BROKEN VOWS (Broken Redemption Book 1)

Chapter 9

Lucas

The shrill sound has me on my feet, gun drawn and at the ready before my subconscious is fully awake. Confused, I look around. The adrenaline pumping through my blood demands I neutralize the threat, but all I see is Nero standing on the bed. His head is cocked to one side like he's wondering if I've lost my damn mind. Maybe I have, considering what sent me into a panic is nothing more than my cell phone alarm.

Dropping back to the bed, I reach for my phone to turn off the offending sound. De-cocking my sig, I set it on the nightstand, then rub my hands over my face. What a fucked-up way to end a semi-decent night of sleep. The first I've had in... well, who knows?

Standing, I walk over to my pack. Grabbing the pair of dark wash jeans that sit at the top, I slip them on, securing my belt so I can holster my weapon. Still lounging on the bed, Nero yawns wide. A lazy whine follows as he stretches and scoots closer to the edge of the bed to get near me. After a quick pat on his furry head, I walk past in search of the bathroom. My list of to-dos for the day is far longer than I originally anticipated, so it's important I get started.

Though my conversation with Embree was cathartic in a lot of ways, it also opened a host of complications for me. For starters, now that I'm planning to reconnect with Jenny, I think it's best that I hold off on the sale of our childhood home.

I need to have a discussion with her first. See if maybe she wants to keep it instead, which means the first thing on my list is to call the realtor and ask her to postpone today's closing. If it turns out Jenny wants to keep the place, I'll work with the buyer to pay out whatever penalties come as a result of breaching the purchase agreement. It's the least I can do for her, given what I've put her through. Either way, I'll leave the decision to sell up to her.

Flushing the toilet, I stand in front of the sink. First, I wash my hands before reaching for my toothbrush. As is habit, I hesitate to look at myself in the mirror, because though I know the reflection is mine, my brain doesn't always recognize the man staring back at me.

Dissociative PTSD, with depersonalization and derealization. That's the official diagnosis in my military file, but fuck if I trust what the Navy docs say. For months, I told them something wasn't right. I'd begged for them to please help me understand what was happening. But it wasn't until I admitted myself to a civilian mental health facility that they finally started listening.

According to the so-called experts, my symptoms are a natural reaction to the trauma I experienced while in captivity, but fuck! Feeling disconnected from who I am. Not recognizing my physical body as my own. Walking through my days feeling like I'm stuck in some strange dream state. Nothing about this condition feels normal or natural to me. Thankfully, my symptoms are much improved from what they were a year ago. It's a trend I can only hope continues.

Back in the bedroom, I'm reaching for my phone to call the realtor when a knock comes through the door. Wasting no time, Nero runs to check it out, his nose sniffing the ground like he's trying to assess the intent of whoever's standing on the other side.

After grabbing a black t-shirt, I signal for Nero to step back so I can look through the peephole. I see the profile of a man, but the way he's standing makes it hard to see his face. I'm not sure if it's an Inn employee or someone else, so just in case, I reach back to confirm my weapon is within reach. Satisfied, I open the door to find the last person I expected to see.

"Holy. Shit. Lucas fucking Holt. Will wonders never cease? What the fuck are you doing back in town?"

The asshole walks right around me like he owns the place. Like I'm not standing here, purposely attempting to block his entrance.