Rich Soldier (The Dirty Thirty Pledge 2)

I laugh, shaking my head. Fuck, I never thought I’d be a millionaire. And I never thought I’d be famous, either. But when you own a business that’s as successful as First Shot, people know who you are. Especially here in town. I’ve been back for only a few days and it seems that people recognize me wherever I go. Some try to stop me and talk to me, others try to thank me for my service, but you can tell what they’re really after. They want to be near the fame. I’m not sure if they’re thinking that I’ll buy them drinks or if they just want to say that they met me. But even in the short time I’ve been back, I recognize the look in their eye. It’s going to take some getting used to.

Hopping out of the truck, I stretch. Probably been five years since I went proper grocery shopping. In the army you get fed, and you eat what they give you. End of story. I’ll have to take some time and actually learn to make some things that aren’t pasta. That sounds kind of nice, learning something that has nothing to do with war. Or bloodshed. And it’s not like I have to skimp. Maybe I’ll hit up a kitchen store and buy some stuff there. My father has a few dishes and maybe two pots. His diet consisted mostly of alcohol. He wasn’t doing a lot of cooking.

I shove the thoughts away and shut the truck door, heading inside. Grabbing a cart, I start filling it with the first things that I see that look good. Some greens for salads, cans of soup, a loaf of bread. It’s nothing groundbreaking, but the idea of making a sandwich the way I like to eat one is incredibly appealing. I go up and down every aisle, looking at the variety and picking out things to try. Some things that I’ve never thought of having. I even look up some recipes on my phone, to see if I can find something good to go with the rice noodles I just put in my cart.

I’m working hard to ignore the nagging feeling that I should be doing something else, something more important, that I should have fought my discharge harder than I did so I could still be fighting. The feeling of satisfaction that I’m getting from the shopping and the urge to be active, still running drills and training, is intense. It’s building up inside so much that I almost get dizzy. I have to stop for a second and breathe. It’s been happening a bit, that feeling that I shouldn’t be here. That I need to go back. To do better. To make up for what happened by throwing myself back into the fight and taking it to those bastards that did this to me.

But that’s not possible.

That feeling’s probably not going to go away for a while. It was strongly suggested to me that I should talk to someone when I got home, but I know this town, and even with a therapist’s promise of discretion, it would get out. Wallace Monroe. He left to join the army and came back crazy.

I can hear the whispers now. He killed someone and couldn’t take the guilt. His whole unit was killed and he was the only survivor. Being in the desert so long drove him a batty.

And a lot of those things would be true. Better to suffer in silence than suffer with everyone watching. Especially now that everyone wants to know my business. Another reason that I wanted to disappear and never come back. But I couldn’t abandon Frankie and Glenn that way. I needed to at least see them. And her. I couldn’t not try to see Tia again. It seems like a lifetime ago that I left. But there’s never been anyone else but her. Now that I’m back, I’m praying there’s a chance that we can make some of those things we always talked about come true.

I sigh as I turn the corner around a giant pyramid of cereal boxes, and I stop in my tracks. Tia. She’s turning the corner a couple aisles down, facing me, and my heart kicks into high gear. I haven’t seen her in…years. And the reality of that slams into me. I haven’t seen her since I left. Every single day I’ve regretted that I didn’t say goodbye. But I had to leave. I had to get out of here and I didn’t want to break her heart if I didn’t come back, because she would have waited for me. I know it deep in my gut, as surely as I know that I still love her.

She takes my breath away. Tan skin and dark hair and curves that have matured while I’ve been gone. She’s perfect, and I don’t think I can move because I’m frozen to the spot. Her eyes meet mine, and she freezes too. This could be like the scene out of a movie. Until she doesn’t smile. Until her eyes are filled with anger and hate, and I can see her jaw clench in fury.