Page 50 of Trigger Happy Ending

“Who told you that? O?”

“No.” I shake my head again. “A tech guy. A hacker.”

“What else did he say about me?”

“Nothing. Just that you were black ops, got your terror squad kill—”

“Forget it,” Soren snaps, killing the conversation from going any further. “I don’t give a shit. It doesn’t matter anyway.”

He’s lying. He does that a lot, I’ve noticed. Lies to himself. He does, in fact, give a shit. And it does matter.

I lower my head to the countertop, enjoying the cool feel of the marble beneath my skin. I close my eyes and groan. “God, I’m never drinking again.”

Soren doesn’t say anything, but I can hear him pottering around the kitchen. I think I fall into a microsleep, but the smell of freshly brewed coffee has my head rising.

“Here,” Soren says, sliding a mug across the bench to me. “Drink this.”

I curl my fingers around the handle and watch the steam rise and swirl. I look up at Soren from underneath my lashes. “Thanks.”

Soren nods. “What was your nightmare about?”

I lift the mug to my mouth, cooling the boiling water with my breath. If only to buy me a microsecond. I don’t share anything personal with anyone, ever. And even though I’m tempted to tell Soren (because I think he might understand?) I’m too hungover to get into it.

“Nothing.”

Soren arches a brow. “Nothing? You held a knife to my throat over nothing?”

My mouth remains clamped shut as we hold each other’s stare for a second before he turns away, banging the cupboard door shut.

“I get them too,” Soren says softly, his muscular back to me.

The admission doesn’t surprise me. I’d imagine years on a battlefield, fighting within warzones, would induce nightmares. He has seen—and probably done—some horrific shit, I have no doubt.

“Nightmares,” he clarifies, glancing back.

“Well, this life is conducive to nightmares.”

I take a tiny sip. The hot coffee burns a trail down my throat and into my empty belly. When’s the last time I’ve eaten?

“Do we have any food?” I ask, changing the subject.

“There’s leftover pizza in the fridge.”

I slink off the stool and walk over to the fridge, removing the pizza box. I toss it back over on the island and walk back to the stool. Opening the box, I remove a slice of pepperoni pizza and bite into it, cold.

Mid-chew, I ask, “Do you ever think about what it might be like to live like a normal person?”

Soren’s expression tells me he finds this to be an odd question. “Define normal.”

“As in … to live honestly. And, you know, not commit murder.”

“Why would I fantasize about a life I can’t have? That’s just inflicting another kind of pain.”

He adjusts the towel (!!) around his waist slightly before picking up the kettle off the stove, bringing it over to the sink.

“Don’t tell me the vicious Black Widow wishes for the American dream?” Soren asks, looking over to me as he refills the kettle with water.

My shoulders shrug. “Maybe sometimes.”