Broken Soldier: A Novel Read Online Free Page B

navy dress hugged her hips and her bust, showing off her curves to maximum effect. It was all he could do not to stare.
    “Thank you,” he said, accepting his mug. He took a sip and smiled. Even without cream or sugar, it had a heavy, sweet vanilla flavor.
    Emily set hers on the end table opposite him and went to a small radio tucked onto one of the bookshelves. A moment later, quiet violin music started playing. “It will shuffle. I hope you like classical.”
    “That works for me.” He held up his mug. “Your coffee is good.”
    She shook her head. “It’s just from a pre-mix cup. Is it true that you special forces types take your coffee really seriously?”
    “Some of us do. Before missions, guys like to have routines. Rituals. In the old days soldiers sharpened their weapons. Some still clean their guns, but others will take an hour to make themselves a perfect cup of coffee.”
    “So what about you? Do you have pre-mission rituals?”
    “Not anymore.” He didn’t have missions anymore. No need for rituals. But that wasn’t what she was asking and he knew it. “My job was to make sure my men were prepared and that I knew every last detail about the mission.”
    “So you studied a lot?”
    He smiled. “Every mission was like the night before final exams. And if I screwed up, people died.”
    “Wow.” Her eyes strayed to his empty cuff.
    He tucked his good hand over the cuff. “It turns out there are worse things than death, too.” At some level, every soldier, at least every experienced soldier, knew that. They all lost friends, and they all saw ruined bodies go home.
    When he was young he’d thought he was immortal, but as he’d gotten to his late 20s and had lost too many men and too many friends, he’d learned better.
    “But you’re here. You’re alive. You’re moving around and--“
    “I feel sorry for myself sometimes. I know I do and I know I shouldn’t. There are others that have it worse though.” He twisted in his seat. “Have you treated any PTSD patients?”
    She nodded.
    “PTSD is a tricky thing. I spent a lot of time with guys at Walter Reed talking about it. Most people, and I mean like 99% of civilians and probably 95% of the armed forces, react badly to really intense stress. Seeing a buddy die beside you. Having a bomb go off close enough to leave you deaf for six hours. It leaves a scar on the inside.
    “But some people it doesn’t affect. They are so locked in on who they are and what their mission is, that anything that happens, happens. These are people so absolutely sure of themselves and their role in the world, that violence and stress is like just an occupational hazard on the level of traffic jams and broken printers.”
    Emily watched him, her fascination obvious. It made him feel like a specimen under the microscope. He realized that he was sitting on the edge of her sofa, so he slid back and tried to look more relaxed than he really felt. Telling war stories didn’t do a thing for him, but talking about the psychology of a warrior? That could keep him going for hours.
    “So what kind of person are you?”
    He shrugged. “I haven’t had any nightmares, if that’s what you mean. I’m a tiger without its fangs, I guess.”
    “Perhaps.” She rose and collected her empty mug. “Care for another cup of coffee?”
    Rafa pushed himself to his feet. “You don’t have anything a little stronger, do you?” He followed her to the kitchen, stopping at the bar that separated the kitchen from the living room.
    Emily took his cup and set it in the sink, then pulled open a cabinet beside the fridge. She produced a pair of bottles. “Port or cognac?”
    “Yes.” He grinned.
    She poured two glasses of port and gave him one. “I’m in the mood for something sweeter.”
    They went back to the sofa and sat, though this time she sat beside him, only a few inches away. He ached to touch her, to stroke that beautiful blonde hair. She was sending all the signals, but he