Athena's Raid: Book Two Perdition MC

Athena’s raid

Book Two, Perdition MC

By

Isabel Wroth

Copyright © 2016 by Isabel Wroth

This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real events, people, or places are entirely coincidental. All rights reserved.

This book may not be reproduced or distributed in any format without the permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used for review.

All quotations used in this book are part of public domain works and/or translated copies existing in public domain. The author acknowledges the trademarked status of products referred to in this book. Trademarks have been used without permission.

This book contains mature content, including graphic sex, language, and violence. Please do not continue reading if you are under the age of 18 or if this type of content is disturbing to you.

ONE

He closed his eyes and tried to drown out the sounds of the guy across the hall, screaming for help as the effects of his traumatic brain injury played out the worst nightmare he’d ever experienced. The nurses would come soon and give him something to calm him down, and the screams would turn to soft sobs while he lay wallowing in his own personal hell, unable to escape it because of the drugs and because of the prison his body made.

He knew that hell intimately.

Felt it, every time he tried to take a deep breath.

Every time his heart beat and forced more blood through his battered body.

They’d taken him off the morphine after he’d tried to press the button enough times to put him down for good, and whatever the shit was now flowing through his veins barely took the edge off the unending pain.

He couldn’t do anything about it but suffer through, and he was so tired of it. Tired of listening to the screams from across the hall. Tired of having to rely on cute little nurses to get him in his wheelchair so he could suffer the agony of trying to use the fucking toilet on his own. Tired of their chipper attitudes when he could see the pity in their eyes. Tired of the doctors. Tired of the disgusting scent of cleaning solvents and shit they used to mask the smell of death. A mercy that these people wouldn’t grant him.

He stared out the window, watching the snow fall, wondering if he’d ever get out of this room and smell that free air again. Half praying that he didn’t, because he’d never be able to haul ass across the asphalt on his bike and taste that free air all the way down to his soul. The doctors here kept trying to talk him into an experimental surgery that had a fifty, fifty chance of success, to get him walking again. But the physical therapy that followed it was so grueling, it made what he’d been through to get him here in the first place, seem like cotillion. Not that he knew what cotillion was like. But he was just done. Just tired of hurting. Fucking exhausted of sitting in this room that tormented him with the scent of death, with nothing to do but examine every memory he’d ever had in excruciating detail, and realize that except for a few years, his life had amounted to shit.

The nurses here called him a hero when they thought he couldn’t hear. But he didn’t think it was very heroic to be the last man, not standing, out of his platoon to make it home somewhat alive and well. They didn’t have a fucking clue, and he hoped to god they never did. “Hey, handsome. Got some mail for you.”

The chipper voice of the woman who tormented the shit out of him with her sweet, unending attempts to get him to smile at her while she was rubbing the circulation back into his useless legs and making excruciating pain radiate up his entire body, came bouncing in like a ray of sunshine, with a purple envelope in his hand. “Don’t got anyone who’d be sending me mail. Nice try.” He grunted, and Nurse Shirley aka Nurse Ratchet, giggled and set the envelope in his lap. Thinking he couldn’t feel it when her fingertips brushed his cock. He didn’t call her out on it, it was the most action his dick had seen in more years than he wanted to admit, and as it didn’t rise to the occasion, he wasn’t going to bring attention to her unprofessional touch. “We get some letters around this time from people around the US, mostly people involved in the Wounded Warrior Project. But I’ve not ever seen an envelope like this before. Smells nice. Thought you might enjoy it.” She winked, bounced back out, never knowing that right then, she’d changed his life forever.

He stared at the envelope for a long time, not touching it, not sure what would be inside a purple envelope. And the longer he stared at it, honestly, the more curious he got. It didn’t look like any envelope he’d ever seen before either. The paper looked weird, soft, and when the curiosity got the better of him and he touched it, he realized the texture was different too. It wasn’t smooth, and it wasn’t coarse or bumpy or anything. It just felt…weird. There were flecks of blue, of white and even pink mixed into the thick paper, and when he turned it over there was an honest to god, wax seal on the flap to keep it closed. Looking at it, he realized it was an owl staring back at him from the metallic dove grey wax.

No denying, it was cool as shit.

And weird.

He flipped the envelope back over to read the name on the return address, his brow quirking to see the flowing feminine script that slanted across that top left hand corner. He’d never studied women’s handwriting, but he knew sure as shit, no dude could possibly write that pretty. Also, the name read,
Athena Williams,
from Carson City. So now his curiosity was getting the better of him, and his brow quirked again to see that the letter or whatever was addressed to, “A Soldier I Don’t Know,” So it wasn’t for him specifically, but this Athena Williams, had sat down and written a solider she didn’t know, a letter.

Fuck.

Now he was to curious not to read it.

TWO

He was stupid careful to not break the wax seal, spent what felt like fuckin hours easing his thumbnail under it bit by bit until it came off in one piece and he could open the weird purple envelope, to pull out the matching stationary from inside. Immediately, before he even started reading, the sexiest fuckin perfume he’d ever smelled in his life, wafted out from the pages and slammed into him so hard it almost threw him back on the bed. It wasn’t strong, and in fact it was so soft and subtle, he had to draw in a painful breath to really get a good whiff. But after smelling blood, piss, death and varied other unpleasant scents in this damn hospital, that soft perfume was like…free air on his face.

He closed his eyes, not sure what the smell was, seeing as how he’d never smelled it before in his life. Now he had to fuckin know. He stabbed the button on his bed, and a few seconds later Shirley bounced in, her eyes lighting up to see that he’d opened the letter. “What is that smell?” He demanded, thrusting the thick pages at her, not letting them go when she reached for it. She gave him this weird, girly look and blinked at him a few times like he’d finally gone crazy and she wasn’t sure what to do. But then she leaned forward and sniffed at the paper, giving a thoughtful “Hmm,” And sniffed again. “I don’t know, handsome. Something herby. I don’t do a lot of herbal stuff, but Janice from the NICU is totally an earth mama. She’d know. You want me to see if she can take a sniff?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, I’ll just take that-“
“
NO
.”

His growl came out of nowhere, and Shirley was used to him snarling vicious obscenities at her, but this time, it made her blink and go very, very still. “Well, then you’ll have to wait till she’s on break.” She said slowly, carefully, and he nodded before looking away to really study those pages. “I don’t know who sent that, honey. But that paper is hand made. Lots of care went into it.” Suddenly, without even reading it, that weird purple paper in his hands, that herby smell, became the most important thing he’d ever held in his hands. Shirley left, her crocs squeaking softly on the floor, and he held his breath as he unfolded the purple pages and let his eyes adjust to that pretty, girly handwriting.

I’ve never written a letter to someone I don’t know, and normally I’d start off with some catchy salutation, or a quipy one liner to at least attempt to obey letter writing etiquette. But truth be told, I don’t do much letter writing these days. And etiquette was unfortunately never my strong suit, my mother blamed it on my father, so in her memory, I blame it on him too. Ergo, my salutation to you is, ‘Hey you’. Because we’re tight like that, and it seems appropriate.

He found himself half smiling at the silly shit this woman had just written him, and kept reading.

So, hey you, how are you? It’s been a long time. Forever, as in never, that we’ve spoken, but I felt it was time. It’s nearly Christmas, as I’m sure you’re aware, and I overheard some women talking in my shop. One of them was a military wife, I’m ashamed to say when she came up to the register that I didn’t ask which branch. She was telling her friend about how she was shopping around to find something nice to give to the man sharing her husband’s hospital room at the VA.

I shamelessly eavesdropped, and what she went on to say, hit me right in the feels.

The man lying beside her husband was the last survivor of a platoon that had gotten bombed in some god forsaken place on the other side of the world, the name of which I can’t even pronounce, though I imagine in my limited scope of understanding, it was and will always be his own personal hell. And he didn’t have anyone to come visit him, no family left, just the last man standing.

I have no right to joke or make light of it, but it occurred to me that the military ought to make a ‘Last Man Standing’ platoon or something. That way, the men like that one, wouldn’t be the last man. They’d be one among many, brothers.

Just my thought, and I hope I didn’t offend you. My intention was to say thank you, thank you for being that guy who rushed hell with a bucket of water, so that these women in my shop, so that I, could live in safety and ignorance of the horrors you’ve suffered through.

I don’t know you, but in a way I love you for that.

For being that guy. For living a nightmare, so that I don’t have to. I think that’s selfish of me, but truly, as I was listening to these two women, I don’t think I’ve ever been more grateful. My Uncle is a Vietnam vet, and he doesn’t talk about his life then, I literally know nothing about it except that he was involved in some way, and suffers the aftereffects of Agent Orange, that’s caused nerve damage and making the muscles in his hands atrophy.

Don’t get me wrong, he’s a bad ass motherfucker and always will be. The kind who thinks that ‘help from above,’ is a sniper on the roof. But because he never talks about it, I realized that I hadn’t properly appreciated what he’d done. And not to make this about me, but it made me feel like shit for taking him for granted.

You should have seen the look on his face when I made his favorite pot roast for dinner the other night, I think he was anticipating news of the coming of the Anti-Christ, or maybe that I was trying to soften him up to news that I was pregnant. Which I’m not, and which is neither here nor there, but I tell you, it was hilarious.

All that to say, America isn’t considered the greatest country in the world anymore, but what makes America great to me, is men like you.

So thank you, truly, from the bottom of my heart.

I hope that the reason you’re in the hospital means that you’re recovering, and soon you’ll be able to get the hell out of there and get back to living a wonderful life. The life you dreamed about coming home to while you were deployed. I hope you’ve got family that come to see you every day, to tell you how thankful they are that you’re home and annoy the ever living shit out of you with stories about how they’re going to fix you up with some nice man/woman who’ll give you lots of babies. Unless you have babies already, and your spouse is demanding more to make sure you stay home and die of old age, wondering when your daughter is going to get home, and whether or not it’s worth it to go to prison for shooting her date.

Sincerely yours,

Athena.

He read and re-read the letter about five times, and on the sixth time, he put the paper down and yelled out the open door, “Shirley, I need a pen!”

THREE

It was to fuckin early, and to fuckin cold, but unfortunately the weather man had lied, (shocker) and there was not three feet of snow on the ground to prevent her from getting up and going in to work. Or to have prevented the mailman from shoving a pile of letters, probably bills, through her mail slot at some ungodly hour. How those people could stand getting up at two in the morning to deliver mail all day, she’d never understand.
She could barely roll out of bed at 9am to make it in to the shop on time to open up. “Ha! Getting up at two am and walking miles through the snow! I can hear your voice, dad, telling me about the good ole days when dinosaurs still roamed the earth.” She made a mental note to get a dog, so she could talk to herself and not appear crazy. The thought was on her mind while she snatched the mail up off the floor on the way to the kitchen. The coffee maker took forever to pee out a full cup, but the first bitter sip put her in a less pissy mood, although not by much.