It's Complicated: A Reservations Story

Years ago, he and his father had turned their hobby into a thriving survivalist training camp. A place where they trained real-time, real-life survival techniques. With long hours and loads of hard work, they had managed to build that small company into a leading survival training school. They worked with private security firms, law enforcement, and the military. The last one was the reason for Beckett’s visit to Coronado in the first place.

He suddenly remembered his father’s middle of the night, bright idea from not less than a week ago. Since his father’s recent mild heart attack, things had changed. His father could no longer assist with the more rigorous training classes. That had been damn hard on the old man’s psyche. So, his father decided to open their camp to individual, private pay clients.

Over the last couple of years, the number of everyday people wanting to learn basic survival skills had increased exponentially. All the survival shows on television and YouTube no doubt drove the wild phenomenon. They had been inundated with inquiries from people who wanted to learn to “live off the land.” They hadn’t considered taking on novice trainees at the time, something outside their current business model. But the idea that there were people out there that wanted lighter training had been the concept behind his father’s idea. His father wanted to teach a basic, rudimentary beginner’s course—a three day, learn to live off the land excursion.

Beckett hadn’t realized that they had gone from the idea phase to implementing the training. Could his rough and tough father handle the basic needs of a newbie trainee? Beckett’s brow furrowed as he thought of the hard time their seasoned instructors had had in keeping up with his father.

If Beckett didn’t have his own training class starting tomorrow, he’d volunteer to take the group out himself.

“Who’s helping you, Dad?”

“Paul and Walt.”

Oh, not good. Both men were part of their lawn crew. Beckett looked around the yard, counting twenty-five people. They wore their brand-new walking shoes and backpacks with their cell phones stuck in their palms. None looked as if they knew what they were really getting themselves into.

Beckett slapped his father on the shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze in greeting. “Randy and I can head out with you today and stay overnight. We’ve got to be back in the morning to take my class out. Sound good?”

“Do I get a say?” Randy asked.

“Only if it’s a yes,” his father cackled while continuing to complete the legal liability forms each person needed to sign.

Beckett took one of the clipboards out of Randy’s hands and a couple of ballpoint pens. Sleep just got a whole lot less likely.

Chapter 3

How could it already be time to wake up?

Exhaustion clung to Julian, muddling his mind as he tried to assess the time without opening his eyes. He’d closed Reservations and gotten home at a little past three in the morning. It had taken some time for him to unwind. Sleep was always a tricky game these days, but he’d finally made it into bed and had actually fallen asleep. Surely, it wasn’t time to start his day again.

Julian swore he lived in the movie Groundhog Day where every single day was the same thing. At times, he felt like he’d never escape whatever had such a tight hold on him, and other days, he appreciated the monotony. Living the same day over and over again had kept him safe from—

Yeah, not traipsing down that rabbit hole of crazy thought again.

No matter what woke Julian, he planned to go back to sleep. He concentrated on wiping his mind, clearing it of anything other than sleep. He drew in a deep breath and relaxed his body on the exhale, letting the tension go, tucking his hands underneath the softest pillow he’d ever slept on—a pillow he’d swiped from Escape Coronado. The resort didn’t skimp on anything.

He needed to find a way to get his hands on those penthouse-quality sheets. A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he wiggled into the cushioned pillow-top mattress.

Had he totaled the bar’s sales receipts before leaving?

Julian’s brow furrowed as he tried and failed to recall the sales numbers. Weird, he always remembered the revenue Reservations pulled in each night.

Stop.

Sleep.

What had he read about the breathing techniques for sleep? Deep inhale, through your nose, for a four count. Hold it while counting to seven, then release slowly for eight.

Again.

Julian inhaled, letting the cadence of his breath lull him back to the edges of sleep.

It worked the same way as the breathing techniques he used every day. How could something so simple, an involuntary part of his minute-by-minute existence, be such a healing tool when used with intention?

But did it really help heal, or was it merely a bandage designed to cover a big, festering wound?