Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 33692 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 168(@200wpm)___ 135(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33692 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 168(@200wpm)___ 135(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
But…
The last person I expect to find is a gorgeous redhead who’s scared out of her wits.
So I take her in, offer her a job and a place to stay.
It’s not something I normally do.
Then again, I’ve been pretty good at dealing with anything unexpected … just ask the son I never knew existed until a few years ago.
Cassie turns my life upside down, but she also makes things complicated.
Whatever happens, though, there’s no way I’m letting her go.
The moment she stepped foot in my bar, she became mine. I’m too far gone for her that I’ll sacrifice everything else … everything but her.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
CASH
“All right. It’s time to go, boys,” my voice booms through the bar.
I shut off the music to a chorus of moans and groans from the half dozen barflies who’ve been hanging on, not wanting to go home to who and what is or isn’t waiting for them back home. I understand the sentiment. Nothing and nobody is waiting upstairs for me, either. Even still, it’s after midnight, which means it’s closing time.
“Let’s go, fellas,” I call. “I love y’all, but drain those glasses and get the fuck out. It’s been a long day and I’m tired. Let’s go.”
“Come on, Cash. One more round, huh?” a salty old Navy man named George complains.
“Sorry, Georgie,” I say. “You know the drill. It’s the same as it is every night.”
I clap my hands to emphasize my point, earning me more grumbles and a few middle fingers to go along with them. It’s the same routine I go through every night with usually the same group of guys. They’ve been my regulars for years now. Some of them were regulars back when my father owned the place. They’re a good group of guys and I enjoy hanging out and having a few drinks with them. I like swapping war stories. Some of these guys have seen shit I can’t even imagine. It’s why a lot of them come to the DMZ—to try to wash away those memories that continue to haunt them beneath a tide of beer and bourbon.
My old man opened this joint after he came back from the Iraqi desert in what seems like another lifetime. He died a few years back. When I was running missions in some of the same deserts in the Middle East he did his tours in. He built the DMZ as a place where veterans could gather and have a drink while sharing their experiences. Most people don’t understand the things we’ve seen and done in the defense of our nation. Most don’t want to understand. So, my old man built this place as a way to give combat vets something we don’t really have: a community.
My dad willed the place to me after he died, and I wanted to honor his legacy as well as the sacrifices made by the men and women who fill this place night after night by keeping it open. By building on it, growing the community for vets, and giving them all a safe place to come and be with those who can relate to their life experiences. Personally, I think it’s every bit as beneficial as some of the group therapy sessions down at the VA that I’ve been to.
The guys all finished their drinks and got to their feet, bidding me goodnight as they shuffled toward the door.
“Goodnight guys,” I say as I clap George on the back. “Get home safe.”
“Sure you can’t stay open for one more beer?” he asks hopefully.
I laugh. “See you tomorrow, Georgie.”
“Yeah, yeah. See you tomorrow,” he replies with a grin.
I close and lock the door behind them, then pull all the shades down. That done, I turn and walk back behind the bar. Turning on the music again, I sing along with Rob Zombie as I grab a plastic tub and move around the bar, picking up all the glasses that have been left behind and putting them in the tub. Once I have them all picked up, I begin spraying the tables with a disinfectant cleaner and wipe them down. After that, I grab the broom and sweep the floor. I take pride in my place and believe in keeping it clean. That’s something my old man taught me as well.
I’m just about to take the tub back into the kitchen to wash the glasses when a frantic pounding sounds at the front door. A frown touching my lips, I set the tub down, grab my 9mm Glock from behind the bar, and walk over to the door. With my weapon at my side, I unlock the door, pull it open, and pause. My heart stutters in my chest and my mouth falls open when I see a young redheaded girl standing on my doorstep. Thunder rumbles overhead and a flash of lightning briefly illuminates the world beyond her.
Her hair is wet and clings to her face as she looks at me with eyes that sparkle like emeralds. The girl’s complexion is pale, but bright red and splotchy, and her eyes shimmer, tears blending with the raindrops that run down her smooth cheeks.
“Please,” she says, her voice quavering. “I need help.”
I look at the street behind her, expecting to see somebody chasing her. The street is empty, though. Stepping out of the doorway, I stand under the awning over the door, cutting my eyes to my left and right, but still don’t see anybody out there. Whoever spooked her isn’t out there now, but she’s soaked through, shivering from fear and the cold, and remains absolutely terrified.