Hard to Lose
TITLE PAGE
PRAISE FOR K. BROMBERG
ALSO BY K. BROMBERG
COPYRIGHT
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
EPILOGUE
EPILOGUE
COMING SOON
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
“K. Bromberg always delivers intelligently written, emotionally intense, sensual romance . . .”
—USA Today
“K. Bromberg makes you believe in the power of true love.”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Audrey Carlan
“A poignant and hauntingly beautiful story of survival, second chances, and the healing power of love. An absolute must-read.”
—New York Times bestselling author Helena Hunting
“An irresistibly hot romance that stays with you long after you finish the book.”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Jennifer L. Armentrout
“Bromberg is a master at turning up the heat!”
—New York Times bestselling author Katy Evans
“Supercharged heat and full of heart. Bromberg aces it from the first page to the last.”
—New York Times bestselling author Kylie Scott
Driven
Fueled
Crashed
Raced
Aced
Slow Burn
Sweet Ache
Hard Beat
Down Shift
UnRaveled
Sweet Cheeks
Sweet Rivalry
The Player
The Catch
Cuffed
Combust
Cockpit
Control
Faking It
Resist
Reveal
Then You Happened
Flirting with 40
Hard to Handle
Hard to Hold
Hard to Score
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2021 by K. Bromberg
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by JKB Publishing, LLC
ISBN: 978-1-942832-23-2
Cover design by Helen Williams
Cover Image by Wong Sim
Cover Model: Mitchell Wick
Editing by Marion Making Manuscripts
Formatting by Champagne Book Design
Printed in the United States of America
Ryan
“WHEN WE’RE DONE AND OUT of here, man, I think we should all open a bar together,” Shotgun says with a disbelieving laugh, pointing to the desert-brown plywood around us. Beyond that are concrete barriers with razor wire on top, more fencing, and security watch to keep out our enemies, who are probably sitting in the hills surrounding us, watching our every move.
Dickman holds out the bottle of whiskey to me. Or at least I think it’s whiskey. We’re not one hundred percent sure, but he got it from someone who knows someone who knows someone who knows our translator, and despite alcohol being illegal for us, we have it anyway.
Maybe that’s why I’m hesitating taking it. The last thing I want is to get caught by our commanding officer and put on burning-the-shitter detail as punishment.
However, I reach over, take the bottle, and tilt it to my lips for one long, deep swallow. I wince as the burn fires down my throat but Jesus, it’s welcome if only to help me forget for a few goddamn minutes where I am and what we’re doing.
“A bar?” Richard asks.
“Yep. The four of us will buy a bar together and call it FUBAR as a silent ode to this once-in-a-lifetime experience we’re enjoying right here.” Shotgun’s sarcasm rings loud and clear, and we all laugh.
“I can get on board with that,” I say with a nod, the alcohol hitting faster than I expected. “Jesus, that’s some strong shit.”
Dickman laughs like a crazed loon, and we all shush him so we don’t get in trouble. “It definitely has a higher alcohol content than the shit we have back home.”
“Home,” Shotgun murmurs. We all fall silent, because we know his girl just dumped him and he’s taking it hard. Hell, we’ve only been here a month, so she didn’t even let his sheets grow cold before doing it either.
He may have lost his girl, but I lost my dream.
Fuck. That definitely hurts.
“What is it you guys can’t wait to get back to?” Richard asks as he hands the bottle back to me.
“Pussy,” Dickman deadpans, and we all burst out laughing.
“No shit,” Richard says, punching him in the arm. “I’m serious. Like we’re here and shit, but what are you hoping for when you get back?”
“We should just kiss our old lives goodbye,” Dickman says, “because nothing will ever be the same again.”
“C’mon,” I mutter. “That’s not true.”
“Like hell it isn’t,” Dickman says, and of course, we all pay more attention when he speaks because this is his second tour.
“No, I’m dead serious.” He points to me. “Don’t you get it? You’re no longer PFC Ryan Camden. You’re a faceless number among many. When the brass looks at you, they see a guy who mans the gun. Now to them, you’re simply Gunner.”
“Whatever.” I wave a hand at him and dismiss his I-know-more-than-you bullshit.
“You think I’m joking?” He lifts his eyebrows. “Richard over there has been dubbed Nixon, because he’s a tricky motherfucker who gets himself out of situations no one else can. Shotgun is . . . he’s always sitting shotgun beside me, so yeah, that’s what his name is.”
“And you? Why are you Dickman?”
He snorts, his eyes glassy when they meet mine. “Because I’m a dick, man,” he says in a total stoner voice. It draws a chuckle from us, but we all meet each other’s eyes through the darkness. That nickname is like hitting a nail on the head. He’s great, but thank fuck he’s on our side.
“I’ll drink to that,” Shotgun says.
We fall silent as we hear a noise in the distance. It sounds like a gunshot, but we’re so used to the sound in our short time here, none of us even flinch.
“Look, we all gave up something—a lot of things to be here—but the question is: what did you give up that you’ll never get back?” Dickman continues on his depressing roll.
His words have me thinking, wondering, cringing at the decisions I made and how I ended up here.
“Isn’t hope a good thing?” I finally ask. “Why give it up when it’s something we can look forward to?”
“You’re not getting it, Gunner,” Dickman says and takes the bottle from my hand. “Everything has changed. No one there cares about you anymore like you thought they did. Or if they did, it’s now different.” Concern flickers through Shotgun’s eyes. “The easiest thing to do, for your own sanity, is to pick the one thing you loved the most and say goodbye to it. Make it official and let it go. Hell, you might as well write your last letter to whatever or whoever it is, and say goodbye as if you’ll die.”
“I’m not buying it,” I mutter, then get up and leave the pow-wow, a little less steady on my feet.
Regardless of how much I know his comment is, in fact, complete crap, it runs on repeat in my head.
Over and over.
I lie in my bunk, thinking of everything I gave up. The doubts, the what-ifs, the maybe I should’ve fought a little harders, eat away at me.
And then to think of what my mom found after I left for deployment. The voicemails from agents. The interest and belief in my talent.
All wasted now.
“Let it go, Ryan,” I mutter to the darkened ceiling. Tears burn in the back of my throat and I squeeze my eyes shut to force them away.
Maybe Dickman is right. Maybe holding on to hope is only going to cause me more pain. It’s not like the MLB will want me after my four years are up anyway.