Page 11 of Beast

Her shoulders slumped. “Oh, okay. I hoped I could hang out for a bit.”

Kickass. Maybe I’d read her wrong and she was up for another round. Maybe she even could look past my face. “Okay. You want some pizza?”

She hopped out of bed, and I stared at her naked ass as she walked into the bathroom. This chick was fine as all hell. She looked like a movie star—she definitely didn’t want to date a guy who looked like the Terminator.

When she came out of the bathroom, I handed her a T-shirt of mine, hoping that when she finally grew sick of looking at me, she’d leave it behind and her scent could comfort me for a few days.

God, when did I become so fucking pathetic?

That was easy—the night my face was blown up.

She went into the living room, slipped on her panties, and sat down on the sofa.

I warmed up some slices of Round Table pizza. The silence was awkward. I shouldn’t have told her my fucking name. Now she’d probably interrogate me and I’d have to relive that night. Not that I could ever forget it—it played on an endless loop in my head.

I sat down next to her and handed her a plate.

Her lips widened into a smile. “Thanks. So, just wanted to tell you not to worry about what happened at the party. I’m a psych major, and I want to apply for a doctoral program in clinical psychology after I graduate. I’m a really good listener if you want to talk.”

Great. I fucked a shrink. Well, a future shrink. This chick wanted to lay me down on a sofa and instead of riding my cock, force me to confess my deepest sins. Most women tried to fix men anyway, but this woman was going to school for that shit. I didn’t need her to pity me.

“I’m good. Talking never solves anything.”

She pursed her lips, and I turned away when I caught her staring at my face. “I disagree.”

My breathing accelerated, and I could feel my pulse quicken. “Yeah? Well, you don’t have a fucking clue what you’re talking about. All the shrinks I’ve met do nothing but try to numb me on drugs. This one jackass told me that I should just get over my friend dying, treat his death like a bad breakup with a girlfriend. Fuck that dude. I have shrapnel from my buddy’s skull embedded in my neck and my fucking psychiatrist thinks I should just get the fuck over it?”

She inched over to me on the sofa and placed a cautious hand on my thigh. I liked the way she touched me. She stroked my forearm, and I imagined her stroking my cock.

“Your therapist was clearly incompetent. But there are treatments that work,” she said, her tone warm and soothing. “I just read a study that Transcendental Meditation really helps people with PTSD.”

“Sounds like some quack hippy bullshit to me.” I glared at her. “Fucking you was the best therapy I’ve had in months.”

She bit her lip and removed her hand from my thigh.

“Hey, I’m sorry.” Man, I shouldn’t have said that. My grandma would whip my ass if she ever heard me talk to a girl like that. These days I’d lost my impulse control. The sooner Isa realized that I’d become a complete asshole, the sooner she would leave.

But I wanted her to stay.

“It’s okay.”

We finished our food in silence.

“So are you getting out of the Marines?”

“I don’t want to, but I’m pretty fucked up, so I’ll probably get forced out—it’s for the best. I don’t wanna be some fucking POG stuck at a desk, a twenty-year staff sergeant.”

Her brow crinkled. “I don’t understand. What’s a POG? I thought you were a sergeant?”

I’d forgotten how to talk to civilians. “Person Other than Grunt. I am a sergeant. I meant that being a scout sniper was the only thing I ever wanted to do. I’d been selected for sniper course, but because I lost my eye, I’m ineligible. So I’m nothing but a grunt.”

Grunt, that’s who I was.

A warrior.

A motherfucking beast.

“Oh. Well, you can do anything now. You’re a hero. Go to college, go on one of those cheesy reality shows, write a war memoir . . .” Her voice trailed off.