All Tommy has ever cared about is being a SEAL and the best captain for his team, but on a run along the glistening coast of San Diego an odd beauty needs his help, and Tommy finds himself locking lips with the woman who would change his life foreve...
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My wrapped knuckles meet the leather material of the punching bag as I breathe fast, matching my body's rhythm and exhaling quick sharp breaths as I strike. I kick and attack, keeping everything tight.
I needed this.
I'm angry with myself.
I messed up.
Bad.
When I had dropped Peyton off at her house... I froze, like a moron. I wanted to get her number or make plans with her, but thoughts of my past stopped me. She looked disappointed and confused.
So was I.
Shimmy watches me as the men in the gym horse around or watch the fight happening in the ring. He's long since been done with his workout and has been trying to figure out what's going on with me.
The both of us signed up at Angelo's Mixed Martial Arts Training Center. Miguel Angelo is a beast and one of the best trainers. He's been asking me to fight for him since Shimmy and I joined ages ago. My fight is on soil though. I don't need to prove myself to the world that I'm tough, just to my team, my platoon. I don't fight for glory... I don't need it.
Shimmy comes up as I do a round kick on the bag, which swings toward him. He dodges it. "Okay, what's going on?"
"Nothing," I reply as I give the bag quick jabs.
"The last time I saw you like this was when Guy got injured during the rescue mission he had been sent on a couple months ago." Shimmy flicks his towel over his shoulder and glances back at Kid who sits obediently to the side.
"Did something happen with our old buddies?" He questions suspiciously.
"No, we had a good time. They were ragging on me about why you weren't there, though." I stop my attacks and steady the bag as I look at Shimmy.
He hits me in the head with his sweaty towel. "I couldn't afford the tickets after paying for my brother's hospital bills."
"Hotshot's dad paid for the flights. He does it with all the guys to thank us for our service."
Shimmy clenches his jaw in irritation. "I don't like charity, you know that."
I go back to taking my anger out on the bag. "It's not."
He says nothing else. Shimmy's real name is Ray Harris. Like me, he comes from a rough background and no money. Not once in his life has he accepted help, he's a firm believer in the idea that help is charity and charity is unwanted pity. In simpler terms, he has a pride issue.
His brother, Don, was diagnosed with lung cancer. It wasn't all that surprising since he's a heavy smoker, but it still tears Shimmy apart.
I remember when he got the call. We were overseas in Afghanistan and had some downtime. He sat there staring blankly, as if Hades himself ripped his soul out of him. None of us knew what to do at the time. Shimmy was our jokester and usually the one to help in a situation like this.
