War Poppy (War #1) Read online

  War Poppy

  War Series Book 1

  Stevie J. Cole & LP Lovell writing as Nicole Lynne

  Contents

  Playlist

  Also from Nicole Lynne

  Foreword

  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

  Acknowledgments

  Also from Nicole Lynne

  The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to, or downloaded from file sharing sites or distributed in any other way via the internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of Stevie J. Cole and LP Lovell.

  Editing: Indie Editor Jones

  Cover Design: Cover Me Darling

  Created with Vellum

  They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:

  Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

  At the going down of the sun and in the morning

  We will remember them.

  Playlist

  All of the songs mentioned at the start of each chapter can be found in a spotify playlist here:

  https://open.spotify.com/user/steviej.cole/playlist/0x1W8A39sfNAPE6ETEHIW4

  Want to read Hope and Finn's story?

  Pre-order War Hope. War Series: Book Two.

  Foreword

  PLEASE READ THIS NOTE:

  This is a work of fiction. While PTSD is a very real condition, the way in which it is represented is fictional. In no instance is the depiction in this book meant to encompass all aspects of the disease, nor is it meant to stereotype anyone who suffers from it. We only hope we were able to provide a representation of what it can do, both to the person who suffers from it and their loved ones.

  -Stevie and Lauren

  Prologue

  Brandon

  Ah, my head! Pain ricochets through my skull. Shit, I feel like I just got run over by a truck. There’s a continuous drip, drip, drip, as rhythmic as a heartbeat as something warm soaks through my jacket and protective vest. I touch a hand to one ringing ear and my fingers come away wet. Fucking brilliant. Busted eardrum. I fight to blink my eyes open, and even through my distorted vision I can make out the blood covering my fingertips. The foxhound is on its side and my CO limply hangs above me, his body held in place by the seat harness. A thick piece of shrapnel is buried in his neck, the blood steadily dripping down on me.

  My mind numbly assesses the situation with an odd sense of distance, nothing but blood and twisted metal surrounding me. I undo the harness holding me into the seat, groaning as I slowly roll onto my stomach. The second I flip over, glass bites into my forearms, adding to the chorus of pain pulsing throughout every inch of my body. I stare down at the metal window grill. The stench of smoke, diesel fuel, and charred flesh hangs heavy in the air, and I cough, sending the gritty sand beneath the busted window up into my face. Even though I’m disoriented as fuck, that smell sends me into fight mode. I need to move. I need to get out of here. I quickly push up to my hands. Shards of glass embed in my skin, slicing through the meat of my palms, but I barely feel it.

  I still and listen carefully for the distinctive pop, pop, pop of gunfire, but all I can hear is a low, static buzz—one continuous note ringing through my damaged ear drums.

  Connor. Where’s Connor? My heart beat picks up. Fear grips me in its clutches, completely over-riding any objections my broken body may have. I crawl over the seat, throwing myself into the back of the foxhound. Connor is sprawled awkwardly in the corner against the back door with his lifeless eyes staring straight at me. His mangled face is covered with burns and blood. My chest heaves and I choke out an anguished sob, but the sound is lost, falling on my own deaf ears because I am all that's left. They're all dead. Connor is dead. My best friend. My brother. I shake him in the desperate hope that my eyes are deceiving me, that this isn’t real. But still, that thousand-yard death stare remains locked on me.

  I pull my weight over the seat and then I fall, hitting the back door with a thud. The pain is so intense that my vision blacks out for a second, but I fight through it. Connor needs me. He's not fucking dead. I won't let him die. I roll him onto his back and tear his jacket open before yanking the Velcro straps of his vest away frantically. I lean over him in the cramped space and press both hands to his chest, pushing all my weight down over and over. I keep going until my arms weaken and my damaged body threatens to give out. Nothing. Still, he stares blankly. Dead. Gone. Tears stream down my face as I collapse on my back beside him. Suddenly the smell of smoke and diesel don't seem important. Without him nothing is. Pulling him closer, I cradle his limp body as everything that made me—made us—disintegrates. I cling to him, because the second I let go I must face a world without him. And if I stay here long enough, maybe the vehicle will blow up and I won't have to.

  Chapter One

  Poppy

  “Earthquake”- Em Rossi

  Poppy,

  I hate writing these fucking letters. It’s depressing. But if you’re reading this, then it means I am actually dead and, well, that sucks. Don't let them play shit music at the funeral, okay? I want to go out in a blaze of glory with all the Catholics looking positively scandalised.

  This isn’t how it was supposed to go. We’re supposed to grow old together and annoy our kids because we won’t hurry up and die already. I’m destined to be that old fuck who farts at the family dinner but accidentally shits himself. Seriously babe, life goals.

  I have been in love with you since I was ten years old and you put gum in my hair before hacking a massive bald patch in my scalp with a pair of safety scissors. My ma went mad and shaved my whole head on pure principle. I looked like a right prick. I was still like a love-sick puppy for you though. You had me by the balls and everyone
knew it.

  I’m sorry. I’m sorry I left you when I promised I never would. I can honestly say I have lived with no regrets, until now, until I’m faced with the idea of leaving you. But you won’t be alone. Brandon will always watch out for you because he loves you almost as much as I do. Look after each other and make sure he doesn't drown at the bottom of a bottle of whiskey.

  Life can be shit, but it's also short and it goes on. The sun will still rise in the east tomorrow and set in the west, so I ask nothing of you except this: don’t die with me. Live. Be happy. Love again because you deserve to experience as much love as this life has to give. I only wish I could have been the one to give it to you.

  You are my world, my heart. Whatever lays beyond this life, at least I can rest easy knowing that all the best pieces of me are right here, with you. If you just close your eyes, you’ll feel me right there with you. I love you in a way that transcends life and death.

  This isn't goodbye, only see you later.

  Love always,

  Connor

  This must be the hundredth time I’ve read Connor’s grave letter. It’s a strange thing—reading his words and knowing he’s never coming home. It still doesn’t feel real, more like a movie or someone else’s life.

  But it’s not. At the age of twenty-five, I am a widow.

  The car hits a pothole, the sudden movement jostling the tears free that have been swimming in my eyes.

  “Poppy,” Hope rubs her hand over my shoulder. I look up and catch her gaze drift to the letter in my hand. I don’t say anything, just fold the letter up and shove it inside my purse. She trails her hand down my arm before she grabs hold of my hand, lacing her fingers between mine. “I don’t…” she takes a breath. “I don’t know what to do to make this easier for you.”

  “Nothing.”

  “I love you, Poppy. Like a sister.”

  I force a smile as I fiddle with the worn friendship bracelet on my wrist. “I know,” I say. “I love you, too.”

  Death, though a part of life, is a hard thing to deal with. People on the outside, they feel sorry for you. They want to make it better. But they don’t understand. When you lose someone you love, someone that is a part of your life—everything changes. Your world morphs and reshapes. Darkness. You become shrouded in an impenetrable darkness. Shock and anger ripple through you like rogue waves. And then, eventually, you grow numb. That’s survival instinct kicking in, I believe. Because what person can live with the type of pain death brings? And that’s where I’m at. Trying to survive. Numb…

  The car rolls to a stop and I take a breath as I peer through the window. Behind the church, the tombstones loom over the landscape. The trees all seem to sag. The sky seems darker. Cemeteries, no matter where they are, are always so sullen.

  The driver opens the door and Hope climbs out, turning around to lend me her hand. I take it at the same time as I draw in a deep breath.

  This part…this last bit of the goodbye…it’s always the hardest. I was ten when my mother passed away. Watching them lower her casket into the ground broke me. I cried. I pleaded with God as I buried my face in my father’s suit jacket. When my Nan died, it was Brandon whose shoulder I cried on. And when my father left this earth, I leaned on Connor. And now, every last one of those people are gone.

  The hinges to the old wooden door groan when Hope pulls it open. The inside of the huge cathedral is dark and cold. Stepping over that threshold is like stepping back in time two-hundred years. The stained glass, the wooden pews, the massive cast iron chandelier. And there, at the front of the church, sits Connor's casket. My muscles tense. My heart bangs against my ribcage and my steps falter. Hope clutches my arm.

  "It's okay,” she whispers. “Do you need a minute?"

  I shake my head because why delay this? It won't bring him back. It won't change a thing. I walk down the aisle toward the front pew, people giving me their condolences along the way. After I've taken my seat, the priest steps toward me and extends his hand. His bright blue eyes seem so sympathetic. “So sorry for your loss, Mrs. Blaine. Connor was a great man of God.”

  I swallow. I fight those tears because I will not seem weak to these people. Death is a part of life—but this time it has destroyed mine. “Thank you, Father Perry,” I say.

  And the funeral begins. A series of poems and blessings. All of it a blur until the crowd stands and is directed to the cemetery at the back of the church. I wait until everyone has left before I stand, taking one last glance at the oak box his body rests in.

  The cold wind howls over the hills. The branches to the oak tree creak and groan. There’s a lull of conversation from the people surrounding the gravesite, and I feel their eyes on me as Hope and I make our way to the graveside.

  I watch the men in uniform carting the casket on their shoulders. Each of their faces unreadable. Hard. Solemn. Hope grabs my hand again and gives me a tissue. I take it, keeping my eyes trained on the ground right in front of my feet.

  The harness creaks when they set the coffin in its place. My stomach knots. I close my eyes, fighting to bring back a memory. Any happy memory of Connor. Of Brandon, but in a moment so grief stricken, I fail to find the tiniest sliver of happiness, even in my memory. The priest recites the beginning of that Irish blessing and my heart slowly breaks, my chest burning, my mind becoming crippled.

  “Do not stand at my grave and weep,

  I am not there…I do not sleep.

  I am the thousand winds that blow…”

  People toss roses on top of the casket as it is slowly lowered into the earth, and I stand right here, at the edge of Connor’s grave, a red poppy in my hand. Just before the first shovel of dirt rains down on top of the coffin, I throw my poppy into the grave.

  “I’ll never stop loving you,” I whisper, wiping away the tears as I turn to leave.

  He's gone...

  He and I both—casualties of war.

  Chapter Two

  Brandon

  “Friction” – Imagine Dragons

  10 months later…

  The noise from outside drifts down the corridor to where I stand waiting. The roar of the crowd, their cries echo from the concrete walls of the basement to this shitty pub.

  Ladies and gentleman, welcome to the ring, the one, the only, Brandon ‘The Breaker’ Blaine!

  That’s my cue, and every time I hear it, it hits me in the chest. I can’t fight under my real name. Brandon O’Kieffe died in Afghanistan alongside his best friend, Connor Blaine. The Breaker Blaine isn't real. He doesn’t exist. And that's the twisted irony of it, because I shouldn’t exist. And he should, because this world is a cold and bitter place without him.

  I walk through the doorway into the room filled with drunks and gamblers. They shout and wave handfuls of cash through the air. This is the dark and dirty under belly of London, where the corrupt and nameless come to trade punches, to draw blood and purge themselves of their demons.

  The crowd chants over and over: Breaker, Breaker, Breaker.

  I ignore it. I ignore them as I duck through the ropes into the ring, which is nothing more than a pitiful square of bloodstained concrete. These people love their fighting. They long for the blood, like sharks circling in the water.

  My opponent is some blond, tatted up guy from the north—I’ve forgotten his name already. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, he punches the air with his fist, lapping up the cheers from the crowd. I, on the other hand, stand still, arms loose at my sides while I wait for the bell to sound.

  This moment right here is all I have any more. It’s all I’m good at. And I both love and hate it as a result. I tune out the shouting and screaming, the commentators voice crackling over the microphone—everything, until all I can hear are my steady breaths, the slow thump, thump, thump of my heart beating in my chest. I zone out anything that isn’t me and him, because in this moment, that’s all that matters. Right now, nothing outside of this ring exists, and that makes it a strange kind of salvation. br />
  The bell dings and he comes at me like a train, swinging twice. I duck, weaving and bobbing before throwing a right hook at him. My fist makes impact with his cheek with a loud smack. He recoils and staggers back a few steps. For a second, I think he might remain on his feet, but then he goes down like a sack of shit. And he stays down.

  The room explodes, and the commentator steps toward me, reaching for my arm. Ignoring him, I turn and walk straight out of the ring, through the door I came in, and into the storage room that serves as a makeshift changing area. Like I said, I love it and I hate it. The power in the moment of a win is always overshadowed by the shame I feel afterwards, the rage that I can't control even though it's as familiar to me as an old friend nowadays. I was supposed to be better than this. I was supposed to be more. Now I’m just a guy with no name, dragged back into the pit that Connor helped me claw my way out of. He'd be disappointed...

  I’m unwrapping the bandages from my hands when Larry comes into the room, slamming the door behind him. He’s a big guy. An American Vietnam War vet with a thick southern accent and a build that would put a brick shit-house to shame. Ink covers every visible inch of skin. My favorite of all his tattoos: the topless hula girl smoking a joint on his right forearm. At one time in his life, Larry was a boxer, which, I guess, is why he owns this place. The bar, the fight ring—all of it. I stumbled in here one day looking for some whiskey and a fight. I fucking got it alright. Just so happened Kyan and Finn, both Larry’s fighters, were sitting at the bar that night. It didn't take much. One cross look and wham. I knocked Kyan's smartass right off the stool. Even though there were two of them, I still fucking won. Instead of kicking me out or having me arrested, Larry welcomed me into the fold. He said he could see the war still raging in my eyes like I never left it. And he'd be fucking right. I try to keep to myself for the most part. Come in, throw a few punches, and leave. I don't want or need friends. I just need the cash in hand these fights earn me. Larry though...well, he's hard to ignore, and he kind of grows on you...like a fungus.