Iris (Mike Bravo Ops 1)

I shrug. “Sure. Don’t ask me what his specific rules are, though. All I know is some jobs he’ll take and some he won’t. I have to assume it has to do with some sort of moral code he made for himself.”

“And we’re supposed to blindly trust it? Trav’s orders are the be-all and end-all?”

My gaze narrows. “What’s with all the questions?”

“Just … trying to find my place.”

“Mm,” I hum. “Some things never change.”

“What do you mean?”

I glance over at him. His face is ragged, bags under his gorgeous blue eyes, and he looks every bit ten years older. “I mean that all your showboating back then was an obvious call for attention. You were out to prove something.”

“Oh, I was the one who wanted attention?”

“Without a doubt. Only you. I was a model soldier.” And okay, yeah, we both laugh at that.

“You wouldn’t have lasted five minutes with GenNex.”

“I don’t doubt that at all.” I sip my beer. “What was that like?”

“Being a part of GenNex?” He contemplates it a moment. “Stressful. It was like the army on steroids. Rules, protocols—”

“Oh, so your wet dream.”

“Yeah, I loved it, but it was also a lot of pressure. A lot of needing to act fine when you’re not.” Saint licks his lips. “Tonight, when Trav asked me if I was ready, and I flat-out lied, he called me on it. He told me it was okay to not be ready. That … that wasn’t an option at GenNex.”

“That sounds like a recipe for disaster. Guys pretending they’re okay when they’re not. I saw it in my time in the army too.”

“Yeah, well, look how my last op with them turned out.”

I want to pry, but it’s not like we’ve ever done this before—had a legitimate conversation without being assholes to each other. I don’t want him to think I’d mess with him over something like that.

“My memories are still hazy,” he says out of nowhere. “The doctor said I might get them back, but it’s not a guarantee.”

“It might be a good thing that you can’t remember.” The sight of him bleeding out has flashed through my mind more than once in the last couple of months.

“I sometimes think that too, but then the memories I do have don’t make sense, and I get frustrated because I don’t know what’s true. I’m trying to pinpoint where it went wrong, but I’ve got nothing.”

“Do you think it could be a PTSD thing?” I ask cautiously.

He blanches.

“PTSD isn’t a dirty word.”

A small smile appears on his face. “Technically, it’s not a word at all.”

“I’m the smartass here, thank you very much, but even so, I know when not to be a smartass … mostly. With something as serious as this, just know I’d never judge or be an asshole about it. None of us in Mike Bravo would be. We’ve all lost friends to it. We’ve all seen what it can do.” Many men I’ve served with have lost everything because of it. Their mind. Their sense of humor. Their will to live.

Saint’s demeanor changes almost immediately. His shoulders are less stiff, his posture more relaxed. “How could it be a PTSD thing if I can’t even remember it?”

“Your mind might be blocking out all the bad shit, and trust me when I say it wasn’t pretty, man. I saw the aftermath. I can still smell the scent of blood. Maybe it’s best you don’t remember, which is why your brain is protecting you from reliving it all.”

“Mm,” he hums. “Maybe.”

Silence blankets us, and I sip my beer, unsure of how to reassure him.

“You were out to prove something too, you know,” Saint says. “During basic.”

“What’s that?”

“That you could never be taken seriously, but you just proved to me you do have it in you.”

“Inspirational words to live by,” I say. “Life’s too short to take everything seriously. You have to have fun every now and then.”

“Pissing off your superior officers is fun?” Saint asks.

“Superior officers who were dicks, sure. And there were plenty who looked down on me for being … me.”

Saint’s features soften in the low light of the fire. “Why do you think I was closeted until I’d moved up the ranks?”

“Yeah, I actually thought you were a total homophobe. Not from anything you said, but—”

“You know what they say: the ones who protest the most are usually overcompensating. So it checks out.”

“True. But the way I caught you staring sometimes, I thought it was disgust, not …” I let the sentence linger because if it wasn’t disgust he was looking at me with, what was it?

Saint’s eyes meet mine. His lips part like he’s about to say something, but then his mouth quickly shuts again. He throws back his beer and swallows hard, and then he stands. “Welp, I think it’s time for bed.”