Military Romance Navy SEAL: Dangerous Affliction (Alpha Male Bad Boy Urban Romance) Read online

  Dangerous Affliction

  Navy SEAL

  Military Romance

  By Snow Rush-Sinclair

  Copyright 2015 - All Rights Reserved – Snow Rush-Sinclair

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  Chapter 1 – Alleyways

  I find it strange how often I wake up places without remembering how I get there. Pressing memories to the back of my mind has taken far too long. I had hoped that once I returned to the United States, I could have a few drinks and forget about my problems. I guess that is probably the hope for most people like myself, but I could never say for sure. Honestly, I have never met anybody like me. I don't think I have, anyway.

  Living on the streets is cold so I'm glad that I have the perfect remedy in my hand every day. Sometimes I wonder if that's how all of us start. I'll see dope fiends in the alleyway and I'll be glad as hell that I'm not them, but I can't help but ask myself if I could be. I don't know if I'm better than them. I guess legal or not, all intoxication is the same. On the inside, we aren't any different. We are just as different as the rest of society. Everyone frowns at us as they walk by, refusing to put a few pennies in our cup. I just wonder if they know everything that I've done for them. I wonder if they know that I protected them from evil by doing evil myself. I wonder if they'd call me a hero or if they'd see me like I see myself. I wonder if they'd call me a murderer. That's what I'd call me. I wonder if they'd even care. I wonder if it even matters. Right now, I'm not much of anything. I'm just another addict.

  The alleyway shines like a beacon for the hopeless every night. That is what I look for in my haze of despair and substance abuse when I go home. I am not sure I can really call it a home, but it's home to me. I don't know anything else. I have not known anything else for five years. I wish that I did. I wish that I could find a woman that would put up with me. I wish that I could have a kid and take care of them the way that I'm supposed to at my age. I never thought I would be the type to want a house in the suburbs somewhere, and I'm not sure if that is what I want, but it does seem like a hell of an improvement from this. I missed that train, though. Instead, here I am, looking for an alleyway again. That's just where my life had gone.

  All of my friends, for lack of a better term, were huddled around a burning trashcan. I wish I could say that it was some sort of social gathering, but really they were all just trying to stay warm. The fire was not very bright, which made me a little nervous. Since none of us have a job and all of us spend what money we do have on one of two things, lighter fluid isn't exactly the first on the list.

  “Ay, Rome!” Christmas called as I walked into the alleyway.

  We called him Christmas because he overdosed on Christmas and made his mother drive six hours just to tell her to do you-know-what to herself. She was so pissed off that she stopped paying for his motel and that is when he joined our brigade of self loathing in the alley. He never really told us his name. It wouldn't ever matter to us, anyway. If any one of us gets clean, it's not like we're ever going to talk to or even think about the poor bastard ever again. I think that's the sickest part about addiction. We're all just self-centered, sick people fueling each others' disease.

  As I walked towards the guys, I took a drag from my cigarette and averted my gaze. I couldn't look them in the eyes because I knew what they wanted but I couldn't give it to them. I had it in my pocket, but I couldn't even bring myself to save my friends from hypothermia, just because I thought I needed it more than they did. They were staring at me, shivering, waiting for me to dump it on the fire. They knew it was going to be a fight. I never asked them to throw their junk out for me, so why should I do it for them? I already saved their country so they could sit in the streets and put a needle in their arm or a pipe in their mouth. Why should I save their lives again? It never did anything for me before.

  Drunk and annoyed, I ran the other way. They called after me, screaming that they were cold and that I was leaving them to die, but I didn't give a damn. I turned the corner as quickly as I could and found a different alleyway. Nobody else was there and it was dark, but that was exactly what I wanted. The thing about addicts is that we only flock with others when it's convenient. When someone else wants a favor, it is time for us to bail and be on our own. I knew they would get high, forget about it, and welcome me with open arms in just a few days. That was how it always happened.

  My heart pounded in my chest and I was starting to get shakier and shakier. Breathing heavily, I pulled the flask from my pocket and unscrewed the cap. With a trembling hand, I lifted it to my lips and took in the sour, sick taste that I craved. Once upon a time, I called whiskey the nectar of the gods. As of late, I call it the devil's medicine. It makes you feel better for a minute, but then it makes you feel like hell for a lifetime.

  The flask was full. I know most people would've told me I was a jerk for not fueling the fire like I should have, but that is not how alcoholism works. Every drop is precious. I panhandled all day long just to buy bottom shelf liquor that nobody else in their right mind would drink. It is one step above being made in a bathtub and the hangover would make most logical people never want to touch it again, but logic gets tossed out the window as soon as you're sick. All you do is try to get rid of that sickness. For me, alcohol is the only thing that does it. I have found every excuse in the world to abuse it.

  I sat in the dark alleyway, chugging away my despair and self-loathing like the street urchin that I am. Sympathy was never something I was really interested in, because I'm not sure I ever deserved any. The only thing I really did want was someone to make me feel like I was worth something again. It really is the only thing that would ever help me get clean. Without any reason to live, I had every reason to die.

  It wasn't long before I had drank half of the cheap whiskey in my flask. I had already drank a fifth, so I was getting pretty close to a fifth and a pint for the day. Most days, I would try to take it easy, but then I remembered a face that I wanted to forget very badly. I never expect hallucinations, but when they do happen, I have only one coping method.

  Tears ran down my cheeks and I wiped them away with my dirty scarf. Nobody ever saw me cry and I didn't even like to admit to myself when I did. My masculinity was one of the only things that I had left. Well, it was one of the things that I like to pretend that I still had left. I wasn't being much a man by running away from my problems in alleyways, drinking booze until I couldn't think straight, but that wasn't something I wanted to think much about. Who wants to look their flaws dead in the eye? I don't think that anyone does. I'm no different.

  Chapter 2 – A Hopeless Mission

  I don't really remember drinking as much as I did, but I must have because the next thing that I remember was waking up in a cop car. I hated being hauled off by the police. It seemed to happen more and more often, though. As much as I wanted to think I was getting better, my problem was only getting worse. The cops liked to remind me of that every time they picked me up and hauled me off to whatever goddamn place
would clean me up just to put me on the streets again. It was an ongoing cycle.

  The police cruiser pulled up to the curb in front of the downtown mission and I rolled my eyes. I hated the mission. They forced food down my throat, gave me a hot shower, got my hopes up, and then sent me right back to the hell from which I came. They say that they want to help, but I don't think that's help. Sometimes, people do things for others just to feel good about themselves. That is really what the mission was all about. Those people didn't care about me. They cared about their image. Helping homeless people every day sounds pretty heroic. They must have enjoyed going home to their families and bragging about all the lives they were saving. Meanwhile, when they kicked me out the next morning to make room for the next group of poor assholes, I was headed right back down to the corner liquor store to inevitably end up there again. I'd rather they let me die than keep putting me through the endless cycle.

  “We're gonna get ya cleaned up, Roman,” the police officer in the passenger’s seat said, unbuckling his seat belt. “We hate seeing you like this, buddy. You're a war hero and here you are, drinking yourself to death, man. What happened?”

  I didn't answer. I couldn't remember the cop's name because every time he found me, I was so drunk I could hardly remember my own name. Every time I had an encounter with him, it was the same conversation. He reminded me of my military achievements and asked why I would be doing what I'm doing to myself. Sometimes, I'd feel inclined to tell him. Sometimes I wouldn't. No matter what I decided to do, I was always annoyed with the questions. I didn't like being treated like some kind of special case. Homeless veterans are all over America and have been all over America for decades. If anyone really cared, they would do something about it instead of blaming us.

  “Well, I hope things get better for you, buddy,” said the other police officer. “You ready?”

  I made a throaty noise, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of a straight answer, but well aware that my only other option was jail. With a heavy sigh, the first police officer opened the passenger's side door and stepped out of the car. He opened the back door and pulled on my jacket, lightly. I stepped out, knowing that if I showed any resistance, I was going straight downtown. The cuffs were beginning to rub against my wrists in an uncomfortable manner, but I kept my mouth shut, knowing that they'd take them off as soon as we got to the front desk in the mission. The officer kept jabbing me in the spine with his fingers, making sure that I went where he wanted me to go. As soon as we got to the doors, he kept his fingers pressed firmly against a pressure point in my back. I wasn't going anywhere, but cops never trust the homeless.

  “Back again, I see?” a stern-faced, elderly woman said, barely glancing up from her clipboard. “Can you follow the rules this time?”

  “Yes ma'am,” I murmured without looking at her.

  She grabbed my arm and gave the officer a nod. Slowly, he removed his fingers from my spine and sauntered back to the police cruiser. The woman pulled me inside and led me directly down the hall to a shower room. That's always the first place they send you when you're in the mission. God forbid they have to touch the filthy homeless they claim they want to help so badly.

  I waited in the check-up room, waiting for the nurse to come see me. After getting a shower and a change of clothes, enough time had passed that I was starting to get shaky again. I expected that the alcohol from the night before would get me by, but I was clearly too hopeful. Having the shakes was already hard enough and it only was harder waiting for some nurse to come tell me how bad my health was. The nurses there were never friendly and none of them really seemed to understand addiction. Usually, they just told me to find God or my liver was going to shut down within a month. Well, I had heard that for years. A lot of months passed and I was still alive, so obviously they didn't really know what they were talking about.

  Then, the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen walked in the door. She was pale and blonde, which was really one of my weaknesses. She was absolutely breathtaking, but in a tired way. Her bright green eyes didn't match the fatigued, black circles beneath them. She was a woman that deserved to be happy, but she looked just as tired as I was. It was one of the saddest things I'd ever seen.

  “Hi there,” she murmured, not looking up from her clipboard. “We're just gonna make sure everything's in working order, alright?”

  Part of me was happy that she didn't look at me. I didn't want a woman like that to see me in the state that I was. Then, she did look at me. When she gave me a small smile, the world lit up like a million lights. I thought the alleyway was bright at night, but her smile was so much brighter even than that.

  “I-I—I guess that's okay,” I stammered.

  She made me stumble on my words.

  “Great,” she said in a soft voice, scribbling something on her clipboard.

  I tried not to make it obvious that I was staring at her as she put the cuff on my arm to take my blood pressure.

  “So what's your story?” she asked.

  Her question caught me by surprise, especially since she seemed to actually mean it. Usually the nurses just told me I needed to stop drinking and didn't have much interest in me other than that. As much as I appreciated her question, I wanted to impress her and I wasn't sure being a hapless alcoholic was going to do that. I winced as she tightened the cuff around my arm and stared at me, expectantly.

  “Well, I was a Navy SEAL,” I started, glancing at her to see if she was still interested. She seemed to be listening so I continued, “When I was at war, I was asked to do some, uh, pretty messed up stuff. Saw some kids die. I got back and couldn't find a job. My dad died when I was a kid and my mom died while I was overseas. I didn't have a house to go to, so I crashed on my war buddies' couches until their wives kicked me out. Ended up on the streets. Got upset I couldn't find a job. I guess I just never left.”

  She gave me a sad look and removed the cuff from my arm. Wordlessly, she checked my pulse. I felt my heart beat faster as she touched me, so she probably wasn't getting an accurate reading, but I didn't care. I was far more concerned with looking at her. It was probably a little creepy, honestly. I couldn't help it, though. She was like something from a dream. It was the first time in a long time that the shakes weren't the first thing on my mind.

  “I hope you get better,” she murmured, pulling the stethoscope away from her ears. “Your health isn't in the best condition.”

  “I know,” I said, quietly. “So what's your story? What's your name?”

  She averted her gaze and scratched the back of her head.

  “I'm Ella.”

  I stared at her, expectantly, waiting for her to finish her thought, yet she didn't say anything else. I frowned, a little taken aback that I had opened up to her but she couldn't do the same. My shakes were starting to get worse. She looked at the door and then reached into one of the cupboards. She pulled out a bottle of nighttime cough medicine and she handed it to me, a small smile on her face. I accepted it and took a grateful drink.

  “Thank you,” I muttered, wiping the excess liquid from my upper lip and handing it back to her.

  She didn't look at me.

  “Have a nice day, Mr. McCormick.”

  I frowned.

  “Am I done?”

  “You're done.”

  Chapter 3 – Beauty and the Ferocity

  Just like always, the mission sent me to be on my way by the following morning. I didn't get to see Ella again before I left and my shakes were acting up before I even found a cup to panhandle. All in all, it was just another cruddy day to add to my list of trauma, so I was in a rush to find some money.

  After seeing a woman toss a foam cup in the trash, I made sure nobody was looking and I grabbed it. Once I had my cup, I started walking downtown to a shopping district. It wasn't necessarily a rich neighborhood, but the shoppers had cash and a lot of the time, they'd give me some just so I would leave them alone.

  The be
st part about my spot downtown was that nobody else panhandled there. Most of the junkies didn't want to go that far, especially since a lot of them had warrants for their arrest. I was the only person on the bench in front of the strip malls, begging as though I had no shame. Begging was not something that I particularly enjoyed doing, but it was the only thing to get me by. Nobody wants to hire a guy that smells and has a drinking problem, decorated war hero or not. With very little postwar aftercare for veterans, I wasn't left with many options.

  It took me about two hours until somebody gave me a five dollar bill. I remembered the woman quite clearly, because she actually dangled the bill in front of my face, asking me if I was going to use it on drugs or alcohol. I lied and said I was going to use it for food, so she gave me the money. Most people would probably say I was being dishonest, because I was, but I needed alcohol just as much as I needed food, if not more. I was at the point in my addiction that I experienced seizures during withdrawal. I needed the alcohol to survive.

  I walked back towards the poorer neighborhood where I spent most of my time, and walked into the local liquor store. Ralph, he man that owned the place, knew me well and gave me a discount most of the time. I don't know if it was because I spent enough money there that it was a loyalty thing or if he just felt bad for me. It was probably a combination of both.

  “Same as usual?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

  I nodded and he sighed, shaking his head. He grabbed the cheap bottle of whiskey from the bottom shelf and put it on the counter. I seized it and tossed the money on top of the counter. In my desperation, I began to unscrew the lid and Ralph scowled.

  “Easy, now! Not in my store! What do you think you're doing?” Ralph scolded, shooing me. “You know better than that!”