Hell, I am, too. But, with no college degree or work experience in the field, I’m behind.

Shannon was next. His mom answered and told me he’d died in a car accident during his senior year in college. I was floored. No one had told me.

Some friends from the SEAL Teams wanted to connect, but I didn’t. Could barely look them in the eye after Rex’s death. Loneliness and guilt threatened to pull me under at every turn.

Like my father, physical labor was a go-to. I refinished the wooden staircase in my family home, repainted the shutters blue, fixed some shaky white tiles in the bathrooms, and finally sold the house in an auction.

It was time to hit the road. Bouncing from spot to spot, I found myself in New York City and did a little fighting for cash.

“It sucks to have to train these Wall Street fucks,” a guy tells me after an underground bout beneath a shitty bar on the outskirts of Times Square. A gash over his blackened eye trickles blood as men yell and jeer around us. “But it’s a good way to ease back into the real world after leaving the military. Money and hours are pretty good, too. And the guy who owns the place, Joe? He’s a decent guy.” Lifting a small, clear plastic cup filled with water, he swallows it down like a shot of tequila. “He was in the Navy himself. I think Special Forces. He gets it,” he adds.

Blood continues to ooze.

“You need stitches.” I point to his brow with my forefinger.

He shrugs. “Whatever,” he says like it’s the least of his worries. “It’s just one of many.”

I hand him my sweaty white towel. It’s better than getting blood in the eye. Lifting it to his brow, he presses firmly to stop the flow.

I pull the gun from my pants, spinning the black piece on the wooden table. What’s the point of life really? My bladder reminds me it’s full. I lean against the wall, letting it support me as I make my way to my small, blue-tiled bathroom.

“Want a smoke,” I say to no one.

Unzipping my jeans, I lean my hand against the sink to keep steady.

Heading back into the kitchen, I check the junk drawer by the fridge. I push random keys and takeout menus around until I find the pack.

Shit. It’s empty. I crunch it in my hand as my phone buzzes.

On shaky legs, I make my way to the table where my phone and gun sit. It flashes red. I’ve got a message.

Vincent: Yo. Dinner at my place tomorrow night? Eve’s cooking.

It only took a few months of training and sparring with Vincent at Joe’s Gym, and I was lucky enough to call the man my friend. As it turned out, Vincent was living in New York while out on parole, but he was in the midst of completing construction on the Milestone, a large-scale hotel and casino complex out on Nevada’s tribal lands. When he offered me the job to head security, I jumped at the chance. Even though I had no prior experience, Vincent trusted me to figure it all out. Luckily, my extensive military background easily translated into the security business. I connected with some of my brothers from the SEAL Teams, and together, we began VST, the Vulcan Security Team.