I was immediately swept up in it. It was a wonderful show, with none of the pyrotechnics, over the top choreography or catchy pop tunes that seemed to be inbred in most Broadway shows I’ve seen. Instead, this was understated, engaging, gentle storytelling. No wonder it won so many awards.
Five minutes into the show I grabbed Ray’s hand, and I didn’t let go until the intermission. I never got so lost in the show that I didn’t feel him in the seat next to me. I was acutely conscious of the fact that every once in a while he glanced away from the stage, in my direction. When he did, my breath would catch. I didn’t understand why he affected me this way. I was lightheaded, almost drunk with sensation.
When the intermission came, he turned toward me and said, “Come here.”
“What?” I said, but I could feel my smile widening, impossibly wide.
Apparently he didn’t have the patience to explain, because he reached out, putting his hands on my waist, and lifted me right into his lap. I’m not a small woman. Yes, I’m thin. But I’m also six-two and have no problems hiking twenty miles up a mountainside. But he picked me up like I was a little girl. I let out a squeal and threw my arms around his neck, and then everything in my world narrowed down to that touch, the breath between us, and the urgent pressure between our lips. He had one hand fixed on my waist, the other in my hair, and my arms were thrown over his shoulders. I felt goose bumps on my arms, my whole body alive.
It was overpowering. Overwhelming. I was twenty-seven years old. I’d been with men before. I’d dated, at least twice seriously. But I’d never experienced anything like this. Right at that moment, it was as if every wall I had, every boundary, every defense, had simply stepped to the side, opening the gates to who knew what. If we hadn’t been in the theater I might have torn his clothes off right then and there. As it was, I was grateful, for once, for the semi-private box I’d resented in the past.
He broke off and spoke, his voice low, husky. “Is this going too fast for you?”
I met his eyes. “It’s not going fast enough.”
Ray’s eyes widened. “I’m liking that. You know I haven’t been with a girl in ... two years? At least.”
I leaned forward and bit his ear, then said, “I haven’t been with a girl in two years either.”
“Oh my God, that’s so fucking hot.”
“Let’s go,” I whispered.
“The show?” he said.
“It’s awesome. I have a box, we can come back tomorrow.”
Ray didn’t kid around. Too fast to even catch my breath, he had me on my feet and was grabbing our coats. We never even discussed the hotel he was supposed to check in to. I drove as fast as I could back to my apartment.
Shut up. Kiss me. (Ray)
In my dream, the lights are dim, not off, and I can see Carrie’s pale skin, almost translucent really. Her hips are straddling mine, and she slides the sweater dress up her hips, lifts it over her head with both arms, and I gasp as I stare at her perfect, beautiful body. She wears a black lace bra, which leaves nothing to the imagination, and leans forward, tracing her fingertips across my chest. The nails aren’t painful, but intense, drawing a line that seems to brand me.
My hand touches the scar on her side, four parallel lines, and I say, “It wasn’t a house-cat that did that.”
She grins, a fierce, hungry look, and says, “Right now, I’m the hungry cat.” Her lips curve upward as she says the words.
I like it. My hands are on her hips, her waist, her breasts, and even though I can feel the hazy reality of the dream, it still feels real.
I arch my neck as she brings her lips to my chest and bites; the sensation overpowers all thought. Then I grab her by the shoulders and roll her over. I’m on top of her, and with one yank I pull her panties off and throw them to the floor.
She lets out a cry as I enter her, and I whisper words without meaning, with too much meaning. Her legs wrap around me, her fingers dragging down my back, and she gasps in my ear.
But then I’m cold. Shivering. I’m standing on a trail on a mountainside, rifle slung over my shoulder, and I want to cry out, “Where’s Carrie?” because all around me are men, my men, Dylan, with his leg stained with blood and a fragment of bone poking through the mess of his thigh. Kowalski is just ahead of him on the trail, and he turns toward me, his face nothing but wreckage, and I can see his teeth because his lips are gone. He lifts his M249 machine gun over his shoulder like a toy and says, “Come on, Sergeant, they’re just ahead.” He turns away, and Dylan follows, and so does Roberts, shambling, his legs crazy wobbling because there’s hardly any skin or muscles attached to his bones. I want to cry, because I shouldn’t be here, I should be in bed with Carrie in her apartment in Houston, and instead, I’m stuck in this crazy horror show, back in Afghanistan with people I know are dead. Off to my right, a short distance away is Hicks’ fire team: Hicks, Weber, Reynolds and Gruber.
And then I hear Sergeant First Class Colton. Our platoon’s father, our disciplinarian, our hero, and he’s shouting ahead somewhere, “I got ‘em! Close up!” We’re running up behind him, somehow back on the trail leading to the village, and standing in front of Colton in ragged, dirty clothes is Carrie. Her hair hangs loose, dirty, unkempt, and her face is streaked with dirt and terror, eyes wide open.
Colton shrieks at her, and shrieks again and again, his voice accusing, blaming her for Kowalski and Roberts and Weber’s deaths. It’s obvious he’s gone nuts, his eyes slightly bulging, the rage on his face mirrored by the terror in hers as he lifts his rifle.
Staff Sergeant Martin shouts, “Colton, no!” and runs over, and then the rifle is pointed at him, and I shout, “Sergeant Colton, don’t do it!” Then there’s a hand grabbing my arm and shaking, shaking hard. My mind is fogged, I think the hand is trying to pull my rifle away and I scream and kick, and I hear Carrie scream.
My eyes jerked open as I heard her scream followed by a loud crack. Disoriented, I looked around the still dim room, the lights not quite off. In a fraction of a second my eyes focused and found Carrie.
She was nude, her back against the wall where ... I’d thrown her? Her eyes were open in shock, staring at me. Dazed.
That shocked me back into the present, my senses suddenly sharp. I yelled, “Carrie? Oh, shit!” and jumped out of the bed and ran to her. She raised her arms—as if to ward me off—and I said, “Oh, God, baby, I’m so sorry!”
She seemed too shocked to react. With effortlessness born of adrenaline and fear and that awful nightmare, I scooped her up into my arms and laid her gently on the bed. “Carrie ... I didn’t hurt you, did I? Oh, shit, shit, shit.”
She shook her head, still not talking, as if she couldn’t catch her breath. I traced my fingers along the back of her head, checking for bumps, bleeding, head injuries of any kind.
“I’m okay,” she whispered. “Not hurt.”
Oh, God. The fear swept out of me, all at once, and I wanted to collapse. What the fuck just happened?
She shivered, goose bumps appearing on her arms and breasts, and it hit me then how cold it was in here. I leaned over, grabbing the blanket off the floor and swept it over us. “I’m so sorry, Carrie. I was asleep ... I didn’t mean to do that. Jesus Christ.”
I was shaking, and she was too. I slid under the blanket next to her, gently pulled her into my arms, and whispered, “Seriously, are you okay?”
She slowly nodded, then turned toward me. “I’m fine ... are you? That must have been some dream.”
“Carrie ... I’d never hurt you. Never.”
Christ almighty, what the fuck had I done?
She touched the side of my face and looked me in the eye. It was dim, but I could see the worry and fear in her eyes. “I know that, Ray. I know.”
“Maybe this isn’t a good idea,” I said, my voice rough.
Her face twitched, fear flashing across her eyes. That quickly morphed to anger. “Ray. I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”
“But ... w
hat if I’d seriously hurt you?”
“Shut up. Kiss me.”
I swallowed and pulled her to me. Not a kiss. An embrace, trying with all my might to reassure, to wash away the fear, to bring our souls together, to memorize the feel of her body, the brush of her hair, the scent of her skin. I was still shaking. Then we repositioned, Carrie laying against my side, her head half on the pillow and half on my shoulder.
It took her a long, long time to fall back asleep.
That was okay. I waited patiently, as her breathing steadily lengthened, slowed. Once I was sure she was asleep, I continued waiting. Watching her, studying her face, the curve of her cheek. She had a slightly upturned nose, and in her sleep she looked closer to seventeen than twenty-seven. I knew from our long talks that she was a mature, levelheaded, experienced woman. But I also knew that she’d never experienced anything like the gulf of pain and anguish that came along with a war.
Part of me thought I should just walk away before it got too serious. But I knew that was no answer.
Once she was finally in a deep sleep, I slipped out of the bed, pulled on my jeans and t-shirt, and walked out to the balcony. She had two cast iron chairs on the balcony, and a small table. It was bitterly cold outside, but I welcomed that. I wasn’t in any space to go back to sleep right now. Instead, I lit a cigarette and looked out at the traffic winding through the streets of Houston far below. From her fourteenth floor balcony, I could see Park Plaza Hospital across the street, and the campus of Rice University spread out to my left. It was a beautiful view, even if it was ice cold out here.
How many weeks ago had I said to Dylan Paris that he was a fucking idiot for stepping back from Alex? Because of his worries about the war? Because he was afraid of hurting her? Not that many.
All right ... I wasn’t going to go there. But I wasn’t going to hide it either. Because no matter how much joking I did, no matter how much good friendly advice I doled out to friends? I hadn’t talked with anyone about what happened. I hadn’t told anyone. And if tonight was anything to go by, that silence was taking its toll.
I’d talk with her. And let her make a decision. If she wanted to walk away at that point, at least she had a choice in the matter.
The problem was ... I really wasn’t ready to talk about it. I wasn’t even ready to think about it. I carefully crushed my cigarette against the bottom of my shoe then lit another one. I’d been smoking too much lately. I didn’t smoke at all before the Army, but when there are people trying to kill you, cancer risk just doesn’t seem like that big of a deal.
I needed to talk with Dylan about it, too. I’d known that since I’d come home. But he’d been so screwed up—over his injury, over Alex—I didn’t want to mess with his head any more than he’d already had it screwed up. He’d said it more than once: Sergeant Colton was a father figure to him. And there are few things worse than having your father destroy everything. Dylan had a right to know. Fact was, he might even get dragged into it. Even though he didn’t witness the actual events, he knew all the people involved. It was hard to say.
Maybe I should call him.
No. This was in-person conversation. I was flying back to New York on Wednesday. It could wait until then.
Jesus. Whatever. Okay, I was going to try to get some sleep. I put out my cigarette and quietly made my way back into the apartment. My bag was still next to the front door, where I’d dumped it as we came in. Both of us were a little too excited to think about niceties at that point. A trail of discarded clothing led from the front door to the bedroom. I got my toothbrush out of my bag, ducked into the bathroom and brushed, then went back in the bedroom.
She was still sleeping peacefully.
What were the odds of me having the nightmare again?
Pretty damn good. Shit.
I leaned over and very gently kissed her on the forehead. In her sleep, she smiled, and that sight almost broke my heart. So I grabbed one of the pillows off the bed, tossed it on the floor next to her, and lay down. The carpet was itchy, but I’d slept in worse places.
Um… blueberry (Carrie)
The sun was shining in my window when I awoke on Saturday morning. The warmth flooded my body, and I stretched. I was sore. Okay, it had been a long time since that happened to me. The long muscles in the back of my legs and thighs and butt were sore as hell. Actually, I was sore in places I didn’t even know could be sore. My past sexual experience had been with other graduate students, and once, as a fumbling, inexperienced eighteen-year-old on a road trip across the country with another fumbling, inexperienced eighteen-year-old, while we tried to stay very quiet because Julia and Crank were in the next room, and there were some things my big sister didn’t need to know.
This was different. Ray had been an athlete in high school and college, and most recently had been hiking around the mountains of Afghanistan carrying fifty pounds of gear. He was in shape. I’m no slouch. I go to the gym three afternoons a week. And when I’m in the field, I’m hiking long distances, sometimes ten or twenty miles or more. But he had tired me out.
I felt a smile on my face thinking of it.
I rolled over, stretching my arms out for Ray, and he wasn’t there. Huh. Feeling unexpectedly disappointed, I sat up and saw him.
He was curled up on the floor next to the bed. I sighed, and looked at him, my breath catching in my throat a little. I mean, it was obvious why. He was afraid of having the nightmare again. He slept on the floor of my room to protect me. A wave of unfamiliar emotion swept through me. I felt my eyes water suddenly. Because he had options. He could have gone to the hotel he’d reserved. Or slept on the couch. Or risked having the nightmare again.
Instead, he stayed next to me. On the floor.
Well, screw that. I grabbed my pillow, threw it on the floor next to him, and cuddled up next to him, pulling the blanket over us both. He smelled a little like cigarettes, and a lot like sex and sweat.
My movement disturbed him, and he slowly opened his eyes.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” I said.
“Good morning, beautiful,” he replied. His voice was rough.
“You didn’t have to sleep on the floor.”
He tried to look sheepish. “Yeah, well. It seemed like a good idea at the time. But I’m sore now.”
I tried to suppress a snicker. “So am I.”
Alarm immediately appeared on his face. “You’re not hurt, are you?”
I closed my eyes for just a second, trying to gather some patience. “Ray ... I was being a smartass. I’m sore because of the sex, not because of the other thing.”
“Oh…” he said. Then he recovered his composure. “Well ... in that case ... might need to help you limber up some. Stretch those muscles some more.”
Now I did laugh, and I picked up my pillow and hit him over the head with it. He grabbed me and pulled me on top of him, and given that neither of us had any clothes on, there was no doubt at all what his intentions were.
I laid my index finger across his lips and said, “I need thirty seconds. Morning breath.”
Then I jumped up and ran for the toothbrush.
Two hours later, we were finally sitting over breakfast at the Park Grill, and I decided it was time to push a little.
“Talk to me about the nightmare,” I said.
Ray grimaced. “I guess I owe you that.”
I held up a hand. “You don’t owe me anything yet, Ray. But ... maybe you owe it to yourself—to let yourself heal. You don’t have to talk with me about it, Ray. But talk to someone. Dylan maybe. Or a doctor.”
He nodded, sighed, and then said, “It’s more complicated than that.”
I leaned forward, grabbed his hand, and then I plunged off a cliff.
“Ray, listen to me.”
“Okay,” he said, slowly.
“I’m going to say this once, and if you aren’t ready for it, then ... well ... that’ll suck.”
His mouth twitched, just slightly upward, on one side.
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“I’m serious,” I said. Then I took a deep breath, squeezed my eyes shut, and probably way too quickly to understand, I said, “I think I’m falling for you.”
I waited ... ten, maybe fifteen seconds. Then I opened my eyes.
He had a huge grin on his face. Almost a smirk.
“What?” I said, my voice rising into a squeal that was probably really unattractive. His grin grew bigger, into a genuine smile, so I balled up my napkin, which still had crumbs of blueberry muffin all over it, and threw it at him. It hit him right in the face and fell to the table.
Ray burst into laughter, then said, “Babe. I feel exactly the same way. In fact….” With those words, he leaned forward, and whispered in a low, fierce voice, “I’m falling in love with you, Carrie Thompson.”
It would have been the perfect, utterly romantic moment. Except he had a blueberry muffin crumb on his nose.
“Um….” I said.
“What?”
I shook my head, then reached out and grabbed the crumb. “Blueberry,” I said.
And then we were both laughing. He pulled me to him and we kissed, hard, and he said, “Let’s take a walk. And ... I can tell you some of it.”
And so we walked, holding hands, toward the park. He let go of my hand and put his arm around my waist, pulling me closer to him. I leaned my head close, and Ray started to talk.
“So ... let me ask you this ... how much do you know about the war?”
“Basically nothing.”
“Read any books about … wars in general? Fiction? War movies?”
I shook my head. “Don’t laugh. I mostly read contemporary romance. It’s got to have a happy ending.”
He nodded, seriously, and said, “I’d never laugh at that. Real life should be that way.”
I smiled and squeezed his hand. Maybe our life could be like that. But I didn’t say it out loud.
“Anyway,” he said. “What about ... you’ve probably studied group dynamics? Mob behavior, that sort of thing?”
“Um, hello, that’s what I do. Sort of.”
The Last Hour (Thompson Sisters) Page 7
