Page 7 of Gorgeous

Lifting up, I let go, licking my lips like I would if they had come all over my face.

“Whad’ya say, ladies? Curious?”

Laura speaks first, with no hesitation this time. “I’m in.”

I smile, letting her know wordlessly how much I appreciate her willingness to play and then arch my brows at Candece. I’ll take just Laura, but I would much rather double my pleasure. Afghanistan was a lonely-ass time. There’s nothing better than this welcome home present right here.

A one-night stand.

Even my mom’s homemade apple pie isn’t going to taste this good.

I’m shifting in my seat, my dick raging against the seam of my fatigues. Just imagining myself balls-deep in hot, wet pussy has my dick leaking into the fabric.

Please, Candece. Please make my motherfucking night.

I turn on the charm and poke out my lip like I’m fucking pouting and … she giggles. “Okay. I’m in. But I don’t do anal.”

What a shame.

I look at Laura. Her returning smile says everything I need to know—she absolutely does anal.

I swear my dick tries to high five me, jumping in my pants with celebratory glee.

Staying cool, I stand, offering my elbows. The girls each take a side—giggling of course—and we head for the back exit of the bar. The wink I flash Drew as I pass has him scowling. “Don’t wait up, honey. This might last all night.” Laughing, I push past the other patrons with my new company in tow.

“Cade! Wait.”

I turn around, ready to negotiate the terms if Drew wants to join us, but when I face him, his hands are dripping blood, pooling onto the dirty tile of the bar.

“What the fuck, dude? What happened?”

Did he cut his hand on a bottle?

I’m pushing through the crowd, trying to get to him, when his words stop me.

“Why did you do this?”

Every ounce of blood drains from my face when I look at him again. I barely recognize him. His body is mangled, his arm nearly detached. Blood is fucking everywhere. Even his eye is hanging by tendons, almost resting on his cheek.

“You did this,” he whispers, a single tear falling to the floor.

“I’m … I’m sor—”

I jerk awake, the bamboo sheets tangled around my legs, the taste of copper lingering on my tongue. The memory attacks each time my eyes drift closed.

I can’t fight the demons in my dreams. I can’t run from the horror. I can only pound it out on the pavement. I’m helpless as they consume me in my subconscious, forcing me to watch my brother die over and over again.

I’m prepared when the door pushes open with a creak. Waking Ans and the guys with my screams at night is a common occurrence. Most of the time, they let me work through it on my own, but when the nightmares turn violent, one of them—usually Ans—will come and distract me with various activities until I’m tired enough to go back to sleep. I call out before anyone enters, my voice gruff, “I’m all right. Go back to bed.”

“It’s a good thing I don’t give a shit.”

The sarcastic tone doesn’t startle me like it used to when he first came in here. For the past few months, instead of my angel, the devil himself appears in the doorway when I wake the house with screams. This time, as the clock glows 4:09 a.m., Theo pushes through the door, uninvited like every morning, dressed in running gear and carrying two cups of coffee.

“Anniston is still asleep,” he mumbles.

Total bullshit. She’s not asleep. She pretends to be so Theo and I can run every morning before anyone rises. I’m almost positive she threatens the guys to silence because they wouldn’t hesitate to rag our assesabout the newfound bromance we have going on. Everyone pretends not to notice.

It’s insane, I know. Me and Theo—friends.

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