Page 12 of Beast

Fuck that. Why was everyone nagging me to go to college? I wasn’t a dumbass, and I didn’t need a goddam degree to prove that I was smart.

I hated reality television. My buddies gave their lives for our freedom and no one remembered their names. Yet these asshat celebrities posted selfies of themselves licking donuts and wearing American flags and were treated like gods.

As for writing a book, that sounded worse than therapy. I never wanted to be a public figure. The last thing I wanted to do was to have the details of my fucked up childhood exposed for the whole world to read.

“I’m not cut out for college because I can’t remember shit with my brain injury. And actually, a producer asked me to be on that dumbass dance show—Dancing under the Stars. I guess every year they try to get some fucked up vet to compete, to balance out all the fame whores. I told him I’d rather go back to Iraq.”

She closed her eyes for a second, a pained look on her face. “Don’t blame you. I hate that show. It’s so fake.”

Her tone sounded bitter, but it was refreshing to meet a girl who didn’t seem to be obsessed with celebrities.

“And I’ve had several agents and writers hassling me about writing a book, but I can’t write and I don’t trust anyone with my story. So that’s never going to happen.”

Her mouth gaped, as if she wanted to say something else, but instead she just took another sip of her beer.

This sucked. I didn’t want some chick telling me what to do, trying to inspire me. I yearned to take care of a woman, have her need me, not the other way around. “Why do you want to be a shrink? You must be pretty messed up—all the shrinks I’ve met had some serious issues.”

She shifted in her seat and stared toward my balcony. “My mom died four years ago. I went through a really rough time, so studying psychology helped me.”

Fuck, I was being a complete dick. I wasn’t used to people being this open with me. Most girls just blew smoke up my ass. Even so, Isa clearly saw me as a project, someone to fix. Not as an equal. Not as a man. Definitely not as potentially her man.

“Sorry about your mom. My dad left before I was born, and then my mom abandoned me—I haven’t seen her in years, though she must think I’m rich because she keeps trying to contact me ever since I got my medal. My grandparents raised me.”

She nodded, and I could almost see her mind racing, creating some kind of psychological profile of me, pieced together from her knowledge of my actions that led to my Medal of Honor, the flashback she witnessed, my scarred face and body, and the brief tidbits I’d just offered.

Enough. This session was over.

I turned on the TV, landing on a channel airing the Country Music Awards. I didn’t want to talk anymore, but I didn’t want her to leave.

I never wanted to go out anymore—I’d become a recluse, holed up in my own world, alone with my demons. I’d only left tonight because I could go in costume, and look how that turned out.

Even so, I felt comfort in sharing our silence. After a few more songs, I knocked back my beer and knelt in front of her.

I lifted the T-shirt off of her body and just stared at her, sitting on my sofa in nothing but her black lace panties. Her cheeks were flushed; her breasts were soft and round, real. Her nipples looked like ripe cherries.

Her gaze focused on my face. She reached her hand out to touch my skin, and I recoiled.

“No, let me look at you,” she whispered.

Fuck it; I wanted to get laid again, so I’d do whatever it took. If she wanted to examine me like some sort of circus side-stage attraction, I’d let her. Her soft fingertips traced my flesh, the charred remains of my ear, my scarred body.

“Can you see well? I mean, is your vision okay?”

“I see perfectly. I see your soft lips, I see your hard nipples, I see your trimmed pussy.”

Her face turned pink. Guess she wasn’t used to a man talking to her like that.

Enough of this bullshit. My hand grasped her neck, and our mouths met, my tongue probing her mouth. She made the sweetest little groan—less of a sigh, more like a purr. My cock became even harder, and my mouth focused on her nipples. I took one into my mouth, sucking, teasing, and my hand worked its way down her incredible body. Her belly was taut yet soft. I pressed on the fabric of her panties, her warm flesh slick with wetness.

A wicked smile graced her face, and she spread her legs wide, so fucking wide I was impressed. She was flexible as fuck. My mind filled with images, thousands of different positions I could fuck her in. I quenched that thought—this would probably be just another one-night stand.

But the night was not over yet. I rubbed her clit, and she writhed under my hand but kept her eyes focused on my face. Why? Why would she want to look at me? Did it get her off to examine my wounds? I didn’t need a pity fuck. I flipped her on the sofa and pulled her panties off.

She gasped but pressed her ass backwards.

“Don’t fucking move.” I sprinted to retrieve another condom.

When I returned, she was in the same position—her curvaceous booty propped right up in the air. She gave me a coy glance over her shoulder.