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Breathing in the rain-scented air, Gray knew he was teetering on the edge, one slippery step away from hitting rock bottom. And the idea of leaving all this behind once and for all began to sound better and better. Maybe after another beer, he’d find the guts to finally do something about it.
Pushing his large frame up from the lawn chair, he decided to get that sixth beer and see where it would lead him. No man—or beer—left behind. The concept would’ve been amusing if he hadn’t been forced to actually leave his own team in that goddamn jungle. He shoved the screen door open and it squeaked on its hinges before slamming shut behind him. The trailer was small and slowly falling apart because Gray couldn’t be bothered with fixing anything. He just didn’t care anymore. About anything.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He cared about the last friend he had left—Zane “Banshee” Hawkins. They’d hit it off right away during BUD/S and that had only been the beginning. Going through the grueling training bonded them in a way he’d never experienced before. Through all the ups and downs, they’d had each other’s backs, looking out for each other in every way. Being a SEAL created a brotherhood that others couldn’t understand unless they wore the Trident.
After cracking open a fresh beer, he took a long swig then set it on the edge of the counter. His gaze landed on his cell phone and he reached for it, on the verge of calling Zane…then let his hand drop back down to his side again.
Asking for help had never been his strong suit. Besides, unlike him, his friend had a life, a great intelligence job and probably a girlfriend or two. Despite the prevailing stereotype men with his higher-than-average IQ and crazy talent for hacking carried, Zane never had a problem with the ladies.
Not that Gray did, either, but that was back in his heyday. Before everything went to shit. Since losing his team a year ago, the last thing on his mind was getting laid. Now he was more concerned about trying to make it through the day and avoid the nightmares that inevitably came nearly every night.
The night terrors were another reason he hadn’t brought a woman home. The humiliation of waking them both up in the middle of the night with his screams was more than he could stomach.
Raking a hand through his military-short brown hair, Gray squeezed his eyes shut and was immediately assaulted by images of his teammates being hunted down in that goddamn jungle. Shutting them down before the memories became too intense, he absently rubbed the scar on his arm again and his gaze fell on the framed picture of his team.
Grabbing the beer, he walked over to the bookshelf and stared at his fallen brothers. They’d been part of Gold Squadron, referred to themselves as Knights or Crusaders, and identified themselves by their unique logo, a golden lion with a trident tail. They’d all gotten tattoos one drunken night and proudly sported the image somewhere. Gray’s roaring lion was on his upper right biceps.
He’d added more ink not long after losing them—a bonefrog. The black skeletal frog on the back of his shoulder was a sacred and iconic image in the SEAL teams and honored those SEALs who made the ultimate sacrifice in defense of country and freedom.
What a crazy, dysfunctional, yet perfectly well-oiled machine they’d been. Always joking around and having fun when they weren’t out taking down the bad guys and helping make the world a safer place.
Christ, he missed them.
“Fuck,” he hissed. The loss hit him like a freight train all over again and no matter how much time passed, it never felt like it was getting any better or easing. And tonight, the guilt and nightmares were becoming too damn much to bear.
Gray downed the rest of his beer, still not even feeling a buzz, and looked up in the mirror hanging on the wall. His golden amber eyes were haunted. Almost supernatural in the dim glow of the lamp.
His SEAL nickname had been Demon because he’d been so obsessed with the Dodge Demon that he wouldn’t shut up about it. It was his dream machine, and he could rattle off every fact about the muscle car. Still loved the damn thing, but owning one was a pipe dream. Over time, the moniker took on a deeper meaning. His teammates had always joked that he should breach every building first because his glowing amber eyes would scare the shit out of their enemies. Maybe they’d think he was possessed and take off before he consumed their very souls.
Sometimes, Gray did feel possessed. Held by a memory that wouldn’t release its claws on his soul.
Setting the empty bottle on an end table, he suddenly knew what he was going to do. And live or die, he’d accept the consequences.
Swiping up the key to his motorcycle, he walked outside, splashed through puddles and pulled the tarp off his Kawasaki Ninja. He needed to exorcize the demons torturing him tonight and what better way to do that than take a demon ride?
He’d done it before, but not after six beers and during a rainstorm. It seemed fitting, though, since the outside weather matched his inner turmoil. And, at this point, the truth was he didn’t fucking care anymore.
Habit had him put his helmet on, but he didn’t secure the strap as he started the bike and blinked through the falling rain. The drops stuck to his lashes and quickly soaked through his t-shirt as he revved the engine before blasting away into the darkness, spraying up rocks and dirt in his wake.
It was hard to see, but the rain seemed to be easing up as he made his way over to nearby Tuna Canyon Road. Among the many narrow canyon roads in the Santa Monica Mountains, Tuna Canyon was infamous for its narrowness and difficult sharp turns. Locals said it was the place where Satan and his twenty-nine virgins lived. Whatever the hell that meant.
Nowadays, the younger generation who drove down the treacherous one-way street as fast as possible called it “canyon carving.” But a demon ride was an entirely different animal, its basic requirements that it took place at night and in total darkness.
Gray flipped his headlights off, revved the engine, then accelerated, damn near ripping the asphalt off the road. His soul mourned his lost brothers, and no amount of danger or speed would end his suffering. But it might possibly end him and, at that moment, he hoped it did.
He had seventy turns to take in the next four miles, almost fifteen hundred feet above sea level, and in total blackness. The one-way road was precarious enough in the daylight with its twists, turns, steep drop-offs and lack of guard rails. But add in the wet road, and that took it to a whole new level of danger.
Suicide, really. But tonight he had a death wish. So whatever happened in the next four miles before he hit the Pacific Coast Highway was his destiny.
Tearing blindly around one curve after another, tilting the bike precariously, Gray drove far faster than anyone in their right mind would. But it had been a long time since he’d had a clear head and, hell, he’d probably always been a little mad.
The melancholy moon above, barely a sliver, offered him the faintest light as he cruised down the steep, winding hill far too fast. A rock wall towered high on his right and a sheer drop with no guard rail teased his left. A sharp hairpin turn was coming up fast and Gray leaned to the side, so low he nearly skimmed the ground with his knee. A sharp rock bounced up and hit his face, but he welcomed the sting.
More than halfway through the ride, he pushed harder and each time he hit a brief straightaway, he increased his speed. Maybe he was just punishing himself for being the only one who survived the massacre that happened in that Colombian jungle. Because if he truly wanted to end things, he could simply drive off the edge of the mountain.
Perhaps the possibility that Gray might still have something left to live for, a reason why he hadn’t died beside his brothers, burned in the back of his mind. Did he still have a purpose, some reason why he’d been spared?
Gray had never been one to believe in signs, but right now he needed one. Desperately.
