“Aw, that’s cute,” I teased. Trex fake-punched my arm. “Where’s a good place to get a couple beers?””

Trex thought about it. “For you? McCormack’s Pub.”

“See you at work,” I said.

The door closed, and I was alone again.

The first twenty-four hours after Matt’s death was harder than anything I’d ever experienced. I moved home to be with my parents, immersing myself in the grueling routine of training my father’s militia, working long hours just to keep from feeling the debilitating sadness that came when I was alone. Everyone who said pain became easier with time had lied. You have no choice but to let it roll over you, strangle you, chew you up and spit you out, and then continue with life.

I walked into the spare bedroom, pulled Walter from my utility pants, and gently cut into Matt’s box. One of his flak jackets were on top, so I draped it over my shoulders, hugging the fabric to me.

“Going out tonight,” I said. “It’s not the same without you. Nothing is. It never will be.”

I was going to sell his truck, put his box in the attic, and then try to start over again.

chapter two

live bait

Naomi

T

he green neon light spelled out the words McCormack’s Pub, illuminating a sign that hung over the door. The bar was a small rectangle of aged brick on a corner in a questionable part of town, struggling not to look rundown in a neighborhood full of homeless shelters and check-for-cash traps.

Without another outlet, I welcomed someone, anyone to take it a step too far just so I could beat his ass. People didn’t alert the cops in places like this, and if I was honest, recruit training and my later grueling missions were stress relievers that I’d only missed since walking away. Screw being normal or mentally functional. What does that mean anyway? I can have tits and be angry, not smile, get in a brawl. I was never the girl to wear skirts and toss my hair when a boy was around. I wasn’t even the girl next door. I wasn’t sure what kind of person that made me, but if landing a punch once in a while could make the pain go away, whatever. I choose violence.

I stood with my back against the bricks, puffing out the last hit from my cigarette, then went inside. The bartender was cleaning when I approached the bar, thick around the middle, bearded, red-cheeked; he could have been a young, tawny-haired Santa. I held up the butt of my cigarette. He held up a trash can.

“You can’t smoke outside the entrance. It’s like fifty yards or some shit.”

I arched one eyebrow, and Santa began to laugh. “I’m just fucking with you, lady. What are we drinking?”

“A beer. Whatever’s good and local.”