Reckless Heat: A Hostile Operations Team Prequel Read Free Page B

turn down the lane leading to Reynier’s Retreat. The trees lining the drive are old, dripping with moss, and obscure the view of the house. When it appears at the end of the lane, it’s impressive. A monument to history and privilege.
    I love it and hate it in equal measure. I stop the car and look at the house. General John Hamilton Girard grew up in this house before going off to fight in the Civil War. He’d been my age, seventeen, when he joined. He had a triumphant career and then returned a hero.
    A figure comes out to stand on the massive veranda. It’s my father, staring down the drive as if he’s been waiting for me. I step on the gas and drive the rest of the way to the house. I put the car in the garage and go inside.
    My father’s in the kitchen as I walk in, tumbler of whiskey in one hand, eyes bloodshot. I’m used to the disappointment on his face, but it doesn’t mean I’m unaffected.
    “West Point.” He’s slurring. “You’re too soft for fucking West Point, boy.”
    “Yes, sir.” This is my stock answer because it’s no use arguing with him. He hasn’t let up on this refrain since I got the news a couple of weeks ago.
    “Are you sassing me?”
    “No, sir.” I stand with my backpack slung over one shoulder, clenching a fist at my side. I’m taller than he is, but the senator is bigger. More muscular.
    He takes a slug of the whiskey. “Damned disappointment from the day you were born, you know that? Sissy boy always running to his fucking mother. Crying when anyone said boo. Fucking pussy.”
    The blood rises up hot and hard in my veins. My cheeks flush. I can feel it, feel the sweat and the anger as it singes my pores. Goddamn but I want to throat-punch the bastard.
    Or tell him I fucked his wife. Candy didn’t think I was a pussy when she was screaming my name and begging me to fuck her harder.
    Telling him that wouldn’t do a damned bit of good though. He’d probably find a way to stop me from leaving after graduation, and there’s no way in hell I’m letting that happen.
    I just have to keep my cool for three more weeks. The old man is home and drunk today, but he’ll just as likely be gone tomorrow. Off to a strip club or to Girard Oil. He runs the company when he’s sober, leaves it to his board when he’s on a bender.
    This is a bender week apparently.
    “I’m sorry, sir.” I’ll say whatever it takes to shut him the fuck up. To get him to leave me alone and lose himself in that glass.
    He leans against the kitchen island, and I know he’s really been drinking today. He needs the island for support.
    “Sorry,” he slurs. “Always sorry. For fucking what? Being born a pussy?”
    I stiffen, but no way in hell am I letting him get to me. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry I’m a pussy.”
    That’s too much, and I know it the second I say it. But it’s too late now. The old man draws himself up, his red eyes gleaming hot. He slams the glass on the counter and closes the distance between us.
    I know what’s coming. It isn’t the first time. It doesn’t happen often, but it happens enough.
    He rears back and slaps me across the face. He’s never punched me. Never. But the old man is king of the gentlemanly slap. As if he’s challenging me to a duel.
    It fucking hurts, of course. Snaps my head to the side and stings my cheek. I feel a hot bite of something more, and I lift my hand to my face. It comes away red.
    His college ring caught me on my cheekbone and sliced the skin.
    My father is standing there with that wild-ass look on his face, glaring at me. Time seems suspended. And then he does what he always does when he’s slapped me.
    He collapses against me, hugging me hard, crying the very tears he accused me of being a pussy for. “I’m sorry, son. I didn’t mean it… I didn’t mean it.”
    He’ll go on like this for a while if I let him. I wrap my arms around him and swallow the massive knot in my throat. I hate him. And I don’t. It’s a fucking sorry place to