More Than Enough (More Than Series, Book 5) (34 page)

The ticking and the consistency of it.

Because as much as I wanted it to slow down, it doesn’t. In fact, the harder I wished, the faster it went. Until we’re back here, standing hand in hand saying goodbye to each other. Only now we’re at the airport. “I’m going to miss you, Banks.”

“I’ll miss you more, Hudson,” he says, stepping forward and wrapping his arms around my waist. He lifts me off the ground, kissing me as he does. When he places me back on earth, he pulls away. “I’ll be back before you know it, Ry.”

“Promise?”

He nods.

I nod.

He kisses me once more.

And then he’s gone.

Dylan

T
he time away
from Riley isn’t as bad as it was the first time because a lot of it’s on base, which means I have more contact with her. Still not as much as I’d want, which is every second of every day, but hey… it could be worse.

For some reason,
I’m not really sure why, but I’d become the target of all the guys’ pranks. It started off as them streaking behind me on one of my many Skype calls to Riley, and then it kind of just escalated. I guess I’m a good target because I’d get unjustifiably pissed off after each one. I’m not used to being the target. I’m used to aiming the grenade, so to speak.

They could happen any time, anywhere. Some were stupid. Some were smart. Some were on the fly and some were planned. They included, but were not limited to: honking the tank horn while I was working under it, equaling a gash on my head. They put shaving cream over my clothes and then set it on fire—while I was sleeping. This one wouldn’t have been so bad had they chosen anywhere else besides my dick because what’s the first thing you do when you realize you’re on fire? Try to put it out with your hand, that’s what. This subsequently led to my new nickname:
Flaming Battered Cock
. They also poured hot sauce in my mouth while I was sleeping—the consequences of that are self-explanatory. They wrapped my bed in Saran wrap—while I was in it. They did a lot of things while I was sleeping, hence why I don’t sleep much any more. There were a lot of water ones. You know… open doors… bucket of water. Open tank doors… bucket of water. Eat… bucket of water. Sleep… bucket of water. Breathe… bucket of fucking water. The worst one, though, just happened recently. There I was, sitting on the toilet, minding my business, pants down to my ankles, picture of Riley in one hand… you can imagine what was in the other when FLASH BANG.

A flash bang is exactly what it sounds like. It’s a device that goes off with a flash and a bang… it’s meant to be used to stun and disorientate the enemy. But when you’re in fuck-knows-where, Afghanistan, in the middle of a warzone, a flash bang could easily be mistaken for many other things.

So, while my eyes tried to refocus and my ears rang, I did what anyone in my situation would do, I ran out—pants still around my ankles wondering what the fuck was going on. It’s not until I heard the laughter of eleven men when realization set in.

So for three months I’ve been constantly looking over my shoulder. Well, more than I normally would.

Also, that last prank is on YouTube now. I’ve watched it. Conway was the mastermind; Leroy was the leader. One guess who was holding the camera. Yep. Dave.

Swear, there’s no shame greater than running out of restroom, tripping over your pants and falling on your face while trying to hide your still semi-erect cock.

“It’s not funny, Ry!”

Through the screen, she covers her mouth attempting to stifle her laugh.

“Ry!”

Now she’s on her back, her hands on her stomach. Her laptop shifts, making the camera tilt so I’m looking at the ceiling, her laughter filling my ears.

“Ry!” I shout.

Slowly, she sits up, wiping her eyes as she does. “I need the link, babe.”

“Not a chance.”

She grabs her phone from the nightstand and crosses her legs beneath her. “I’ll just get it from Dave,” she says through a smile.

I shake my head, succumbing to the inevitable.

“Do me a favor, okay? Watch it when you’re alone. I have enough shame to deal with.”

“Promise,” she says, her grin getting wider when her phone sounds. She reads the text quickly and looks back up at me. “So any more I should know about?”

“None that I haven’t told you. Hey, you better not be relaying this back to the guys.”

Her mouth clamps shut.

“Riley!”

“I’m sorry! It’s too funny not to share.”

I shake my head. “Babe! I need to talk to you. It’s serious.”

Her face falls. Then her eyes narrow. “What’s her name and number? I’ll fly over there and kick her ass!” she jokes.

I don’t. “We got our orders.”

She clears her throat, all humor gone. Then she picks up her laptop and brings it closer to her face. “What does that mean?”

“It means I’m coming home.”

For a moment, I think the computer’s frozen. It hasn’t. But she has. Then, slowly, she lifts her hand to her mouth. “Home?”

I nod, a slight smile breaking through. “I’m coming home, baby.”

“When?”

“I’ll be home in a month. But I’ll be on base, babe. Until my contract’s up in a few months.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I can come home on weekends. I was thinking we could alternate. I’ll come up one weekend, and you can come up the next? We can stay at a hotel close by.”

Her smile is slow, like she’s still trying to comprehend exactly what she’s feeling. “That sounds amazing. Did you just find out?”

“No. I waited to tell you so time wouldn’t go by so slowly.”

“And when your contract’s up? What happens then?”

I sigh. “I was hoping we could talk about it in person? Discuss our future then.”

Her smile widens. “
Our
future.”

*     *     *

I don’t sleep.
I
can’t
. I’m way too fucking excited. I told Riley we were leaving in a week. Well, two weeks of debriefing on base and then I’d come home to her. I lied. We leave tomorrow.

I wanted to surprise her.

She fucking hates surprises.

Apparently the other boys aren’t as excited as I am because they’re well and truly passed out for the night. Everyone but Dave who told me he was taking a piss over—I look at my watch—over an hour ago.

Sometimes, especially at night, “taking a piss” means “jerking off” so there’s a little leeway in how much time should pass before worry should set in. An hour, though? That’s way too fucking long. Even for Dave and
The Desperate Housewives
.

I get out of bed and slip on my shoes, before grabbing the 9mm and stepping out of the tent. I look around, trying to listen to the faint voices yards away, but I don’t recognize any of them. Then I head to the toilet blocks, my eyes on my surroundings. It doesn’t take long to find him sitting in a chair by himself. He’s got his gun in one hand, piece of paper in the other. Slowly, I walk toward him, hoping not to spook him. “That’s a long ass piss,” I murmur, sitting on a chair opposite him.

He looks up, his eyes a complete contrast to mine. “Sorry, Lover. Didn’t know you’d be waiting up for me,” he says, using his weapon to scratch the back of his head.

I get more comfortable, ready to spend the night talking with him. Maybe it seems stupid considering everything I have waiting for me at home, but I’ll definitely miss Dave. Actually, he’s the only fucking thing I’ll miss about being here. “I couldn’t sleep,” I tell him.

He gives me a half-hearted smile. “Yeah man, I bet you’re excited to get home to your girl.”

“Yep,” I admit, unashamed. “She’s going to lose her mind when she sees me. More than the last time.”

“You didn’t tell her you were coming?”

“I said I’d be home a week later than planned.”

“She hates surprises. You know that?”

“
I
know that. How the fuck do
you
know that?”

He shrugs. “We talk.”

“You talk?”

“A little.”

“About?”

He chuckles, his eyes focused on the ground. “Girl stuff, Banks. Mainly what it’s like to be bottom.”

Shaking my head, I tell him, “I was thinking after things get settled for us back home, we’d love to visit you. Meet your mom and your brothers.”

He looks up and for the first time, I don’t see Dave the barely-man forced to be here. I don’t see a scrawny, cocky Irish kid whose words are laced with constant jokes. I don’t really know who I see. “You okay?”

“Mike sent me an email.” He lifts the piece of paper in his hand, his gaze returning to his shoes.

“Yeah. He’s second oldest, right?”

Nodding and kicking at the dirt, he says, “My old man got out of jail early. Came right to the house. Beat the shit outta Mom. Lucky school was on otherwise my brothers…”

“Jesus Christ, Dave.” I lean forward and swallow the lump in my throat. “I’m fucking sorry, man.”

He’s silent for so long I think he’s fallen asleep. Then he inhales deeply, his eyes moving to mine. “I don’t fucking know…”

“Know what?”

“Anything,” he says, dropping his head again. “I don’t fucking know anything, Banks. I thought I did, but I don’t. I thought I was doing the right thing—enlisting, deploying, taking care of my family, at least financially, and I thought it’d be enough but it’s fucking not. I’m fucking here. They’re there. I couldn’t stop it from happening and there’s this ache…” he says, a sob forcing its way out of him. His head bobs as he sniffs back his tears, tears twenty-one fucking years in the making. He holds his gun, barrel pointed to his heart. “…right in here. This pain I can’t fucking take anymore. It’s like fear and anger and fucking hurt and guilt. The fucking guilt is the worst!”

“Dave, man, you can’t have known—”

“I should’ve been there!”

“But you were here,” I remind him.

He ignores me. “And now I have to somehow go home and face them. Face my brothers and my beaten mom and know that they fucking hate me because I’m here, fighting someone else’s war when there’s already one in my own fucking home.”

I watch him stand and begin to pace, every single justified emotion coursing through him.

Fear.

Anger.

Hurt.

Guilt.

“I fucking failed, Dylan!” he shouts, spit flying from his mouth.

“Shut up. You did—”

“I can’t fucking go home, man. I can’t face them.”

I stand up, panic clear in my words. “You can stay—”

“I can’t!” He looks up at me, his tear soaked cheeks reflecting the moon… his childish innocence portrayed in his loud cries. “I don’t know…” he says again.

I take a breath, and then another, my entire body shaking. “Know what?” I whisper.

His shoulders square, his lips pressed tight, he looks right in my eyes.

Then he lifts his gun.

My stomach drops.

My hands reach out.

And I don’t know what’s louder—my shout of his name or the gun going off—but I’ll never, ever, forget the sound that follows.

Silence.

The Breaking

Riley

“I
feel like
my face is on fire!” I yell.

Heidi laughs, continuing to apply whatever the hell concoction she just made up. A face peel, apparently. Which, by the way, just seems like the dumbest name for a beauty product in the history of the world.

“It stops burning after a few seconds,” Mikayla says.

I open my eyes to try to look at her, only to be told to keep them shut by Heidi. “You’re twenty-one, Ry. Surely this isn’t the first time you’ve had one. Didn’t your mom own a salon that did all this stuff?” She hasn’t stopped laughing since I laid down on the floor in front of her surrounded by pizza boxes, wine, and enough fruity smelling products to give me an asthma attack. I don’t even have asthma.

“My mom and I are of a different breed. Obviously.”

Lucy adds, “My mom was a real homey type mom. You know, the one who had everything organized, drove all of us to our activities, never forgot an important date. The house was always clean and dinner was on the table at the same time every night. I think that’s why I try to cook and stuff—because I want to be like her. I don’t know how she did it—raised seven kids plus Dad. I can’t even take care of Cameron.”

Mikayla laughs. “Cam’s the equivalent of ten children sometimes.”

“I just want to make you pretty for when Dylan comes home next week,” Heidi says.

“Are you excited?” Amanda asks.

“Excited and nervous and I don’t know.”

“Nervous?” Amanda says.

I smile. “When he came home for R&R, I had all these butterflies and I was so nervous. Dylan’s so…”

“Intimidating?” Lucy asks.

I nod.

“So fucking hot,” she responds.

We all laugh, then stop when we hear the key turn in the front door.

“We’re all going to die,” Amanda whispers, grabbing the item closest to her—a cushion.

“This is how all scary movies start,” Mikayla says, eyes wide.

“And hot as fuck pornos,” Lucy retorts.

I’d laugh, but I’m too busy wondering what the hell Amanda plans on doing with the cushion. Smother an intruder to death?