Licensed to Kill

Chapter 2

Present Day. El Paso, Texas.

I tossed back my fourth shot of whiskey in hopes of drowning out the pain I'd become too accustomed to. Everything was still so fresh in my mind, even four years later. The memory of the pain in his usually lively eyes still haunted me every time I slept like it had just happened yesterday. I'd been plagued by nightmares for as long as I could remember. They were always the same: a never ending replay of that night in Washington, D.C. The night I accidentally murdered the man I loved more than anything in the entire universe.

I'd spent years wallowing in regret and self-torment. I could never forgive myself for what I'd done. So many times I'd overanalyzed the situation in my head until it gave me a migraine, trying to think of a way that I could've avoided shooting him. There was no point in coming up with an alternative now. It was too late. Nothing could change the past. Nothing could bring Dallas back. But somehow it helped me to cling to my sanity if I daydreamed about an alternate ending to that night.

After the first year's rollercoaster of emotions and my inability to stay focused on the job, Matt had talked me into going to therapy. He said I needed a professional to talk to who could walk me through how best to handle my P.T.S.D. But I refused to believe I had P.T.S.D. Nearly all of my adult life had been spent laughing in the face of danger. I couldn't have P.T.S.D. It wasn't possible.

But it was. And my therapist finally convinced me after six months of visits that I did have posttraumatic stress from that night. I didn't one-hundred-percent believe her explanation for why I felt the way I did, but she was a government psychiatrist who regularly dealt with patients in law enforcement and covert units, so I had to give her a little credit. She was the one with the Ph.D. She probably knew how to read my body language like a book. Hell, she could probably tell me my horoscope, too. No matter what she said or what type of therapy we tried, though, it never did a damn thing for me. My nightmares and flashbacks never let up. The pain in my chest when I thought of him never faded. My self-hatred never lessened. I still spent a considerable amount of time every day thinking "if only..." and "I wish..."

Eventually, I gave up on therapy and took the easy way out: alcohol. But vodka and whiskey could only dull the pain and blur the memories for so long. The effects always wore off faster than I wanted them to and I would be hurled back into reality, complete with the headache that came from drinking too much, and there would be that fucking heart wrenching image of him on his knees, clutching his wounded stomach again as he looked up into my eyes and I watched the life start to drain from his.

As I threw back my fifth shot, I remembered the shock on Matt's face when he realized what had happened. He'd dashed down the staircase to my side where I'd dropped to my knees in front of Dallas, bearing the weight of his near-lifeless body against mine and trying desperately to stop his bleeding. I was bawling against his shoulder, feverishly apologizing and begging him to stay with me. He couldn't die. He just couldn't! I fucking loved him with all my heart!

Matt had disarmed and cuffed Bellucci in a matter of seconds while I was busy pressing my palm against Dallas's bleeding wounds and sobbing about how sorry I was and how much I loved him. He was mumbling something against my neck but I couldn't decipher his words. He was quickly losing consciousness. I knew I was losing him. I could practically feel the life leaving his body. This was the man I'd planned to spend the rest of my life with. He'd been my best friend, my lover, and my biggest supporter throughout the entire six years I'd known him. He'd saved my life countless times and bent over backwards to make sure I was happy. And this was how I repaid him.

For the past four years, everyone had told me that I shouldn't dwell on the past. They've all reminded me how it was an accident, how I couldn't see in the dark. But no matter which angle I looked at it from, I could never forgive myself or feel any less guilty. Accident or not, I killed him. I murdered him without even blinking.