Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 87078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
She turns her head in my direction. “That’s a hard spot to be in. It’s the huge double standard. Lesbians in the military isn’t an issue. A lot of the time when someone new would find out my orientation, they’d be like, ‘Makes sense’ because you know, to be a soldier, you have to be big and tough, and all lesbians are butch dude-wannabes. It’s bullshit.” She lowers her head back to her scope and takes her shot, hitting one of the guys in the shoulder. “What about your family? Are they supportive?”
That’s a loaded question and a half. “I have a father who was in the military, two brothers who are still serving, and a sister and mother who are military wives. What do you think their view is?”
“Damn. Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m not. I got further in rank and accomplishments than any of my siblings and was tapped for GenNex, which was one of my father’s biggest dreams, so if they didn’t already hate me for being gay, they hate that the queer black sheep of the family did better than them. They pretend I don’t exist, and I didn’t bother telling them when I almost died and got discharged. They probably know, but they’ve made no attempt to contact me.”
“Well, you have a new family now.” Angel takes out our last target, and Trav appears below us like he’d been watching from underneath the overhang the whole time.
He folds his arms across his wide chest. “What took you so long, Angel?”
“I was giving the new guy a chance.”
Trav’s wearing aviators, so I can’t see his eyes, but I know without a doubt he’s looking right at me. “Good job. Though, maybe a little less chatting and more killing next time? Next up, knives.” He walks off.
I climb out of the sand and dust myself off. “I guess we’re doing knife training now.”
We join the others down in the canyon, and Iris steps up to a folding table. He rolls out an impressive set of knives while the other guys move what were obstacles for the last drill into a formation of targets to throw knives at.
Iris removes a knife and doesn’t take his eyes off me as his body turns and he throws it. My eyes widen and follow its trajectory. It hits its mark—a big red circle on one of the targets, and then Iris winks at me.
“Went and got a specialty, did you?” I taunt.
Everyone snickers.
Iris gestures for me to pick a knife. “Care to find out what it feels like to come in second to me for once in your life?”
Challenge thrown.
It’s my turn to show them what I’ve got.
I’m rusty with knives, but it doesn’t take long for it all to come back to me. The feel of the handle, the weight of the blade …
My first attempt hits the yellow ring surrounding the red bullseye, but it’s right on the line.
Iris opens his mouth, I assume to gloat, when I take out another and throw it to hit directly next to my first one but inside the bullseye.
Iris’s mouth shuts. Then he comes over to the table and selects the biggest blade. His dark eyes practically scream “Watch this” as he steps up to take his next throw.
He points his knife, does a few practice flicks of his wrist, and when he releases it, the tip of the knife slices between the two of mine sticking out of the target.
Both of mine drop to the ground, and Iris turns to me triumphantly.
That familiar pressure to be the best, to show everyone I’m at the top of my game, rears its ugly head. I’ve endured it my whole life. First with my family and then with the military.
I pick up a blade and toss it in my hand a few times while I try to drown out the voice inside my head yelling at me that I have to do something equally as impressive as Iris.
But as I take position and lift my arm, my hand trembles. And when I take my throw, I try not to wince because I know it’s way off course before it even lands.
It hits the board but nowhere near Iris’s first throw.
I swallow my frustration. It’s not the first time in the last few months I’ve been annoyed at my body for not following through for me. Everything used to be easy. Now… “Looks like you might have beaten me at something, Iris.”
He grins. “Just wait for the obstacle course.”
There’s more of this?
I’m already exhausted, and I hate that too. “Can’t wait,” I grit out.
Chapter Seven
Iris
Watching Saint struggle isn’t as satisfying as I thought it would be, and that sucks because I can’t even gloat when he comes in dead last in the obstacle course. Stupid sympathy ruining this for me.