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“Your sister,” I tell her, my tone blunt and unapologetic, right before I drain my glass. It’s club soda. I wish it was scotch but with painkillers on board, I’m dull enough as it is. If I added booze to the mix, I’d be a useless mess.
Yeah? Who do you have to stay sharp for? You aren’t an operator anymore. No one’s calling you to save the day. You’re a useless cripple with a broke dick and one nut. Slop it up, Ranger—because no one gives a shit but you.
When I say it, Cari gives me a few moments of stunned silence. Long enough for me to lift my glass and rattle the ice cubes in its bottom. “Looks like I’m empty.” I flash Patrick a grin in the face of his tight-jawed glare. I can tell him to get fucked all day long if I want to, but being rude to his girlfriend is something else entirely. Because I want to keep being an asshole to her, I force myself to take a step back. “Excuse me,” I tell them both before pushing myself away from them and through the crowd. On my way to the bar, I’m waylaid by about a dozen people wanting to shake my hand, giving me the generic thank you for your service spiel to which I offer my equally pat answer—thank you for your appreciation—before I push my way past them.
With every intention of ordering three fingers of single malt when I finally get to the bar—because why the fuck not—a fast, bright flash snags my peripheral and I feel my entire body go tight and razor sharp in an instant. My heart taking off at a sudden, fast gallop while my brain kicks and fights its way from under the heavy opioid blanket, trying to make sense of what I saw. What I’m feeling.
Scope flash.
Sniper.
Like the rest of me, my vision responds to the sudden adrenaline dump, pulling everything into sharp and sudden focus, my gaze quickly moving and assessing, trying to pinpoint the threat, as my arms move to my sides and my left leg drops back just a bit, widening my stance and center of gravity, while my left hand grazes against my hip, looking for the heft and shape of a weapon that should be there but isn’t.
It isn’t there because I’m not a soldier anymore. Because I got blown the fuck up and now I’m a fucking crippled-up headcase who has about as much business carrying a sidearm as I do juggling chainsaws.
Blindfolded.
Thank you for your service, Ranger.
I keep looking, anyway. Clearing the room. Searching for a threat I no longer have the equipment or skill set to deal with because it’s not just a habit, it’s who I am. What I am.
Because I’m a—
There.
Not a sniper.
Just some trust fund kid flashing his Rolex, trying to hypnotize his next vic—
Grace.
She’s not sitting on her bench anymore. She’s not sipping champagne. She doesn’t look content. She doesn’t look hypnotized either.
She looks pissed.
Maybe a little scared because Mr. Rolex has her hemmed into a corner and doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to let her go.
“What can I get you, sir?”
My gaze jogs to the right to focus on the smiling bartender standing a few feet in front of me and everything snaps out of focus. Goes soft and dull, from one breath to the next.
I’ve been standing here, silent and rigid, for only a few seconds. Even though it feels like hours have passed, I know they haven’t.
“Club soda with a twist,” I tell him, digging into my pocket for my wallet to feed the tip jar. “Make it two.”