I huffed out a frustrated breath, throwing the t-shirt back into the dresser with more force than necessary. My eyes dragged over my reflection in the mirror, taking in the unbuttoned black jeans hanging low on my hips, the belt still dangling loosely in the loops. My bare chest and arms were on full display, every inch of inked skin a reminder of the years I had left behind.
Some of the tattoos were old, worn into my skin like battle scars. The skull on the inside of my left forearm had been a dumb decision fresh out of high school—I had thought it would make me look tougher, like some kind of warning sign. The machine gun crossed with a sword was different. That one mattered. I had gotten it after my first tour, along with five other men who wore it in the exact same spot—on our left pe
