Page 10 of Beast

“Grady,” he said in a low tone.

Grady? Holy shit! As in Grady Williams? The war hero? I’d read a magazine article about him. He couldn’t be. But Grady wasn’t a common name.

I popped up in bed and stared down at him. “You’re Grady ‘The Beast’ Williams? The youngest living Medal of Honor recipient?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Ay dios mío!

There had been a before picture of him in the magazine and I remembered thinking he was so handsome, but I hadn’t recognized him tonight underneath all his scars.

“Oh my god! You’re a hero. My dad’s, like, obsessed with you.” So obsessed, in fact, that my father dreamed of writing Grady’s war memoir. My mind raced, trying to recall all the details of the article I’d read. Grady was legendary. This badass had thrown his body on a hand grenade to save his friends’ lives.

He rolled away from me, and sat up on the side of his bed. I sat next to him and noticed his hand was shaking. “I’m not a hero. I was just doing my job. Fucking bullshit that I was given an award to remember the worst day of my life.”

This guy blew my mind. “Are you kidding me? You saved the lives of your friends—you could’ve died. You threw yourself on a grenade, Grady. How are you not a hero?”

“Anyone would’ve done it.”

Um, okay. Not true. Hell, my old dance partner once used my body as a shield because he didn’t want to get wet in the Splash Zone at SeaWorld. Worse yet, he split the second my life fell apart.

“So that’s why you freaked out back there?”

I wanted to feel something, connect on more than a physical level. I’d always been fascinated with warriors—I’d written a paper for my classics course on “The Ancient Greek Hero”—it was about time to get to know the modern version.

He didn’t reply, not that I expected him to, and instead stood and walked into the bathroom. I heard the water turn on and I lay back down, paralyzed in bed.

I’d just been fucked by the man the press hailed as “America’s Bravest Beast.”

5

Grady

I scrubbed the green body makeup off my chest, the saccharine sweet aroma filling the shower—at least it smelled better than the coppery scent of blood. I flashed back again to that night, the image of my buddy’s brains strewn on cammies before my body imploded. No matter how many fucking therapy appointments I had, no matter how many bottles of vodka I drank, no matter how many girls I fucked, every time I closed my eyes, I was right back in Iraq.

Black Widow, AKA Isa, however, had done something that no girl had done since I’d been back. She didn’t abandon me after one of my episodes. In fact, she chased me down to make sure I was okay.

I was shocked she ran after me. Her presence calmed me down faster than I normally would have had I been alone.

I never realized how much I needed someone to care about me.

After forty surgeries, flat-lining twice, and excruciating rehab, I definitely had my share of freak-outs. Fireworks, of course, were an obvious trigger, but lesser things set me off too. The sound of dogs baying in the night, the scent of diesel, the crush of a huge crowd. After a few too many flashbacks, my ex-girlfriend flipped out, packed her bags, and left without looking back. Fuck that bitch. All those nights in the hospital, dreaming about her, and she left me the second she could conjure up an excuse. But I knew the truth—it wasn’t because of my nightmares, it was because she couldn’t stand to be dating a circus freak. Her new boyfriend was one of those collegiate pretty-boy types—lean body, shaggy hair, looked like he could be an Abercrombie & Fitch model. He could blend in at her country clubs, where I’d always stand out like a mutant.

But I couldn’t blame her for not wanting to deal with my problems. Even in Beauty and the Beast, at the end the Beast turns into a prince. I would always remain a one-eyed jackass.

I stepped out of the shower. By now, I’d given Isa enough time to flee the scene of the crime. No matter how she tried to hide it, I saw her look of disgust when she saw my face. And this girl had recognized my name—she’d definitely find an excuse to bail.

Back in the bedroom, I was shocked to find her still naked, curled in a ball on my bed. I’d expected her to already be dressed, phone and keys in hand, ready to make an exit.

She was so fucking hot and I’d seen her somewhere before, but I couldn’t remember where, which wasn’t surprising with my memory loss. Looked like an angel—well, the Victoria’s Secret kind. Her long hair cascaded around her chest, the wisps barely covering her nipples. Her green eyes were the color of kryptonite, and her tanned skin was completely smooth. And her body—full, natural breasts, tiny waist, and a tight, round booty.

I recognized her, but where the fuck from?

Before my injuries, I never forgot a face, which was why I knew I would’ve made an excellent scout sniper, my dream job. But I would never qualify anymore. This facial recognition didn’t even do me any good either.

Her pupils appeared dilated and she pulled at her hair. “Hey.”

Yup, she was definitely looking for a reason to bail. “Hey. I’m going to drive you home.” I walked over to my dresser, threw on some boxer briefs, gray sweatpants, and a T-shirt.