War Hope: War Series Book Two Read online

  War Hope

  War Series: Two

  Nicole Lynne

  Contents

  War Hope

  1. Hope

  2. Finn

  3. Hope

  4. Finn

  5. Hope

  6. Finn

  7. Hope

  8. Finn

  9. Hope

  10. Finn

  11. Hope

  12. Hope

  13. Finn

  14. Hope

  15. Finn

  16. Hope

  17. Hope

  18. Finn

  19. Hope

  20. Hope

  21. Finn

  22. Hope

  23. Finn

  24. Hope

  25. Finn

  26. Hope

  27. Finn

  28. Finn

  29. Hope

  30. Hope

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Nicole Lynne

  War Hope

  By

  Nicole Lynne

  1

  Hope

  Doris hands me a margarita before plopping down on the other side of her La-Z-Boy sofa. She places her margarita in the cup holder, runs a wrinkled hand through her white hair, and grabs the box of popcorn from the table, setting it in her lap. Her sausage dog, Shits, is in my lap and she reaches across handing him some popcorn which he eagerly scarfs down. Giggles, her Chihuahua comes scurrying across the floor and wraps himself around her leg, furiously crotch thrusting his way home while she studiously ignores him. The first few times I came here it was a little weird, but hey, Doris doesn't give a fuck. Why not let the little bugger knock himself out?

  "Oh, oh, this is it," Doris says as the rolling credits start. She shovels a huge handful of popcorn in her mouth never taking her eyes off the TV.

  I hesitate. Surely this is not what I think it is. "Uh, Doris..."

  "Yeah?" She slurps on her margarita.

  "What is this?" I watch a man strut onto the screen butt-arse naked and fisting his cock.

  Slowly, she turns toward me, confusion wrinkling her brow as she points at the TV. "You don't know who Colby Keller is?"

  "No, but he has an arse on him."

  Doris shakes her head and exhales a lusty grunt. "That arse was made for fucking, and his dick...just you wait." She holds her hands out. "Veiny." I swear she just moaned under her breath. She shakes her leg. "Get off Giggles. Go hump Shits." The dog stands dazed for a second before trotting to the corner and licking itself.

  "Well then..." I pick up my margarita and take a heavy sip. Damn, that's the good shit. A few minutes later and Colby has his dick down some guy’s throat, face fucking him like he owns him.

  "Damn,” Doris groans. “I want a guy to fuck my mouth like that. He could call me a dirty whore and tell me how he can't wait to ruin my hole.” I turn and look at her. Shit, the woman is over sixty and apparently thirsty as fuck. "Oh, yeah, this gets the juices going for bingo," she says, shifting in her chair and chugging a huge gulp of her drink.

  "Eddie's gonna get it," I say.

  She waves her hand through the air. "That old goat? No! He'd have to whip out his catheter just to have a crack. Bobby...Bobby is gonna get it." She wiggles her eyebrows and cackles.

  "You'll break Eddie's little heart. I thought you were dating?"

  She glares at me as she sucks back the last of the margarita and belches. "No, it's called playing the field, honey. Eddie gives me extra bingo cards."

  I lift a brow. "Touché." She bumps her fist to mine and we resume watching.

  Colby smashes that dude’s back doors in. They're groaning and grunting and Jesus-fucking-Christ, the guy's not gonna be able to sit down for a week.

  "Yeah, fuck him in the hole, Colby," Doris chants. "That boy could tap me seven ways to Sunday any time," she says, shaking her head.

  It takes a lot to shock me, it does. "Holy shit, Doris. I thought you'd be packing up shop by now," I say, pointing at her crotch.

  "An orgasm's an orgasm no matter how wrinkled your cooter gets. Viagra does wonders for a penis these days. Like the Energizer bunny." She waggles her white eyebrows at me.

  "I can never look at Bobby the same way," I say.

  Groans come from the TV and Colby starts coming. I use the term loosely because that's enough come to put out a forest fire. On and on it goes and Colby's face and his sounds—dear fucking god, I need to go and sort myself out. Colby Keller just officially cemented himself as the hottest, most alpha specimen of a man I've ever seen. Any man who can own another guy like that...fuck.

  Doris sighs as she turns the TV off and slowly stands up, grabbing at her back.

  "I think you've just given me a gay porn fetish," I say.

  She laughs. "It will change your life, trust me." She winks as she makes her way to her kitchen.

  "You going to bingo tonight?"

  "Of course, I can’t let that cunt Opal win again."

  "And Poppy thinks you're such a nice old lady," I say, fighting a smile because Doris is me...in a few decade’s time. She's hilarious.

  "I have to be a nice old lady at work. It would be frowned upon if I went up into the clinic talking about Colby smashing arseholes and Opal being a raging cunt." She grabs her purse. "Next week, I'll show you some James Deen. You seen him?"

  "Please.” I roll my eyes. “Until just now, he was the king. He just lost his crown."

  She laughs and I stand up, putting my glass in the kitchen before I hug her. She kisses my cheek. "Bye lovey."

  "Have fun at bingo. Show Opal who the champ is.” I leave Doris’ apartment and climb in my car, heading straight for The Pit.

  **break***

  A thick cloud of smoke surrounds me the second I walk into Larry's bar. I can hear Kyan's loud laugh over the lull of conversation and tinker of glasses. I walk straight to the bar, ignoring the grotty old men giving me the eye.

  "How you doing, treacle?" Kyan asks, lifting a glass of beer.

  I smile as I take a seat at the bar. "Alright."

  "How's Poppy?"

  "Alright..." And a sullen silence falls over us because talking about Poppy reminds us all of what happened. It reminds us of Brandon. That he's gone. That all of us failed him because none of us saw it coming, and as friends, shouldn't we have seen that coming?

  Madame Wrinkles hops up onto the counter, slinking around the glasses on her way to see me. Her pink wrinkly skin glistens under the dim bar lights and I move away just before she brushes her hairless self against my forearm.

  "Poor Madame Wrinkles," Kyan says, patting over her back, "she may be ugly but she still needs love, Hope." He snickers and I roll my eyes.

  "Her skin's gross and loose, like an old man's ball bag."

  Kyan looks at me as he grabs the cat and places her in his lap. "If you weren't a ginger, I'd say you were my soulmate."

  "Fuck off." I shove him and he falls onto the stool, the legs scratching over the uneven floor.

  A loud round of applause suddenly breaks out and I glance over to the side of the room to see Finn shouldering his way through the crowded pub, holding his ribs. His face is drenched in sweat, his dark hair matted to his forehead. His lip is busted. Blood trickles over his defined jawline.

  It's been months since I've seen him and he looks like shit. Poppy hasn't heard from him, but I guess he just didn't want to bother her. From what I can tell, he's pretty much dropped off the face of the earth. He's Finn. Strong, silent Finn. I assumed he was just doing what he always does—keeping to himself, until now that is. He looks like he's been to hell and back.


  Kyan stands up. "'Did you beat his arse?" he yells.

  Finn glances at Kyan, his jaw clenched and his eyes swirling with something turbulent and raw. And for a second, all I see is Brandon: the anger and the pain, the lack of control. "Yeah," he mumbles before hoisting his bag higher on his shoulder, gritting his teeth as he does.

  I glance down at his side, noticing the way he hunches over. "Finn..." I shove a drunk, fat man out of the way and send him stumbling to the side. Grabbing Finn's shirt, I yank it up. His entire side is purple and blue. "Jesus Christ, can you fucking breath?"

  He tenses his jaw and glares at me with his nostrils flaring as he yanks his shirt from my hand. "I'm fine."

  "I'll take that as an 'it's kind of hard'. You need to go to A&E."

  "I'm fine," he repeats, his voice just as flat as his cold expression.

  I laugh and grab his hand, which he promptly snatches away. I turn and glare at him. "You are not fine. Stop trying to be a fucking caveman." I grab his hand again and lead him through to the exit. The cool night air whips around us when we step out of the pub and onto the sidewalk, and he yanks his damn hand away again.

  "Hope, just leave it." This isn't him. Finn is brooding and quiet, surly even, but he's not cold. He's not angry, in fact, he was always the calm one. Hell, he was the one that kept a lid on Brandon half the time.

  I press my shoulders back and huff before I grab him by his earlobe and squeeze. He flinches. "I'm taking you to A&E."

  "Fuck, Hope." He tries to fight me, but what with his injured ribs, he can't. I keep a hold of his ear as we walk toward my car. I click the lock, the alarm beeps, and I open the door, basically cramming him inside and slamming the door shut.

  I get in the driver's side and lock the doors—just in case, then start the car and pull out into the late evening traffic. I glance at Finn, watching him flinch and clench his jaw with every bump in the road. As per usual, he says nothing.

  "What's going on with you?" I ask, fiddling with my mirror.

  Again, nothing. Fuck me, he's exhausting. He's never been one to talk, but shit—

  "Jesus fuck..." He points at the road and I turn and look, yanking the wheel just before I slam into a parked car.

  "Calm your tits." I laugh.

  "You are—"

  "A good friend driving you to the hospital." I pat him on the thigh. Truth is, I feel like a shitty friend right now.

  He slowly glances down at my hand on his leg, his eyebrows pulling together as though he's staring at a riddle he can't quite fathom. "This is a waste of time. Can't do anything for broken ribs," he mumbles, turning his gaze out the window.

  "Well, aren't you just the ray of fucking sunshine?"

  He sighs and swipes a hand down his face. "Hope, I'm not in the mood."

  I jerk the wheel, swerving the car to the side of the road. He falls against the door and hisses. "When are you going to be in the mood, Finn? No one's heard shit from you in months, not since..." I swallow, my heart pounding in my chest because the words came out of my mouth before I fully processed them. And now, we sit in silence.

  After a few minutes, he reaches for the door handle. "Let me out." The air in the car grows thick with tension, only now, the anger has been replaced with this sobering sense of grief so strong I want to throw my arms around him.

  "Finn..." I whisper.

  "Please," he says, his voice devoid of anything.

  I gnaw on my bottom lip. "I'll take you home." I start the car again before he can say anything and pull a U-turn across the road. When I stop outside his building we both sit in silence for a second before I press the button for the locks. He opens the door and gets out without a word. He walks, stooped over, toward the front of his building and disappears through the door. We used to be friends. How did I miss the fact that he's become so lost? Perhaps because I'm surrounded by lost people who are all just trying to survive the shit-show of losing someone they loved.

  2

  Finn

  Thank god. I walk into my apartment and drop my keys on the side table. Everything here is in its place. Neat. Orderly. Controlled. And it sends a sense of calm rushing through me.

  My face is throbbing and my ribs feel like I may have cracked one. I head straight to the fridge and take out a beer before rummaging in the freezer for some frozen peas. Pressing the cold bag to my side, I go into the living room and turn on the TV before I drop onto the sofa. This unsettled feeling creeps through my chest and, for a moment, I allow that sense of loneliness to consume me. I've been alone for what feels like forever. It's a necessary evil, a willing sacrifice, if you like. I've grown accustomed to the silence and find myself shying away from people most of the time. Even friendships are fleeting, inconsequential, because no one really cares. We say we care about other people, but we don't. I don't.

  The worst thing though...for a while there, I found a certain kinship with Brandon. He became my friend and as troubled and fucked up as he was, we got each other. We understood the shit show going on each other's minds, and we existed in this companionable state that didn't require words. For a second, I let my guard down. I dared to hope that there could be something beyond this lonely existence. I watched him get better. I watched him fall in love with Poppy and stop fighting at The Pit. I wanted that for him. I really fucking did and most of all, I dared to want that for myself. And then it all went to shit.

  PTSD. When you're good, you're great and when you're shit, you want to hang yourself. Literally. He hurt Poppy and couldn't live with himself, but he couldn't live without her. So he ended it. I can't say I blame him. There have been times when it's looked like such an easy way out for me, too. I'm sure if Brandon had known Poppy was pregnant it would have changed his mind, made him see a way out, or perhaps it would have made it worse— knowing he hurt her while she was pregnant. That's the thing about life, you don't get a replay. There is no rewind. No alternate ending. We make our choices and live with the consequences, so the what ifs become irrelevant, don't they?

  I almost resent him for killing himself when he had everything right there. Poppy was ready and waiting to give him the world, willing to ride that storm with him. He didn't know what he had. I would have given anything to have Kiera that willing. That understanding.

  I scrub my hand over my jaw, my gaze drifting to the photo album that sits on the bottom shelf of my entertainment system. Filled with reminders of my past: a life I didn’t deserve that was stripped away from me.

  I fish my phone from my pocket and pull up Kiera’s number, staring at it. I’m not supposed to call her, but I do it anyway. She’s not home from work yet. I press the button and put the phone to my ear because I just want to hear her voice. After three rings, it goes to voicemail.

  “We’re not here right now,” a little girl’s voice—my baby girl’s voice—comes over the line, “but leave a message and we will call you back.”

  Clutching the phone in my hand, I close my eyes and inhale. Brandon had no idea what he had…

  3

  Hope

  Poppy is bustling around the kitchen, cleaning the already immaculate work tops with Patrick propped on her hip. Poppy puts a brave front on and acts like she's okay, but really, how can she be? After Brandon’s death, I made her move in with me. Staying in her and Brandon’s flat wasn’t good for her. It was too much of a reminder. Her and Patrick stayed with me until last month when the apartment downstairs became available and she rented it. I love her, but the squalling baby in my apartment was doing nothing for my love life. I'm surprised the old girl hasn't sealed over down there.

  The phone rings and goes to voicemail but it says the mailbox is full. Sighing, I chuck my phone on the sofa beside me. Bloody Finn. I feel guilty I haven't really checked in on him over the last few months, but I've been so focused on Poppy that he's barely crossed my mind. I've sent him the occasional text message which he never responds to. It is Finn though, and he's not exactly Mr. Chatty.

  Poppy lingers in the d
oorway with a small frown on her face. "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing." I plaster a smile on my lips. "What are we doing today?"

  "Hope..." she starts.

  I sigh and roll my eyes. "Nothing you need to be worrying about. Go. Get changed because I am not being seen in public with you like this." I wave my hand in her direction, pointing at her leggings and loose-fitting jumper.

  "Hope..."

  "No, you had a baby. You did not suddenly become a middle-aged Catholic house wife. You're starting to remind me of Mrs McCormick."

  Her mouth drops open. "I do not!"

  "Seriously, you're a pair of Crocs away from giving the fuck up. Up. Go. Jeans. And put on a bra that lifts those tits." I hold my hands out for Patrick and she reluctantly passes him to me. I swear she thinks I'm going to drop him at any given moment. "Ugh! And wash" I look at Patrick as he blows a little spit bubble. "Jesus, what is it about you that means your mother can't even shower?" I ask him. He blinks at me with wide, innocent eyes as though butter wouldn't melt. I swallow the lump in my throat that always rises when I stare in his eyes. His eyes are the same vibrant green as Brandon's. It's uncanny. I can't decide whether it must upset Poppy or comfort her.

  "You look just like him, kid," I say, taking a seat on the sofa and propping him on my knee. "He was a little shit when he was younger." I smile as I think of all the trouble Brandon used to get in. He was a ripe cunt from the moment I met him. I hated him, but there was always something about him that you couldn't help but like. It was always Poppy, Brandon, Connor, and me. And now it's just me, Poppy and Patrick. Funny how people can touch your life and the ripples can be so far reaching. Patrick makes a face at me and I narrow my eyes when a little grunt slips from his lips. "Oh, you just took a shit, didn't you?" Oh god, the smell. "God, you are vile. You are Brandon's child through and through." His face wrinkles. "Oh no, do not cry about it. You can't shit your pants and then get upset about it, dude." He opens his mouth and lets out the most horrific wailing noise. Shit. What do I do? I eye the changing table.