01.0 Soldier On Page 2

  And I can’t forget the kiss.

  I’ve had dreams about that kiss. Fantasies, really. So the fact that I haven’t been able to find her is sort of pissing me off.

  The professor assigns the first five chapters of The Silence of Lambs, and the class groans appropriately.

  Five chapters? I wonder if I can get away with just watching the movie again.

  I make a mental note to check Netflix just as a flash of brown catches my eye in the front row.

  No way.

  She’s facing the teacher, so it’s impossible to tell. I stare at the back of her head, hoping she’ll feel the heat of my gaze and turn around.

  Then she does.

  Our eyes lock, and I can’t believe how pretty she is. Or that she’s sitting here, in my Women’s lit class.

  Cosmic coincidence for the win.

  “I love that movie,” she mouths.

  Movie?

  I must look confused, because she points at her shirt. I glance down at my own. Pictured on the front is Mandy Patinkin, circa 1987, with the immortal words ‘Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya,’ printed along the bottom.

  I’m so happy to see her that I’m ready to just rip the shirt over my head and give it to her . . . but that’d probably be a little weird. Instead, I mouth “thanks,” and we keep grinning at each other until she turns back toward the professor.

  Disappointment floods me. Does she even recognize me? Granted, my costume that night wasn’t very creative. It was a last minute invite, so I just grabbed what was handy, but maybe the black face paint was too much of a disguise.

  Or maybe she hasn’t been thinking about me at all.

  The thought makes me a little nuts, so I dismiss it and spend the rest of class staring at the back of her head and wondering how I’m going to properly introduce myself.

  But when the teacher dismisses us, the girl is out the door and gone.

  38, 39, 40 . . .

  My life has become a series of numbers, and today’s magic number is 42.

  Sweat rolls and my biceps burn while I grit my teeth and growl through the pain. Forty-two push-ups in two minutes is the minimum, and for my father, the minimum isn’t good enough. It’s nowhere near good enough.

  44, 45, 46 . . .

  Rigid back. Body straight.

  Discipline. Strength.

  But I’m too exhausted. Too frustrated. And I collapse against the cold ground before rolling over onto my back. With my chest heaving, I cover my eyes with my arm to shield the sun’s glare.

  “You’re never going to pass that fitness test if you don’t get your shit together.”

  My father’s words echo in my ears. It was his way of pushing me. Molding me into what he always wanted to be.

  The sweat dries on my face, making me shake despite the warmth of my hoodie. I do a few sit-ups to warm up before leaping to my feet.

  And then I run.

  It’s my favorite thing to do when I’m stressed out or can’t concentrate. Which is why earning the max score on my two mile run will be no problem at all, because running is all I’ve done lately.

  My focus is shot, and I know she’s the reason.

  There’s an outdoor track surrounding the football field, but I prefer to run on a wooded path just off campus. The rocky terrain leads straight uphill, which does more to build my endurance and strength than any number of push-ups could ever do. At the top of the hill is Rainbow Rock, a gray slab of granite that is decorated with names in various shades of ink and paint. Writing your name on the rock is a student tradition and something I’ve always planned to do but just haven’t done.

  With graduation just a few months away, I’ll have to remember to do it soon.

  I don’t even bother to check my running time when I reach the top of the hill. I know it’s good. It’s always good. I just collapse on the ground and lean back against the rock, taking in the view. You can see the entire campus from here, and it looks nice, but nothing compares to home.

  I miss Eastern Kentucky. A lot. And I miss my family. Going home for Christmas was great, but it’s never long enough. It just makes me miss it more. And graduation won’t help. While most graduates will be enjoying their last summer of freedom before starting their careers, I’ll be headed to Georgia for three months of training.

  If I can pass the fitness test.

  Maybe it was a good thing the girl disappeared right after class. Now that I know she wasn’t a figment of my imagination, maybe I can get my shit together and focus on my training schedule. Maybe those brown eyes won’t haunt my dreams at night.

  Maybe.

  “Dude, you’re missing the game!” Mark yells as I close the door behind me. The rest of my roommates barely acknowledge me. Their eyes are glued to the big screen television, cheering for Indiana.

  We don’t have a couch, but we have a sixty-inch plasma screen.

  Priorities.

  I can tell by their mood that Indiana is winning. The opponent isn’t important—at least not to me. I know it’s not Kentucky, so I don’t care.

  “Went for a run,” I tell him, but his attention is back on the basketball game.

  I shrug and kick my way through the dirty clothes and pizza boxes before heading to the shower. While living with a bunch of guys is good practice for the future, it isn’t the ideal situation for a college student who actually needs to sleep at night. Our apartment is party central, which sucks for me but is the best I can do for now. Vince, my best friend, graduated in December and our apartment was just too expensive without a new roommate. When Mark suggested I move in here, I thought it was the perfect plan—until I realized I’d be sharing the space with four other guys. I’m grateful for the bed, so I don’t complain.

  After my shower, I decide to call my sister. Christian is four years older than me and practically raised me after our mom disappeared. She’s a real mom now, with two little girls named Lucy and Lily, who call me Uncle Brandon.

  It’s weird.

  But it’s also cool.

  Christian answers on the first ring. She sounds tired, and I tell her so.

  “Of course I’m tired,” she replies. “I am a single mother of five-year-old twins. I am the epitome of tired. What’s your excuse?”

  “How do you know I’m tired?”

  “Because I know you.”

  She asks about school, and I ask about home. Not much changes in Applewood, our little coal-mining town deep in the hills of eastern Kentucky, but I ask anyway.

  “Another mine closed today,” Christian says. “Our town is dying and nobody seems to care. You’re smart not to come home after graduation, Brandon. There’s nothing here.”

  “I’m not smart. I’m obligated. There’s a difference.”

  “But you’re happy to be obligated. I’m just . . . stuck.”

  “I thought you loved being a nurse?”

  “I do, but my shift never ends,” she says, sighing tiredly. “I am now a nurse, twenty-four hours a day. Combine all that with the girls, and I’m just drained. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally.”

  My guilt runs deep. She’s way too young to carry this much weight on her shoulders. I should be doing more to help her.

  “I want to help, Chris.”

  “You can. Just keep doing what Dad always tells us to do.”

  “Soldier on,” I whisper.

  It’s our family slogan, my dad’s personal mantra, and the phrase that echoes in my brain during my grueling training exercises.

  “Stay focused. Stay determined. Follow your dream. Visit occasionally. Call me when you can. But live your life. That’s what Dad would want. That’s what I want. That’s what you can do for me.”

  I smile in spite of my heavy heart. “How is he?”

  “Today was a good day. He got a little agitated this afternoon when I told him he couldn’t take the girls fishing. He’d forgotten it was January.”

  “So the memory lapses are getting worse.”

  “It just
depends on the day. There are times he’s as lucid as ever. Other days, he can’t remember what he ate for breakfast. I made roast beef tonight, though. That made him happy.”

  My stomach growls in response, reminding me I forgot to eat.

  “Well, that’s because your roast beef is the best. Think he’s in the mood to talk?”

  “He’s sleeping. So are the twins. Which means a very large glass of wine and a bubble bath are calling my name.”

  We say goodnight, and I set the alarm on my phone before climbing into the twin bed. For my six-foot-two frame, it’s definitely not the best of sleeping arrangements, but again, I’m just grateful to have a place to crash.

  My stomach growls again, but I’m too tired to care. I try to get comfortable and pull the blanket a little closer, but sleep doesn’t come easily. My mind is too full of . . . everything. Family. School. Obligation.

  Her.

  And like always, her brown eyes are the last thing I see before I finally drift off to sleep.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Stephanie

  “Did you see the hook on that?” Xavier is practically jumping on the sofa.

  “Yes, baby,” Tessa says, rubbing his shoulder. “Amazing shot.”

  I roll my eyes at both of them before reaching for another cookie. We all love Hoosier basketball, and I’m thankful that my friends never make me feel like the third wheel whenever we watch the games together. Tonight, however, I’m just not feeling it.

  At least the cookies are good.

  “What’s with you?” Xavier asks. “IU is beating Purdue by twenty.”

  I shrug. “It’s just not the same with Zeller gone to the NBA.”

  Tessa snorts. “Oh, don’t listen to her. This has nothing to do with the game. She’s been grouchy ever since that New Year’s Eve party.”

  “I have not!” Have I?

  “Yes, you have. And it’s perfectly understandable. If I’d been kissed by a hot guy at midnight—and I had no idea who he was and if I’d ever see him again—I’d be a grouch, too.”

  “What guy?” Xavier asks.

  “Steph was kissed by some gorgeous G.I. Joe at midnight in the frat house library. Walked right up to her, kissed her, and then walked right out.”

  He turns to me with a confused expression on his face. “Frat houses have libraries?”

  “This one does, and you might have known that if you’d explored other places in the house besides a bedroom.”

  Xavier smirks at his girlfriend. “You’re right, this is about a guy.”

  “I know, right?”

  Kill me.

  He turns back to me. “So, G.I. Joe, huh?”

  “He is not G.I. Joe. His costume was just camouflage and a lot of face paint.”

  “Like a soldier?” Xavier laughs loudly. “That’s gotta suck for you. I mean, I know how much you hate them.”

  “It was just a costume, and I do not hate soldiers. Just the military in general.”

  “I don’t see the difference.”

  I’m just about to explain the difference to him when Tessa suddenly jumps up. “Okay, I’m going to get more cookies. Does anyone need more milk?”

  I take a deep breath. What should have been a fun night has turned into something serious and depressing, and I’m far too exhausted to deal with it. I stand up and toss the remote to Xavier.

  “Actually, I’m going to skip the rest of the game and do some homework. Love you both.”

  “We love you, too,” Tessa replies.

  Xavier nods in agreement before shoving another cookie into his mouth.

  I head to my room, where I send a quick hello text to Mom before snatching the worn paperback copy of The Silence of the Lambs off the shelf. I’ve read the book a dozen times, but if we’re expected to read the first five chapters and write an analysis, I’m going to have to refresh my memory.

  But instead of reading, all I can think about is him.

  The guy in class was definitely cute, with his broad shoulders and cropped hair. Something about him made me want to smile back, so I did. It was only when his smile brightened that I noticed the dimples on his cheeks.

  Dimples have always been my weakness.

  Unfortunately, he’s not the guy from the party who has set up permanent residence in my head.

  Not that it matters.

  I don’t have time to find either of them interesting, even if one is a great kisser and the other loves The Princess Bride.

  With a dejected sigh, I open my paperback and flip to chapter one.

  By the end of the first week of classes, I’m completely stressed out and sleep deprived. Thankfully, it’s Friday, and that means and I get to spend the rest of the afternoon in my favorite building on campus.

  When it comes to part-time jobs, I really can’t think of a better gig than working in the library. When I’m not checking-out or shelving books, I have all the time in the world to study. I’ve spent the last half-hour reading, but the twisted mind of Hannibal Lecter is too psychologically stimulating for someone running on three hours of sleep.

  Giving up, I toss the paperback into my bag and search for a book cart. Shelving books is boring, but there are days when mindless productivity is exactly what I need.

  Today is one of those days.

  I roll the cart toward the Dewey Decimals. Glancing at the spine of the first volume, I look up to find its proper home on the shelf.

  Of course, I’ll need the ladder.

  This stepladder is barely four feet off the ground and not nearly as fun as the last one. The memory of that night makes me smile as I climb.

  Concentrate, Steph.

  I’ve just placed the book on the shelf when my foot slips, causing my ankle to twist and the ladder to sway.

  “Oh, sh . . .”

  My curse is interrupted by my scream, and I tumble onto the floor, landing flat on my back. I groan as students rush to my rescue.

  “Call 911!” a student yells.

  “Do not call 911,” I mutter.

  I try to struggle to my feet, but my ankle protests, and I bite my lip before falling back onto the floor.

  My stomach flips, and I close my eyes.

  Please don’t let me vomit in front of all these people.

  Suddenly, I feel a pair of gentle hands framing my face. I open my eyes, and I’m greeted with dimples. And now that his face is inches from mine, I see he has gorgeous brown eyes to match his sexy dimples. Brown eyes that are so very, very familiar.

  He smiles. “What is it with you, me, and ladders?”

  Ladders. Brown eyes. Dimples.

  Could it be?

  “We really have to stop meeting like this,” he says.

  It could be!

  “Did you hit your head?”

  Did I? That would explain why I’m hallucinating at the moment. I mean, could the dimpled guy from my lit class be the same guy from the party? And am I the biggest idiot in the world for not making the connection?

  “You look a little dazed,” he says softly, his voice filled with concern. “I’d feel a lot better if you’d say something.”

  My laugh is shaky. “Sorry. And no, I didn’t hit my head. Just my ass.”

  “What hurts?”

  “My ankle.”

  “Can you sit up?”

  “I . . . think so.”

  “Let’s try.”

  He wraps his strong arms around me, helping me sit up so that I can rest my back against the bookshelf. I look around, and I’m grateful to see the little crowd of onlookers has disappeared.

  He reaches for my shoe, and I wince in anticipation.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m going to look at your ankle.”

  “Are you a doctor?”

  “No, but I play one on TV.”

  “Seriously?”

  “No. I just thought it was the natural thing to say.”

  I smirk. “Well, you are not touching my foot. It’s just a sprain.
I’ll go home and take something for the pain. It’ll be fine.”

  “Are you always this stubborn?”

  “Yes, actually.”

  He laughs, and it’s soft and sweet. “You should probably go to the student health center. Or the ER.”

  “Not happening.”

  “Okay. Will you at least let me take you home?”

  “I am not getting into a car with you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t even know your name.”

  “That didn’t seem to bother you when you kissed me on New Year’s Eve.”

  Excuse me?

  “What are you talking about? You kissed me.”

  “That’s not how I remember it at all.”

  “Well, then, your memory needs a little work.”

  “Fine. You can jog my memory while I drive you home.”

  Normally, I would have refused his offer. I pride myself on being strong, independent, and yes, a little stubborn. But he’s cute. So much cuter without the face paint and head-to-toe camouflage. Not to mention, he has dimples, likes The Princess Bride, and gave me a midnight kiss that still curls my toes whenever I think about it.

  I think about it a lot.

  “Okay, you can drive me home . . . on one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Tell me your name.”

  He smiles brightly and tips his imaginary hat.

  “How do you do, ma’am. My name is Brandon Walker.”

  Despite my throbbing ankle, I laugh.

  “I’m Stephanie James.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Stephanie James. Let’s get you home.”

  “Okay, but I’ll need to call Ms. Maria.”

  “Maria?”

  “The librarian. She’s at a faculty meeting. And I need to get my backpack. It’s behind the counter.”

  “Okay.”

  Brandon climbs to his feet and places his arms around me. Before I can protest, he gently lifts me off the floor.