The Truth

Blue

It would be kinder to break up with her.

You’re way too clingy for me, sweetheart; I can’t handle all your drama; that’s the breaks, babe; it’s been fun, but it’s time to move on.

That’s how I should do it, bluntly and brutally. It would hurt at first, but it would be better for her in the long run.

But I don’t have the guts to do that. Especially after last night, after Keegan told me she loves me. I simply cannot walk away from this girl.

She stirs in her sleep, and I slowly shift against the pillows, careful not to wake her.

I meant to spill my guts out to her right there on the back deck last night, but she could barely keep her eyes open. Between the tequila and whatever that asshole editor

Jason had done to her, she was wiped out.

Not to mention Kendra trying to mindfuck her with total bullshit.

It just wasn’t the right time to lay on Keegan my dark, heavy secret, no matter how much she said she wanted to hear it.

As soon as I assured her Megz was safe and sound up in her bedroom, Keegan had sagged against me and let me guide her to my room. I think she was asleep the moment her head touched the pillow.

I brush strands of hair off her face and stroke her satiny cheek. She looks so damn young. She sounded so young last night, so caught up in the intensity of her emotions.

Sometimes I forget Keegan is only 18. Well, almost 19. Her birthday is the day before Thanksgiving. Still. Too fucking young.

I’m six years older than her, and I feel a whole lot older than that.

How the hell can I even think of saddling her with my shameful secret? Why would any man worth his salt do that to a woman he loves?

And yet, if I don’t tell her the truth, she’s always going to be wondering why I don’t trust her. And it’s always going to be there between us, even though it has nothing to do with me not trusting her.

It’s about betrayal: my betrayal of my brothers-in-arms; my betrayal of their families.

Max puts his head on my leg and looks up at me with his big, brown eyes. I’m sure he can feel how conflicted I am.

“What a good boy,” I whisper, petting his soft head as he heaves a contented sigh. “What a good boy you are.”

I lean my head back against the headboard and squeeze my eyes shut, wishing I could shut everything out. Wishing I could stop thinking, stop remembering.

My back is burning again. It’s ridiculous, the way my brain tricks me into believing the skin is once again flayed open, shredded by a whip wielded by Aziza’s oldest brother.

I know it’s not real; but I can feel every stripe. I can hear the whistle the whip made in the air in the split second before it reached me.

Max whines, and I open my eyes, looking down and running a thumb over his ears. “I don’t know what to do, buddy,” I whisper again as his ears twitch. “I just don’t.”

I’m dying to go for a run to clear my head. Running is the one thing that seems to help. Well, that and my music. But I don’t want to risk waking Keegan by easing her off my chest. She needs her sleep. I should try to get some, too.

But when I close my eyes again, I get a flash of Cunny’s bloody face. And the whole thing burns through my mind like it’s done a thousand times before.

I’d been sitting for hours, slumped against the wall in a small room in Aziza’s house when I heard an explosion. When the youngest brother—the one who’d been ordered to guard me—was distracted by the noise, my instincts took over.

I was on my feet and across the room in an instant, snatching the AK-47 out of his hands and smashing it across his face, knocking him out. I’d have shot him if I had to.

But I didn’t want the sound of gunfire to bring the other brothers running before I had time to escape.

And despite what they’d done to me, I didn’t especially want to kill any of them. As horrible as they’d been to their sister—trying to marry her off against her will—Aziza still loved them. She was that kind of person.

I slipped through the house, wearing only my fatigue pants, and made it to the back alley without encountering anyone.

Later, I realized they’d all been drawn away from the house by the sound of the Buffalo U.S. Army vehicle being blown apart.

I made it to the edge of the village, to the bike I’d thrown into a ditch. I’d ridden the short distance from the base at dusk the day before, figuring that was less conspicuous than trying to drive alone into an Afghan village.

And it was a better way not to draw attention to the fact I was off base without permission.

I’d just turned my bike toward the base when I got a clear view of the Buffalo, black bilious plumes of smoke boiling above it. I knew it was one of ours; I knew I had to try to help.

I didn’t know who was inside until I reached the vehicle and saw Cunny. He’d been in the back when the RPG hit. That was the only part of the vehicle that wasn’t incinerated.

He’d managed to call for help; his hand was still gripping the radio. I could already hear the choppers coming. I tried to keep my eyes off what was left of Monti and Hud.

Parts of that day are hazy now. I don’t remember scrambling through the flames, burning the torn skin on my back to a crisp; I don’t remember dragging Cunny out. I do remember, though, as the choppers closed in, begging him to stay alive.

And I remember begging all three of them—over and over again—to forgive me.

Because I knew they’d been out there trying to rescue me. Trying to save me from my own stupidity. And it cost them their lives.