Promise to Protect: Military Second Chance Romance

  Promise to Protect

  A Military Second Chance Romance

  Kayley Cole

  Copyright

  No part of this book, Promise to Protect by Kayley Cole, may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without advance written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes only.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, situations and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination and/or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 Kayley Cole. All rights reserved.

  Disclaimer

  Recommended for ages 18 and older due to mature themes, situations and/or language.

  This fictional book, Promise to Protect by Kayley Cole, contains references to a suicide and some of its potential after-effects on family and friends. These references may trigger serious emotions in some people. Please take this into consideration before deciding to read this book. Thank you.

  Contents

  1. Chapter One

  2. Chapter Two

  3. Chapter Three

  4. Chapter Four

  5. Chapter Five

  6. Chapter Six

  7. Chapter Seven

  8. Chapter Eight

  9. Chapter Nine

  10. Chapter Ten

  11. Chapter Eleven

  12. Chapter Twelve

  13. Chapter Thirteen

  14. Chapter Fourteen

  15. Chapter Fifteen

  16. Chapter Sixteen

  17. Chapter Seventeen

  About the Author

  Other Books

  Chapter One

  Emma

  I drop my backpack by my feet and peel off my coat. I place it on the backpack. I strip off my shirt and my jeans, everything coming off like I'm a butterfly breaking open its cocoon. The snow crunches under my feet and when I take off my boots and socks, it melts into hardened slush. The snow changes shape, but it remains the same just like everything else.

  Sentry Lake seems to be a darker blue than it is during the fall. I could be convinced it's an optical illusion, caused by the contrast with the snow, but under the circumstances, the stark color feels like an invitation. It's usual faint blue fades into the background of the vibrant pine trees, but this darker blue is impossible to ignore. It's more than beautiful— it's haunting.

  The moment my toe slips into the lake, the chill bites into my skin. It's the opposite of an invitation— it's an expulsion or a revocation. The lake doesn't want me. But the pain fades. I move farther in, the water quickly surpassing my ankles and climbing up my calves. The rocks and silt drift underneath my feet. All I can hear is the blood rushing under my skin, frantic to bring warmth to my organs.

  The water sways against my chest, sending my heart into a frenzy. I push my feet against the ground and let my body glide near the surface of the water before my arms propel me forward. Now, as I let myself be surrounded by the lake, I'll be haunting instead of just being haunted.

  The farther I move out, the less cold I feel. I don't even feel my heart beating, and I imagine if it stopped. I would continue swimming as if nothing happened. It would be like my day-to-day life, where I'm surviving, but nothing ever breaks the surface in my mind. Nothing feels real except when the risk is high enough to drown me.

  David's face flashes through my mind. There's a smile on his face, but his eyes are as dull as mine have been lately. I should have been a better sister to him. His pain had been like radiation, so I had lingered on the edges of his life. And now his life is gone, and I'm on the sides of my own life. I was a coward, but now I'm not afraid of getting sick, getting burned, or getting a heart attack in the center of a lake. I'm searching for something I can't quite—

  Someone grabs me so fiercely that my first thought is a Kraken or the Loch Ness monster, intent on dragging me to the bottom of the lake. Their arms wrap under my arms, and they're dragging me backward. From the hard chest that my head keeps bumping against and the size of the person's muscular arms, I have to assume he's an MMA fighter who moonlights as a serial killer, but I can't turn enough to see him. I twist my body, trying to get out of his grasp, but the man is built like a mountain and even using my whole body weight doesn't seem to be affecting him at all. I continue trying despite knowing it's useless, the water around us spraying down onto us as I kick and flail my arms.

  I feel my ass hit against solid ground, but the man continues to drag me to the shore. As my feet drag onto dry land, the man picks me up, dropping me on the balls of my feet. I look up at the man before I can steady myself.

  I nearly trip on my own feet.

  "Fucking hell, Shane!" I snap, grabbing my pile of clothes. A small breeze pierces my skin. I shiver, but I try to hide it by acting like I'm just shaking out my clothes. His eyes linger on my soaked bra. I shove my shirt over my head. "Why the hell did you do that, Shane? I was trying to see how far out I could get."

  "It's less than thirty degrees out. You were trying to trigger cardiac arrest." He scowls, his frown distorting his scar that stretches from above the left side of his mouth down to his chin. It creates a line where his five o'clock shadow won't grow. I used to trace that scar, and he'd kiss my fingertip, making my heart beat harder than it ever did in Sentry Lake.

  I yank on my pants, my wet hair slapping against my arms as I reach down. "How did you even know I was out here, Shane?”

  He gazes at me, his expression making me feel more exposed than when he was looking at my bra. His hazel eyes remind me of this lake— especially when they glow in contrast with his dark hair and the bronze tint of his skin. He is also more than beautiful, and painfully haunting.

  "Your brother was concerned about you..."

  "David committed suicide," I cut him off, jerking my arm through my coat sleeves. "Let's not use euphemisms. I've accepted it. You don't need to bring it up to me."

  "If you're swimming alone in the winter, you haven't accepted anything."

  "You didn't answer my question, Shane."

  "Your brother was concerned about you," he repeats. "Back in June, you were dating that chickenshit and your brother wanted some extra eyes on you. He put an app on your phone, so we could both see where you were."

  "There are no new apps on my phone," I snap. "And that is such a gross betrayal. I'm an adult. He shouldn't have put anything on my phone, and you shouldn't be using it."

  "You were heading to an area that only had woods and a lake. I needed to know you weren't hurting yourself."

  "I know," I say. "And I know that's why you've been hanging around here. You're feeling guilty because you weren't around before David died and now you think you can make up for it by becoming my best friend and making sure I don't… throw my life away. I don't want to be your friend, Shane. I don't want to be anything to you. Stay out of my life."

  I sling my backpack over one of my arms. When I finally look him in the face again, I focus on that scar. Shane had been hustling a guy during pool and the guy attacked him with a knife. Shane won the fight, but the cut had been deep enough that blood coated his neck and was seeping into his shirt. David helped Shane to the hospital. He was that kind of person— not likely to join the fight, but always willing to help afterward. That's why it made no sense for him to join the Marines. Except that he admired Shane, and Shane had signed up first.

  "Emma," Shane says, unzipping his jacket. "You need to get somewhere warm."

  "Then I should be far away from you," I retort, ignoring his outst
retched arm that offered his jacket. I stalk away from him, trying to appear more self-assured than angry, but the fury pours over me like a waterfall. I swing my backpack off, unzipping it to look inside. My cell phone, another set of clothes, my wallet, and David's journal are all still nestled inside it. It's everything I need and everything I shouldn't be attached to.

  I take out my cell phone. I only have a few extra apps on it that didn't come factory-installed on the phone— a more sophisticated weather app, a music app, and an app that David guilted me into downloading that would emit an air horn noise if I clicked on it and if I didn't click on it again within a minute, the police would be alerted. It was strange that he had wanted me to download it since we didn't live in a dangerous area, but I thought it had been his paranoia and his overprotective nature guiding his actions. And if Shane is telling the truth, I suppose it was.

  I turn, looking over my shoulder. Shane is watching me. I put my cell phone back and zip up my bag. I keep walking, the snow crunching under me. There is a time to learn that chemistry between two people can lead to miracle medicine, but it can also lead to an atom bomb. There are risks that are impossible to ignore, no matter how enticing they are, and Shane was a perfect precedent for that.

  Chapter Two

  Shane

  I select the southeast desk in the corner of the classroom— optimal for avoiding any ambush while also allowing for sufficient surveillance. Even though I'm ten minutes early— what would be considered punctual in the Marines— there's only one other person here. She's a young girl, eighteen likely— which is another reminder that I'm nearly a decade older than some of these other students— with a binder opened and she already appears to be jotting down notes.

  College has been both tedious and frustrating. I used to be surrounded by men and women who would equally be willing to tell a lewd joke as throw themselves in front of a bullet for me. Everyone here insists on discussing their roommate's antics or complaining about how certain professors will destroy their student's GPA over lack of attendance.

  If David were here, he'd play along with everything that these students said. He'd invent a story about a roommate that ate all of his food or a professor that sold him weed. David was always able to fake emotions and slide into the persona that he needed to be. He was a good soldier, a good friend, and a good con artist. His grin didn't make people think he was happy, but it made the other person feel happy enough that they didn't note his darkness.

  The students leak in slowly. Emma is the thirteenth student to walk into the class. Over half the desks are taken, so she sits in the second row from the front, two desks from the left. She turns, her cinnamon brown hair sliding over her shoulder. She talks to a redheaded girl on her right. The redhead leans against the metal bar that connects the chair to the small table curved in front of her. She's eager to get Emma's approval. It would be helpful if that was an easy thing to do.

  "Hello, class." A man with black hair, streaked with gray, rushes up to the front of the class. He grabs a marker and draws an elongated circle on the whiteboard. "Let me introduce myself. I am Dr. Shepherd. This is Social Psychology or, as I like to call it, everyone is an asshole and so are you. I hope you all printed out the syllabus I emailed you. Why did I ask you to print it out instead of just handing it to you in class, forcing you to not only print out the syllabus but also remember to bring it to class? Because I'm an asshole and you're an asshole if you're peeved about it."

  He stops drawing on the whiteboard. Instead of the standard act of writing down his class name or his last name, he's drawn a dick on the whiteboard.

  "I love drawing male genitalia," he says, winking. "Actually, that's not true. And that's going to be our icebreaker today. Not drawing male genitalia, but you're all going to tell two truths and a lie— but you don't get to tell us which one is a lie. We'll all just make assumptions just like we do in all social groups. I'll start, and we'll proceed with the people over here and continue down the line. Two truths and a lie: I have a wife I love, a father-in-law I despise, and I'm lactose-intolerant. Next."

  He points to a blonde in the desk in front of him. I try to focus on what each student is saying— salvaging intelligence that could be invaluable to me later— but Emma is chewing on the end of her pen, occasionally jotting something down in her notebook. She must be deciding which truths to let slip out and which lie to create, but the way she's leaning in her chair creates a perfect profile of her muscular ass and thighs, and seeing her pensive— not angry or sad— reminds me of how she used to be.

  Emma reminds me of those hot, humid thunderstorms, where it's hard to breathe and the thunder is a constant rumble, punctuated by clashes loud enough to sound like a collision. She's a terrible, wonderful example of natural, unrestrained indignation, but it's always followed by sustaining rain.

  When it's her turn to speak, she sets down her pen.

  "I'm Emma Chisom. I was born in Denver, but my family moved here to Camden Falls when I was thirteen. I recently decided I wanted to become a social worker. And I love getting pedicures."

  It's unnerving to once be so close to someone then be tested later on your knowledge of them. I'd bet on the last one being a lie, but she's changed so much since I knew her as well as I knew a M9 Beretta that I can't be certain.

  It's not until the person two desks over from me starts to talk about his love of basketball that she notices me. Her eyes narrow and her lips press together so tightly that they turn white. If looks could kill, she would be a happy, lethal woman.

  I lean back against my chair, the casual posture feeling uncomfortable to me. I glance away from her, toward her redheaded friend. Her friend blushes but gives me a small smile. I smile back, and she moves so quickly that her elbow jabs against the metal bar between her chair and her desk. Her face crinkles up in pain. Poor girl.

  There are a few beats of silence and everyone is looking at me now. I look around the room, imagining any of them giving a shit about what I have to say.

  "Shane Baier. I'm a survival instructor at Valence Camp. This icebreaker is a desperate attempt by Dr. Shepherd to make himself look different from the other professors while pretending that knowing about each other will be helpful. I once tried to join the FBI, but they kicked me out for not being physically fit enough."

  There's a couple of nervous laughs, and the girl next to me gazes at my biceps like they're black mambas. Dr. Shepherd opens his mouth, then closes it again and shakes his head.

  "Well. I'll assume that you think that the second one is true and, to be honest, I appreciate the honesty. I won't hold your honesty against you," he says.

  "In my experience, anyone who claims things like that is always lying."

  "Well," he repeats. He taps on one of the student's syllabuses in front of him. "Let's go over the syllabus."

  The class lesson doesn't expand much past the syllabus. He stretches the last few minutes by talking about what will be discussed in class, constantly glancing over at me like he thinks I would waste my time contradicting everything he says. I only needed to throw him off his game one time. The guerrilla tactic was enough to unnerve him for the whole fifty minutes, though if he's the kind of man I've concluded that he is, he's plotting his revenge, certain that his counterattack will decimate me.

  Dr. Shepherd erases the dick he drew on the whiteboard, his body significantly more limp than it was before.

  "So, all of you will have to conduct an experiment," he says. "You can do it in pairs if you like, but the experiment must be big enough that it would require two researchers. This class will be incredibly fun if you're open to talking about how complex humans are and how much more complex we can become when we're surrounded by other humans. I'm certain most of you will enjoy it." Dr. Shepherd looks over at me. "I'll see you all on Thursday."

  I stand up, putting my notebook and pencil back into my backpack. Emma shoves people out of her way to get to me. It would be endearing if she didn't have a pen in her fist
and an expression on her face that I've seen on other jarheads as we breach enemy territory.

  "What are you doing here?" she hisses. "You're not a student here."

  "Actually, I am." I show her my ID. "I became a student of Camden University this semester."

  "You hated high school," she says slowly like I've suffered a head trauma and forgotten basic facts about my life. "That's why you joined the Marines. You didn't want to continue your education."

  "I changed my mind."

  "You're stalking me."

  "I was in this class first, Emma. You followed me in. I'm just a poor, son-of-a-bitch, trying to get an education."

  "You must have figured out my schedule somehow. Did you screw somebody in order to get into this class?"

  "No, but that does sound like a more enjoyable strategy than the one I used. Signing up for classes took planning and logistics I was barely capable of." I throw my backpack over my shoulder. It's a military tactical backpack, but it feels small on my back. Being tall is a pro for many things, but it gives enemies a much bigger target and makes everything I use comically small. "I decided to use my GI Bill benefits, and this is our hometown college. This was the easy choice."

  "I understand that you want to feel close to David, but he's gone. I can't be his surrogate for you."

  Dr. Shepherd walks up to the two of us. He offers me his hand. I stare at it until he drops it back to his side.