Burned, p.1
Burned, page 1
Copyright © 2024 by S.M. REEVE
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by US copyright law.
Contents
Dedication
Glossary
1. Chapter 1
2. Chapter 2
3. Chapter 3
4. Chapter 4
5. Chapter 5
6. Chapter 6
7. Chapter 7
8. Chapter 8
9. Chapter 9
10. Chapter 10
11. Chapter 11
12. Chapter 12
13. Chapter 13
14. Chapter 14
15. Chapter 15
16. Chapter 16
17. Chapter 17
18. Chapter 18
19. Chapter 19
20. Chapter 20
21. Chapter 21
22. Chapter 22
23. Chapter 23
24. Chapter 24
25. Chapter 25
26. Chapter 26
27. Chapter 27
28. Chapter 28
29. Chapter 29
30. Chapter 30
31. Chapter 31
32. Chapter 32
33. Chapter 33
34. Chapter 34
35. Chapter 35
36. Chapter 36
37. Chapter 37
38. Chapter 38
Books in This Series
Connect
Special Thanks
To Art
Man of faith. Devoted husband. Loving father. You were an amazing soldier and an even better friend. My husband misses you every day.
Glossary
240 — Also known as the M240. The machine gun. Used for sawing things in half.
7.62 Round — A big-ass piece of ammo. The means by which a 240 saws things in half.
Echo — An unlucky son of a bitch that got talked into becoming an SF Communications Sergeant. Employs conventional and unconventional warfare tactics and techniques in communications.
KLE — Key Leader Engagement.
Ranger Panties — A legend among military apparel. Also known as Silkies, Action Pants, and The Daisy Dukes of Freedom.
Security Halt — Halt and make sure shit’s secure.
Soup Sandwich — Jacked up to a near-impossible degree.
Support Element — Stays in place and shoots at the enemy while the other element maneuvers.
Timed Demo — A timed demolition. Used when you want to be far away from the thing going boom.
RPG — Rocket-propelled grenade, or rocket launcher. Launches warheads, not grenades.
1
Anna glared at a blank screen, fingers drumming pointlessly on the keyboard. She pulled the comforter tighter around her shoulders and tucked it under her crossed legs, the piece of crap mattress she’d dropped two Gs on squeaking with her every move.
Spike,
You’ve been gone a whopping sixteen hours, and I’m already miserable. There were so many things I didn’t get to tell you before you left. For starters, did you know Aiden had some crazy theory you were in love with me? He actually stopped speaking to me because of it. But I’m guessing he had no idea you found the prospect of getting shot at more appealing than staying here. I wish he was still speaking to me—so I could tell him to suck it.
But he’s not. And now you’re gone, and I’m alone. I used to be fine being alone. Then you came along. Now I’m in bed, wearing your shirt, wishing you were here to take it off me. Hell, I just wish you were here.
Delete.
Spike,
I can’t believe you left me here. I should murder you. If you don’t end up getting shot, maybe I will. I promised to write you every day. Well, here’s day one. Suck it.
~A
The laptop clicked shut, and she set a reminder on her phone to pick up stamps. A finger traced the frayed hem of her tee, the one she’d been sleeping in since the day he brought her to look at this house. The one he’d given her as recompense for trying to drown her in the river, fully clothed.
She sighed and fell back on her pillow, arms stretching overhead. Chilled air blasted her in the armpit. She glared at the giant hole where a seam should be and snuggled deeper into the covers.
What kind of moron suggests buying a house without central heat? And what kind of bigger moron writes the check? In her defense, he’d been around to chop firewood then.
She beat her tear-stained pillow into a ball and turned on her side. A black nose popped up from the floor, Stray resting his chin on her mattress. Big brown eyes gazed into hers, and she scratched behind his ears. “You miss him too?” He whined and gifted her cheek with a slimy streak of slobber.
She hiked a shoulder, sleeve of her tee wiping away the drool, and rolled out of the covers. Her slippered feet scuffed across the hall, Stray trailing her heels to Spike’s room. She scowled at his neatly made bed and dragged a hand across the top of his spotless dresser. Drawer pulls rattled as she yanked open a drawer, and she gathered one of his shirts to her nose. A hint of pine and mulling spices lingered under the laundry detergent. Made her want to wrap him in a bow. Or drink him. She opened drawer number two. What do you know? More meticulously folded clothes.
She tugged off his old tee and pulled on a hoodie that stretched halfway to her knees. Flipping her hair from the neck of her newly claimed sweatshirt, she headed for the kitchen with one thought on her mind—
Today is going to suck.
Streetlamps flickered off as Anna pulled up outside her office. She stepped one foot out of the car, and a gust of wind caught her door, slamming it shut on her shin. “Son of a biscuit eater!” Her boot slammed into the door panel, kicking it open. She got out, kicked it shut, and then kicked it again for good measure. She turned her gaze to the sign creaking overhead and gathered the hair from her eyes, tucking it in her hood. A & D Detectives. Not very clever, but it was better than the original A & S Sleuths.
The door chimed, and she drew up short. Three young boys sat on her couch. “Uhhh, can I help you?” Six brown eyes widened. No one answered. Just stared, like freaked out triplets. Anna followed the hum of the vacuum to her office and shouted over the noise, “Rosa.”
Rosa’s toe tapped the pedal. “Sí?”
“Why are there three unripe humans in my waiting room?”
“Sorry, Miss Anna. School’s out, daycare is closed, and my husband is scheduled to work the day shift. I promise they won’t be any trouble.” She clasped her hands under her chin, plump cheeks making her eyes crinkle. “I told them to sit there and not make a sound.”
“Well, they’re doing a very good job. And stop calling me Miss Anna—it goes against my Southern sensibilities.” If anything, she should be calling her Miss Rosa, given the woman had a decade on her.
Anna flopped in her chair, wheels thumping across the ancient hardwood as she scooted toward her desk. She wiggled her mouse and clicked on her email, eyes glazing over as she read transcriptions from her messaging service. One hundred percent of them boring requests to dig up dirt on cheating spouses. This was her life now. The PI of Prenups. She clicked on the Compose button.
Spike,
Thought about crawling into your bed this morning. Wished you’d been in it.
Delete.
Spike,
Thanks for the new sign. Good call going with your first initial. A little boring, but at least our acronym is no longer ASS. Something else new, did you know Rosa has three kids? And she’s married? They’re in the waiting room. Just her boys. Not the husband. I’m watching them on the monitor, and they look petrified. Literally. Nothing moves but their eyes. I don’t know how they’re supposed to sit like that all day.
Work sucks without you.
~A
The vacuum’s roar died, and hushed curses came from the supply closet. The boys giggled, hands clamping over their mouths, and Anna leaned toward her door. “Rosa?”
Rosa’s head popped in her office. “Yes, Miss Anna?”
“Are your boys allowed to play video games?”
“Sí.”
Anna headed for the waiting room. “You boys like Call of Duty?” Their eyes locked on hers like homing beacons. “You can answer. I already asked your mom.”
Three mops of brown hair bobbed in unison.
“Follow me.” She led them to Spike’s office and flipped on the TV. The Xbox hummed. “There’s only two controllers, so you’ll have to take turns. Whoever’s not playing, feel free to make a mess in here. I’m talking next-level destruction. I’ll be in my office if you need anything.”
She crossed the hall, fell in her chair, and spun toward her computer. “Dah!” Her knee hit the bottom of her desk. One of the boys smiled from the seat across from her. “How the heck did you get in here so fast?”
The boy hiked his shoulders, eyebrows bunching into a question mark.
She rubbed the soon-to-be-bruise through her jeans. Why did the universe pick today of all days to screw with her? Like she wasn’t in a bad enough mood already. What was next? A round of purple nurple? She tucked her hands into her armpits, arms folding protectively over her chest. “Can I help you with something?”
He shook his head.
“Then what are you doing in here?”
“Mom always says Vicente and Diego get to go first since they’re the youngest.”
Youngest? By what, minutes? The kids looked identical. “Still doesn’t explain what you’re doing in here.”
He scratched at a red splotch on the back of his hand, toes of his swinging feet not quite grazing the carpet. “You’re pretty.”
Anna unfolded her arms. “You’re cute. How old are you?”
“Ten.” He sat up a little straighter.
“Felix!” A tiny male voice carried from down the hall. “It’s your turn. I just destroyed Diego.” Nothing like a little virtual murder to bring kids out of their shells.
Felix flashed an awkward wave and darted into the hall.
Spike,
Rosa’s kids are charming. Their names are Felix, Vicente, and Diego. Felix is ten and thinks I’m pretty.
~A
She hit print on the three emails she’d written since last night and headed for the post office.
Ten days later, her first letter came.
Dear Anna,
I’m writing this in the dark, so forgive the sloppy handwriting. I’ve been here six days, and this is the first time I’ve got my hands on pen and paper. This is gonna be a little short since I have no idea where these words are landing, but some things you need to know:
One, I miss you. Part of me hates myself for being here.
Two, you would make an awesome drill sergeant.
Three, this is easier than I thought. In every aspect other than being homesick—that part’s way worse.
Yesterday my bunkmate asked me how I was so good at this. I told him I’d been living with a drill sergeant for a year and a half, and she was crazy scary.
I’ll write you more soon. My eyelids are closing. Give Stray a belly rub for me.
Love, S
Anna pulled up her email.
Dear S,
Feel free to come home any time. I know going AWOL is for losers, but I’m rich, and we can start over on a tropical island. All I ask in return is that you rub me down in coconut oil and fan me with a palm branch … whilst in a speedo.
Delete.
Sorry you’re homesick. Maybe you should have thought about that before you ditched me.
Glad I could be of service, preparing you for this incredibly stupid decision you’ve made. I think Stray misses you. Either that, or he’s having a mental meltdown.
For example, I decided to deep clean the house today and stumbled upon a tiny piece of foam in the hallway. I picked it up and put it in the trash. I turn around, and there’s another piece of foam in the same spot. Then I go to put the sheets back on your bed, and there are all these holes in your memory foam topper. Stupid beast was taking chunks out of your mattress. And most of them were from the middle, which means he was being extra sassy by getting on your bed.
Apparently the dog can’t live without you.
~A
Seven emails after that, she ripped open her second letter, grumbling as she fell into her office chair. She had to write him every day, but he could only deign to write her once a week?
She never should have made that stupid promise.
Dear Anna,
My letter writing is a little out of practice, so I’m just going to tell you random things.
-We got in formation earlier and the “doctors” came by and jabbed us with needles like we were cattle.
- Everybody here has a countdown for everything. “This many days until our pass. This many days until we graduate. This many days until White Phase is over. 4 hours 13 min until dinner.” Our days revolve around meals.
-The word “fuck” is said every 5-7 seconds. (That’s probably a low estimate.)
-Being a squad leader sucks. I eat last and constantly have to babysit the teenage dumbasses. (I’ve eaten half a tube of toothpaste because I’m fucking starving.)
-I talk about you to whoever will listen.
-It’s almost lights out here.
-I want to punch the idiot next to me in the face.
Love, S
Maybe she’d cut him a marginal amount of slack. Eating was probably more important than writing a letter, and it didn’t sound like he had time to do that either.
Dear S,
My Saturday night also consisted of babysitting. Not really sure how it happened, but Rosa told me she and her husband haven’t spent time alone together since Diego was born, and I wound up with a house full of kids—woman’s sneaky. Most of the evening was spent helping Diego put together his Transformer. Which we had to take apart to put back together. It shouldn’t be called a Transformer then. It should be called the pain in the ass toy you can put together one way or take apart and put together another way.
Oh, and now our house smells terrible. The three of them were farting all night and laughing about it. I would have been laughing too, but I was trying not to breathe. It was that bad. But then my curiosity got the best of me, and I had to know “What’s your mom been feeding y’all?”
“Beans,” they all answered in unison. It was pretty cute.
I said, “That explains it.” And Vicente asked, “Beans make you fart?” To which my idiot reply was “You’ve never heard the song?”
“What song?”
“Beans, beans they’re good for your heart …” And I finished the whole song. The boys were laughing so hard they couldn’t speak. When they finally got their words back, they had me recite it about ten more times. I’m sure so they could go to school tomorrow and be like, “Look what my babysitter taught me.” Their mom is going to kill me.
~A
The days of spying on cheating spouses passed monotonously by. Why couldn’t she be a voyeur? Her job would be so much more interesting.
Dear Anna,
We got smoked yesterday b/c of this dumbass in my platoon. We were sitting on the ground after a delightful lunch of MREs, and two SGTs walked by, one male, one female. Well this fucking rocket scientist whistles as they pass us. You can’t speak to the opposite sex here, much less whistle at them. We’ve had numerous classes on it. So we were forced to do a thousand push-ups. We get done and this kid comes up to me and says, “Hey man, what kind of workouts were you doing before you got here? You’re cut the fuck up.” Then my bunkmate, the one I told about living with you, says, “This pussy doesn’t get the credit. His girlfriend had him running drills at home.”
His response, “Damn, your girlfriend was your trainer? I bet she’s fucking hot.”
Of course, I replied, “You bet your ass she’s hot.”
So now everyone thinks you’re my girlfriend and wants to see pictures. Would you mind sending me some? Just know any pictures you send will be looked at. A lot. And not just by me. Try not to be mad that we’re a couple now. ;)
Love, S
Pictures? Where the heck was she supposed to get pictures? She’d been avoiding cameras since—for a long time. The last photo she’d taken, she was blond, had a giant rock on her finger, and was plastered to Cole’s side.
And why the heck didn’t he ever respond to anything in her letters?
Dear S,
I’m not mad, I would love to be your girlfriend, thanks for asking. Although, way to go about it like a fourth grader. Let me know if you ever plan on asking like a man. Or has that giant dick of yours shriveled up and fallen off?
Delete.
I don’t think mad is the right word. Not sure what the right word is, which is weird. You’d think I’d be an effing wordsmith by now, with all the letters I’m writing.
Baby update: Nelia brought in Kristin today, and man, can that girl wail. The little siren was screaming her head off, so of course I had to scoop her up. I held her for an hour, and now my arms feel like Jell-O. When I set her down, the cutest thing happened. She started screaming again (not cute) and Felix offered to hold her. Nelia told him not to worry, the baby was just cranky because it was feeding time. So, what did he do? He asked if he could feed her! So, here’s this adorbs little boy, sitting on the couch in the waiting room, legs not even touching the ground, feeding this baby. I wanted to die.
