“I don’t like it any more than you, Marit,” Veris said, his tone mild, although Brody could detect the control behind the mildness. Veris had regrouped. “You think I want him anywhere near you?”
Marit clutched at the back of her head, her eyes scrunched shut. “How very hypocritical of you, Far. You stood in front of me last year and said you would disown me if I so much as said hello to him.”
“You agreed with me!” Veris said, his voice lifting. “Why did you run away to Australia, if not to get away from him?”
Brody groaned. “Stop this, both of you.”
“To get away from you!” Marit shouted. “You and your over-bearing, dictatorial Neanderthal ‘do-it-my-way-or-else’ attitude!”
Brody slapped his hands on both their shoulders. “Enough!” he roared.
Beyond the swing door, he could hear everyone in the living room had fallen silent.
There was another flutter of clothing and a flash of movement from the corner of Brody’s eyes. He turned to check the chamber area.
Aran stood with his arm around Jesse’s waist, his eyes wide as he took in the two confronting each other at the end of the chamber area.
“What are you doing here, Aran?” Brody demanded. “You’re supposed to be in college.”
“Same as Marit,” Aran said, his tone cool. “We’re here to help get Uncle Rafe back. I picked up Jesse on the way.”
Jesse nodded, one of her firm, no-nonsense gestures, and resettled the backpack on her back with a hitch of her shoulders. Her hair was pinned to the back of her head as it had been throughout her military career, even though she was a private citizen once more. “We should move out of the way,” she said. “Alannah will be here shortly, too.”
Marit beckoned. “Come on. Last time I was here, there was nothing in the kitchen to eat. Let’s find out if that’s still the case.”
Jesse stepped out of the chamber square. “And a table or a counter, so I can work while waiting for the start of the mission would be nice.”
Brody stepped around Veris. Veris still fumed, although he had the sense to not take it out on anyone right now. “Jesse, you don’t have to get involved. There’s already enough of the Blood here to take on a small army.”
Jesse lifted her chin and met Brody’s gaze. “You have no professional fighters. I can help.” She gave a stiff smile. “Besides, I owe Rafael.”
“You do?” Brody said, astonished.
Her gaze shifted to Aran, who had made his way to the swing door and had a hand on it, ready to push through into the living room beyond. She looked back at Brody. “I do,” she said shortly.
Time And A Marine
09-29. 13:48 hours.
This house is full of tension. I’ve walked into ISIS dens which felt more relaxed. Not that I walked. You don’t stroll into those places…
…and I’m completely ducking why I’m sitting at the kitchen counter with my laptop, spilling my guts onto virtual paper.
What happened down there in the basement? Why on earth did I tell Brody I owed Rafael?
What do I owe Rafael? For the life of me, I can’t figure it out.
All the writing books say that when I do a brain dump like this, I have to keep my fingers moving. No stopping for thought. No reflection. The more I belch onto the page, the quicker I’ll reach the subconscious shit tripping me up. And there’s sure as hell something there. Only I can’t figure it out. But I said that already.
Okay, so talk about something. Anything.
And why did Nob Hill jump to mind?
Lemme see.
I house-sat for the Brennans last year. Spring in San Francisco. It was the perfect first job. Me, fresh out of the Marines, house-sitting the Brennan’s mansion on Nob Hill. They loved the idea, especially when I told them I’d only move out of the house to get groceries, every couple of days, and yeah, I’d feed their cat and clean the litter box.
After more than ten years of khaki and fence-link-and-pipeframe beds with shitty mattresses, I was sleeping on 5,000 thread count Egyptian cotton laid over soft-as-cloud pillowtop.
I parked my backpack beside the dining table and wrote my ass off. In the two weeks the Brennans toured Greece and Turkey, I wrote a whole novel. It was a shitty novel, but it was my first and it was finished. And I learned humongous amounts, getting it done.
I was four chapters into the second novel when the Brennans came home to hug their cat.
They tipped me three hundred dollars. Peace of mind, they called it, while I got paid to research scenes and settings in one of the coolest cities in the world for my next novel. I took the tip and asked them to recommend me to their friends, no matter where their friends were located—I was happy to go to them. Of course, I didn’t say why I was willing to cross the continent, if asked to.
Then I texted him and headed down the sidewalk that felt as though it wanted to be a mountain, to wait where he said he’d meet me. Couldn’t have him suddenly appearing in the Brennan’s glass and chrome living room.
Oh yeah, I’m talking about Aran. D’uh. Forgot to say that, because I’m writing this to myself. I’m supposed to be writing it as if someone would read it. So, yeah, I walked to the end of the block to meet Aran, as arranged.
Still not sure how it ended up that Aran got to take me to wherever I wanted to go. Since the Armistice Day thing, I’ve never paid for or used an aircraft to get anywhere, and I’ve been all over the world. Even the day I was decommissioned and got my walking papers, I declined the offer of military transport back to my city of intake. I was in Germany at the time, only there was nothing waiting for me in Ohio now that Mom was dead. Instead, I texted Marit and asked if she would mind very much jumping me to San Francisco, so I could arrive at the Brennans’ when I was supposed to. It was a no-brainer. Twenty-four hours plus on a rattling, cold military transport, or a few seconds and hot coffee waiting for me at the other end.
Marit didn’t show up at the gates of the base. Aran did. The gate sergeant phoned me. He sounded as if he was trying not to laugh. “There’s a kid here, asking for you, Captain.”
I picked up my new Swiss Army backpack and glanced around the room. Narrow bed, desk, chair. My uniforms were still in the tiny closet. Boots beneath. I didn’t need any of it anymore. So I walked to the gates and nodded at the sergeant as they raised the boom for me.
Aran straightened from his lean against the building next to the gates. He’d shoved his hands in his coat pockets. It was February and Ramstead could get cold. “Captain.”
“Not anymore.”
“Jessenia, then.”
I grimaced. “Not if you want me to answer.”
“Jesse.” His smile faded. “Congratulations. Ten years, five promotions and a rack of fruit salad any careerist would be happy to have.”
I was stupidly proud in that moment, which was silly. I mean, c’mon. Aran’s…what? Twenty-two, I think. He’s just out of pimple phase. But the way he said it…well, I grinned like an idiot. I think I was just glad someone had noticed. Apart from all the paramilitary and private security firms who’d tried to recruit me, that is.
Aran glanced over my shoulder. I imagine the gate guards were all watching curiously. Most people drove through the gates. “Let’s walk a bit and get out of sight to jump,” Aran said. “Marit couldn’t make it, by the way. She and Far were shouting at each other when I left.”
“You came from Martha’s Vineyard? I pulled you away from a family visit?”
“I was glad to escape.” Aran grimaced. “Things have been difficult, since Athair came back.” He glanced at his boots, then at me. “You’re really going to write novels, Jesse? The paramilitary people must surely be waving five hundred thou a year at you.”
“Try seven hundred thousand.”
Aran raised his brows. “I rest my case.”
I shook my head. “I might have taken one, but for Armistice Day last year.”
He nodded, his expression sober. After all, he was the on
e who got to go back to France in 1918, while I sat and chewed my fingernails. He was the one who got the life-altering experience. Although for a three whole minutes, I have stood in the salon of Louis XVIII, in Versailles. Wig and all. And believe me, that’s as life-altering as it gets.
Maybe Aran did understand, after all. Maybe his life-altering was as profound as mine, because he simply said. “San Francisco it is, then.” He stepped into the first side street we came to, looked around for observers, then a secondary scan for CCTVs, then he jumped me to Nob Hill. He only left me to return home after I promised him I’d text when I needed another jump to my next job.
Then, four weeks later, he was back. He came walking down the hill toward me, carrying a brown paper bag with no logos, wearing a simple white button-down shirt and black jeans. He’s taller than most—he has all of Brody’s height, and he also has the same black Celtic looks. Black eyes, black, shaggy hair which has never seen a military cut in its life, and a chin usually dark with growth. White, clear skin and teeth.
He wasn’t wearing sneakers, which I expected. Instead, he wore elegant, slim loafers which made me think of Europe.
A tram clanged as it went by, reminding me we were still in San Francisco.
Aran held out the paper bag. “Good morning.”
“What’s this?”
“Coffee and croissants.”
I opened the bag and sniffed. Delicious. “I didn’t realize there was a patisserie nearby. I don’t know Frisco all that well.” I had walked around with Google Maps open on my phone, whenever I had left the house.
“There isn’t. They’re French,” Aran said.
I almost rolled my eyes at him.
“From Paris. I bought them from a patisserie in the Latin Quarter, ten minutes ago.”
I didn’t want to be impressed, but damn, those croissants were good! We ate them sitting in a park we found off Sacramento Street, then Aran jumped me over to Denver, where my next job waited. An indoor swimming pool, this time. Bliss.
I had a dozen jobs between retiring and Christmas. It became automatic to ask Aran to move me on to the next one, as he was always willing, while everyone else seemed to have lives.
That’s probably unfair. But really, the guy is in Harvard, and floating through his classes. Both he and Alannah have their mother’s brains and their father’s drive. And they grew up with Veris, who doesn’t forgive thoughtlessness and crucifies laziness. Aran is studying politics, for chrissake. He could probably out-argue his professors. He hinted once he’s sat in on Aristotle’s lectures. The Aristotle. How does a New England tenured professor compete with that?
So Aran has a lot of free time and can come and go easily. He and Alannah share a house near the campus, with three other students…and that’s one I don’t get.
Marit told me over beer and pretzels before she shot off to Australia to get away from her folks that Aran and Alannah could have stayed at home while they were going to Harvard. Lateral jumping comes as easy for them as assembling a Glock in the dark is for me. They could live at home, save money, jump to Boston each day, or even jump back and forth between lectures, and live comfortably in the meantime.
That’s not the screwy bit. I get they wanted the same experience millions of college students get. They grew up in a very different family, and they’ve lived double lives forever. So, yeah, rent a run-down house which leaks even in summer, share it with other students…be normal. Only, if that’s why they did it, why on earth did they share the same house?
Wouldn’t they have found a more authentic experience if they both went off on their own and rented with 100% completely normal humans?
Or is it a twin thing?
Not that they’re living in each other’s pockets in the house, anyway. Aran doesn’t gossip or whine, but he’s hinted that Alannah isn’t home too often. She keeps her grades up at the brilliant level, only she doesn’t have to work too hard for them, either. In between economics lectures—if she even goes to them—she’s living a full-on life.
Which reminds me of Portland. Early this year. January, because the snow was still thick around Portland. Oregon, I’m talking about. The house I was sitting was in the southwest district. At the top of the hill. I grew to love the aerial tram. I’d take it every day, down to the wharf for coffee and to write in my notebook while I watched the snow fly and the native Oregonians hurry by with their shoulders hunched against the cold.
The owners of the house…you know, I can’t even remember their name now. Deliberate absent-mindedness, I guess, considering what happened. Anyway, their house was staggering. Right at the top of the hill with a view up and down the river which brought me to a standstill, even three weeks after the owners had pushed off to Lake Lucerne—that’s Switzerland, mind you—for Christmas and New Year. They wouldn’t be back until mid-February, and I wanted to get my fourth novel finished.
I had already published the second novel I finished. And just before Christmas I made some honest to God sales of the book. Looking at those sales figures made me a little bit dizzy.
When I got my first review, even though it was only four stars, I had the ridiculous urge to cry.
When Aran gave me the traveling coffee mug with Jessenia Hall—Author carved around the base, I did cry. Just not where he could see me doing it.
I got the third book published as fast as I could, then that started selling, too. So now the pressure was on to get the fourth book finished. With two months in that fancy house, with only the muffled sound of snow outside, I knew I would get the whole book done, easily.
I read a lot about authors who can’t seem to get their shit together and write. I don’t have that problem at all. Maybe it’s all the Navy discipline but cranking out the pages just isn’t an issue.
Or maybe it’s because I’ve suddenly discovered I have a lot to say about wars and fighting and what real military people go through to serve their country. Novels are great for getting the message across. No footnotes. Fudged figures to add to the drama, which all helps drive the point home…
And maybe I was supposed to be doing this all along. Who knows?
Although I bet some time traveler somewhere will tell me that in an alternative timeline, I have been an author my entire life, with hair down to my ass and no discipline at all.
Don’t care. I’m writing now.
Anyway, I got sidetracked, didn’t I?
Portland. Snow. Writing furiously.
On January 20th, I paused mid-sentence when I heard the iron gates at the front of the house crank open, the wheels at the bottom crunching over untouched snow. The controls for the gate were in the mudroom. The only other way to open them was with a remote which was in the owner’s car, at the long-term lot at the airport.
I didn’t figure it out until I saw the black Audi roll across the smooth snow to the garage door, which was sedately rising, welcoming the owners home.
They stood shoulder to shoulder in their all-white, gleaming kitchen, and thanked me for guarding their precious home. They didn’t even offer a tip.
What could I say? My next house was two weeks and three days away. I had some cash reserves and Amazon would pay me a little bit at the end of the month, but even a cheap hotel room would wipe me clean. Only, that wasn’t their problem.
So I packed my backpack and took the aerial tram down to the wharf for the last time and started walking. It was too cold to stand still. Besides, I was too angry…and yeah, fear was there, too. I was technically…no, scratch that. I was literally homeless.
The anger got into my brain and started careening around, which does zero good for your aim and reaction speeds. It also doesn’t help you think straight. I just wasn’t going to come up with a solution until I calmed down. Only telling myself that and doing it…well, let’s say my old sergeant would have been disappointed in me.
I walked, and when it got too cold, I bought another cup of coffee, and kept walking. Sooner or later, I promised myself, I would stop
and do some constructive thinking. For now, Captain Hall, keep walking.
When Aran emerged out of the falling snow like a black Yeti, wrapped to the nose in a scarf and black hat, I was so surprised, I wouldn’t have noticed a grenade going off right next to me. I was still reacting and not thinking yet, so I couldn’t put together how he was there.
“I didn’t text you,” I said. Obviously, Einstein.
All I could see was his black eyes between the hat and the scarf. That was probably why I noticed for the first time how long his lashes were. I think they’re longer than mine. That romantic Celtic look must net him all the bed partners he could possibly desire. Even the most sex-weary college co-ed wouldn’t be immune to those eyes.
Aran unwound the scarf. “It’s thirty degrees, Jesse. Why didn’t you call?” His jaw flexed. His breath blew out in a thick cloud.
“How did you find me?” My teeth actually chattered. I hadn’t believed people really did that, until that moment. Thought it was just something in novels and what actors used to cue the viewer it was cold. Only, when I said “did”, it came out more like “d-d-did”. “How did you know?” I added.
“Know what? You’ve been walking around the riverside for four hours, Jesse. What happened?”
That made me wary. “Yeah, but how did you know that? Are you tracking me?”
“Yes.” He said it calmly, like one confirms their phone number or name. Like this wasn’t a big deal at all. He pointed to my pocket. “Your phone.”
Abruptly, I wasn’t cold anymore. I was back to white hot fury, for an entirely different reason. “How dare you! Do you know how many privacy laws you’ve broken? I should sue your ass!” I fumbled for my phone, anger making me clumsy. See, I told you it fucks up your aim and your reactions. I nearly dropped the damn thing. Aran caught it. He pulled his glove off with his teeth, shoved it in his pocket and thumbed through my phone, like he knew where everything was.
That didn’t help at all.
More Time Kissed Moments Page 12