auction for six figures—apparently the American public was hungry for “heroic tales of valor.” I embraced the idea of writing the book once I realized that I would be able to tell my story my way, without embellishing it. But I refused to sign the contract with the agent until after my vacation with Isa, just to make sure she kept her promise to me.
Some patriotic Silicon Valley multimillionaire I’d met at a fundraising function had offered to let me use his mansion, his vacation home, whenever I needed to get away. He owned a waterfront house in Incline Village. I’d initially told him there was no way I could accept his offer, but he’d said it was his honor to lend his home to a hero. I still felt uncomfortable being praised, but I thought some time to detox would do me some good. Better yet, a free house to fuck Isa in wasn’t the worst idea in the world. My favorite type of therapy.
Beau, Diego, and Trace all took leave for a few days to party with me in Tahoe before Isa arrived. These men were my brothers—we’d all fought together, we were the survivors of the attack.
Beau raised a bottle of Sierra Nevada Celebration Ale. “Here’s to the best Devil Dawg I know. Get some!”
We all drank, and the other men milled around the cabin. This place was sick. Had its own sandy beach, a hot tub on the deck, nestled in the pines. Maybe I could find some peace out here, besides losing myself in Isa’s pussy.
Beau smirked, his eyes reflecting on the lake behind him. “Man, I can’t believe you fucked Isa. She’s fucking gorgeous.”
“Yup. But she’s just another stuck-up celeb. She’s only agreeing to spend time with me if I let her dad write my memoir. I’m not doing the book for her, I’m doing it to tell my story and honor Rafael. And the money is nice. Maybe I can buy a place out here so I have somewhere to go since the Corps finally decided to kick my broke ass out.”
Beau placed his hand on my shoulder and I brushed it off. I was jealous of this motherfucker. Before my injury, the two of us would hit the clubs, compete to gain the attention of the hottest girl in the bar. There was no competition now—he’d win every time. He had everything going for him. He rocked his boy-band smile, was in perfect shape, had just completed sniper school, and had escaped our attack unscathed. He had a future in the Corps, for as long as he wanted it.
“Whatever, dude. The Corps medically retiring you is a good thing—groups will pay you to speak, politicians will milk your Medal of Honor for all it’s worth.”
I sighed. “But I don’t want that—I hate public speaking. I don’t want anyone pitying me. I want to go back overseas. I want to fight. I want some action.”
Beau again put his hand on my shoulder, and this time I didn’t remove it. “You’re looking at this all wrong. Write your book, rake in the cash, fuck your hottie girl, get out of the Corps, and you
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