A Beautiful Distraction(2)

Rafe pulled the last cigarette from his pack and lit the end, inhaling deeply. His focus returned to Trish, who was close to salivating. And goddammit, seeing Trish get hot over a woman sent the alcohol-infused blood in Rafe’s body rushing toward his dick. Trish was a knockout. Long, lean legs covered in black pants that adhered to every inch of her from hip to ankle, her hair jet-black with streaks of blond flashing around her face as she moved.

Rafe followed Trish’s gaze back to the blonde behind him. Her hips and thighs were curvy with a little additional padding, but her waist was small. Her jeans were snug and hung low on the flair of her hips. The purple shirt she wore clung to her body like a second skin, showcasing a flat stomach and an incredible pair of tits with a generous amount of cleavage peeking over the deep V-neck. Her long hair was tied back away from her round face, and a soft blush spread across her neck when she noticed Rafe watching her.

“I’ll have a Bud Light,” she told Trish as she stepped up to the bar and leaned her forearms over the counter. He knew Trish was getting an eyeful and he knew she was loving it. Trish may not be into sharing, but maybe he could talk her into letting him watch . . .

“I knew your sorry ass would be here.”

Rafe resisted the urge to roll his head back on his neck and groan. He didn’t bother to look at who had suddenly taken up residence on the stool next to him. The irritating tone to his voice, warning of an impending lecture lingering on the surface, told him exactly who had made an appearance.

“What’s up, Carter?” Rafe asked, exasperated. He noticed the slight lag in his words and looked down for confirmation at his near empty glass before taking another hit from his cigarette.

His focus turned to the rows of liquor shelved in front of him. Carter was a good guy, but a little over-the-edge eager to be the one who jumped on the moral high horse. Not particularly a guy Rafe was interested in throwing a few back with. Rafe’s moral sensibilities were somewhat unbalanced at the present.

“Saw your car here—again,” Carter stated with an undertone of accusation.

Rafe’s head turned to the side and he glared at Carter from the corner of his eye.

Carter’s eyes darted past Rafe behind the bar and he nodded, indicating to Trish he wanted a drink, which meant he was sticking around. Son of a bitch.

“Look, man,” Carter started, and the subtle uncertainty in his voice drew Rafe’s attention away from the order of the liquor bottles he was memorizing back to Carter. He looked him in the eyes.

“I’m not trying to interfere with the apparent binge you’ve been on for the last few weeks—to each his own—but if you need to talk to someone . . . I’m . . . Shit, Murano . . . if you’re not dealing with—”

“What are you trying to say, Carter?” Rafe questioned, having a pretty good idea as to where Carter was going with his current lecture.

Rafe had been deployed four times since 9/11 and he’d easily seen his share of fucked up and could add a list of things that he’d done overseas that exceeded the definition of fucked up, but he compartmentalized it all in the recesses of his mind and dealt with it. Rafe’s rampant bender had nothing to do with his job, his duty as a soldier.

If anything, he wanted to go back, to use his missions to fill the void and distract him from his fucking ravaged heart. He yearned for the fight, the constant sharp edge of war, the adrenaline that would invade the vacancy in his heart as it surged through his veins. He needed it. Without the distraction to ferment his heartache, it swelled, and the whiskey kept his shameful pang muted down to a simple, dull throb. So yeah, he’d been milking this shithole of a bar for every drop of liquid oblivion Trish would serve him, and he had no intention of stopping just because Carter felt the need to intervene.

“All I’m saying is . . .” Carter trailed off, sitting up straight as he met Rafe’s challenging stare.

Deep down Rafe could appreciate Carter’s concern, but Rafe was three sheets to the wind and Carter didn’t know the first damn thing about what was going on in his head. And it lit a fuse.

His fingers parted over the ashtray and his cigarette landed in the accumulating ashes. “You wanna play Dr. Phil, go elsewhere. You’re trotting way off course here,” he said, his voice low and menacing.

“You need to calm the fuck down.”

Wrong move. Rafe could feel his impending outburst lick up his spine, working its way to the surface as Carter’s words rang through his mind and triggered his adrenaline to start pumping. Alcohol was like gasoline in Rafe’s veins. All he needed was a little spark and he would catch fire.