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  I let out a few short breaths, regaining my composure. He’s gone. It’s fine.

  The boarding zones are being called, and I check my ticket again. Zone two.

  After twenty minutes of watching the first class and business class passengers try to cut each other in line in order to race onto the sardine can faster, zone two is called out over the loud speaker.

  I place my sunglasses back over my eyes and lift my bags over my shoulder. I hand the flight attendant my ticket and she looks at me for a moment before taking the crinkled piece of paper from my pinched fingers. “Ma’am, please remove your sunglasses.” What is with the prejudice against sunglasses? I pull them up over my head and shove my hand out further, waiting for her to hand my ticket back. “Thank you for your cooperation, ma’am. Have a safe flight.” She hands me my ticket and I pull my sunglasses back over my eyes. I hear the flight attendant huff with annoyance as I enter the jetway. Last time I checked, there weren’t TSA rules about wearing sunglasses in an airport.

  I walk down the thin aisle in the middle of the plane, all the way to the back row where the scent of urine and shit wafts through the air from the bathrooms. Whatever. I’ll breathe through my mouth for the next several hours.

  The plane fills in slowly, but when I hear the doors close, I realize the two seats beside me are still empty. Could I be so lucky to have this row all to myself? Sweet.

  I sink into the window seat, pull my headphones out of my bag, and plug them into the armrest. This could almost pass as comfortable. I reach back into my bag and pull out a pill bottle, pop the cap off and tap the container into my palm until two capsules roll out, then I toss them into the back of my throat and swallow hard, praying they take effect before takeoff.

  My knees bob up and down as I try to relax the rest of my body, but as always, this isn’t working. If only I could knock myself out and wake up in Boston, this would be so much easier. My hands are trembling under my clamped grip over the armrests, and I clench my eyes shut. If I can’t see it, it isn’t happening. I repeat my mantra a dozen more times before the engines ignite, but it doesn’t work. I suck in spurts of air to make sure I don’t pass out from forgetting to breathe, but the air feels so thick in my lungs, it’s hard to breathe. I forcefully blow it out and try to suck it back in harder. I should never get on another plane again.

  My seat sinks slightly, and I know someone’s next to me now. Great. “Hey,” a muffled voice blends in with the loud music booming in my ears. I ignore it, though. I’m not here to make friends. “Hey. Can you hear me?” The voice sounds again. I shake my head, giving this person the message that I’m not responding. Just as I’m satisfied with thinking they figured it out, something drops into my lap, compelling me to open my eyes. It’s a nip of alcohol. What the hell? I look beside me, making instant eye contact with the striking shamrock-green eyes that were looking at me in the airport. I pull the buds out of my ears and quietly mumble, “Thank you.”

  His top lip curls into a small grin and he leans his head closer to me. “I didn’t want to tap you or anything. Don’t wanna lose a limb tonight.” His grin grows, unfurling a perfect smile. “That’ll help you make it through the flight.” He points to the nip. “I’m Tango. Yell if you need anything.” He presses his palms onto the armrests, preparing to stand up, but then shoots me another look. “Although, I suspect you won’t know you’re even on this plane in a few minutes.” His smile returns and part of me wants to grab his arm and ask him to stay.

  “Thank you,” I say again.

  “No worries.” And with that, he quickly returns to his seat.

  Wait. Come back, a normal person would say.

  But I’m not normal.

  I open the nip and take a whiff, making sure it smells like vodka. It does. And with my confirmation, I I down it with one swig. It only takes a couple of minutes before my eyes close and my mind shuts off.

  CHAPTER THREE

  TANGO

  MOVING ON to bigger things. I have to keep repeating this to myself and maybe then I’ll believe it. Walking away from the people I love, knowing I’m not coming back is pretty fucking hard to wrap my head around. I mean, I know this could have been the case at any point over the past six years, but now things are pretty much set in stone—pun intended. My family thinks I’m dead. It’s what they were told. And when someone in authority tells you a loved one died, it’s sort of believable. I sat in the black sedan that pulled up to my parents’ house a few weeks ago. The black tinted windows concealed the truth: me, still being alive, so it was okay if I tagged along. I didn’t have to be there when it happened, but I felt like I deserved to witness the pain they were being put through because of me.

  I’ll never forget the one and only time I was one of the marines giving the news. Since that day, a black sedan has always represented death to me. Regardless of the straight face we were trained to maintain when giving that type of news, my heart shredded into a million pieces and I didn’t even know the parents, only their son who I’d fought beside. I offered to be the one to give them the news. It was the least I could do for him.

  It was different watching two marines in dress blues step out of the car and approach the front door of my childhood home. A white glove pressed on the doorbell, the chime that would set off a world of pain in the two people I love the most in this world.

  My mother pulled the curtain away from the window to see who was outside. The curtain dropped from her hand quickly, but the door opened slowly. I heard her yelling for my father.

  The two of them stood side by side, clutching their hands over their hearts as the men in blue bowed their heads out of respect. Fuck. It took so much out of me not to jump out of the car and throw my arms around both of them. But it was either then or very soon. And if I pushed it off, they would have suffered more.

  My mother fell into my father, shrieking and screaming. I could hear it through the closed window. “God no. Give me my baby back.” Her anger quickly turned to the Marines. I couldn’t hear specifically what she was saying, but I’m assuming it was something along the lines of, “This is your fault. How could you? Don’t ever come back to my door again.” It’s what my buddy’s mother said to me when I gave her the news. I can’t say I blame her.

  After minutes of condolences and getting punched in the chest by my five-foot-tall mother, the men returned to the car, slipping inside flawlessly without ever changing their expression. But I knew what they were feeling inside.

  “Sorry man,” one of them said. Sorry doesn’t even begin to do this situation justice.

  Two days after my funeral I joined a mercenary service in hopes of keeping my remaining time occupied in some way. I didn’t want to sit around, waiting to expire—it would have been too depressing. Anyway, within a day of enrollment, Eli Tate contacted me, requesting my service. I accepted on the spot. This gig is high paying and I can send the money to my sister anonymously. It could pay for her college tuition. He told me I would start in two weeks. I’d fly out from Los Angeles on her flight and start the job in Boston when we landed. Since my truck had to be driven across the country anyway, I took a week and a half and flew around the states, scratching things off my bucket list. Nashville, New Orleans, Vegas, and I had to see the Statue of Liberty in New York at least once during my life. It’s probably good my list was short, though, because I had to cut my two weeks to twelve days due to some YouTube incident she caused.

  In any case, I keep telling myself that with each ending comes a new beginning, good or bad. But I can’t forget that with each beginning comes another end as well.

  At least she’s a sight for sore eyes. I imagined someone more rough around the edges, unruly hair, no makeup, baggy clothes—an overall unkempt look—a stereotype I guess I subscribe to regarding these types of self-proclaimed bad-girls. However, she couldn’t be further from this generalization, which immediately tells me she isn’t a self-proclaimed anything. She’s likely a straight up badass with a bad attitude
. Although, I can’t blame her after what I read in her file.

  I probably shouldn’t be watching her sleep. I shouldn’t be wondering what music is playing through her headphones, and I probably shouldn’t have given her that alcohol. By the size of her little frame, it doesn’t seem as though she’d be able to handle what I’m assuming is Valium and then the shot of vodka I gave her.

  Well, at least if this job doesn’t end well, looking at her will make everything I’ll have to give up worth it. God, listen to me. I’ve been in that desert for too fucking long. I’m horny and I need to focus on the issue at hand. Although, she is the issue at hand, so technically it’s okay to focus on her.

  I pull out my phone and review the files once more. I wonder if she even knows what type of danger has been following her around for the past three years. She doesn’t seem like the clueless type, but someone in her situation wouldn’t necessarily carry the confidence she seems to be portraying. This type of shit can make a person crazy. And for some reason, this makes me already like her. Because, what I’ve seen should be making me crazy, but I haven’t let my mind take the best of me yet. At no point in the past six years have I given myself a minute to reevaluate the reasons I think I’m going straight to hell.

  I can tell myself over and over that everything I did was for my country. I can even believe it. But at the end of the day, watching too many pairs of eyes freeze over as their souls are sucked from their bodies never became easier. I’m not a murderer, but that’s how every person in Iraq and Afghanistan sees me. Yet, in the U.S., I’m a war hero. This is such a screwed up world we live in, and people don’t understand how badly each of us Marines wants nothing more than world peace. To Serve and Protect—the protecting part comes easy to us, but it’s the serve part that comes with loaded expectations.

  CALI

  The thump of the runway below the wheels startles me awake. My eyes shoot open and I see a blur of pavement racing outside the window. My heart slows and I have the urge to kiss the ground below me. Maybe I should try to stay here in Boston for more than a few months this time since I. Hate. Flying.

  After the fasten seatbelt light goes out, I unclasp my seatbelt and step into the aisle. I open the overhead compartment and reach in for my bag. Things shifted during the flight and my bag has tumbled to the back corner of the bin. Of course. I climb up on the seat while slinging my smaller bag over my shoulder and then pull the other bag out of the overhead compartment, letting it fall over my opposite shoulder while hopping back down.

  “That’s one way of doing it,” a now familiar voice says from a row ahead of me.

  I shrug my shoulders and shove my headphones into the side pocket of my bag. “Thanks again for—“

  “Don’t mention it,” he interrupts me as he pulls his bag out from the overhead compartment and turns toward the exit.

  I walk through the jetway and find myself in an empty airport. My eyes drop down to my leather-braided watch and I twist the hour hand forward three hours. 5:00 a.m.

  I pull my fleece out of one of my bags and drop my stuff onto one of the many empty seats before curling up in one of them. I slide my sunglasses off and pull my phone out of my pocket. After I power it back up, I see I don’t have any messages yet, which means I have nowhere to go. Dad always sets up a safe location for me to stay. But nothing yet. I look around again. Nothing is even open. I lean my head back and close my eyes, still feeling slightly numb from the Valium and vodka cocktail I ingested six hours ago. I’ll just sleep until my phone buzzes.

  “I don’t think there are any connecting flights down here?” I open my eyes and I see Tango exiting the restroom.

  “I’m not connecting. Just waiting,” I say flatly.

  “Me too,” he says.

  Who would he be waiting for outside of a closed terminal? Although I guess he’s probably wondering the same thing about me.

  “Mind if I wait over here?” he asks, pointing to the chair across from me.

  “It’s a free country,” I smirk.

  “Is it now?” He reaches down into his bag and pulls out his phone. He types something, looks at the screen, and fumbles with his watch to change the time. He drops his phone back into his bag, crosses his arms behind his neck and stretches his legs out in front of him. His eyes close, allowing me to take a better look at this very chiseled, very beautiful specimen of a man.

  Is this guy trying to play me? I lift my bags and pull them up to my lap. I stand up, looking around for a place to go, and my eyes settle on the light flickering on inside of the Dunkin Donuts. Beautiful. Coffee.

  As I non-verbally confess my love for coffee with a simple look, I amble toward the little shop, hearing, “Large iced with cream and sugar,” from the distance. I turn around, bewildered by his nerve. His eyes are still closed, but a smile is dancing across his five o’clock shadow. I roll my eyes at him. But he doesn’t see.

  I move up to the counter at Dunkin Donuts and place my bags down to pull my wallet out.

  “What’ll it be?” the cashier asks. Her eyelids are hardly open and the black circles under her lashes tell a story of a night that must have ended only hours ago. Her hair is piled up into a messy bun on top of her head and her shirt is wrinkled and buttoned in the wrong button holes. My response takes longer than she appreciates, and she rests her elbows on the counter as her chin falls into her hands. Her eyes open a little more as she looks up at me, waiting for my decision.

  “A medium hot coffee with cream, no sugar.”

  “Will that be all?” she drones.

  I glance back over my shoulder. His eyes are still closed, but I swear I still see a smirk tugging at his lips.

  “I’ll also have a small hot coffee, black.”

  She hands me both of my coffees and my change. “Hope your day runs on Dunkin,” she recites, ending with a yawn.

  I walk back over to the seat I was sitting in and find his seat empty. Ass. Now I have two fucking coffees. I should have known better. I sit back down and reach my hand with the small coffee over to the trash bin beside me.

  “Whoa,” he gasps, walking up from behind me.

  “What, are you playing hide and seek?” I mutter under my breath.

  “No. Peek-a-boo.” He pulls a bag out from behind his back. “Cinnabon?”

  “Those things are evil. The calories in those will eat you alive.”

  “Eh, it could be worse,” he winks.

  “Coffee?” I hand him the small hot coffee rather than the large iced coffee he asked for.

  “This isn’t what I wanted.”

  “Oh. It isn’t?” I arch my eyebrows to play confused. “Oops. Sorry, complete stranger who asked another complete stranger for a coffee.”

  “I’m not a stranger. I already bought you a drink.”

  “A nip hardly resembles a drink.”

  “Well. Then, we’re still strangers.” He hides the Cinnabon bag behind his back, making me secretly drool over the delicious scent of those sinful things.

  “Oh well!” I hand him his coffee. “I better start moving.” I check my watch again. Where is Dad with my damn housing information? This guy is clearly getting a little too comfortable in my presence. And I can’t have that.

  “I thought you were waiting for someone?” he asks, sounding as if he doesn’t care. But if he didn’t care, why would he ask?

  I did say that. “I was wrong.”

  “No. That’s what some call lying.”

  “What do you care?” I snap back. I wrap both hands around my cup and take a sip of the steaming deliciousness.

  “I’m kidding. Relax.” Is he laughing at my hostility? Asshole. “You always so hard-edged?”

  “Do you always act like you know people after talking to them for five minutes?” I retort.

  His eyes widen and his brows rise, giving me a look as if I’m a lunatic—which I am, so I’ll give him that. He drops back down into the seat across from where I’m sitting. “If you want to be technical, I talk
ed to you seven hours ago on the plane.” He takes a sip of his coffee, his hand almost completely concealing the cup. Actually, he kind of looks like a grown man taking part in a tea party. I guess I could have at least gotten him a medium. “So, no. I don’t always act like I know people after five minutes. It’s usually ten or twenty.” And we have a stand-up comedian here.

  It’s getting harder to seem unfazed by him, probably because he fazes me. Nevertheless, we both know in about ten minutes we’ll never see each other again. Well, at least I know this.

  “Well, it was kind of nice of meeting you, Tango,” I say, getting ready to make my official exit from this uncanny encounter.

  “What about that text message you’ve been waiting for?” he asks.

  Oh, for God’s sake. Dad fucking sent him.

  “Daddy send you?”

  “Quick one, aren’t ya?” He furrows his brow with a look of degradation. “He was worried about your recent—“ he fake coughs. “You know . . . you convinced your sister’s rapist to commit suicide?” He shoves his hand into his coat pocket and pulls in another sip of his coffee, causing an awkward silence. “Impressive if I do say so myself. But drawing that much attention to a girl as pretty as you, won’t do well for keeping you safe.”

  “Look, Tango, if that’s even your real name, which I doubt, I’m sure you’re a nice security guard and all, but I don’t need one.”

  “Cool. I understand. We’re still going to be roomies and besties,” he says in a ridiculously girlish voice.

  “What if I don’t want to live with you?” An amazingly sexy man, who will see me in my freaking pajamas with no make-up, all while shoving pizza into my mouth at eleven o’clock every night.

  “I guess you can stay locked in your room all day, then.” He shoots me a cunning grin.

  Fuck. Why me?

  “Let’s go, my dark princess,” he teases in a breathy voice.

  “Freeze, Iron Man.” I place my hand out to stop him. “I have a rule about name calling.”