Page 65 of Wolf.e

“Yes.”

“But you don’t believe in love? Fate?”

“They aren’t real. I’ve studied how the mind works for a long time.” I twist a piece of Brinley’s hair between my fingers, and she moves against me, her ass taunting my cock to go again. “They’re what we use to give ourselves false hope that true happiness actually exists. As long as you understand it isn’t reality, you can still enjoy them.”

Brinley smiles. “Do you not have faith in anything at all? That someone is watching over you?” she asks, running a finger around the scar I earned on my ribs when a fence ripped me open in Iraq.

I look up at her and run a hand through my hair.

“I have no faith in anything but myself,” I say.

“That’s a grim existence,” she comments, her words starting to string together a little. She shifts her weight in my lap and her ass offers my cock a hit of friction. Having her in my lap is so foreign to me. I’ve fucked a lot of women, so many that I’ve lost count, but human connection is something that feels new. Brinley continues to run her finger over the swirls in the vines on my skin, I don’t hate it.

“When I was thick in the middle of my second tour, I got trapped in a cave filled to my waist with water. There were ten of us. We were heading to capture an operative for an ISIS leader,” I tell her, watching her fingers skim my skin. “It was a trap and there were landmines under the water. Six of my men died. I thought I was dead. I carried a nineteen-year-old boy out on my shoulder. We left part of his legs in the cave. I still hear his screams every fucking day. I watched small children scream in horror as they watched their parents die, I stopped countless women from being raped—by both fucked up American soldiers and their own people. I watched a five-year-old girl have her arm and leg blown off at the hands of a car bomber. Yet pedophiles and murderers rot in jail cells until they’re ninety when there are many more fitting ways they could be made to suffer. There is no God. There is no reason for anything. People die every day and life just goes on.”

Brinley looks at me with a scrutiny I don’t understand, it’s not a judging glance but the look of a woman trying to understand who I am.

“Is that why your cut says Solider of Bedlam? It’s the military men that wear that?” she asks.

“No, you earn that a different way,” I tell her, not offering any more explanation.

She must sense I’m not willing to talk about it because she changes the subject.

“You must have faith in your country if you fought for it.”

I take another drink; this conversation is getting a little too heavy.

“I don’t have faith in my country, I care greatly about it, there’s a difference.”

“One isn’t the other?” Brinley asks, taking another sip.

“Not even close,” I tell her

“Everyone has faith in something.” She says nothing else as I watch a rosy glow creep over her cheeks.

“Enough liquor, you’ll be sick,” I tell her. “It’s old, it’ll hit you all at once.”

Miraculously, she listens and hands me back the now half empty bottle.

“You were saying you have no faith…” She smirks.

“So many died. So many fought. Gave this government their all. Only to come home to nothing. No help, permanently damaged—either mentally or physically, most of the time, both. Their government was nowhere to be found. They turned to drugs.” I hesitate then add, “It's why we do what we do.”

“Which is?” she asks and for some reason I’ll never understand, I tell her.

“We help the addicts. The forgotten people. People don’t realize the government helps cartels bring the drugs into this country, they create the addicts. They don’t make it easy for people to get sober. They actually provide help for them to stay addicts. We fund clinics, and we help bring in the medications they need to help people get clean. Cheaper drugs for them means they can help more people get clean.”

“Black market drugs?” Brinley asks. Smart girl. I remind myself, as crazy as it seems, I’ve only known this woman a week and a half. I look at her, still hesitant.

“I watched you murder a man,” she scoffs. “I know where he’s buried. I’m dead either way if I say anything, so what difference does it make if you tell me?” she asks with a cocky little tipsy grin.

I take my final swig. I lift her warm body off me and set her in the other chair then re-cork the bottle before I place it back in the cabinet and lock it.

“Yes, black market drugs. Methadone mostly, we supply it at a heavily discount price, it makes it more affordable for the clinics. The more they can get, the more people they can help. We also help bring in more addiction services counselors. We’ve helped fund and open four clinics in Atlanta this year alone, in the hardest hit neighborhoods. DOS doesn’t like our business. Less addicts on the street, more watchful eyes on their corners equals less profits for them.” I look out the window at the nothingness of her yard.

“There are a lot of soldiers turned addicts, chasing away the demons they adopted through the shit they were forced to endure.” I shrug. “It’s the only way I feel like I can help.”

“I’ve never thought about doing something illegal for the greater good. Growing up, things were always black and white. Wrong was wrong and right was right.” Brinley watches me, tucking her hair behind her ear.

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