Page 5 of Addiction

Life as a SEAL had never been easy. I’ve seen things no man ever should and lost too many along the way. So, when working with Jackson and Mark at Cole’s Security, I was naive to think life would be easier. We still had missions, we still had wars to fight, but our last trip to Iraq had ruined me more than you can imagine. Things went down out there that left me with questions—questions I’d desperately needed answering because my mind had been conflicted. The only person who’d been able to answer them was killed a matter of hours later, however. We’d lost our men—good, honest men—and it had been all because of me and my stupid, tarnished mind.

Alcohol had become my band-aid to the internal wounds that would never heal. I drank my way through every bar in California, hoping I would find the light at the end of a very dark tunnel. But I never did. Instead, my actions had massive consequences. I’d brought down Jackson’s business and dragged that through the mud along with my family name.

But it hadn’t been just those battles that invaded my mind. It was life at home that I’d been running from, too. I’d promised my dad that I’d always protect my family, and I failed when they needed me the most—when my pop needed me the most—and, my god, the guilt still eats me alive.

I miss him.

I really fucking miss him.

“Are you ready to go home?”

No.

And I’m not sure I ever will be.

I swallow hard, taking one more look out across the water, knowing that no matter how long I sit here, it isn’t going to change the fact I need to face them.

Taking a deep breath, I nod, looking at Mark.

“I’m ready.”

CHAPTER TWO

Asher

I stand at the bottom of the drive and look up at my childhood home. The garden to my left is full of flowers, the swing seat on the porch is decorated with bright yellow cushions, and I swear I can smell home-baked apple pie. Mom loves to bake.

As we were growing up, when Mom wasn’t at work, you’d find her either in the kitchen, hands deep in ingredients or in the spare room enjoying quiet time as she sewed. She’d loved to do many things, but the truth is, I don’t know if she even does half of them anymore.

I’ve only been away from the family physically, but the reality is that I’ve been gone mentally for some time. After Iraq, my mental state was off the chart, and soon enough I was on a dangerous cycle. With constant flashbacks and nightmares, I’d hid my torments with liquor and women, behaving like each day was a frat party as I fell into oblivion, and I became a shadow of the man I’d once been.

But I’ve nothing to hide behind now, and that scares me.

Heading up the drive, I stand tall in front of the door, yet hesitate when I go to knock.

What if it’s not like I want it to be? Maybe this is what I’m truly afraid of. It’s not coming home to my family: it’s coming home to a place where everything was once so gray.

While I’d waited to be sentenced, I’d gone to rehab, and I couldn’t have done it without the support of my family. But what if my absence has made them realize they are better off without me? What if they don’t want me around anymore?

Get it the fuck together, Asher.

Breathe in…

Breathe out…

Rubbing my hand at the nape of my neck, I blow out a heavy breath, trying to rid the thoughts and fears that now run through my mind. Before I have a chance to do anything else, the front door swings open, and the petite woman who is my mother stops with an abrupt halt, a shocked gasp leaving her throat before her eyes widen in surprise.

“Ash…” she whispers as if she hasn’t registered what is happening. Until she does, and her words come out in a cry. “Asher! Oh, my boy!”

Her arms fly around my waist, and I hold her tight, feeling her body shaking under my touch as her tears fall. And just like that, those anxieties evaporate. The warmth of her body, the smell of her perfume and the familiar aroma of home cooking hits me all at once, but it’s the comfort of her in my arms that has me swallowing the lump in my throat as she falls apart, overjoyed with happiness.

“I’m home, Mom.”

Pulling back, she looks up at me, clutching my cheeks as tears fill her eyes. “You are home,” she says, matter-of-factly. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too.”

Taking a tissue out from the sleeve of her sweater, she pats it over her cheeks, composing herself before looking back at me. A little crease forms between her brows, and I already know the question that is about to leave her lips, “But how did you get home? You’re not due to be home for a few more weeks.”