Rev (Jack 'Em Up #4) Read online

  The Cupid Chronicles

  Inked by an Angel: Book I

  The Halo Effect: Book II

  Wounded Wings: Book III

  Cupid’s Last Stand: Book IV

  Charlie’s Angel: A Novella

  Standalones

  Elvis is a Keeper

  Circle of Redemption: A Tre Donne Anthology

  Jack ‘Em Up

  Burnout: Prequel (Blake and Delilah: The Beginning)

  Crank: Book I (Blake and Delilah)

  Torque: Book II (Jesse and Rachel)

  Hitched: A Jack ‘Em Up Wedding (Jesse & Rachel continued)

  Throttle: Book III (Trace and Tori)

  Rev: Book IV (Micah and Jewel)

  Coming Soon:

  Overdrive from the upcoming Special Forces: Operation Alpha Kindle World

  The Family Creed Series

  ***WARNING: This book contains content that may be triggers for anyone who has been abused or raped. Please read with caution.

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  I bear the wounds of battle.

  I suffer the scars of shame.

  A shell of the man I once was, I survive now only to honor my fallen friends.

  I have been hardened by war and fractured by guilt, but Jewel Jackson has found a way into my heart, and I’d die to protect her—even from myself.

  I have been hurt. My body and my spirit have been beaten down.

  I’m struggling to pick up the pieces.

  To have a life.

  To find my strength.

  So what am I to do with Micah Christian—the only man who’s ever truly threatened my heart?

  For you, my reader. Thank you for taking this journey with me.

  Also, to everyone who suffers with battle scars of any kind, you are remembered.

  Micah

  The nightmares were always the same. The ear-splitting boom of tank fire. The acrid smell of smoke. Blazing heat. The ominous whizz, then silence, then slam of RPGs. The staccato rat-tat-tat of machine gun fire ripping overhead. The sticky tastes of sweat and fear, coating my tongue. The utter and complete darkness. God, the darkness. A blacker than black, hopeless kind of darkness. The kind that promised you’d never return home.

  Grim Reaper darkness.

  Then the screaming.

  A primal noise. It is the truth of agony. The truth of terror. The truth of death.

  Men don’t scream like that, but I heard it, over and over and over, reverberating painfully through my skull, making me wish I had died, too.

  I woke up with my heart pounding, my muscles tight, my body drenched in sweat that smelled of panic and pain, the names of my fallen friends sealed on my lips, as if my mantra had the power to resurrect them from the grave. Yet, I am always alone, paying my penance in solitude. The way it should be.

  Today, as the last vestiges of the dream left me in a fog, I rolled to sitting and stared at the hazy light of morning that filtered into my tent. I’ve come to this isolated state park in a last-ditch effort to chase my demons away without an audience, but so far I’m failing miserably.

  I unzipped the tent flap and stepped out into the warmth of the late spring morning, stretching my arms up to the sun. My dog tags clanked across my chest and I gripped them in my fist. They lived shoved in my dresser drawer at home, but I dug them out this weekend, hoping that by some miracle, the bloody memories of Martinez and Franks would wash away and let me be.

  As I dug through my pack for a water bottle and granola, it hit me again that it was all a fantasy. How could I have peace when I didn’t deserve forgiveness?

  I was a murderer.

  That thought spurred me into action like a razor-edged whip. I took off in a dead run down one of the heavily wooded trails. I climbed up the slope of a rocky ledge to stare out at the Texas landscape. Beautiful in both its soft and hard edges, I was swallowed up, invisible, as I looked down at the sheer vastness of the earth. Sweat rolled down my face and beaded on my lip, my breathing ragged as I sucked in air.

  I had a few days left to sort my head out, but I was losing hope. I had great friends back home in Baybridge. Blake, Jesse, and Trace have been patient as my shit has crept up on me like a soul-eating fog. I’ve been a master of keeping a lid on things, but lately I’ve been screwing up and I ran away as it all came to a head. Small stupid mistakes at work. Forgetting to do things I’d promised. Dreaming of things I’d never have.

  My buddies were all happy and living the dream with wives and growing families, while I was stuck in the trenches of my bloody past. Alone.

  It was unfair to burden anyone with what I’d experienced, what I’d done. No one would look at me the same if they knew. I did not want their pity or their help. I just wanted peace. So I kept my head down, my mouth shut, my hands busy.

  Though I never divulged all the gory details to my VA shrink, even he knew I was barely holding up the weight of it all, desperate rage threatening to consume me much of the time. To survive, I faked it. I couldn’t speak of my true pain. I couldn’t touch the tattered pieces of history. I couldn’t relive it, other than what my brain forced me to, a hostage to my dreams.

  And, so, I ran.

  Dead branches cracked under my feet and a squirrel scurried away from me as I spun to head back to camp. Still weary, I made myself a sandwich. As I chewed, my mind drifted home. My friends were probably all snuggled up with their women, their children safe in their beds or playing in the yard. I could imagine cozy meals and the scents of home. Clean laundry, dinner simmering on the stove, those frilly candles the women loved.

  All I had to look forward to was my empty apartment. Nothingness to fill my nothingness.

  God, I was pathetic.

  I’d thought about ending it all probably a million times since coming home from Afghanistan. What good was half a man? Yet some elusive something, that I couldn’t quite pinpoint, kept me going. My family and friends? Sure. But I knew it was something more. A glimmer of hope that life didn’t have to be this way forever. That the blackness inside might give way to the light. That I’d find redemption and know it deep, deep in my bones.

  My cell phone dinged with a text. My first word from humanity in days. I dropped my half-eaten sandwich back in the bag and dug my phone from my backpack.

  Sorry to interrupt your “me time” . . . another girl was raped and now scared women are flocking the shop asking about your class. I thought you quit. What should I tell them?

  I frowned at Blake’s words. Some sick bastard was running around terrorizing women and I couldn’t figure out why they hadn’t caught him yet. I’d somehow been talked into teaching self-defense by my sparring partner’s wife, but I wished there wasn’t a need. I’d just as soon stay home and not have to interact with people. Women, really. Young, beautiful, blond women, in particular. It made my chest ache with a desire that was both foreign and painful. But, like everything else, I’d bottled that away and done my part to make Baybridge safer for the one blonde whose shy smiles and deep green eyes hinted at a pain as deep as my own. I could never have her, but I’d die to protect her.

  I punched out my reply without a second thought. I’m coming home.

  I got home late that night, exhausted, hungry, and my emotional tank on empty. Moving on autopilot, I let myself into my apartment and a wall of humidity smacked me in the face. I cranked the AC then took a long shower. After yanking on some basketball shorts, I padded to the living room and flipped on the TV. Not to watch it, but for the background noise. It eased the suffocating aloneness that filled my home.

  I downed a yogurt as I heated a
chicken breast in the oven, then I checked the messages on my cell I’d been avoiding.

  Blake: Everything OK dude?

  Jesse: Heard u cut ur trip short. Sorry. Call if u wanna talk

  My sparring partner, JD: Ten more women signed up for self-defense. You are coming back to teach right? Don’t let Kathy kill me because you wanna cancel

  JD again: Bro, seriously. Kathy is gonna kill me if you bail. No one else to teach

  Stephanie . . . I deleted hers before I read it. Dating her had been a mistake. No chemistry and she was beginning to show clingy tendencies. Nope.

  My heart froze then restarted with a painful thump as I read the next message.

  Hey Micah . . . it’s Jewel . . .

  Jewel.

  She barely talked to me, her shell nearly as impenetrable as mine. She acknowledged me out of courtesy to our mutual friends, that was all, but I couldn’t help the protective feelings she stirred in me. I also couldn’t stop my body’s reaction to her. But she was as out of reach as a falling star.

  And no less beautiful.

  Delilah gave me your number. I’m helping her plan a Fourth of July surprise party for Blake’s birthday and we wanted to be sure you’d be there. Next Friday, 7pm, their house. Can u make it?

  My eyes scanned her words. Reread them, searching for a deeper meaning.

  I wrote Blake and Jesse back first, letting them know I was home and everything was cool. I took my chicken out of the oven then answered JD.

  Yes I’ll teach more classes. Sign them up. Can’t have the wife killing you

  Chewing, I contemplated Jewel’s message. Why hadn’t Delilah called or texted me herself? Didn’t matter. I had Jewel’s number now. Not that I’d do anything with it.

  Absolutely, I texted finally. I’ll be there

  I waited a moment, tripping over my own uncertainty. With fumbling fingers, I finally added, Thanks . . . can’t wait : )

  I shook my head. I never used emojis and definitely never smiley faces. Guess we could both draw our own conclusions as to what the hell that meant.

  Jewel

  I couldn’t believe I’d texted Micah. While I was naked.

  And he’d texted me back.

  I wrapped the towel tighter around my still dripping body and stared down at his reply. With a smiley face? I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen him smile in real life.

  I tossed the phone down on my stack of unfolded laundry and finished getting ready for bed. No, Micah had no idea about my state of undress, nor did he probably care, but my heart was slamming in my chest. This was honestly the closest I’d been to being naked with a man in . . . well, since Nolan.

  Barricading any and all thoughts of that time in my past, I slid into bed and reread Micah’s words. He was an enigma. A puzzle I’d love to solve. My cousin, Delilah, was married to one of his best friends, so we ran in the same social circles by chance. Well, maybe not ran. Waded. Pretended? I sensed a deep hurt in him, saw it reflected in the depths of his nearly black eyes. It was all I could do sometimes to keep from wrapping him up in my arms to protect him from whatever had wounded him so badly. Not that I would be much comfort. I was just as wounded. Ruined and running.

  Running for my life.

  Another girl had been raped, and being the local police sketch artist, I’d been given firsthand knowledge of his crimes, as well as the empty void of his eyes, by the women who’d had to stare into them as he violated their bodies. It rang a little too close to home.

  To steer my mind from those thoughts, I spent some downtime at work tinkering on the Internet, searching for forensic art classes. I found an online intro class as well as some night courses at a community college in the next town that would start in the fall. I tucked the info away and strolled out the precinct front door.

  Baybridge was the perfect place for me now. I had Delilah and her growing family, I’d made some friends, I had my own apartment, my independence. Why wasn’t I content? The happiness I longed for eluded me. Maybe Nolan had stolen that from me forever.

  No.

  I refused to believe that.

  I waved at Officer Varga, who strode my way with a big grin on his face. “Morning, Jewel.”

  “Good morning, Roberto.”

  He took his time walking over, eventually settling onto the bench next to me. “How’s it going?”

  “Good.” I fumbled with my cell phone in my lap. I could never tell if he was flirting with me or just being nice. My self-esteem had been bruised, but not eradicated, though I constantly heard Nolan’s words on an endless loop in the back of my brain.

  Guys don’t date girls as big as you, Jewel. I mean, look at you. You’re lucky I give you the time of day . . .

  “I’m sorry?” I snapped back to Roberto, hating the flush I knew was riding my cheekbones.

  His brows dipped momentarily then his face softened again. “I asked if you were going to the department picnic next weekend?”

  “Oh. I’m not sure. I may have plans.” Okay, I lied. I had no plans. I just didn’t want to be wrangled into another awkward social situation where I’d be on edge the entire time. My life had become all about baby steps.

  He nodded and stood, his pinkie brushing mine. “Well, I hope to see you there.”

  I watched him go inside and swallowed thickly. Maybe . . .

  My cell rang, yanking me from my thought. “Hello?”

  “Hey, sis.”

  My stomach uncoiled at my baby brother’s voice. One of my very favorite people. “Hi, John. What’s up?”

  “Does something have to be up for me to call my favorite sister?”

  “I’m your only sister.”

  “Semantics.”

  I laughed. “Yeah, well . . .”

  His infectious laughter filled the line. “Seriously. Nothing. I just wanted to say hi . . . and ask if I can crash at your place for a couple days next week?” His voice took on his infamous begging little brother tone that always sucked me in.

  “Why?”

  “Do I need a reason?”

  I waited, silent.

  “Fine. Kim and I broke up and I wanna lay low for a while. See my big sister. Maybe go to the beach.”

  I ignored most of that. “Why did Kim dump you? What’d you do?” Kim was seriously the most perfect girl for him. He must’ve done something idiotic.

  He harrumphed. “Why do you assume I did something?”

  “Jonathan Lucas Jackson. What did you do?”

  “Nothing.”

  Silence.

  “Okay, fine. We had a fight and I refuse to give in. I’m right this time.”

  “About what?”

  “She wants to get married.” His voice pitched low, a thin coating of pain lacing his words.

  I blinked, not sure I’d heard him right. They’d dated since high school. Marriage would seem the obvious next step. “And you don’t?”

  Sigh. “Yeah, sure. I guess. Maybe. Just not right now.”

  “Did you tell her that?”

  “Of course I did.”

  “And?”

  “And she said she’s tired of waiting.” When I didn’t reply, he hurried on. “It just doesn’t feel right, Jewel. Not now. Maybe not ever.”

  Instead of delving into the intimate details of my brother’s relationship that were none of my business, I agreed to let him come. Maybe he’d open up when he was here.

  “You’re the best!” He blew me a noisy kiss over the phone and we hung up.

  No, I wasn’t the best. Well, maybe the best doormat, but those days were over . . . and I was actually starting to believe that a little bit more each day.

  Micah

  Nothing more from Jewel. I felt like an idiot for hoping.

  Instead of worrying about it anymore, I got on with my life. Monday morning, I slugged down a muscle shake, hit the gym early with JD, where we sparred and made plans for my self-defense classes to restart on Tuesdays and Thursdays, then I headed in to the shop.

  Onc
e upon a time, Jack ‘Em Up Garage had been my home away from home. My very best friends were there, I could do work I was good at, and keep my hands busy while my mind spun. Trouble was, it was beginning to spin out of control and home was beginning to feel like a prison. The only freedom I felt anymore was sparring on a gym mat. There, it didn’t matter if flashes of Franks and Martinez blinded me along with the stinging sweat. I could beat the ugliness into submission. At least for a little while.

  “Mornin’,” Blake called, tipping his head toward a donut box. “Glad you’re back.”

  I grunted and bypassed the pastries to grab a water bottle. It was seriously a wonder these three didn’t keel over from heart attacks with the way they ate.

  He didn’t say more as I grabbed the folder of our accounts. He’d promoted me to assistant manager back before his daughter, Molly, was born so he could spend more time with the family. Now that he and Delilah had Declan as well, I’d taken on even more of the bookkeeping responsibilities.

  I flipped through the pages he’d printed while I was out, my eyes scanning the numbers. “Business picked up.”

  He leaned back and propped his feet on his desk. “Yeah. Got that Jag sold and picked up a sweet deal on a resto mod Barracuda. Jesse also had a couple bikes come in. Over all, it was a great week. Coulda used your help, bro.”

  My gaze slid up. “Sorry—”

  “Don’t apologize, man. We get it. Maybe someday you’ll tell us about it.”

  My face froze. I would not give away a sliver of my inner turmoil. I wasn’t that weak.

  Blake seemed to sense a chink in my armor. He slid his legs down and sat forward, his eyes serious. “You need to ease up on yourself, Micah. I’m not sure what happened in Afghanistan, but you came home a different man. I guess we shouldn’t have expected any different, but we’re your friends, dude. If you can’t trust us, then find someone to share your shit with. It’s obviously eating you alive.”

  I slapped the folder down on his desk and stood. I couldn’t speak. I didn’t know what to say. I yanked up the keys for the Caprice needing a tune-up and stalked out.