Dear Soldier: A Steamy Standalone Instalove Romance Page 2

  Maybe she asks for money in the letter.

  Sighing, I flip over the page and read from the beginning.

  Dear Soldier,

  Zack, I’m not really sure how to start this letter. I’ve never been very good with words. But I suppose what I’d like to say is… it’s okay. If you feel any pain, any regret, anything like that at all… it’s okay. You don’t have to hate yourself. You don’t have to torture yourself. Because, well, I guess because everyone has that instinct, right? Or maybe I’m projecting. But I mean it. If you DO feel that way, if you feel like there’s something wrong with you, I want you to know there isn’t. I want you to know you’re a fantastic person.

  I try to laugh her words off as my eyes flit over them. She doesn’t know me. She has no damn clue if it’s okay, if it’s not okay, or anything in between.

  She definitely is projecting.

  Because I don’t torture myself, do I? I don’t live in regret and pain and hatred.

  I laugh again, gruffer, lower.

  Fuck, she’s hit me right in my sore spot, as though she knows me, as though she knows the exact words to use to stir something inside of me.

  I almost tear the letter to pieces right there.

  “It’s okay,” I repeat grimly. “How the fuck do you know, Zoey?”

  But I can’t stop, not now that I’ve started.

  I know I’m probably rambling. I’m sorry. But I want you to know that what you do, with your self-defense gyms, it’s a wonderful thing. I know it’s probably a business. I know you make a living from it. But don’t you see? The fact you chose THAT business proves that you’re a good man. You want to help people. You want to make them feel strong, empowered, less like victims.

  My chest tightens as she once again hits the nail well and truly on the head.

  There were lots of businesses I could’ve pursued after I left the SEALs with the sound investments I’d made over the years, from management consultancy to protection, but starting a series of gyms called out to me the most. It’s like she said. I remember being a kid and feeling weak and victim-like, and I remember how martial arts changed that.

  So I guess what I’m saying is… thank you, you know, for your service. But not just for your service overseas. Thank you for being a good man in civilian life. Thank you for fighting even though your battle is over.

  I stare at the letter, the words shifting…

  No, my hands are trembling, the shaking starting deep inside of me, in my core, and then moving through my body like a goddamn tidal wave. I don’t know why her words are having such a massive effect on me. I don’t know this woman, this Zoey, and yet something blares through me, a voice rising above all the simmering rage.

  I have to see this woman. I have to meet her.

  That’s not supposed to be possible, but for some reason, she’s left her address. I thought it might be because she wanted something from me. But she hasn’t given any indication of that in her letter.

  What, then?

  What the hell does she want?

  I drop the letter and walk over to the coffee machine, making myself a strong cup of black coffee, and then pick up the letter once again.

  “It’s okay,” I growl, shaking my head.

  She has no damn clue if it’s okay or not. She has no right to presume that it is. What sort of irresponsible shit is this?

  She doesn’t know who I am, what I’ve done, who I’ve seen die in front of me. She doesn’t know if it’s okay, so saying it is – over and over – is a dangerous thing to do.

  I search for the anger inside of me, eager for it to replace this other emotion, this strange and new whispering that this woman, this Zoey, is a woman I have to meet.

  I have to see her, to lay my eyes on her, because…

  I don’t even know why.

  It’s a deep and primal need inside of me, like an alarm blaring through me, telling me that if I don’t find this woman my life will be the worst for it.

  It doesn’t make any sense. They’re just words on a page – presumptuous words at that – and yet I can’t find my usual anger to cling to.

  What is it about Zoey Baker, this mystery woman, that has tugged at parts of me I haven’t felt since I was a kid, probably? When I was naive and didn’t know how twisted the world was, maybe then this feeling would make sense.

  But now I’ve seen how fucked humanity can truly be?

  I lay the letter down and take a long swig of my coffee, enjoying the burning feeling as it moves down my throat.

  I’m going to have to go and see her, if only from afar, so I can put to rest this weird need inside of me.

  I don’t even know what she looks like, or anything about her, and yet her words have triggered something inside of me, like a ripple in a pool of water that causes more, and more ripples, until the whole surface is shimmering.

  I can’t let that happen.

  I can’t let myself care about a stranger.

  So she wrote me a nice letter. That’s no reason to lose my head, to forget who I am.

  I glance at the clock. It’s seven in the morning and I’ve got a long day ahead of me, multiple classes at multiple gyms around the city, and then a business meeting to top it all off.

  This evening, then.

  I’ll go and see Zoey Baker and put this fledgling...desire to rest before it can become something even more ridiculous.

  I don’t know her, so how can I need her?

  How can my heart hammer like a fist trying to break open my ribcage at the thought of her?

  I take another sip of coffee, letting it scorch its way down to my belly, where it bubbles hotly. But nothing is hotter than my need to get today over with so I can see Zoey.

  Maybe I’ll give her a piece of my mind, telling her it’s not fucking okay.

  Or maybe this impossible feeling will grow when I lay eyes on her.

  Chapter Three

  Zoey

  I drag myself up the stairs toward my apartment. My body is sore from the impromptu double shift, my legs aching as I curse the elevator for not working… again.

  I know I need to stop letting my thoughts spiral into negativity so easily, but it’s difficult when I’ve spent the day being yelled at by Clive for things that weren’t my fault.

  One of the other waitresses brought the wrong food to a table, and somehow Clive got it into his head that it was my fault so he started yelling. By the time he worked out the truth, he was so worked up he didn’t even apologize.

  I sigh when I reach my floor.

  I just want to get inside and hunker down on the couch, watch romantic movies I’ve seen dozens of times before. I was planning on getting some painting done this evening, but right now the thought of doing anything taxing makes my head ache.

  I turn the corner to my apartment.

  And then my world spins over and over.

  My heart feels like it freezes in my chest.

  No, no, no.

  This can’t be happening.

  Jerry spots me, a vicious smile peeling across his face. He’s more muscular than the last time I saw him, a year ago, his arms swollen and his chest wide and bulging. But the muscles look strange on his tall normally-lean frame, as though he’s inflated flesh-colored balloons and attached them to himself.

  His red hair is the same, though, a mop that hangs down to his cheeks. His eyes are the same too, glinting greens filled with a sick expression I can’t stand to look at.

  I wonder if it’s too late to turn and run, but he’s already walking toward me. He has that sick smile on his face, the one I remember well from dozens of other encounters. It’s a smile that says I’ll come to my senses, I’ll admit I love him if I only let my defenses down a little bit.

  It’s a wrong smile.

  “Zoey.” He breathes shakily. “I was worried about you.”

  Bugs crawl over my skin. The hallway is empty and, even if it wasn’t, I know the other occupants wouldn’t help me. A few of my neighbors are ad
dicts and the rest have other problems, too consumed with their own hells to worry about mine.

  I have to play this smart. I can’t let my disgust show on my face.

  “Oh, that’s silly,” I murmur, hating how friendly my voice sounds.

  Whatever happens, I can’t let him inside my apartment.

  A voice laughs at me from deep within, taunting and telling me that if Jerry wants to get inside my apartment, the flimsy door and janky lock aren’t going to stop him.

  “Silly?” He moves closer, bringing the stink of sweat with him. “You’re not normally back this late. It’s almost seven. I thought your shift ended at six?”

  I try for a laugh, but it comes out sounding strangled.

  And then I find myself wishing for Zack Stone to come to my rescue, charging down the hallway with his silver gleaming hair and that wild wolf in his eyes.

  I’ve been thinking about him a lot since I wrote him, trying to picture his face when he reads my letter, my whole body lighting up every time my thoughts settle on his muscular frame.

  “How do you know when my shift ends?” I say, struggling not to let out a feral scream.

  He tilts his head, grinning at me. “Silly goose, how do you think?”

  Silly goose, the same nickname he branded me with when I was a dorky sixteen year old at summer camp and he was the event organizer… a fully grown man taking a twisted interest in me.

  My skin prickles horribly, every instinct I have screaming at me to run as fast as I can.

  He was twenty-two at the time.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “Of course you do. I’ve been watching you for a week now. It was quite clever of you, the way you moved in the middle of the night. And you gave everyone a fake forwarding address, so… what? So I wouldn’t be able to find you? Is that why you did it?”

  Coldness creeps into his voice, his eyes narrowing as a nasty glint shimmers across his gaze.

  “No, of course not,” I lie. “There was this guy in my apartment, this real creep, and he wouldn’t leave me alone. I had to leave in such a rush. It had nothing to do with you.”

  Lies, lies, lies… obvious lies.

  I can’t believe he’s going to accept this, but Jerry is the sort of man who can’t entertain the idea that I’d ever run away from him. In his mind, he’s not the sort of man who creeps women out.

  “That’s awful,” he says, moving even closer. My toes curl tightly, as though willing me to run. “You should’ve told me, you silly goose. I could’ve helped. You know I’d die before I let anything happen to you.”

  My fingernails itch, my fingernails. I didn’t even know that was possible until just now. It’s like my hand is giving me a signal to scratch down his face until he’s bleeding so much he can’t see and chase after me anymore.

  I thought I was free of him.

  How naive can I be?

  “So,” he goes on, when I say nothing, “are you going to invite me inside?”

  I want to scream at him, to laugh at him, to tell him he’s deranged if he thinks he’s ever stepping foot inside my apartment. I could tell him about the restraining order, but it’s never worked before… he just laughs as though I’ve told him a joke, shaking his head as though it must be some mistake.

  Or he gets angry, sulky.

  Pathetic men can be dangerous when they sulk.

  Instead, I make my expression as disappointed as I can muster, shaking my head slowly. “I don’t think I can, Jerry. I’m sorry. The place is a complete mess. The walls are being treated for mold. I’m staying in the storage closet on a grimy mattress. It’s the only part of the apartment that’s safe for me to stay in.”

  This is all nonsense, made-up madness. I don’t even know if it makes sense. Would the storage closet be safe from the mold if the rest of the apartment wasn’t?

  But it’s the only thing that comes to me as I stand beneath his towering six and a half foot form.

  Some men – like my secret soldier crush I’ve been fantasizing about all day – hold their height well. But Jerry has always been the lanky type. And now he’s packed on some mass, he looks cruel, as if he’s ready to cause harm at a moment’s notice.

  “Hmm.” He tilts his head in that disconcerting way of his. It’s like he’s trying to see into my soul. “Is that the complete truth, Zoey? You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”

  “Never—”

  “Because,” he cuts me off, his tone getting deeper now, snappier, “I’ve had my apartment treated for mold before. And I wasn’t allowed to stay there, not in the closet, nowhere. In fact, if you think about it – which you clearly fucking haven’t – that doesn’t make much sense. How would a storage closet protect you from all those nasty chemicals?”

  Tears rise and prick my eyes, trying to proclaim me weak. That’s what he wants, for me to show him some weakness so he can feel like the big bad predator.

  “Well?” he snaps.

  “Please,” I whimper, as the façade falls away. “Jerry, I don’t want this. Please.”

  “Don’t want what, my precious silly goose?” he whispers breathily.

  “This.”

  “Me? You don’t want me? Remember, you can’t lie to me. I can read you better than anyone. I saw the way you used to look at me, you horny dirty fucking cunt.”

  I step back and let out a gasp, fear spearing through me.

  I should’ve played along with his game to keep him calm…

  But how far does that go?

  Does that mean I have to invite him into my apartment and play along with whatever sick games he’s dreamed up?

  Does that mean I have to be the person he thinks I am?

  “Where are your keys, Zoey?”

  “Please…”

  “Where. Are. Your. Fucking. Keys. You slut.”

  I look around as though one of the apartment doors is going to burst open, as though somebody is going to charge out here and rescue me. But nobody’s ever saved me from Jerry. Not even the police could save me, because he always made sure to never go too far, to make it too complicated for them to arrest and try him.

  Without waiting for an answer, he snatches his hand out and grabs my purse. He wrenches it roughly, leaving me no choice but to let it go unless I want to be dragged along with it.

  He shakes his head as he roots around in it. “Why do you have to make things so difficult all the time?”

  “How did you find me?” I whisper, fighting back a sob.

  “Pure chance, as it happens.” He chuckles grimly. “I was passing by your diner and I saw you flirting with your boss. That wasn’t very clever, was it, when you belong to me? Oh well. I’ll make you pay for it. Ah, here we go.”

  He pulls out the keys from the bag, jangling them like a prize.

  “Let’s get you inside where I can show you how much you mean to me. You’ve kept me waiting for far, far too long.”

  I take a step back, terror gripping me as the full force of his threat hammers into me.

  “Please,” I try again. “Jerry, I don’t want this.”

  “Do you think I care what you want?” he snarls. “You’ve kept me waiting for far too long. Now it’s time you showed me how much you love me. Get in there now, before I lose my patience.”

  Chapter Four

  Zack

  I walk down the hallway, stunned at the anger that whirls through me when I see how run down this place is. The door to the building wasn’t even locked. Someone had busted it at some point so it couldn’t close all the way.

  I’ve never met Zoey, I don’t even know what she looks like, and yet I find myself thinking about how she deserves so much better than this. I find myself wanting to find the bastard who busted the door and make him pay.

  All day it’s been the same, my thoughts rushing ahead of my reason, my imagination flooding with ideas of what Zoey could look like, what she could be like.

  But part of me whispers that I already know who she is where it coun
ts.

  She’s a kind person, a selfless person, a person who would…

  Fuck.

  I can’t let myself think like that, but I can’t deny that the thought keeps flurrying into me either.

  Yeah, Zoey’s the sort of person who’d make an incredible mother to my children.

  That’s the thought which has spiraled into my mind over and over, telling me I can have a family with this woman, a future.

  I remind myself that I’m here to give her a piece of my mind as I climb the stairs. She made assumptions in her letter – like I’m a good person, whatever happened to me is okay – and I’m here to put her in her place, not to obsess over her.

  “Please,” a woman’s voice rises as I reach the top of the staircase. “Jerry, I don’t want this.”

  My instincts prickle when I hear the anguish in the woman’s voice, shivering through her like she’s on the precipice of letting out a scream.

  “Do you think I care what you want?” a man snarls. “You’ve kept me waiting for far too long. Now it’s time you showed me how much you love me. Get in there now, before I lose my patience.”

  I pick up my pace, walking around the corner with fire flaring in my muscles. I’ve heard that tone of voice before, aimed at women in my gyms, coming from the sort of scraggly rats who think a few sessions with the heavy bag makes them tough.

  I emerge to find a tall red-haired man standing over a woman. The man is wide and big, but I can tell right away that his muscles come from steroid use.

  When you’ve worked in the martial arts world for as long as I have, it’s easy to read such things.

  And then my attention is quickly captivated by the woman standing beneath him.

  Her curvy body has been squeezed into a waitress’s uniform, her hips pushing out enticingly, her ass round and plump and gorgeously full. Her hair cascades to her shoulders in dark brown waves, the sort of hair which screams out at me to run my fingers through it.

  She turns at the sound of my footsteps, revealing a young fresh face, her cheeks full and flushed, her eyes the same dark shade as her hair. Her breasts heave in the white T-shirt, causing my manhood to twinge despite the circumstances, blood rushing around me at a million miles per hour.