Page 4 of Collateral Damage

Chapter Two – Tank

I’m in a pissy mood.

Fucking Jensen!

The adrenaline was slowly ebbing out of my body, leaving me time to process what the hell had gone down in the last few hours. The trouble is, I don’t want to process shit. I don’t even want to think about what a clusterfuck this day has been, but that’s all I can think about.

I’m also pissed at Skyla. What the hell was she thinking, locking me out and then running off after Mary the way she did mere hours after Reed had been in her house? I’d fucking lost it. She’s pregnant, for fuck’s sake, and in immeasurable danger, and she runs off like that.

But if I’m mad at Skyla, how I feel toward Jensen right now is off the charts. Would it have killed him to wait for me? Or to at least keep me in the loop? How the fuck could he go off all half-cocked to save Skyla without me? He’s damn lucky things turned out for the best and he managed to rescue her. I’m also fucking pissed that I had to hear all this from Tyler. I’d spent the last seven sleep-deprived weeks doing fucking everything to keep Skyla safe, and he can’t spare a fucking phone call to let me know she’s okay.

I rub at the condensation on my beer bottle, wishing the cool droplets would soothe my white-hot rage. I’d pulled my weapon at a rehab center—a place that specializes in the rehabilitation of soldiers wounded in war, not only physically but mentally. Most of them are suffering PTSD from experiencing things most people couldn’t dream up in their worst nightmares, and there I go, pulling a fucking gun in their place of safety. It makes me sick to think of how the marines in the center had reacted.

“You look like you’re having a rough night.”

Fucking wonderful.

I turn my head in the direction of the voice. Planting her ass on the stool next to me is a girl so beautiful she literally steals the air out of the bar. But not even her heart-shaped face framed by auburn hair, blue-gray eyes, and plump lips painted pale pink can distract me from my mood. Her tongue darts out when she notices me staring, followed by a graze of her teeth. Whether it is to seduce me or because she’s nervous, I can’t tell. The only problem is I’m not interested in company tonight. I just want to enjoy my beer and try to decompress. I turn away and lift my beer to my lips, indulging myself in a long pull of the drink.

“You might want to move on to someone else.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not interested.” Another pull.

“And what makes you think I am?” She doesn’t sound offended or pissed like most girls would. In fact, she sounds a little curious.

I cock an eyebrow and continue drinking. The beer has been sitting untouched for at least twenty minutes, and now I’m taking sips like I’ve been lost in the desert for six days and this is the first thing I’ve had to drink. Out of my peripheral vision, I notice her watching me. The bar’s name, Halo, flickers above the top-shelf liquor, giving her an ethereal glow.

I hold back a scoff. No angels here.

After a few minutes of sitting in silence—well, as silent as it is in a bar with blaring music and people yelling over it to be heard—the chick turns to face me. “So, are you a personal trainer or something?”

Her eyes flick to my biceps. I want to roll my eyes but refrain. I’m damn pleased with myself for that too. “No, ma’am.”

“Ma’am?” She throws her head back and laughs, the sound a confusing mix of innocence and mischief that stops my beer from reaching my mouth. “I think I’m too young to be called ‘ma’am.’ I just turned twenty-four.”

I feel a reluctant smile pull at my lips. “I’m sorry. I’ve been rude.” I hold out my hand. “Tank.”

She takes it, her skin soft against my calloused palm. “Jess.”

“Pleased to meet you, Jess.” I smile at her again.

“Tank, I’m going to leave you alone. I can tell you’re not in the mood for company.” She laughs again and slides off the barstool, walking into the crowd. I watch her leave in her layered black skirt with knee-high boots and moss-colored tank and shake my head.

Damn.

***

About ten minutes and a now really warm beer later, Jess plops back onto the chair next to me and huffs out a breath. “Un-frikkin-believable,” she complains.

I realize I’ve been idly staring at the green and white label on my drink while thinking about her. I’m used to people giving me a wide berth because of my fuck-you face and intimidating frame, but that didn’t deter her at all.

I turn in my seat. “What’s that?”

“I can’t believe they left me.”

“Your friends?”

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