Semper Fi

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  The British woman inflated immediately. Fuck, her tits were enormous—and not in a good way.

  “Listen, sunshine, you may think you’re something special with a weapon of mass destruction dangling between your legs, but let me tell you a thing or two: I’ve been to the frontline of every war since Uganda in 1979, before you were bloody well born.” She started ticking them off on her fingers. “Angola, Croatia, Rwanda, Bosnia, Iraq, Kuwait, Afghanistan, and … bloody hell, places you’ve never even heard of. And this woman,” she pointed her chin at Caro, “has been in more hot spots than you’ve had hot dates.”

  Of course. Lee Venzi. She’d changed her name, which was why I hadn’t recognized it when Parsons gave me the list of journalists attending the course. She’d been Carolina Wilson then, my Caro. I’d never known her maiden name. I’d read some of the articles and assumed this Venzi character was a guy—probably ex-military. But now I knew the truth: it figured. Caro had grown up around military bases and spent her whole married life with Captain Cocksucker. She knew military.

  I wasn’t happy to hear that she’d reported from dangerous places, but what the fuck was I expecting? This pack of journos was all heading for Afghanistan. I glanced over again, but turned away the minute she looked towards me. I couldn’t give her a way in or she’d fuck me over again.

  Shit. Was I really that weak?

  I tried to keep my eyes off of her, but every time they were magnetically drawn back.

  Focus, you pathetic fucker! Translate the National Anthem into Pashto, if you have to! Don’t look at her.

  By lunchtime, I was so fucked. The second Parsons called a break, I was out of the starting blocks like a goddamn sprinter.

  I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing: I just knew I couldn’t go back to that briefing; I couldn’t see her and not touch her. I was a fucking lunatic. I hated that woman. She destroyed my life and hadn’t even looked back when she walked out on me, leaving me behind with no clue how to find her.

  And the worst of it was I’d believed that she loved me. Some fucking fairytale. But I’d believed her, and I’d waited for her. My fucking father had driven her away. Because I was 17 and underage, he’d threatened her with a statutory rape charge—unless she left quietly. But after three years, the Statue of Limitations freed us. I thought she’d find me when I was 21. I’d believed it every day for three long years. But she never came. I never heard from her again. And she was a journalist—how fucking hard would it have been for her to reach out to me?

  I stormed down the street, ignoring pedestrians who jumped out of my way for fear of being mowed down.

  And then I found myself heading for my favorite bar. Appropriately enough it was named L’Antidote. I really fucking hoped it would live up to its name tonight.

  The room was long and thin, with almost no daylight. It was as close as the Swiss came to a dive—damn near perfect.

  I headed inside and saw Jean-Paul the bartender. He nodded at me and poured a whiskey without me even having to ask. I tipped it straight down.

  “Laissez la bouteille.”

  He raised his eyebrows but pushed the nearly bottle towards me and left it, as I’d requested.

  After my third shot, I started to pull myself together, disgusted by being such a pussy and running out.

  Fuck, I used to be good at my job. You know, actually cared about it. Paris changed all that. My CO had hated me from day one. He tried to bully me and constantly belittled me. I found out he was a buddy of my old man. Figured. Then the asswipe CO got my promotion to Warrant Officer blocked. Bastard. I’d fucking earned that promotion, and what he’d done to me could be a career-ender. So I decided if my CO wanted to screw around with me, I’d screw around with him—or rather, his wife. That was easy. Getting caught was harder because he was so fucking unobservant. She was definitely the brains in that marriage.

  He got the message eventually. Found his wife with her mouth wrapped around my dick. That was a good day. By that point I didn’t give a shit what happened to my career.

  I guess someone higher up the chain of command smelled a rat, because out of the blue I got my promotion and was sent to Geneva.

  To Caro.

  No. Not to her. This was my chance to make her pay, to take what had been mine, and leave her wanting. Yeah, the chance to leave her in the dust—that’s what I wanted; that’s what I needed.

  I took another shot, just me and a close relative of my good friend Jack Daniel’s for company.

  By 6PM, I was well on my way to being completely wasted. I only knew it was later when the bar started filling up with office workers. They must have sensed I wasn’t in a friendly mood because they all gave me a wide berth.

  I wondered what she was doing. She’d looked pretty cozy with that French journalist, Lebuin, sitting next to her. Fucker was practically drooling over her, all smiles and Gallic fucking charm. It made me want to punch his guts out through his backbone.

  I tried to think of something else, but every time I came back to the look of shock on Caro’s face when she saw me. Not pleasure—shock.

  I emptied another shot down my throat, enjoying the increasing numbness that it gave me.

  “May I sit?”

  I looked up slowly. For a second I thought it was her—the long, chestnut hair was so familiar. I remembered that hair sweeping over my chest as we made love in the sand dunes. Not love—sex. Get the fucking facts straight. But this woman’s eyes were blue.

  I shook my head to clear it, then waved at the seat.

  “Merci.”

  I grasped the bottle of whiskey as if I was afraid she’d steal it.

  “You like to drink alone, perhaps?”

  I shrugged, and she turned to Jean-Paul to order herself a glass of white wine.

  Yeah, buy your own drinks, lady. I’m not interested.

  I looked at her again. She was attractive, dressed in a skirt suit, high heels, with long, tan legs. For a moment I could imagine those legs wrapped around my waist.

  She saw the direction of my gaze and smiled.

  “Or perhaps you prefer some company? I’m Gabri.”

  She held out her hand and after a second’s hesitation, I shook it.

  “Sebastian.”

  “American?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “No, no. That makes me feel old. Please, you must call me Gabri.” She paused. “So, why is a handsome young soldier drinking alone? It is either money or a woman. I do not think it is money.”

  Her tone annoyed me, and I turned to glare at her.

  “And why is an attractive woman talking to strange men in bars? It’s either business or pleasure. I don’t think it’s business.”

  “Touché!” she said laughing lightly, then ran her hand over my thigh. “I am French, not Swiss. It is always pleasure with us—even in Geneva.”

  She leaned forward and I caught the smell of her perfume. It was strong and musky—nothing like Caro. My stomach churned and I stood up suddenly, taking her by surprise.

  “You’re right, mademoiselle. It is a woman. It’s always a woman—the same fucking woman.”

  She rested her hand lightly on my arm. “Perhaps I can make you forget her?”

  I laughed harshly. “Yeah, good luck with that. I’ve been trying for ten fucking years.”

  I pushed past her, amused by the look of disappointment painted on her face.

  When I hit the fresh air outside, I nearly staggered. Fuck, I was trashed.

  I could have hailed a cab, but I didn’t live far, so I wandered home, occasionally cannoning off lampposts that seemed to leap into my path. Goddamn if I wasn’t seeing double.

  I don’t remember getting up the stairs or falling asleep fully dressed.

  The alarm scared the crap out of me when it went off at 5:30AM. I ended up diving onto the hard floorboards, thinking it was a fucking mortar attack.

  I sat up slowly, rubbing my hip where I’d hit the deck. I always set the alarm early so
I could go for a run before whatever drudgery the US Marine Corps was doling out. But this morning there was no chance of that. I just about made it to the bathroom before I threw up.

  I splashed some water on my face, which made absolutely no fucking difference, and then drank straight from the faucet.

  I crawled back into bed for another two hours.

  When I woke up for the second time, there’d been no miraculous cure—I was still hung-over as fuck, and the room stank of whiskey.

  Revolted, I pulled off my rank uniform and stood under the tepid shower for as long as I could stand it.

  After I’d shaved, and managed not to cut my throat, I glared at my Charlies—the formal Dress Blue uniform. They looked like I’d slept in them. I had a clean shirt, but there was no way I’d have time to get the pants and jacket dry-cleaned.

  Sighing, I pulled on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and went to ask Madame Dubois for use of her ironing board and iron: desperate times called for desperate measures.

  She took one look at my pathetic condition and took pity on me.

  “Les hommes ne savent pas repasser!” she insisted, wagging her finger at me and pulling my uniform out of my hands.

  I wasn’t going to argue if she was going to offer to iron for me. When she finished I smiled and thanked her.

  “Vous êtes un jeune homme espiègle!”

  She waved me off with a smile. If I’d kissed her on the cheek, she’d have taken out her teeth and whistled.

  Yep, I still had it; gran-mère was hot for me.

  Clean in body if not much else, I headed to the hotel for the second day of the briefing. It began much like the first—I was late, and Parsons was pissed. I’d eaten a roll of mints before I walked in, but I was pretty certain he could smell whiskey on my breath. Hell, if the room didn’t have air conditioning I’d be sweating whiskey.

  I tried to keep my eyes off of her, but it was an impossible task. After the first hour, I wanted to tear out my eyeballs and use them in a pinball machine.

  When it was time for my language session, I knew I had an hour with Caro. I didn’t know why I didn’t combust on the spot. Except she seemed uninterested in looking at me. How fucking ironic.

  I went through my usual spiel for the Afghan tour: how to introduce yourself (differently for men and women), how to give your job title, the agency you worked for, and nationality, in Pashto and Dari. And I always threw in a useful passage from the Qu’ran for emergencies.

  This shit could save lives, so it really pissed me off that Caro wasn’t paying attention. Shit, she could end up smeared all over a Kabul street if she didn’t take it in.

  “Perhaps Ms. Venzi can answer that question,” I said, nearly choking on my tongue as it wrapped itself around her name.

  “Excuse me? Um, what was the question?” she stammered.

  Fuck, I couldn’t look at her—it was too much. I was only human.

  Shit! Shit! Shit! What could I tell her that she might actually remember; that might be useful?

  Inspiration struck.

  “A typical reply to a question an Afghan can’t answer would be for him to say, ‘because the sky is blue and the sea is green’,” I said by rote, risking another glance at her.

  She looked annoyed and my heart punched against my ribs.

  I had to get out. I needed to get out.

  I don’t remember anything about the last 45 minutes of the seminar. As soon as Parsons cleared his throat, signaling the end, I was on my feet.

  But before I managed to leave the room, Caro spoke to me.

  “May I have a word, please?”

  I almost skidded to a halt, afraid to turn and look at her, afraid of how I’d feel to look in her eyes again. All my plans for ignoring her were shot through and shredded; and all it took was one glance from her.

  “I’m rather busy, Ms. Venzi,” I coughed out.

  “Too busy to say ‘hello’?” she snapped.

  God, she was so beautiful.

  And then I realized I hadn’t answered her.

  “Yes, I’m too busy for that,” and I ran.

  Fucking pussy! Candy-ass chickenshit fucking pussy!

  I couldn’t go back, but I couldn’t kid myself anymore either. I wanted her. Badly. And maybe, if I had her one more time, I could stop thinking about her. Maybe if I fucked her hard, I could exorcise her ghost once and for all. Maybe revenge was what I needed.

  Maybe.

  On impulse I stopped and bought some condoms from a small pharmacy. I got a semi just thinking about using them with her. I knew I wasn’t making any sense—I hated her and she hated me—but I couldn’t help myself.

  Jesus, just seeing her, and I was suddenly 17 again.

  How the hell was I going to make that fucking fantasy happen? I’d barely spoken to her for the last two days.

  I needed to talk to her, but I needed to get her alone.

  I wandered through Geneva, trying to work out what I was going to say to her, how I’d get to fuck her. We used to have this amazing chemistry. We’d just look at each other and get turned on. I wondered if it was still there.

  My steps slowed as my thoughts grew heavier, remembering everything that had passed between us, the plans we’d made. Fuck, we’d talked about it all: living together, marriage, kids. I’d wanted it all with her—and I thought she’d wanted it with me.

  I realized I’d stopped walking and was standing outside a jewelers. One of those small, unassuming, family-run places that you could still find in the old part of Geneva.

  My eyes were drawn to a display and I found myself staring at rings. One of them caught my attention—a smallish but pretty single diamond mounted on a gold band. The breath left my body as I imagined how that would look on her small hand, with those delicate fingers that used to touch…

  This was seriously fucked up. I needed to walk away, fast. But I couldn’t. Instead, I went inside and was soon talking to the sales assistant, an elderly man who looked like a gnome. He was showing me the ring and placing it in a dark blue satin ring box, and I was handing over my credit card for €2700.

  Back in the fresh air, I knew I’d lost my goddamn mind, but somehow I didn’t care. I imagined saying the words, asking her to … yeah, right. As if.

  Eventually I went home and took another shower, then changed into civvies. I was going to go straight to her hotel; I’d talk to her, seduce her, take her to bed and fuck her brains out.

  I pussied out.

  Instead, I went back to L’Antidote and started drinking.

  There were so many things I wanted to say to her—and I had no fucking clue how to start. I had another drink, trying to calm the fuck down. Then another. And another.

  When I’d finally gotten up the courage, I headed towards Caro’s hotel near the Place des Nations. For some reason, my body seemed disconnected from my feet. It took for-fucking-ever to get my ass going in the right direction. Weird.

  All of a sudden I was standing in front of her hotel room, with no recollection of how I had even gotten there. I knew where she was staying from the security briefing info in her file. And now, she was just a few feet away from me.

  I knocked three times.

  There was a pause followed by a scuffling sound, then her voice.

  “Who is it?”

  “Let me in, Caro.”

  There was another pause—longer this time.

  “What do you want, Sebastian?” she called through the door.

  Fuck. This wasn’t going how I’d planned. She needed to open the door for me to speak to her properly.

  “Let me in. I need to talk to you.”

  I banged on the door again.

  “Caro!”

  Slowly, the door opened. All she was wearing was a thin, silky robe.

  My cock leapt to attention as my eyes drank her in.

  “Caro.”

  Christ it felt good to say her name.

  “What do you want, Sebastian?”

  No, not like t
his. I needed to be in the same room as her. I pushed my way past her. Fuck, she smelled good. I was inside the room, but I wanted to be inside her.

  “What are you doing?” she asked sharply.

  She was so feisty. God, I loved that about her.

  “Catching up with old friends,” I said, smiling at her.

  “How did you find me?”

  Seriously? Didn’t she know what I did?

  “Military intelligence,” I grinned, tapping the side of my head.

  I thought that was as funny as fuck. It occurred to me that I might be a little drunk.

  While she closed the door, I took off my jacket and threw it onto the chair. Then I sat on the bed and hoped she’d take the hint.

  “Come and sit with me, Caro.”

  But she stayed standing, her arms folded across her chest.

  Beautiful.

  “Why are you here, Sebastian? You had your chance to talk to me earlier today, but you preferred to ignore me.”

  Did I?

  “You still have a great ass, Caro.”

  Tight and round and perfect in my hands when we…

  “Okay, I think you’d better go now,” she said. “Whatever you have to say to me can wait until you’re sober.”

  She had a great everything.

  She walked towards me and my heart started pounding in my chest again. Christ, it hurt so fucking much. How could it hurt so much if I wasn’t dying? Or maybe I was. I didn’t know anymore. Because when she came towards me, it was just her and me again. Just us. No one else. She wove her magic and the world went away.

  I pulled the robe open and buried my head in her body, kissing her, relishing the feel of her flesh against my lips. It had been so long. So long.

  I tried to tell her that I loved her, that I’d always loved her. I don’t know if she could understand what I was saying. I just knew that her arms were around me and we were together again.

  I don’t remember much about what happened then, but I fell asleep with her at my side.

  The next morning I woke to the sound of an alarm ringing in my ear—it was fucking annoying. Then I realized I wasn’t in my apartment—and I wasn’t alone.

  I peeled my eyelids and looked up. Warm brown eyes the color of melted chocolate gazed down at me.