“Snipers don’t have to do a whole lot of socializing.”
“Good thing. ’Cause you suck at it.”
True. Probably another reason that Brody almost never got mail. He didn’t do relationships. Oh, the occasional weekend fling or a few dates, but no woman had been able to hold his interest longer than a leave lasted. Definitely not long enough to reach the letter-sending stage. Sure, his gramma sent a letter and cookies every month, something that still made him squirm a little. But nobody else wrote. Hell, everyone else he knew was navy. His team here on the ship, or his platoon back in Coronado.
He snatched up the letters, all four of them, and glanced at the package. Yep, cookies from Irene. He tossed her letter on top of the box to read later and thumbed through the others. His brow creased. They all had Bedford return addresses. Two he recognized.
“Letters from home?”
Brody lifted the two while frowning at the third. “Guys I used to run with. I didn’t know they could write.”
“And that one?” Blake asked, poking his finger toward the last, the one with the flowing feminine writing. “Girlfriend?”
“From Bedford?” Brody’s laugh held no humor. “Hardly.”
No need to say more than that. Once, on a drunken bender, Brody had shared the details of his first hitch in the navy with Blake. Since the lieutenant had about the same love for his hometown and the people there, he’d gotten it.
Blake, ever the Boy Scout, didn’t push the uncomfortable subject. Instead, he thumped his knuckles on the box he’d delivered.
“You bringing the cookies to Friday’s poker game?” he asked, referring to their monthly game whenever they were on base in Coronado.
“Without a doubt,” Brody confirmed. Irene’s snickerdoodles were worth a buck apiece; her macadamia white chocolate anted up for five. And her fudge brownies? Those babies were pure gold.
Blake handed the other guys their much bigger bundles of mail and, after warning Brody to stay out of trouble, left them to enjoy their letters from home.
And Brody to stare at his.
The only woman who’d ever written him was his grandmother.
Not because he avoided women. But letter writing was nowhere on the list of things he did with them. Nope, they were a sweeter treat than the box full of cookies sitting on Brody’s pillow. And they lasted about as long, too.
While Masters and Carter ripped through their mail, Brody looked at the envelope again.
Curiosity fought intuition. He wanted to know what woman’d be writing to him. But he had a strong feeling that opening that letter was gonna end up on his already-too-long list of things he regretted.
So he tossed it on his pillow, tearing open the one from Skeet Magee instead. It didn’t take long to skim the page. There were only a handful of sentences.
Shit.
He blew out a heavy breath, hoping it’d relieve some of the pressure suddenly pushing on his chest.
He hated death.
Brody stared at the wall, seeing nothing but a gray blur.
He’d served on dozens of missions in his five years as a SEAL. He’d killed, and he’d watched death. He’d lost buddies and he’d mourned. That was the name of the game. A simple fact every soldier, sailor and military personnel faced.
So why was this hitting him so hard?
Knowing who the third letter was from now, filled with even more reluctance than before, he lifted the slender envelope off his pillow. The soft scent of something flowery filled his senses. Whether it was the paper itself or just a memory, he didn’t know.
Sorta as though he was in a dream, Brody slid his nail under the flap, careful not to tear the writing. Wetting his lips, he took a breath and pulled out the letter.
Dear Brody,
I know it’s been a long time, and I’m sure I’m the last person you want to hear from. But I felt it was important that I write, that I let you know that we’ve lost Joe. He never quite made it out of that self-destructive cycle, and after you left town, he sank deeper into ugly gang activity. He was in San Quentin on robbery charges and got killed last month in a fight.
I know the two of you stayed in touch. I found your letters, a couple of photos, in Joe’s things.
Please, write me back.
It was like being sucked, unwillingly, into a pit of memories. None good, except the ones that involved tasting Genna. Brody didn’t deny his life before the navy. He wasn’t proud of it, but neither was he ashamed.
But Genna was more than just a specter from his past.
He didn’t think about her every day. He didn’t dream about her every night. He wasn’t that big of a sap. But he wasn’t a liar either.
He thought of her.
A lot.
Too much.
In the navy, he’d found his calling. He’d found his pride. He’d found himself.
And in a weird way, he had Genna Reilly to thank for it.
But he couldn’t.
It was easier to keep the door to the past closed. To try not to think about her, or everything that’d led up to his ignominious entry into the navy. Too much.
And now Joe was dead.
And Genna wanted him to write her back.
Why?
What the hell was there to say?
Why’d they have to kick that door open?
All of a sudden, fury like he hadn’t felt in years pounded through him.
“Genius, got something I can write with?”
Masters spun a pad of paper across the room, Frisbee-style. Brody caught the pen that followed, glaring at them both for a second before taking a breath.
He sketched out a short sentence. Then, still riding on a wave of anger he couldn’t explain, he shoved the paper into an envelope, used Genna’s as a reference to address it and licked it closed.
Then, ignoring his cookie ante and the other letters, he headed for the gym to beat the hell out of something. Anything. Sweat, hard work and pushing his physical limits had saved him before. Maybe it would again.
* * *
GENNA REILLY HATED DATING. Seriously hated it. She’d almost be willing to marry the next guy who asked just to never have to date again. Almost.
It wasn’t the
