Read Online Fallen SEAL Legacy by Sharon Hamilton - Free Book Online
Authors: Sharon Hamilton
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said. She knew the SEALs were honorable men, and, even if it was to honor the memory of Uncle Will, her dad should not have treated him this way.
To distract herself, she picked up one of her books, and put on her iPad headphones to drown out the sounds of the argument brewing downstairs. She soon fell asleep.
Libby woke up later, noticing the sky had turned dark. The house was mercifully quiet. She got her keys and slipped downstairs to her car. ‘Never let the sun set on a disagreement,’ her dad had always said. Well, it was past sunset, but maybe she could fix this just a little bit. Then she’d sort out the rest of it later. Maybe it was time to stop running and start facing the truth.
Chapter 7
Fuck me. What was I thinking?
Cooper rounded the turn and almost clipped a vintage Datsun convertible driven by a blonde in a sun visor.
Fucking hate this part of town. Rich people are useless. Clueless.
He looked upon row after row of professionally landscaped front yards, lawns looking like they were trimmed with scissors, blooming plants framing arched windows in courtyards behind stucco-fenced walls. Just about every home had some variety of bisque-colored tiled roofs. Lots of BMWs, Mercedes, Jags and even Bentleys.
Don’t belong here. Never did. Don’t want to come back. Ever.
Cooper decided he’d just tell Timmons the family had refused all contact. It was partially true, after all. The ladies would have gone along with his visit, but Dr. Brownlee, no, he would forever be on the wrong side of anything to do with the Navy, and the SEALs in particular.
That man doesn’t deserve the sacrifice his brother made. Whatever this man’s beef with the Navy, it was his own shit to wear. And why? He was the fuckin’ asshole who got to live in the big house with the pretty wife and…and…
The thought and resulting lack of focus caused him to swerve over the centerline. He got a honk from a green four-door landscaping truck towing a trailer and blaring Mariachi music.
Adrenaline and his well-trained reflexes kept him from hitting the vehicle. He let out the power and his scooter lurched safely back to his proper lane. The impact with the old truck would surely take away all his pain, he thought. It would be damn quick, but it would hurt like a son of a gun.
Looks like Gunny’s old truck. Gunnery Sergeant Joseph Hoskins, who owned the rusty old gym Team guys frequented for their PT duty, had bought an old truck from the Forestry Service last year at auction. The thing was as stubborn as Gunny, and just as temperamental. Fredo had one, too. Maybe if his death wish didn’t subside, he should get one as well. Might be safer. After all, he was more comfortable under the carriage of an old truck or tractor than meeting a pampered know-it-all psychiatrist and his…
Get a grip, Coop. You’re no whiny mama’s boy.
A flood of revulsion came over him, tightening his stomach and sending stinging moisture to his eyes.
Don’t be a fuckin’ crybaby.
He worked to reduce his stress level by lowering his heartbeat. He took deep breaths as he accelerated and wound down out of the neighborhood of perfect homes.
He became more comfortable in traffic along the Strand, heading back to Coronado. Home. Home to the Babemobile he’d left at the beach.
He lowered the rear ramp of the motor home and stowed his scooter, closing the electric conveyor door behind him. Bay was barking incessantly. Coop let him out on the beach and watched as the dog raised his leg over a shrub in the parking lot. In seconds, the big brown pooch ran enthusiastically back and forth in the sand, and then to Coop’s side, begging to play.
But Coop wasn’t in the mood. He took the dog inside, gave him some kibble and fresh water. He stripped off his shoes, dress slacks and button-down white shirt. Still shiny from disuse, the shoes hurt his feet. He threw everything into the corner with a satisfying thwat . Light was just beginning to dim
To distract herself, she picked up one of her books, and put on her iPad headphones to drown out the sounds of the argument brewing downstairs. She soon fell asleep.
Libby woke up later, noticing the sky had turned dark. The house was mercifully quiet. She got her keys and slipped downstairs to her car. ‘Never let the sun set on a disagreement,’ her dad had always said. Well, it was past sunset, but maybe she could fix this just a little bit. Then she’d sort out the rest of it later. Maybe it was time to stop running and start facing the truth.
Chapter 7
Fuck me. What was I thinking?
Cooper rounded the turn and almost clipped a vintage Datsun convertible driven by a blonde in a sun visor.
Fucking hate this part of town. Rich people are useless. Clueless.
He looked upon row after row of professionally landscaped front yards, lawns looking like they were trimmed with scissors, blooming plants framing arched windows in courtyards behind stucco-fenced walls. Just about every home had some variety of bisque-colored tiled roofs. Lots of BMWs, Mercedes, Jags and even Bentleys.
Don’t belong here. Never did. Don’t want to come back. Ever.
Cooper decided he’d just tell Timmons the family had refused all contact. It was partially true, after all. The ladies would have gone along with his visit, but Dr. Brownlee, no, he would forever be on the wrong side of anything to do with the Navy, and the SEALs in particular.
That man doesn’t deserve the sacrifice his brother made. Whatever this man’s beef with the Navy, it was his own shit to wear. And why? He was the fuckin’ asshole who got to live in the big house with the pretty wife and…and…
The thought and resulting lack of focus caused him to swerve over the centerline. He got a honk from a green four-door landscaping truck towing a trailer and blaring Mariachi music.
Adrenaline and his well-trained reflexes kept him from hitting the vehicle. He let out the power and his scooter lurched safely back to his proper lane. The impact with the old truck would surely take away all his pain, he thought. It would be damn quick, but it would hurt like a son of a gun.
Looks like Gunny’s old truck. Gunnery Sergeant Joseph Hoskins, who owned the rusty old gym Team guys frequented for their PT duty, had bought an old truck from the Forestry Service last year at auction. The thing was as stubborn as Gunny, and just as temperamental. Fredo had one, too. Maybe if his death wish didn’t subside, he should get one as well. Might be safer. After all, he was more comfortable under the carriage of an old truck or tractor than meeting a pampered know-it-all psychiatrist and his…
Get a grip, Coop. You’re no whiny mama’s boy.
A flood of revulsion came over him, tightening his stomach and sending stinging moisture to his eyes.
Don’t be a fuckin’ crybaby.
He worked to reduce his stress level by lowering his heartbeat. He took deep breaths as he accelerated and wound down out of the neighborhood of perfect homes.
He became more comfortable in traffic along the Strand, heading back to Coronado. Home. Home to the Babemobile he’d left at the beach.
He lowered the rear ramp of the motor home and stowed his scooter, closing the electric conveyor door behind him. Bay was barking incessantly. Coop let him out on the beach and watched as the dog raised his leg over a shrub in the parking lot. In seconds, the big brown pooch ran enthusiastically back and forth in the sand, and then to Coop’s side, begging to play.
But Coop wasn’t in the mood. He took the dog inside, gave him some kibble and fresh water. He stripped off his shoes, dress slacks and button-down white shirt. Still shiny from disuse, the shoes hurt his feet. He threw everything into the corner with a satisfying thwat . Light was just beginning to dim
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