Page 3 of No Lies No Promises

Grabbing Lillian around the waist, I dive sideways into the ditch. We roll under the percussive heat wave and the eardrum-shattering explosion.

When I regain consciousness, I’m in the Kandahar desert where sand crams into every orifice in my body.

I shout out, “Medic!”

As adrenaline races through my veins, the ringing in my ears drowns out my voice. “Who’s with me? Call out.”

A sharp slap to my cheek sends Afghanistan back into the past, back into the mist.

Face hidden behind an inch of filth, my fiancée slips out from under me. Her lips move slowly, giving me time to read them.

“Sean? You there?”

Burnt rubber sears my lungs as I try to make sense of my surroundings. “Where’s my team? How long was I out?”

She grabs my hand and places it over my wounded thigh.

Right. Apply pressure.

“Can’t hear.” Head throbbing, I grab her wrist.

When she points her free hand to the edge of the ditch, I nod. She’s right. We need to get out of this water, but not until it's safe. Covered in sludge, she crawls through the black slime. A few feet later, she rises over the edge where an eerie orange-red glow dances across her pert features.

After she slides on her ass back to my side, her nails dig into my shoulders. “Are. You. With. Me?”

“Yeah. Mostly.” The explosion triggered my dammed PTSD, and it sucks. I thought I was done with that.

Eyes soft, her hands slip up my neck to cup my cheeks. “Can. You. Hear. Me?”

“A little.” Hopefully, the blast didn’t blow out my eardrums.

This time, she shouts, “The Ferrari’s toast. Dante’s going to be pissed.”

At the mention of our current employer, a bunch of memories slam into my brain at full speed.

Our vacation. The Ford. The crash. The manure. The stranger. A flip phone.

Leaning forward, I tug Lillian to my lips, devouring her like a man who just escaped death. When we break apart, I take a deep breath and stare into her eyes, wondering how the fuck I got so lucky.

“Babe?” My brows rise.

“Yeah?” she answers.

“The next time I suggest we stay one more night, no arguments. Okay?”

She grins, tugs my shirt collar, then yells close to my ear. “Depends. Exactly how many ex-girlfriends want you dead?”

Chapter 2

Lillian Fisher Boyle

Ass deep in the murky ditch water, I cough out burnt tires, hair, and God-knows-what-all. When I can finally breathe, I call 911 again and answer their most important questions before interrupting.

“My fiancé’s thigh is spurting blood. I mean, a lot. We applied pressure, but it doesn’t seem to be working.”

“Is he wearing a belt?” she asks.

“No.”