Page 4 of Always Salty

I’d quit.

They’d threatened.

And I’d told them in no uncertain terms that I wasn’t one to be messed with.

My brother knew everything I did.

He knew where I was, what I was doing, and who was pulling my strings.

The moment that they fucked with me, they fucked with the Russian Bratva, and they wouldn’t like the consequences if they did the ‘or else’ they threatened.

“You’re dismissed from the US Military,” my handler said. “Don’t fuck this up.”

I caught my papers and headed for the door, but not without my last parting shot.

“That woman y’all wanted me to kill?” I announced. “She knows that you’re wanting to do it. You send someone else to do it, and you’ll be getting a war you didn’t expect on your hands.”

The handler cursed.

I kept walking, heading for my car.

A smile was firmly in place on my face as I drove away.

Aggressive cuddler.

—T-shirt

KEELY

Present Day

“I, uh…” I hesitated, wondering if I was crazy enough to say what I had to say next. Then, without giving it anymore thought, I just blurted it out. “I want to be fucked by a stranger. Preferably one wearing a mask.”

My therapist didn’t even blink before she replied.

Damn, she was good.

“It’s very, very normal to have kinks, period,” my therapist explained. “You’re a healthy, well-adjusted woman despite your upbringing and everything you faced in your teens. It’s healthy to want sex. It’s healthy to crave sex that’s exciting. It’s even healthy to want sex with a man wearing a mask. Every red-blooded, straight woman craves the kind of sex that thrills her. Sure, not everyone has those kinds of kinks, but it’s highly likely that they’ve all considered it before.”

My therapist, Jenny, was a great lady. I liked her a lot.

I’d been seeing her since I was twenty-one, once or twice a year.

I’d started seeing her after my old one died—who I’d absolutely adored, too.

My brothers had felt like it was a good idea for me to start seeing a therapist after what my brother, Copper, had done, and what I’d experienced at the hands of my ‘father.’

The experiences at the hand of my father were something that I needed to talk to a therapist about. What Copper had done to my dad upon catching my father doing those things? That I didn’t care about. That had actually helped me.

Seeing my father suffer? That had been the best feeling in the world.

I’d felt loved and cherished. I’d felt protected again, like nothing could ever hurt me.

And the sick sense of dread and fear no longer dominated my thoughts.

My father hadn’t raped me.

Not fully, anyway.

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