Page 52 of California Wild

Home had been public housing.

A roach-infested two-bedroom in the hood, gunshots at night, sirens wailing down the street, the stink of piss in the stairwell.

Home had been a mother too drunk to cook, too bitter to cry, and a father who never stayed long enough to care.

Navy man. Big shot. Always deployed, always gone.

And when he wasn’t?

He was fucking someone else.

Jesse had figured it out young.

The perfume on his dad’s uniform that didn’t belong to his mom.

The half-lowered voices behind closed doors.

The way his mom had stopped fighting about it, had just started drinking instead.

But Jesse?

Jesse had been the one who finally ended it.

At nine years old, he was the one who called 911.

The night his dad came home drunk and angry and went for his mom.

The night Jesse threw himself in the middle of it and took the hit that turned him into a man before he was even a boy. The night Jesse saved his mom’s life and was forced to grow up really fucking fast.

He’d never spoken to his dad again.

Not after that.

Not after watching his mom pack what little they had and walk away.

Not after spending the next decade in poverty, in shelters, in places they never wanted to be.

And now?

Now he had a six-figure salary, a military career, a home in a place that smelled like money and comfort.

And he still didn’t feel like he belonged in any of it.

Jesse parked, cut the engine, and exhaled sharply.

Tomorrow morning, he’d be on a plane.

Locked in. Back in the fight. Back to what made sense.

Tonight?

Tonight, he just had to get through the quiet.

He pushed open the truck door, gravel crunching beneath his boots as he stepped out.

The ocean was close, just a few streets over.

He could hear it.

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