Page 49 of Trigger Happy Ending

Just when I think I can’t get any crueller, any meaner, the memory of him waking me from my nightmare comes crashing into me like a fucking wrecking ball.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

Not only did I throw knives at Soren last night, but I held a knife to his throat too.

I’m psychotic.

God, I feel sick. I’m never drinking again.

I rush over to the toilet bowl and throw up.

***

God, I hate these types of hangovers. You know the ones. The hangovers where the only two things required for survival are fried chicken and an orgasm?

When I step into the kitchen somewhere around midday, Soren’s already there. Standing near the stove, shirtless (!) with a towel around his waist, coffee in hand, scrolling his phone. He ignores me. Figures.

I clear my throat. “You put me to bed?”

He does that thing where he ignores my question and pretends I don’t exist.

Finally, he glances up. “You look like shit.”

I huff out a sigh. I’m well aware I resemble the ghoul from The Ring; I don’t need the bad boy version of Captain America to remind me.

“Do you want another knife thrown at your head?” I say half-jokingly, climbing onto a barstool.

“So, you remember.”

A beat.

“You deserved it,” I say with a sheepish smile.

His eyes burn, a black fire raging at me. He’s waiting for an apology. I should give him one, but I can’t get the words past my throat. Not yet, anyway. I choke on them instead.

“Why did you put me to bed if you were so pissed off?”

“Million-dollar question.”

I catch his reflection in the mirrored backsplash and can see he’s just swiping aimlessly through apps, avoiding looking at me. He wasn’t exactly innocent last night. From what my hazy recollection can remember, he came in hot, pissed all the way off for no apparent reason. Ranting and raving that I’m slipping. Rich, coming from the man who was practically drooling on his motherfucking shirt at the Golden Claw last night.

“Well … thanks,” I say finally.

He shrugs like it’s nothing. Like what he did for me was out of pity. Which makes me feel fucking worse. My eyes catch the three headstones tattooed on his lower left side. One name on each headstone. Kade, Brock, and James.

I’m assuming that’s his men: his terror squad. The ones whose deaths I threw in his face.

“What I said last night …” I say softly, eyes glued to the tattoos. “About your squad? I’m sorry. I was out of line.”

I won’t apologize for the violence, but I will apologize for the emotional damage. What I said was harsh. Almost unforgivable.

“Yeah, you were.” His voice is edged with anger. “You don’t know shit. Even if you did read some bullshit dossier on my time in Special Ops.”

I shake my head, lowering my eyes, and decide to admit the truth. “I actually didn’t read your file.”

“What? Then how do you know about my terror squad?”

Sighing deeply, I pick at my fingernails. “When we first began this assignment, I asked an Agency contact if he knew anything about you. He was the one who told me you were a part of a black ops terror squad.”