Not My Brute (Angels of War Series #2)

Chapter One

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Bills.

Expenses.

Wages.

It all adds up. I scribble on the cheque, ready to send the money to the vet surgery when the bell above the door at the entrance jingles, letting me know someone has arrived. I put my pen down on the desk, and glance up, almost choking on my chewing gum at the sight of a tall, broad-shouldered man, who wears his ash brown hair scraped back off his face with a headband, showing off his heavily set bone structure and watchful green eyes that look to tell a thousand miseries.

"Hey there!" I give him the Haven Hill smile, knowing it's just right when my cheeks hurt. "How you doing today?"

I get a grunt in return. "I want to enrol."

I smile bigger, knowing how daunting it will be for him. "Cool. Who transferred you?"

"Joshua Caswell at T&M Military support gym."

I nod, scribbling down the information on my notepad. "Joshua's a good friend of ours. You PT with him?"

His flat tone does nothing to help warm me up to him, but people have been worse to me. "Yeah, that's why I'm here."

O-Kay, then. I reach for the drawer and pull it open, collecting the forms and questionnaire for him to fill out. "If you'd like to get a pencil from the pot and get comfy on the couch, we have a bit of paperwork for you to sign. Help yourself to the water and juice too if you're thirsty." He takes the paper from me. "Oh, and before I forget, if you can sign in on the register as well. It's for fire safety reasons."

I get another grunt before he's limping over, signing his name with a shaky hand. Bret O'Neil. "Will everyone see my name when they write on this though?" he asks.

I nod my head, glancing at the huge open register sitting next to me on the table. "Yes, but your identity is entirely confidential here. No one is going to hurt that, okay?"

"I'm not happy about it," he says, making a fist so tight his knuckles pop until he opens his hand back out. "Who knows who's going to read my name and blab to everyone that I come here. All I need is for it to get out."

This reaction isn't uncommon. Mental health still holds a slight stigma for some people, hence why someone reading and repeating his name from this register makes him nervous. "There's nothing to be ashamed of in being here, Bret."

It's then that I notice his prosthetic leg through his shorts as he limps to the couch, sitting down with difficulty. "It's not like I have a choice. Josh bullied me into coming."

I try not to stare for too long because his gaze is hyperaware, and he's already so tense. I don't want to make it any worse. "Josh believes in this program. It's helped a lot of his clients. How often are you training with him?"

"Three nights a week," he says, looking down at the paper on the clipboard in his hand.

I start up a file on the computer, writing his name at the top. "Do you find the exercise is helping? The other guys we get in here from him always sing his praises."

Bret scribbles down on the paper with a sour expression, almost as if I'm annoying him. I need to suppress myself a little, understanding how I always talk too much. "Josh and I go way back. We served together in Afghanistan," he responds, tapping the pen against the side of the clipboard.