The only person that ever gave a shit about him was Dom. Enemies to best friends to never talking. That was what it had come to with them.
Their entire childhood was spent hating each other. Ironically, they both enlisted at the same time, and during boot camp, they’d bonded. Became inseparable from then on.
He missed the cranky fucker like crazy now.
Dom had taken him home aft
er a year of rehab at the VA hospital. He’d made Casey get up every day, work out, and get strong again.
When Casey tried to reconnect with his parents, they’d said some pretty harsh things to him which caused a spiral into hell. After that, he stopped caring about anything, including his friendship with Dom.
And now here he was in a dive bar, with no friends, getting blow jobs from cheap hookers in broom closets to let the edge off.
He was fucked.
His life was spiraling out of control, and he felt helpless to do anything except embrace it.
One year later
“Sergeant Casey John Risley,” he grumbled into his beer bottle taking another swig. “How the fuck did you become such a fuck-up?”
It was rhetorical, of course. He was sitting alone in his dingy, little run-down apartment drinking himself into an early grave. Over the last three years, he’d fucked his way through half of Maryland without taking his pants off once. Fear of rejection due to his useless leg kept him from connecting with anyone other than his good friends Jimmy Bean and Captain Morgan.
He’d drunk himself through all his savings now and was fast losing his will to get out of bed anymore. What was the point when he had no one and was going nowhere fast?
“Nothing and no one.” Chug. “Useless and alone.” Chug. “Maybe it’s finally my fucking time!” Chug.
If he drank himself into an early grave, would anyone even notice? Miss him?
Once upon a time, Dominic Slade might have. But he fucked that up six ways from Sunday.
“Sua Sponte!” Chug.
Three years later
Pound, pound, pound.
Jolting upright, it took Case a few minutes to get his bearing. Figure out what had startled him awake.
Pound, pound, pound.
Looking at his bedside clock, he cursed. “Who the fuck is here at six a.m.?”
Pound, pound, pound.
“Hold your fucking tits, I’m coming!” he yelled as he pulled on a pair of sweats.
Pound, pound, pound.
“Dude, what the fu–?” His words froze in his throat. His vision narrowed, and he could swear he saw a ghost. “Dom?” he finally managed to croak out.
“You smell like a fucking brewery, man,” Dom bitched.
Speechless didn’t begin to cover how he felt. They hadn’t had contact in years; what was he doing here now?
“What do you want?” he gave it right back.
“Really? That’s how you greet your long lost friend?” The bite in his voice signaled his impending anger.