by JL Mac
“How were the locals?”
“I didn’t care much for the adults, couldn’t trust them at all. The kids were different. The adults used the kids to do dirty work, sure, but these kids were just stuck in the middle of some screwed up shit, didn’t know any better, you know? I made it my mission to show them that the Americans were good, and we didn’t deserve to be blown up.” A distant look transforms his smile into a blank expression and I can tell his mind is right back in Afghanistan.
“Did you know kids over there love Pop-Tarts? They’re fanatics over them. Doesn’t matter the flavor. People from home sent me care packages full to hand out to the kids after I had relayed to Mom in a letter that the local kids would do anything—tell us anything—we wanted to know as long as we gave them the goods.” He laughs, but it’s a terribly sad sound. His eyes take on a wistful quality. “There was a little girl I used to see in the village nearby all the time. Tiny, little thing.” He shakes his head. “The interpreter said she was eleven years old, but she looked about six. Rail-thin. I always gave her extra food.” He pauses taking another healthy drink from his beer bottle.
“We were in a convoy just outside of Sangin, Afghanistan one day and we spotted this car stopped in the middle of the road about a football field away. Our Convoy Commander had us stay put to assess the situation.” Sy glances up at me but I keep my lips sealed, just nodding here and there.
“They were deciding how to proceed when this Afghani man starts walking toward us. He was carrying something wrapped up in cloth and at first we all got ready for a shit-storm.” He pauses again, regarding me with grim eyes.
“It’s not uncommon for firefights to kick off with a suicide bomber. He was screaming and yelling and walking toward us. Our interpreter was ordering him to stop—to not come any further—but the guy was hysterical, crying, stumbling all over the road.” Sy shakes his head. He takes a deep breath and goes on. “We were prepared to shoot him. Captain Harris radioed from three trucks back and ordered we fire a warning shot at the man.” My heart squeezes in my chest but I keep my mouth shut, waiting for him to go on. “I fired the warning shot. I remember the dust spraying up at his feet as the round made contact with the ground in front of him. He jolted, but it didn’t stop him. He was screaming in Pashto. The interpreter said he was rambling. He was talking so fast and was so emotional he couldn’t hear our interpreter giving him simple instructions. Our Convoy Commander came back on the radio and ordered the kill shot. We couldn’t risk him being a suicide bomber. By this time the man was halfway to us. It was him or us. I prepared to smoke him and he shoved his arms outward, holding a bundle wrapped in fabric out toward us. A tiny arm fell lifelessly to the side, and I lowered my weapon.”
“Oh my god,” I whisper. “The little girl?” I ask. Sy simply nods, swallowing hard.
“The Convoy Commander had the interpreter order him to put down whatever it was he was carrying. He finally listened. It was his daughter. The Taliban retaliated against him for not cooperating with them to store several weapons caches in his two shops. They firebombed his properties and his wife and daughter were both trapped inside. He was asking for help, but she was already dead.”
He lives with this. This terrible, dark knowledge is with him, always and he somehow still finds a way to live his life as best he can. Fresh admiration for Sylas Broussard blooms in my chest.
Right beside it is fresh disgust with myself. For not being strong like him. For every rude comment I’ve made. For not being there for him during those terrible years that he spent serving this country. I should have been there for him, no matter our history, no matter what happened when we broke up. Even at his worst, and my best, Sylas has always deserved better than the likes of me.
“So the nonprofit… it’s your way of giving back to men and woman like you?”
Sy scoffs. “No. When you break it all down my motivations are rooted in self-centeredness.”
“How so? You fly people in from all over the country, put them in hotels, feed and entertain them. For free.”
“Yeah. I found out early on that it helps me to help others. It’s my therapy. It distracts me from my own life,” he pauses tapping his index finger to his temple.
“And I feel better doing what I can for people needing it. When they’re better, I’m better. I don’t know where I’d be without BCF.”
“You can’t save the world, Sy. You can’t fix everyone. You know that right?”
“I know. Won’t stop me from tryin’ though.” With that Sylas puts our leftovers back in his refrigerator and comes to me, slipping thick arms around me. He nuzzles his face against my neck, invading my space with everything that makes up Sylas Broussard. His scent, his skin, his energy.
“Rae, you should know that if you insist on leaving, you should not expect me to make it easy on you like I did last time.” He peppers hot, firm kisses across my collarbone and up the column of my neck. My eyes slip shut and I lean into him, reveling in the feel of this man. “I’m going to make it very difficult for you to walk away from this.” He says with his lips grazing my ear.
I didn’t expect you would.
If he thinks he took it easy on me the last time we went our separate ways, then I sincerely dread seeing what he calls “very difficult.”
“If you’re planning on taking off on me, I swear to god I’m going to make you doubt everything. I’m going to ruin you for any other man because you’re mine and I’m yours. Always.
Chapter 22
Sylas
18 years old…
Months. It’s been months, and I have tried everything. Every suggestion people have made, I’ve given it a shot. I’ve tried making her jealous. I’ve blown every dime of my allowance and yard work money sending her flowers and cards. I’ve tried pretending I don’t care. I’ve stood in her front yard day after day bugging her, pleading with her, promising we could work things out. I’ve begged and bargained. The only suggestion that remains is to give up. I’m frustrated beyond explanation that nothing has worked so far. I’m a pro—or at least I once thought I was—at winning Rae over.
When she dumped me at the bayou that day I honestly put my money on us smoothing things out. Rae and I are the real deal. We can’t be over. No way. She had a fair grievance and yeah, okay, I screwed up bad not getting the courage together to tell her I wanted to join the military but I have always had a knack for working things out with Rae. Since I’ve known her she gets pissed at me and I smooth it over. Rinse and repeat. I didn’t anticipate that this would be any different. I definitely didn’t think this breakup would last this long. Months! And now we are out of time and I am out of patience because tomorrow I ship out for basic training and by the time I get back for my first visit home, Rae is likely going to be gone for college. Goddamn her all to hell for doing this to us and goddamn myself for not going about my enlistment in a different way. I should have told her, but I knew she’d never support my decision to join the Marines.
“Raaaaaae!” I bellow as loud as I can. “Raaaaaae!” I yell louder still. I see her bedroom curtains flutter but she doesn’t show her face. “Goddammit Rae, come down here and talk to me!” Her neighbor steps out on the porch, shaking his head with his lips pinched together. “Evening, Mr. Hughes.” I nod and give a half-hearted wave. He doesn’t say anything, but he goes back in his house. Probably to call my dad to let him know that I’m outside of Rae’s house again making a scene but what the hell else am I supposed to do? She won’t let me see her. I’m still welcome in the house of course but I figure if I make a big enough show of my wallowing for her attention maybe she’ll actually give me a chance to talk to her instead of yelling at her from the yard in front of the whole world.
I scream and holler for an hour before I get tired. Defeat creeps in and I settle myself against the tree in her front yard. I sit here for a long time aware that she’s not going to give me the dignity of speaking to me but also aware that I’m not ready to say goodbye. How m
any people me the love of their life at ten years old? Not many, I can guarantee. “Rae, I gotta leave tomorrow,” I say barely loud enough for it to reach the second-floor window. “I wanted to fix this. I’m out of time but I’m not out of patience. Not yet. I’ll figure out how to make things right with us. I’m sorry everything is so messed up. I love you,” my voice cracks, and normally I’d care enough to be embarrassed but right now I’m too damn heartbroken to feel anything but grief. I’ll miss her when I’m gone. I see the curtains flutter then they pull back to reveal my beautiful Snow with red eyes and wet cheeks.
“Get out of here, Sylas,” she says through the window. “Go live your life and leave me alone.”
“Are you shittin’ me?” I yell, my anger fueling me.
“Go!” she yells and her chin wrinkles and her lip quivers.
“You haven’t spoken to me in months and the first damn thing you have to say is go away?”
“Would you like me to say something else? Just go.”
“Oh I’m going all right,” I growl. “It’s impressive how well you can avoid me in such a small town! The only thing more impressive is how little you care about us!” I yell. “It’s almost like I didn’t mean shit to you.”
“Believe what you want Sylas.”
“You know what? Fuck you Raegan Potter!” I scream looking up at her with pools of water collecting in my eyes.
“Enough,” my dad says through his open truck window as he comes to a stop in front of the house. “Sy, time to go home,” he says in a stern tone giving me no chance of arguing with him and anyway I don’t exactly feel like fighting him. I just want to go home and pretend that I am not going off to boot camp with a broken heart. I take one more look at Rae but she’s already gone, her curtains hiding her from me.
“Raaaaaaae!” I boom from the driveway, spinning my keys around my index finger. “Get your ass out here. Gotta move or we’re gonna be late to my event!”
“Goddammit Sy, I’m comin’,” she yells from inside the cabin like a banshee. Hearing her accent makes a smile tilt my lips up. I hear the clicking of heels inside my cabin then she kicks the screen door open, shuffling herself out the door while tugging the main door closed behind her with the same hand that is holding a tiny purse. She turns to face me, huffing. “It’s too damned hot and humid in this state,” she growls, fanning her done up face. My eyes trace over her from head to toe then back again. On instinct, I press my palm to my chest and my breathing halts in my throat.
“Well?” she huffs and spins in a circle on my front porch. Jesus, she’s gorgeous. “It’s the best I could do with Bethany having to pick something from my closet on my behalf, with little warning no less. That, and I’m fairly certain someone at FedEx opened the package. There’s no way a chiffon Prada cocktail dress wads itself up like that,” she rambles on, frowning as she smooths the midnight blue fabric over her incredible form.
“You tryin’ to make me miss my event?” I growl.
“Listen,” her nostrils flare and she holds up her manicured finger. “I pulled off a small miracle getting this together.” She waves at her own body. “So I don’t wanna hear it, Sy. We won’t be late and even if we are, its fine. Ever heard of fashionably late?”
“Ain’t talkin’ about how long you took to get done up, Snow,” I say tracing my fingers over her neck. “Just mean that you looking like this… I can’t think of a better way to spend my evening than between your legs with your pretty dress pushed up to your throat,” I say against her ear before gently biting it. I pull away from her to see her red painted lips parted, her gorgeous azure eyes dilated and her chest heaving, as she works to catch her breath.
“That sounds good,” she whispers. “But as tempting as that sounds, it won’t help BCF, so what do you say you hold the hot sex until we get home from helping folks lighten their wallets a touch for a good cause?” Getting to her tiptoes to press her lips to mine, she doesn’t give me room to reply. Remarkably and likely because of voodoo, her perfectly applied lipstick doesn’t budge. She’s full of mysteries, my Snow.
Chapter 23
Raegan
It’s becoming increasingly rare that I surprise myself, but tonight I am genuinely surprised that I—with tremendous help from Bethany who has been working around the clock remotely—took Sy’s modest event and turned it into a front-page worthy who’s who of the south. We managed to more than double the guest list by expanding the venue with the help of the giant tent Bethany arranged. We both slapped together a silent auction worthy of Manhattan’s Socialite circle. Artwork, sculptures, exclusive getaways, spa treatments, autographed memorabilia, antiques and collectibles… you name it, Bethany, Sylas and I have called in a favor for it. So many people contributed to the auction and I have high hopes for the final tally once the dust settles and Yoder breaks out the calculator. Sylas will—hopefully—be handwriting thank you cards for the next few weeks.
We worked at stepping up the glamour of the fundraiser to appeal to the hoity-toity upper class folks from old money whose wives wouldn’t dare be seen attending otherwise. Those types may be unsavory company and generally of the asshole tribe, but they’re also the type to drop several thousand dollars at a time if they considered it an image investment. The middle class folks are here as well to gawk at the rich. Long story short, let the rich come out and play while pretending to be doing something charitable when truthfully they’re phonies, nearly the entire lot of them. And let the regular crowd watch the blowhards strut. I don’t care. I work and live my life amongst fakers and scoundrels. I feel right at home tonight and I plan to wring every hot red cent I can out of them all. For Sy. For BCF.
I’m standing off to the side, admiring the massive makeshift ballroom, the setting sun outside making the space seem lit in shades of pink and orange. A sea of twinkle lights are hung from the edges of the tent, making the place seem like a flute full of bubbly champagne. It’s beautiful.
Though we planted a story in the media to garner more attention for tonight, I’m careful to keep myself inconspicuous. Because I don’t want Sylas to be seen being too cozy with me, I have to rely on someone else to run the event. We hired an event planner from New Orleans to help make the night run smoothly. Sylas was against the extra expense but I twisted his arm and my ink pen when I wrote a personal check covering her fee. Sy doesn’t know that I am purposely distancing myself in an effort to avoid giving the piranhas any more reason at all to attack him or BCF. I am counting on him being busy enough with guests tonight to not miss me.
I catch the attention of the hired event coordinator and nod, letting her know to get Sylas to the microphone for his opening speech before the auction and dancing begins. Food larger than the tiny skewers with bite size snacks will come shortly but for now I let the drinks flow. Alcohol lubricates the brain that is normally stiff with inhibitions. Let the moneybags get tipsy as they begin their bidding and subliminal pissing matches. I should feel guilty but I don’t.
I watch the event coordinator stand to the side until she can gain Sy’s attention. She leans in and whispers something to him. Immediately his eyes peer up and scan the crowd until he finds me. I smile softly and nod my encouragement. He grins and fishes a notecard from his breast pocket. When he winks, then turns toward the stage, I slip away, choosing to make myself scarce should Sy want to make some public declaration to thank Bethany and I. I’m walking down the covered path leading from the event.
“Raegan Potter,” a voice purrs as though he’s the cat that caught the mouse. Well, I’m no fucking mouse and even if I were, I’d be a genetically mutated one the size of Godzilla.
I stop smoothly and pivot to face the person. I scan his face, realizing who has stopped me.
Motherfucker.
“I’m sorry,” I crinkle my nose and click my tongue. “Your name eludes me,” I faux grimace.
“Hmm,” he hums, smiling an overly wide pretentious smirk. “Brendan Jennings. CEO of Jennings Petroleum and Refining
.”
“Ah, yes.”
“Perhaps you don’t recall, hon,” he begins, stepping closer to me. Instinct has me wanting to back away but I wouldn’t dare give him the satisfaction. “I sought your consultation when I ran for Senate but I recall you being a bit uncouth about my offer to be a junior consultant on my campaign as I felt Trent Caskil had the manager position best in hand but standing here now, face to face I am sure the message came across wrong. You’re far too pretty to be so ugly.” His eyes skim over my form like I’m his next meal.
“Here’s the thing. I came to your office for that initial meeting but imagine my surprise when I heard you sling racial slurs and sexist remarks like it was your job. So I left, choosing to ditch our little interview,” I whisper. “I went back to my office and sent you a note. The message I sent along was…” I pause pretending to read from a bubble above his head. “I have standards and you don’t come close. Kindly piss off. Regards, Raegan Potter. So, you see, Mr. Jennings, pretty face or not, I don’t see how I could have made myself any clearer. And as far as your campaign manager goes, clearly he didn’t have things in his manly capable hands because you lost, now didn’t you?”
“What a—”
“But of course the odds were never in his favor or yours. Especially after that dreaded recording of you tossing around those racial slurs and bigoted comments surfaced. Oddly, I think I recall that news breaking the day after I ditched that meeting with you.”
“You,” he seethes, his cheeks reddening.
