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“Do you not lose enough money on your own?”

  Glove chuckles. His laugh is an obnoxious mix between a stoner and a CEO. I open my eyes to his smug smirk. I regret doing so, “That's a yes.”

  Ugh. I shut my eyes again. Not now. It's too early in the day to deal with Glove's bullshit at this constant rate. The problems waiting for me when I touch down are much worse than his childish remarks. I just need a minute to prepare for battle. Returning to where I came from is more than a battle. It's like the battle that starts the war.

  Shuffling off the flight, I toss a nod to Lordy and Glove, acknowledging their departure from me even if it is only temporary. I head straight for the sliding glass doors, where I know they’ll be waiting. I am greeted by Mrs. Callaghan as soon as she sees me. As suspected, she flings her thin body at me, the smell of blonde hair dye fresh and her expensive perfume faint. She hugs tightly. I let her. No kids, so I'm the closest thing she's got, and even I walked away from her, that life, those thoughts of a cookie-cutter family long before the military. While she's like a replacement mother, she never expects me to behave as if she really is my mother. Often I do anyway.

  “You're alive!” she squeals, pulling away, her dark brown dress reminding me fall is here. It even feels cooler than I suspected.

  “Come on, Mrs. Callaghan, you knew I was alive. You sent me packages.” I adjust my duffel bag hanging over my shoulder.

  “Mindy,” she jabs my chest with her finger, her blue eyes twinkling in relief that I am standing before her once more.

  “Sorry, ma'am.” I go out into the world and turn on military me, Grim, forgetting to turn it off when I return. Military me has no mother, no father, no ties to anything that could blur my duty. Back home, I'm a little less cold, but not much.

  She reaches up to pat my shoulder, “Glad you're home.”

  I sacrifice a smile. I turn to Sir, who looks like I've inconvenienced his day. Not surprised if I have. With his arms behind his back, his sheriff uniform rubs it in my face that he quit his career to take care of me, rubs it in my face that there are more important lives for him to be tending to that aren't mine. He lets his eyes settle on me. Evaluating my condition. He demands gratitude for leaving the Navy behind to raise me. I wish he hadn't. I might have stood a chance to grow up better.

  “Sir,” I extend my hand to shake his.

  He nods, shakes in return, and says, “I see you're still a good Marine.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Mindy's eyes shift back and forth, disappointed again. She always is in moments like this—when a father should show relief and excitement that his son, his only son, is alive. We burned that bridge long ago. I wish she would let go of it. I am not a fan of being the one to let her down.

  I follow the two of them to Mindy's black Range Rover she shares with Doug, her husband. There's something admirable about the way they share their lives down to the vehicles they own. Not many words are passed among us three, and what does probably doesn't meet the requirements of a conversation.

  Settled in and on the road, Mindy asks, “How about we have your welcome-home dinner tonight?”

  The thought of getting it over with immediately so I can be left in peace is tempting. Being social on my first day back and allowed to round off the rest of leave in solitude screams bargain.

  “Karen will be able to make it,” Sir speaks.

  Karen must be the current MILF of the month. It doesn't bother me that Sir dates. Hell, it's been enough time since Mom died. I just don't like that he dates women with children who he can “parent” and “father” for a couple months before abandoning them. Not really fair to do that to those kids. It's too late for me, but that doesn't mean he has to fuck up their lives too.

  “I can't tonight.” I bluntly deny and adjust my dog tags. “Plans.”

  On the balance scale of meeting Sir's new topic of interest and sucking back a couple of beers with people I can tolerate more than him, it's not hard to see where the winner is without effort.

  “That's fine,” Mindy approves of my position immediately, aiming to please me. “Doug and I have plans with the Tillman's tomorrow. Apparently, they want to try that new Brazilian Steak House downtown. Day after?”

  “Karen has to work the evening shift.”

  “She's a stripper?” The question has no judgment behind it. Wouldn't be surprised. One emotionally dead person belongs with another or alone. Like me.

  Mindy stifles a laugh with her wedding-ring hand, the oversized jewel gleaming in the sunlight. Sir doesn't look amused. Though it was not my original intention, I'm slightly pleased his feathers are ruffled. At least I can play the role of the smart-mouth son right, sporadically.

  Sir snaps around, hitting his body roughly against the seat, “Not a stripper. She's a nurse.”

  “A naughty nurse?” The comment makes Mindy's laugh escape and his nostrils flare—a warning he's had enough.

  “Well, if Slugger wants it then, that's when we'll have it,” Mindy comes to my rescue, waving off Sir and anointing me victorious. “Your temporary friend will just have to make another meal.”

  Sir stares at me, his dark blues filling fast with a gray overtone. I look away, not prepared for the nonverbal fights that are waiting for us. My face rests on my fist as I stare at the passing traffic. He grumbles something, possibly profanity, as he settles back in his seat. I may not be too thrilled to be attending this party at Glove's cousin’s place, but the more time away from Sir, the fucking better.

  The ranch has plenty of space for all the ways to a southern guy's heart—places for small bonfires, private paths to the lake even if it is a little low, and plenty of places to shoot off firearms. It’s far enough away from the neighbors so they can't call the cops. Knowing Glove and Lordy, it's a good thing.

  Within the first couple of hours, I'm gathered around the poker table, taking money like it's chump change from some guys Glove went to high school with. By the amount of money I've stacked up, I’d say I cyphered more than just their slush fund.

  “Card shark,” the one with the backwards cap sneers.

  I shrug and look at the girl who has been eying me since I walked in the front door. She's mildly attractive in a Miley Cyrus who doesn't suffer from Hollywood Syndrome sort of way. Brown hair, wavy; big, brown eyes; tight, low jeans; modest button-up plaid top, the top two buttons undone; cowgirl boots. Wouldn't mind seeing those in the air.

  I look back at the table that's dispersing, pocket my funds, grab beer three I've been nursing in case I decide I wanna drive home late tonight, and head out to the bonfire.

  I stroll past her. Her eyes follow my path in front of her body. The two of us end up sharing a log to sit on by the fire. Glove’s across the way. The blonde girl under his arm licks his neck, while he chugs down another bottle. Every girl he finds looks like she just stepped out of an audition for Playboy. Blond. Fake. And needy.

  “Havin' fun yet?” Glove glances at the girl beside me. She nods and scoots in closer. Now, I can smell her scent. Cinnamon. Not a winner, but not a deal breaker. Looking at me, he asks, “You?”

  “It's OK,” I shrug, leaning to my jean-covered knees.

  Annoyed and intoxicated, Glove grunts, “Would you believe this is the guy chicks go after first?” I watch the blonde push her tongue against his ear. She looks like a snake, her slender arms wrapping tightly around him, her crop-top sweater showing a bit of her pink bra underneath.

  I point to the blonde beside him, “You should probably handle that.”

  “Glove love is worth the wait, Grim. You should know.”

  Disgusted, I shake my head and take a drink. “I shouldn't know that.”

  Miley's stunt double beside me giggles. At least she's capable of more than that vacant stare.

  Lordy creeps from the shadows, button-down shirt open, exposing his wife beater. His cowboy hat is lowered to hide his face. Between the hat and the boots, he looks like a walking stereotype. He's from Georgia, for Christ's sake.
I was born in this state and have never looked as commercial as his getup.

  “Hey, Glove,” he states and takes a swig. “This little thing doesn't believe I've got a good shot.”

  Poison words to a man, let alone a solider. To be fair, Lordy has a fairly good shot sober—not above your average Marine, not below, nothing to complain about, but nothing to boast either. However, when the two of them have beer pumping through their veins, they tend to get a little cockier. With whiskey or other liquor, they think they're king shit. This isn't going to go well for one of them but magnificently for me.

  “He's got a great shot,” Glove tosses the empty bottle aside. “Wanna prove it?”

  “Fuck, yeah.” His excitement increases.

  I lower my head. The military trains you that guns and liquor don't mix, yet ego and testosterone tell you the exact opposite. I simply shake my head, reminding myself that someone has to be levelheaded here. I know it's going to be me. It always is.

  “Grim, you in?” Lordy asks, excited, pulling the curly redheaded girl to his side.

  “Someone has to make sure you don't fuck everything up.” I stand. Cowgirl follows suit. I should get her name, though I don't know that I feel that strongly about her yet.

  “As usual.” Lordy's remark reminds me that I'm always babysitting these two jackasses on and off duty. It's exactly like having siblings.

  We relocate to the other side of the ranch, where there is more open space they often use for shooting, at least according to the story Glove is telling the blonde female, who only seems concerned with how many different places she can plant her tongue. A small group of us linger for a bit, while Glove slips away to grab the shotgun, immediately handing it to Lordy. My spider sense tingles. Instinctively, I become more alert and aware of the surroundings. There are groups of trees in front of us, mostly in good shape, some lower branches on the brink of breaking. Not much grass in the area. Trash congregates, like in a freshman dorm room. The house is yards behind, enough so no one inside should be at risk. Far right is the bonfire and its new occupants, far left a trail down a less-lit area, most likely to the lake.

  Folding my arms across my chest, I watch as Lordy raises the shotgun, pulls back, and fires, destroying a beer can target. Nothing about it is impressive other than a drunken moron operating a weapon.

  “Good Lordy! Good Lordy! Did you see . . . that shot! Whooo!” he chokes out his trademark phase.

  I shake my head and lean against the tree beside me for support, keeping a disinterested eye on him. He gets louder as he repeats the phrase as if he's really king shit. This is going to end poorly for him.

  “Wow,” the redhead coos, touching his arm with her index finger. “Unbelievable.”

  I choke down a laugh that almost escapes. It grabs everyone's attention. Suddenly, I look like the asshole who can't appreciate good showmanship. I can. There's just none here.

  “You think that's funny?” the redhead girl whose voice is more squeaky than sultry says.

  “Yeah.”

  She sneers, “That shot was amazing.”

  Sure that it's just the booze talking, I shrug, “If you say so, sweetheart.”

  “Well, I do.”

  “Well, you're stupid.” The comment causes the group with us to chuckle. Harsh looks come from some in the crowd, and I toss a hand up. “Oh, what? That shot could've been made by a toddler. It was training-wheels easy.”

  Lordy snatches his beer that's resting on a log. “No way.”

  Annoyed, I place my beer on a tree limb, turn to the cowgirl who won't say no to me, and command, “Come here.” She does as I say. I lead her over to the same spot Lordy was in, ask someone to replace the can, and position her. Once in a proper stance, her weight shifted correctly, I have her raise the gun. “Ever shot a gun before?”

  “No.”

  “Good,” I nod, needing this point proven without a doubt. Feeling her body melt into mine, excited by something off target, I drag her attention back to the point at hand. I state like a commanding officer would a new trainee, “Eyes focused.”

  Once I'm sure she can do it, I stand back, and she fires, nailing the can dead center, the same way Lordy did, igniting a bothered look in his eyes.

  “See,” I shrug and take the gun from the girl. The crowd snickers and whispers that maybe I was right. Politely, I nod at her, “Thank you. And nice shot.”

  She blushes and looks away, “Thanks.”

  “How about a little competition then?” Lordy's attitude ratchets to Superman level. He’s clearly forgotten the real reason they nicknamed me Grim. There's ending badly and then this. Tragic. “Strip shooting.”

  Quickly, I lay down the gun on the log, eyes still on it, insuring that no one touches it. “I don't wanna see you naked, Lordy.”

  “Not me, numb nuts.” He takes another sip. I look up, still aware of the gun’s location. “Every shot you miss, your girl loses an article of clothing.”

  “I choose the article!” Glove states, raising his beer.

  “We'll have someone set up the targets.” A volunteer presents himself. “Yeah, see, he’s more sober than us and can do that.”

  I roll my eyes. “Look, Lordy–”

  “Don't be such a party shitter,” Glove groans almost in a pout. “I wanna see some titties!”

  “Then take her upstairs!” I point to the snake who is now groping his ass.

  He chuckles and winks, “More titties, Grim. There are never enough.”

  “Fine.” My reluctant sigh is followed with this: “Tell Strawberry Shortcake over there that we're all hoping the curtains match the drapes.”

  Lordy laughs, sparking more laughter and relaxing the crowd once more. I'm only partially kidding.

  “I'll be your girl.” Cowgirl raises a hand at me, volunteering like I knew she would.

  “Good.” I raise my eyebrows at her. She looks excited again. She can consider this foreplay because, once I get her into bed, there's not much else. I don't do that intimacy crap.

  Quicker than expected, glass beer bottles pop up around the surrounding area—different competitions, if you must call them that. More like lame jokes with the punch line being a naked chick. I've stopped drinking altogether, more sober now than I was when we started. Glove and Lordy, on the other hand, have put back two shots a piece between beer refills.

  “I am now referee Glove,” he anoints himself. I swear he's an oversized thirteen-year-old, Playboy magazines hidden under his mattress and all.

  The first glass bottle is in a tree, a higher limb shaded by the dark, I guess, for confusion. Civilians often forget we have night training on top of what they think of as regular training. Plus, knowing that I'm headed for Spec Ops, I personally train for things in the dark in my shore leave time. I let Lordy go first. He misses. Barely nails the limb it's sitting on.

  “Whooo!” Glove squawks. “Take your top off!”

  Strawberry Short-Whore rips off her see-through top. The black bra exposes a disappointing B-cup rack. The Wonderbra must be doing most of the work. Hope her nipples are bright red to make them less unsatisfying. She giggles and bounces, proud of her lack of parts. Good for her. Self-confidence is key.

  My turn. I shoot without much effort. Glass rains to the ground. My attention shoots to the cowgirl who stepped into my court. “Hope you're comfortable. They're not coming off.”

  “I got this.” Lordy has the last sip of whatever beer he's on. The next shot is a series of bottles lined up from front to back. The shot has to travel through all of them. He fires, nipping the neck of the first one.

  “Fail!” Glove declares, excited. “Bye, bra. You won't be missed.”

  In a drunken attempt to be sexy, she tries to seductively slide her bra off. It backfires. She gets a bit tangled instead, making her look like a moron. They deserve each other. No surprise at the sight underneath. The nips are indeed cherry red.

  I line my shot and fire, bullet ripping effortlessly through each bottle, s
hattering them and the dreams of everyone who was hoping to see Cowgirl naked at this event. Sorry. It'll just be me later.

  “Damn it!” Lordy shouts. “Somebody get me a beer!”

  'Cause that's gonna help. I merely watch, knowing I'm never not in control the way he is. It's dangerous—for you and for others. I wonder, though, is it worth it? Is it worth it to be lost without your sense of self? Without your conscience reminding you of all the shoulds and should nots? The failures? The misunderstandings? The lack of forgiveness?

  He chugs the bottle halfway before he announces we can proceed, “That's better!”

  “Get him, baby!” Redhead jumps and giggles. Stupid.

  Next mission. There's a bottle on each limb of a tree, up four limbs. Suddenly, it's yelled out, “One handed!”

  Lordy grunts like it's not hard, even though just picking up the gun right now seems to be slightly challenging. I'm grateful the group has pushed itself back to avoid being caught in the danger zone. If he were sober, this would be an easy thing for Lordy. Hell, they all would be. It's like he needs to be humbled by his own stupidity occasionally. I don't know why. He's skillful but still has room for massive growth in that department. He drunkenly leans to the left and fires, hitting bottles one and two, but bottle three is only grazed. Bottle four’s completely untouched.

  “Come on!” His rant is like a small child in desperate need of a timeout. If this wasn't a party and I trusted myself to drive, I’d haul his ass home right now. While he still has minor gun control, if he keeps downing shots like TicTacs, he won't. That's when the fun stops. That's when trouble is around. That's when I'll put this puppet dance to an end.

  “Let me see that thong,” Glove demands of Lordy’s girl. The blond cobra grinding her ass against him has her own purple thong popping out.

  Lordy's trophy reveals a very tiny piece of material that to call it a thong seems generous. Glove looks intrigued and admires the package. His eyes are sketching down her measurements to place in his spank bank, I'm sure.

  Curious, he asks, “Landing strip?” She bats her eyelashes, refusing to respond. He mutters, raising his beer, “Eh, we'll find out soon enough.”