“And look at the text he sent me.” She showed me the text, but she also read it for me. “Try to bring your sexy roommate along.”
“Have I met him?”
She shrugged. “He’s seen pictures.” Then as if I was going to object, she added defensively, “You don’t go out, so I have to show them pictures, at least.”
I stepped around her and headed back toward the living room. “I don’t think Jason’s my type.”
Holly followed me. “So I text him, ‘she’d be too much for you. After the birthday lap dance I’m going to give you.’”
I turned to her and, with mock shock, said, “Holly!”
“What? It’s true. He’s turning twenty-two. Still a baby. He wouldn’t know what to do with you.”
“You’re not really selling me on him.”
“Don’t worry. He texted back: ‘Not a problem. Stephen and Chris will be there. Between the three of us, we’ll be able to handle her, no problems.”
“What?” This time my shock was quite genuine.
“I know,” said Holly. “A bit much, isn’t it.”
“A bit.”
“The point is,” she continued, “there will be plenty of hot guys there.”
“All the more for you,” I said and gave her a wink.
“I’m a ‘one guy at a time’ kind of girl, thank you very much.”
“And I’m not!?”
She put her phone away, disappointed. “You’re more of a ‘one book at a time’ kind of girl.”
“Ouch.”
She was right. I didn’t doubt the party would be fun. I didn’t doubt the guys would be hot. But so recently—six months already—after catching my last boyfriend, Michael, in bed with, not one, but two girls, I wasn’t interested in meeting anyone new.
I skipped the party, preferring to stay home with monsters I could enjoy on the page rather than monsters I had to deal with face to face.
2
Axel
I used to teach history. There’s an old adage: History is written by the victors. Since joining the Marines, I liked to say, ‘I decided to go from teaching history to writing it.’ I don’t know how much truth there was in that; it just seemed like a cool thing to say. Plus, people were always asking me why I joined the Marines; it was helpful to have a badass answer at the ready.
If I were to be completely honest, I couldn’t say exactly why I joined the Marines. I enjoyed teaching history. I wasn’t stuck in a rut, not by any stretch of the imagination. Still, I suppose there came a moment when I simply wanted a change.
As crazy as that sounds, it wasn’t so uncommon. While every member of my squad had his reasons for joining the Marines, most couldn’t say what that reason was—at least not convincingly.
Elijah had something to prove, though that’s just conjecture on my part. He would never admit that. But being shorter than most, at five foot eight, and with a bit of a nerdy look to him, he needed to show how tough he was. And make no mistake, Elijah was a badass.
J.P. also had something to prove. Growing up half black - half white, half French - half American, he said he always felt like an outsider. Plus, with his French origins, he needed to prove he was all in on his adopted country.
Santiago, he needed to stay out of trouble. He had a good heart, but also a thirst for danger, which often got him into questionable situations. There came a point in his life where it was either the military or prison, though the two aren’t necessarily mutually exclusive.
Nolan initially joined the police force but saw more paperwork than action. Since joining the Marines, the only action he saw was in training. But he seemed to be taking it well.
Manny also worked on the force with Nolan. The two couldn’t have been more different, Manny, the marathon runner, tall and lanky and Nolan, the gym rat, short and bulky, but they were as close as twins.
Taylor, Tristan, and Travis, they were close, not like twins, but like triplets, which is what they actually were. They kept their reasons to themselves, simply saying they needed a job. I suspected there was more to it than that. But if they wanted to keep their reasons to themselves, I could respect that.
Together, despite our different backgrounds, or perhaps because of them, we formed a tightly-knit squad. Sure, we had our arguments, but more so than that, we had each other’s backs. We shared a rather large apartment on base. We were always together—or whenever work didn’t come between us. We talked openly, no judgment, no mockery. We were close, and we looked out for each other.
“You always see in the movies,” said Santiago, “how a soldier, when he’s off fighting in a war, he’s got this old crumpled photo of his girl back home.” There was something about late at night, after dinner, before we turned in, that would bring out this strange mix of honesty and silliness.