Текст книги "Imperfect"
Автор книги: Cherry Shephard
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My heart quite literally ached for each character as the story progressed. Stone and Shannon both have their problems, but together what they are faced with is far from easy. Cherry Shephard will bring you to your knees in tears and beaming from ear to ear. This book is amazing!
Saints & Sinners Books
Imperfectly PERFECT, you’ll laugh cry and scream till your voice is hoarse. This book hits every emotion on the radar. It gives you a real life look into the trials and tribulations of just how messy and beautiful love can be!
Krystal Fahl
You made me laugh, cry and my heart acheso so bad for them. (Its still thudding now and I have finished the book 5 minutes ago) But most of all, you sucked me into their story that made me Feel. Feel the bad, the good, the great and the down right sinfully naughty. Loved Loved LOVED IT!
Kasey Crees
We all want a man that is imperfectly perfect and that man is Stone.
Jaye Cox
Truly you have excelled yourself in writing. Thank you so much for perfection.
Bec Paterson
This book is licensed for your enjoyment only. It may not be sold, copied or reproduced by any means, including print, scan, copying, fax or email, without express written permission by the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to businesses, people or activities is purely coincidental.
Imperfect (Blaze of Glory #1)
Copyright © 2015 Cherry Shephard
This book contains scenes that may be considered a trigger for some readers. Please exercise caution when reading, and ensure that your files are stored safely, away from persons under eighteen (18) years of age. The author accepts no responsibility for any minor that may pick up this book, or any damage caused by trigger scenes in reading this book.
Cover design: Sara Eirew Photography
Edited by Kristin Scearce of Hot Tree Editing
Formatted by Sassie Lewis [email protected]
http://www.cherryshephard.net
http://www.facebook.com/AuthorCherryS
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Dedication
For my children, may you find your perfectly imperfect love.
Zzyxz Rd – Stone Sour
Can’t Feel My Face – The Weeknd
Hurricane – Thirty Seconds To Mars
Start Again – Conrad Sewell
Absolute Zero – Stone Sour
Keep Holding On – Avril Lavigne
Good For You – Selena Gomez
Higher – Creed
Blaze of Glory – Bon Jovi
Lullaby – Shawn Mullins
Again a verse for sake of you,
You soldiers in the rank s— you Volunteers,
Who bravely fighting, silent fell,
To fill unmention'd graves.
Ashes of soldiers!
As I muse, retrospective, murmuring a chant in thought,
Lo! thewar resume s— again to my sense your shapes,
And again the advance of armies.
Noiseless as mists and vapors,
From their graves in the trenches ascending,
From the cemeteries all through Virginia and Tennessee,
From every point of the compass, out of the countless unnamed graves,
In wafted clouds, in myraids large, or squads of twos or threes, or single ones, they come,
And silently gather round me.
Now sound no note, O trumpeters!
Not at the head of my cavalry, parading on spirited horses,
With sabres drawn and glist'ning, and carbines by their thigh s— (ah, my brave horsemen!
My handsome, tan-faced horsemen! what life, what joy and pride,
With all the perils, were yours!)
Nor you drummer s— neither at reveille, at dawn,
Nor the long roll alarming the cam p— nor even the muffled beat for a burial;
Nothing from you, this time, O drummers, bearing my warlike drums.
But aside from these, and the marts of wealth, and the crowded promenade,
Admitting around me comrades close, unseen by the rest, and voiceless,
The slain elate and alive agai n— the dust and debris alive,
I chant this chant of my silent soul, in the name of all dead soldiers.
Faces so pale, with wondrous eyes, very dear, gather closer yet;
Draw close, but speak not.
Phantoms of countless lost!
Invisible to the rest, henceforth become my companions!
Follow me ever! desert me not, while I live.
Sweet are the blooming cheeks of the living! sweet are the musical voices sounding!
But sweet, ah sweet, are the dead, with their silent eyes.
Dearest comrades! all is over and long gone;
But love is not ove r— and what love, O comrades!
Perfume from battle-fieldsrisin g— up from foetor arising.
Perfume therefore my chant, O love! immortal Love!
Give me to bathe the memories of all dead soldiers,
Shroud them, embalm them, cover them all over with tender pride!
Perfume all! make all wholesome!
Make these ashes to nourish and blossom,
O love! O chant! solve all, fructify all with the last chemistry.
Give me exhaustles s— make me a fountain,
That I exhale love from me wherever I go, like a moist perennial dew ,
For the ashes of all dead soldiers.
One year ago…
Hurrmmm.
My blood runs cold at the familiar sound of the motorbike turning onto the street.
He’s home early.
I drop the letter I’m reading back on the coffee table and jump to my feet. Hurrying into the kitchen, I pull out two plates and set them on the table, along with knives and forks. Offering up a silent prayer, I stick a fork into the potatoes, my heart sinking as the fork doesn’t go all the way through. No time to fix it now.
Quickly dishing up the roast beef I’d cut earlier, I put the potatoes and peas on the plates and set them on the table. Adding an open beer, I throw the dirty pots into the dishwasher and hurry into the bathroom.
I hear the engine of the motorbike stop, and the smashing glass on the driveway as he drops a bottle of beer. Tidying my hair, I wince at the stain of tears on my cheeks. I touch up my makeup in less than twenty seconds, and then I am standing at the front door waiting for him, a carefully practiced smile on my face.
He is swearing loudly at the broken bottle, and my hands start to shake as he walks, no, stumbles, up to the front door of our lower floor apartment.
“Hi sweetie,” I say as he comes through the door. “How was your day?”
He pauses and gives me a sweeping look from head to toe. Once upon a time, that look might have made me blush; now it just makes my skin crawl.
He grunts and moves into the kitchen, sprawling out on one of the chairs as he eyes the dinner in front of him distastefully. “What the fuck is this?”
“Roast beef,” I say quietly, sitting opposite him. I’m careful not to make eye contact as I pick up my knife and fork, slicing into the tender meat.
“It looks like roast crap.”
I flinch inwardly at his hurtful statement, but I keep my face carefully stoic and say nothing. He picks up his fork and stabs at his plate, and I think my heart just about jumps into my throat when he tries unsuccessfully to spear a piece of potato.
He says nothing, but raises his eyes to mine. My fork drops to the plate with a loud clatter, and the chair scrapes across the floor as I scoot back, my eyes wide.
“Troy, I can explain, I—”
“Shannon,” he says in a quiet voice, his eyes never leaving mine. “Come here.”
My mind is screaming no, but my feet seem to move of their own accord. I can hear the blood pounding in my ears as I shuffle toward him. He grabs my arm and drags me the rest of the way as he stands and begins unfastening his belt. I lower my lashes as his breathing becomes labored.
“On the couch,” he orders quietly. I turn my back and move to the living room. I hear his heavy footsteps following me, and try to suppress the shudder that runs through me.
I lie face down on the couch and squeeze my eyes shut, waiting.
“What the fuck is this?” he sneers, picking up the letter I’d carelessly dropped on the coffee table. My heart beats faster. Please don’t read it.
Dear Miss Harper,
We regret to inform you that there has been a terrible accident. Your father is…
He pauses and my eyes fly open. I turn my head to look at him, and immediately regret my mistake. He’s standing over me, the letter still in his hand and a smirk on his face.
“Daddy’s dead,” he says gleefully. “Oh, poor kitten, no wonder you couldn’t cook me a decent meal.”
I cry out as the belt cuts across my back. Tears immediately pool in my eyes, and I blink rapidly to force them back.
“Did you think I’d care that your father’s dead?” Troy is shouting as the belt cuts into my sensitive flesh again. I refuse to answer, and this only provokes him further. He grabs my arm and drags me off the couch, sending me flying to the ground with a backhand across my right cheek.
“Stupid fucking slut!” he screams, leaning down to grab a fistful of my hair and pull my head up to look at him. “Can’t you do anything right?” He kicks me in the stomach and I fall over once more, holding a protective hand against my stomach as he kicks me again.
I cough as I try to draw air into my lungs, but the small amount I receive is not enough. He’s on top of me now pinning me to the carpet on my back, his hands around my throat as he chokes the life out of me. My fingers slap feebly at his hands, but I can feel the fight leaving my body. My lungs are starving, and I see white spots dancing in front of my eyes.
Troy releases me in disgust, and my hands replace his around my neck, gasping for air. I hear the front door slam, the motorbike start up and tear down the street. I lie there for five minutes… hours… hell, I don’t know, but it’s pitch black outside as I slowly roll to my stomach and get to my feet, wrapping an arm loosely around my midsection.
I make my way into the bathroom where I survey the damage in the mirror. My left eye is an almost pretty mix of blues and purples and there are angry red fingerprints around my throat.
Something stirs inside me, something I haven’t felt in a long time.
Anger.
It bubbles inside me until it blurs my vision. Sweat runs down my forehead as my fist finds the mirror, smashing my reflection again and again, until it lay in pieces in the sink. Blood drips into the sink, staining the perfect white porcelain. But I don’t feel it.
I don’t feel anything.
Tearing strips off an old shirt in the laundry hamper, I bandage my cut hands as best I can before making my way back to the living room.
As I stare around the room that once felt homey, my eyes are drawn to the letter Troy dropped on the floor. My father is dead. I’m all alone in the world, the final person from my former life gone in a single moment. But there’s always a silver lining, and the irony is not lost on me, that even in death, Daddy is there when I need him the most. I pick up the letter and re-read the bottom sentence:
In addition to the family home and bank account, Darius also left Saddles to your care. He knew you’d make the right decision.
Saddles, Daddy’s bar. One of the last connections to my former life, save for my sister, before I came to live in this waking nightmare. My own personal hell.
Determination fills me, and I’m struck with a new-found confidence as I clutch the letter to my heart.
Troy will never hurt me again.
Today…
I lift the half-empty glass to my lips and drain the beer that remains as I hold my hand up to the bartender, signaling for another.
It’s about ten o’clock on a Friday night, and the small-town Texan bar, Saddles, is overcrowded, hot and noisy. Some country band is playing on the stage at the opposite end of the room, but I can’t tell what song it is. I don’t really care, either. Instead, my plan is to keep my ass firmly planted to this hard bar stool, drink my beer, and ponder where my life went so wrong.
Married when I was just eighteen years old to a young, fresh-faced blonde girl, Grace had been everything I could want in a woman: virginal, sweet, and compassionate. It was no surprise my grandmother had conspired with her father to marry us off.
Unfortunately, like all marriages, we had our problems. Ever since I was just a kid, my grandmother told me stories of my heroic father who fought so bravely in World War Two to defend our country. I’d grown up with every intention of following in his footsteps.
Grace had never seen it that way, though. On the day I told her about my dream, she’d given me an ultimatum: The Army, or her.
That was just the way she was. I suspect she didn’t want to see me injured.
I tried to be a good husband, and put the idea of the Army from my mind. But after the attacks on September 11th, my mind was made up. Despite her tears and childish tantrums, I’d enlisted in the Army and left the next month to begin the standard ten-week boot camp training that would prepare me for life as a U.S soldier.
When I eventually left for Afghanistan a few years later, Grace tried to make the best of our situation. But she’d been so young and beautiful. She wanted to live, not be held down, waiting for a husband who would, as she put it so often, recklessly endanger his life, and may never return to her.
I’d been in Afghanistan just two months when I received the notice of intent to divorce.
I tore it up.
My parents died in a car accident when I was just a few months old, and I’d been raised by my maternal grandmother. She was a no-nonsense sort of woman, with a heart of gold and everyone loved her. It was a quiet day among the ranks when I was handed an obituary statement. She’d passed away of breast cancer the year after we arrived in Afghanistan.
With my marriage dissolved, I’d thrown myself into my duties, rising through the ranks to be Staff Sergeant Ethan Stone.
Based in Afghanistan for more than ten years, I’d seen my fair share of horror – men beheaded in the streets by rebels, girls as young as twelve married to the highest bidder, and so many other gruesome sights associated with conflict.
Nightmares just aren’t for kids. I’m thirty-two years old and I still dream of a real-life horror. A girl of about sixteen years old and I couldn’t get to her without risking my own life . . . something I selfishly wasn’t prepared to do. Every time I close my eyes, I see the vile scene play out. Her captors holding her down while they take turns violating her in front of me as I hide behind a pile of empty boxes. I’ve never felt as helpless as I did in those moments.
I’ve never forgotten her.
“Stone,” a voice says beside me. I glance up to see my best friend and fellow Army brother, Damien Keets, slide onto the bar stool next to me.
I say nothing, simply raise my half-empty beer glass in a brief, silent greeting.
“Whiskey,” Keets calls to the pretty, young bartender, who pours us both a glass before moving to serve a young couple at the other end of the bar.
“How much have you had to drink?” Keets asks, his voice barely audible in the loud bar.
I look at my half-empty glass then at my friend. In answer, I raise the glass to my lips and down the remaining beer before pulling the new glass over to me.
“You have to stop doing this to yourself,” Keets scolds. “You’ve been home three months, and I’ve yet to see you sober.
“What do you fucking care?” I finally snap, slamming the glass down on the bar. Whiskey splashes over the edge and hits the back of my hand, but I ignore it. “I’m here, and I’m getting drunk.” I can hear my voice slurring as I raise my glass, gesturing around the room. “Just like everyone else.”
“Not everyone else has seen what you’ve seen,” Keets states, draining his whiskey and signaling for another. “Look, man, I get it, okay? I do. But you can’t keep beating yourself up over this. You know you couldn’t save her.”
I glance over at my friend. Keets is the only soul I’ve ever told the details to about that horrible night. I’d spent six hours curled up behind some boxes as I listened to her screams grow fainter. They hadn’t been small men; she’d never stood a chance. I couldn’t help the constant feeling of guilt that I should have at least tried to help her.
I finish my whiskey and stand up, steadying my hand on the bar as the room sways around me. I pull some money from the pocket of my jeans and throw it on the bar before looking at Keets. “I’ll see you later,” I say. I’m so fucking tired all of a sudden. I just want to go home.
I try to walk away, but my legs are becoming increasingly unsteady. I must have had more to drink than I thought. I limp toward the front door of the bar, but a woman’s scream above the music behind me makes me pause. Slowly, I turn back around.
“Let go of me!” the pretty, blonde barmaid is yelling, slapping away the hands of a man who’s clearly had too much to drink.
“Come on, love. You can’t expect to go waltzing around this bar in those tiny shorts and not let me get a feel,” he sneers, his crooked teeth standing out as he grins. He’s sitting at a table with three other men. They are laughing amongst themselves, encouraging him. “I bet that ass is as soft as it looks.”
I watch as she recoils from the man’s lust-filled gaze, and something inside me snaps. Once more, I’m back in Afghanistan, hiding behind some boxes as the young woman is terrorized. This time is different, though; this time, I can stop it.
I straighten up and take three steps toward the men. They never see me coming, never see my fist until it connects with the first jaw.
From there, it’s an all-out brawl. I need to save her… have to save her. I throw punch after punch. Someone is grabbing me, but I fight them off. A fist connects with my throat and I drop to my knees, clutching at my neck as my lungs burn and threaten to explode. I can’t breathe, the dusty room fading into red as the blood pours down my face. I manage to wipe a hand across my eyes and I’m once again in the bar, lying on my side as a small crowd gathers around me. The bar is deathly quiet; even the band has stopped playing.
“Stone,” I hear Keets call out as he kneels beside me. “Stone, can you hear me?”
The pain in my chest is so severe, I can’t answer him. It feels like someone has taken a sledgehammer and hit me across the ribs a few dozen times.
The pain intensifies until I see white spots in front of my eyes, and I close them for a moment of relief. There’s a ringing in my ears and the voices around me become fainter and fainter, until they finally disappear altogether.
The ringing in my ears is so much more intense this morning, and I groan as I open my eyes, wincing at the light. My left eye is swollen almost shut and my mouth is as dry as cotton. There’s no denying it: this is the mother of all hangovers. I slowly lift my head, groaning again when the first wave of nausea washes over me. Christ, how much did I drink last night?
With great effort, I get to my knees, frowning as I realize I’m still in the bar.
What the fuck am I doing here?
The place looks as though a tornado hit it. Chairs are upturned, broken bottles are strewn everywhere and tables lay in pieces.
The front door opens, and I instinctively turn my head to see a beautiful blonde in tight, black jeans and a white tank top step inside.
Her large eyes round as she stares at the mess.
“What the fuck happened?” she gasps, stepping over a broken chair as she moves behind the bar and begins moving glasses around.
“I don’t know,” I say, still on my knees. I must have startled the woman because she spins around, her mouth opening in shock. “Wh-who are you?” she stammers. “How did you get in here?”
“I woke up here,” I say, getting to my feet as she comes around to the front of the bar.
I make a move toward her, but I’m quickly brought up by the tip of the large knife she pulls out of the back of her jeans.
“Jesus,” I cry, throwing my hands up in surrender. I’ve never been beaten in combat, but this fucking hangover has screwed up my reflexes. “Look, lady, I—”
“I don’t know who you are, or how you got in here,” she seethes, her blue eyes narrowing. “But you fucked up my bar.”
“I know,” I reply, taking a step backwards, tripping over a chair leg, and going down on one knee. Pain rips through my abdomen as my body is jolted by the sudden movement. “Just let me explain.”
“You can explain everything to the cops when they get here,” she hisses. “Don’t you fucking move.”
I watch her warily as she points the knife at me. She’s tiny, only about five-foot, and my hands could easily span her waist. If I really wanted to, I could get myself out of this situation. I’m a trained soldier; it would be child’s play for me to take the knife. Her chest heaves in her tank top and I find my eyes drawn down to her small breasts, probably just big enough to fill my palms.
Just the way I like them.
I’m surprised at the sudden tightening of my pants, and I pray she doesn’t choose this moment to look down. My moment of distraction is clearly all she needs, as I don’t hear her draw closer. I flinch as the tip of the knife touches my throat. I swallow past the sudden lump in my throat, trying to ignore the bite of the blade as I look up at her. She reminds me of a china doll my grandmother used to have on display in a glass case. Her hair, although tied back in a loose bun, is full of golden ringlets, and her big, blue eyes are expressive behind long, dark lashes.
And right now, they’re expressing rage at me.
“I’ll ask you again,” she says in a low voice, pressing the tip of the knife more firmly against my flesh. “Who are you?”
The front door opens and she jumps at the sudden intrusion, the blade of the knife nicking my skin. I feel a small trickle of blood run down the column of my throat, and it’s all I need to spur myself into action. My hand shoots up and wraps itself around her wrist, while the other effortlessly wrenches the knife away from her. I hear it clatter against the tiled floor and throw my foot out, kicking it away.
The barmaid’s eyes open wide as she realizes what’s happened, but before she has a chance to react I grab her other wrist, securing both behind her back with just one of my large hands, holding her against me.
“Having fun, are we?” Keets drawls as he leans against the doorframe at the entrance of the bar.
“Keets,” the woman cries out in relief, struggling against my hands as I continue to hold her. I close my eyes and grit my teeth as she moves against me. It’s been too long since I’ve had a woman pressed against me; if she’s not careful, I’m going to make a damned fool of myself.
“Shan?” Keets says, looking between her and me as though he’s just recognized her. “What the hell is going on?”
“This guy,” she says, finally shoving herself away from me, “broke into the bar last night and destroyed it. Look at this mess!”
“I didn’t break in,” I respond hotly. “I was here last night; I must have passed out.”
“I’ll say.” Keets laughs. “You were knocked the fuck out.”
Parts of last night start coming back. The alcohol, the barmaid getting mauled by a drunken creep… getting my ass handed to me.
“Why the fuck did you leave me here?” I demand, taking an angry step toward him.
“Dude, Ruth said to leave you there to sleep it off. You’re lucky the sheriff realized you weren’t at fault and didn’t haul your ass to jail.”
“I don’t give a shit how it happened!” Shan shouts, glaring at Keets. “I’m calling the cops.”
“Shan, wait,” I say, picking the knife up off the ground and placing it down on the bar for her to see.
She rounds on me, phone in hand. “Don’t call me that,” she hisses. “My name is Shannon. Only my friends call me Shan.”
“Are we not friends?” I ask, smirking at her. “If you’ll remember, you were pressed pretty intimately against me a minute ago.”
“Ohh, you…you…” Shannon’s face turns a dull shade of red and she grips the phone tighter, turning her back on me.
“Shannon,” Keets says quietly, prying the phone out of her death-like grip. “It’s okay. I know him.”
“Y-you do?” she asks, turning her face up to him.
I watch this exchange with interest. Keets and Shannon seem to know each other quite well. They seem close… intimate.
I’m surprised by the sudden surge of jealousy that rips through me.
“This is Stone,” Keets is saying.
Shannon turns to face me, the look on her face now one of curiosity rather than anger. “This is Stone?” she asks disbelievingly. I don’t like the way she says that. What has Keets told her about me?
She looks me up and down, and I’m quietly grateful that my earlier hardness is gone.
“I don’t care,” Shannon finally remarks, turning her pert little nose up at me and glaring once more at Keets.
Fucking snob. I’m getting more and more pissed off. The pain in my head is intensifying, and I just want to go home and go back to sleep.
“You saw what he did to my bar.”
“Your bar?” I question out loud, my eyes practically bulging out of my head. “You mean you own it?”
“Inherited it from my daddy,” she replies proudly, throwing me a glance that could freeze Hell over.
“Look,” I say, shaking my head in bewilderment. I’m so over it. I just want to go home, drink my body weight in whiskey and go to sleep. “I’ll be happy to reimburse you whatever it costs to fix this place up.”
Shannon glances over at me, pride written all over her face, and I inwardly groan. This woman is too damn stubborn for her own good. “You think you can just pay me off because I’m some helpless female?” she asks indignantly. “I work hard at this bar, and I make damn good money.”
“I’m sure you do,” I say, rubbing my aching temple with my thumb and index finger. “But I would like to make up for my own misdeeds.”
“I may have an idea,” Keets interjects as he stands back with his arms folded, watching us in amusement.
“What?” Shannon asks, looking at my friend adoringly in a way that makes me want to throw up.
“Let him work off his debts in the bar.”
“What!” Shannon and I yell in unison as we glance at each other. He can’t be fucking serious.
Keets grins and pushes back the brown hair that falls across his eyes as he adjusts his small, black rimmed glasses. “Well, why not? Stone, you know you need to do something other than drink.”
“And you think working in a bar will fix that?” I ask, my eyebrows shooting up on my forehead.
“Shannon,” Keets says, pointedly ignoring me. “You know you could use the help around the bar.”
“Well, yes,” she responds slowly. “But him?”
“What the hell is wrong with me?” I ask, drawing up to my full six-foot height, towering over her. Just who the hell does she think she is?
“Are you serious?” She laughs, gesturing around the room. “Look what you did to this place in just one night!”
“That was an accident,” I clarify, leaning down until we’re making eye contact. But I’m not prepared for the jolt of awareness that strikes me the moment our eyes meet. Her eyes are a pale blue, with tiny flecks of green. They’re so damned expressive, I feel like I could read her mind just by looking at them. Unfortunately for me, her mind seems to be screaming some pretty obscene things about me right now.
“So, it’s settled,” Keets says brightly. “Stone will work for you until the damages are paid off. I’ll take the ‘help wanted’ sign off the window.” He disappears before either of us can say a word.
Shannon sighs and runs a hand over her head. “I guess you can start tidying up out here,” she mumbles, not looking at me. “The broom’s behind the bar. I’ll be in the back; I have some paperwork to fill out.” She leaves the room without waiting for me to respond.
I watch her go, trying desperately to ignore the gentle sway of her hips in those damn jeans. Finding the broom, I begin to sweep up the broken glass, but my mind is still stuck on Shannon. Who is she? Are she and Keets an item? He’s never said anything, but I know it’s none of my business. So, why am I jealous at the thought of my best friend’s hands touching her?
I shake my head, forcing my resolve to harden. I can’t get involved with a woman. I’m too angry, too bitter … too imperfect.
By the time I get home that afternoon, I’m exhausted. Unlocking the front door, I step inside and kick it closed behind me, dropping the keys in a bowl on the coffee table as I walk by the couch and into the bathroom. Standing in front of the mirror, I let out a slow breath as I pull my t-shirt off and force myself to look at my reflection. I’m still fit, my body rock-hard despite the beating I’ve been giving it the past few months. But it’s the scars that draw my attention the most. They pucker my flesh starting from my neck, disappearing into the waistband of my jeans. Jagged, red and angry, they mar my skin, a constant reminder of all I’ve seen.
My right leg aches from the exertion of the day, a grim memory of the shrapnel that severed nerves below my knee when a grenade nearly took my leg off back in 2003. I was told that I’d never walk again. It’d taken me two years of hard work, but I proved them wrong. I’d been able to go back to Afghanistan and get back on the field with nothing more severe than a horrible scar that runs all the way around my leg below the knee, and a limp that becomes more pronounced when I’m too active. Then came the surprise attack from the Taliban on our small group. We’d been asleep, never stood a chance. When I woke up, I was in the hospital, flown home to Texas with a medical discharge from the United States Army.
To this day, no one seems to be able – or willing – to share how the Taliban found us.
I turn away from the mirror, unable to look at myself any longer. Starting the shower, I quickly strip off the rest of my clothes and stand beneath the water, feeling the heat begin to soothe my tired and aching muscles. Bracing one arm against the shower wall, I lean my head beneath the water and close my eyes.
“What secrets did the United States entrust you with?”
My head is pushed back down under the water, my entire body tensing as I thrash around, trying desperately to hold my breath. My head is pulled back up, and I cough violently as I blink the water away from my eyes. My head is forced back, and I stare wildly into the eyes of one of my captors.
“Last chance,” the man says. “Tell us your secrets, or you will die.”
I stubbornly refuse to answer.
The enemy soldier glances at the man holding my head up, giving him an almost imperceptible nod. This time, I’m not prepared for the rush of water that closes over my head. Instinctively, I open my mouth and immediately my lungs fill with water. I struggle helplessly, but I can feel myself slipping. White lights burn behind my eyelids, and I’m sure my chest might burst.
