Page 3 of Accidental Wedding

Chapter 3- Shane

Sitting at the hotel bar with a double Jake Daniels, watching the world go by is not as bad as I expected. The hotel that I’m staying in is nice without being over-the-top fancy. I still feel a bit out of place in my button-down shirt and nicest pair of jeans, but I’m just having some drinks before heading to bed. The plane ride took more out of me than I expected. I suspect it has more to do with the dream I had than the ride itself. If I’m being honest, I’m not looking forward to going to sleep tonight. My nightmares seem to be worse when I’m sleeping in a new place. It may not be the smartest coping mechanism but drinking a fair amount has proved to be a successful way to self-medicate myself to sleep.

I plan on hitting the roulette tables later this week, putting money on numbers that were important to the guys on my team. Their birthdays, lucky numbers, years they’d been married, those sort of things. I’m not in it for the money so much as a way to remember them. My commanding officer told me to “try not to think about what happened out there, okay?” when he told me to take a vacation but like hell is that happening. It’s all I can think about. This way, I’m at least thinking about my buddies in a positive way, instead of the way they were killed.

As it is, Las Vegas isn’t as bad as I was expecting… at least, not yet.

To get into the hotel I had to walk past a couple of people who were smoking outside. I held my breath, thankful for the underwater class that I took during basic training that taught me about air conservation.

Most people think that loud noises trigger reactions in soldiers with PTSD. And they do—I’m sure as hell hoping that there aren’t any fireworks this week, but my luck’s never been that good—but for me, smells have been the worst. Smoke is especially bad. I burned a pizza in the oven during my medical leave and ended up on the floor shaking before I knew what hit me.

Besides that, and the recurring nightmares, I’m doing okay. I should probably call my family, let them know that I’m stateside and on vacation, but then I would have to go see them. It’s not that I don’t love my family, I really do. They’re just all former or current military. They’ll understand what I’m going through. In any other family, that might be a good thing, but in mine? I don’t want to burden them with my own trauma. Collectively, they have enough of their own and I don’t want my parents worrying about me. My father lost his leg in an IED and my mother’s an army doctor. They know all too well the injuries that can happen in the field.

When I was first in the hospital recovering from what happened, they came to see me and the looks on their faces hurt almost as much as the memories of what happened.

I’ve just ordered a second drink from the bartender when movement out of the corner of my eye catches my attention. I look up.

The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen just walked into the hotel bar.

She’s not dressed near as fancy as some of the other patrons in their suits and sparkly skirts. Instead, she’s wearing a floral sundress that hugs her slender body. Pale blonde hair dances across her delicate shoulders as she makes her way to the almost full bar. The only seat open is one next to me. When I see her looking around, eyes wide, I gesture to the seat next to me.

“This one’s open, if you like?” I tell her.

A small smile crosses her face and she slowly approaches.

“Thank you,” she replies. I almost can’t hear her over the din of the bar.

“You’re welcome.” I go back to my drink. Out of the corner of my eye I watch as she perches on the bar stool. She practically has to jump to get up there, she’s such a tiny little thing.

I pay attention as she tries to flag down the bartender with little success. It’s not fault of his—the man is just really busy. Not able to help myself, I chuckle.

“What?” She turns to look at me.

“Would you like some help? It is pretty loud in here.” I make sure she knows I’m not patronizing her with my offer. Okay, sue me. I’ve always had a little bit of a white knight complex, especially when it comes to a pretty girl. To my relief, she laughs.

“Yes please!”

“What are you drinking?” I turn in my seat to face her fully and almost miss her answer of “cosmopolitan” when I look her in the eyes. They’re a pure, icy blue that sparkle in the bar lights.

After I order her drink, I realize something. “I didn’t ask your name?”

“I’m April Brache. And you?”

“Sergeant Shane Gilman,” I automatically respond with my rank and hold out a hand for her to shake. Her hand is small in mine, her grip surprisingly strong. Unlike most women, she’s not wearing any jewelry on her fingers or wrists and her nails are clean but cut almost to the quick. “Do you work with your hands?” Before I can think about it, the question is out there. I’m about to apologize for asking something so random and rude when she answers.

“Yeah actually, I’m an artist. Pottery. How could you tell?” She cocks an eyebrow.

“Your hands.” I’m still holding them. “They’re strong, but sensitive.”

“Thank you,” April says softly. Is she blushing?

Her drink arrives and she takes a sip. “So, what are you doing here?”

How much should I tell her? I really like this girl, she’s like a breath of fresh air. The thing is, my story isn’t exactly something that should be delved into over drinks with a stranger. I give her the summarized version.

“I’m on leave—vacation, really. What about you?”

“This was supposed to be a girl’s trip, but my friend bailed at the last minute so it’s just me.”

“I can’t imagine why anyone would bail on you.”

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