His Red Carnation (Forbidden Blooms #1)

24. Callan

24

Callan

I knew Jake was going to fucking hit me. I expected it. I should have spoken to him alone, but I knew Sloane wouldn’t have it. I also anticipated insults—Jake always thought he was so much fucking better than me. Born wealthy, straight-laced, and a straight-up fucking nerd, yet I loved him. We were so different when we first met in the Navy—the only thing we had in common was our sobriety. Yet somehow, we became the best of friends, going through hell and back together in the SEALs.

I was required to go through therapy for my PTSD, but I didn’t want to dwell on that. Maybe that’s why I made such bad decisions before I left the Navy. I didn’t technically get kicked out, but I sure as hell didn’t re-enlist—not after nearly facing a dishonorable discharge.

Jake had just been promoted to E7 as an officer. Meanwhile, I was struggling. My relationship of three years was tanking—not just because of me, but because of her too. Sarah. She was a fucking verbally abusive smoke show who tested every one of my limits. At twenty-six, I didn’t know any better. I was only thinking with my dick and living for the drama she created. We were both fucked up, but I convinced myself it was love. She was sweet as pie when we were around other people. That’s why everyone believed her when she accused me of sexually assaulting her.

It was right after I relapsed. I was drinking all the time, even while working. I don’t know how I didn’t get caught—maybe it was just luck. Sarah sure as fuck gave me hell about it, calling me a fuck-up and a pathetic loser who couldn’t control myself, and then we’d hate-fuck until the sun came up.

One particular evening, after we’d been drinking, I told her I was leaving. I was determined to get clean and fix my life. From what I remembered, she screamed at me while I packed my things, then started pounding on me with her little fists. At 5’2” and 110 pounds soaking wet, it didn’t do much, but I pushed her off, and she stumbled back against the dresser, sending everything crashing down beside her. I checked to make sure she was okay—she was, just fucking drunk and too unsteady to stay upright. She kept screaming until I locked myself in the bathroom to get the hell away from her.

I woke up with a text from Jake. There’s a warrant for your arrest. Sarah claims you sexually assaulted her.

I found myself on trial in the military court. Sarah put up a convincing front—she had friends testify that I was a fucking monster. They presented texts where I called her a stupid fucking cunt, a worthless bitch, an evil slut. I was angry, but she had hurled far worse insults at me. Even in my drunken state, I never laid a hand on her. We had rough sex, but she asked for everything we did.

But then pictures of bruises surfaced as evidence. I had no fucking idea how she got them. I’ll admit, I blacked out more than once when we were drinking, but I knew I’d never hit her—I wasn’t that much of a scumbag. The bruises spanned several days, covering the last few months of our relationship. She claimed I’d blacked out and tossed her around like a punching bag. People were shocked—they sided with her, convinced that the fucking junkie with tattoos and muscles was the monster she made me out to be.

Yet somehow, I was acquitted. The officers judging my case listened to character witnesses on my behalf, including Jake’s. They saw the evidence of Sarah’s verbal abuse through texts and voicemails. I lost rank, but I only had a few months left until my enlistment was up. And then I ran.

That’s when I went back to Philly and lost everything. I never got clean. I traveled around with my tent and a single bag of belongings, using any spare change I had to buy booze. I lost all track of time, and by the time I was suicidal, two years had passed. That’s when I called Jake. He had been searching for me since I disappeared off the radar. Thank fuck I remembered his number; otherwise, I probably would have ended my life. He got me into rehab, helped me with money when I got out, and then set me up with a decent job.

And now, here I was, sitting alone in my DC apartment after he just clocked me in the face. I deserved it. After everything he did for me, I repaid him by fucking his daughter. What the fuck was I thinking? But Sloane was the most perfect person I had ever laid eyes on. It wasn’t just her beauty—I was in love with her intelligence, her quick wit, and her sweetness. And she loved me. I didn’t deserve her. I knew I had to cut out the misogynistic bullshit, but it was true: everyone could see it—she was too good, too pure, too fucking perfect for me.

I was spiraling. Where the fuck is Sloane? I texted her with shaky hands: Everything okay? Where are you?

I stared at my phone for a full five minutes before tossing it onto the couch and gazing out the window. Across the street was a mini market, and I craved whiskey so fucking badly. I needed to know where Sloane was and what Jake was telling her. With how quick he was to badmouth me, I had no doubt he was dragging up Sarah’s name. Now I looked guilty as fuck for not telling Sloane sooner.

I picked up my phone again—still nothing. Sighing, I grabbed my wallet, took the elevator down, and walked to the mini market across the street.