The Love You Hate: A Charge Man Novel (The Charge Men Series Book 1)

by Rachel Robinson

  Clearing my throat, I apologize meekly. “You’ll be a drunken handful in,” I say, checking my watch. “Twenty-five minutes if I had to put money on it.”

  She finishes one drink quickly as if to tell me to piss off–she’s in control of how quickly she’s going to imbibe. “Hey, what do you call a retired miner?” Presley asks, narrowing her gaze.

  “Oh, so we’re falling back on jokes, are we? What?”

  “Doug.” She cackles nervously, a cover for how she really feels. It’s all for show. I guess her entire existence has been for show so why would it be any different now that she’s in hiding?”

  “That one was particularly bad. Just so you know. I’d retire that one.”

  Her eyes go down to her second drink. “I know. I’m running out of material.” She scans the crowd, pretending to avoid the awkwardness. She knows I know her secret. At least in some capacity, and she’s letting her walls slip. That, or the key to honesty is alcohol and that could be a problem if she ever drinks in the presence of anyone but me.

  The first band comes onto the red rock stage, and begins playing to the risers also made of rock. It’s a natural amphitheater, so the song ricochets off the walls, encapsulating the sound. I lean down to speak closer for her to hear. “You know I won’t let anything happen to you, right?” I’m not telling her anything of importance. I won’t have to report that my cover has been blown. Not that it matters to my superiors, or the mission, but it would matter to me. I don’t want her to know my secret either. It would change things. She’d look at me differently. I’m still working through why I give a fuck.

  She looks up shyly through her lashes. “Yeah. I think I know that.” I barely make out her words, but I see trust reflecting back in her eyes. “I don’t know why I know that,” she says. “You are annoying and awful, but you buy me roller skates, and make me feel safe. I guess I’m a glutton for punishment.”

  What’s that supposed to mean? We’re getting too close to emotions for comfort, but I can’t avoid them completely. Maybe they feel different because she’s a target and not someone I actually care about… like my cousin. Bile rises from my stomach when I let my real life slip into my work. This has never happened before. I breathe out deeply and gaze at my watch points. “How are you a glutton for punishment?” I ask, making sure my voice carries.

  Presley doesn’t respond right away, I peer down at her and notice the second empty cup. “Who am I right now?” She furrows her brows. “Getting drunk to tell the truth.” She’s talking to herself, but it’s obvious she’s not finished. “I never have to drink to say what’s on my mind.”

  Now, her glazed-over eyes meet mine just as a slow song starts. I push all of the emotion aside because I don’t want to feel like that again. The confusion, and the displaced feelings for someone who isn’t mine to care about… at least not in that way.

  “It’s like I’m my old self when I’m here. Surrounded by all these strangers, except now I can finally blend in. I want to blend in, but also, I don’t. Not with you.” Her bottom lip pouts out, and I try to keep my face devoid of all emotion.

  I wonder what she’d think if she knew she was quite literally the only star in my sky right now. My only priority. The one life more important than my own. What would she think of me then? She’d think I was a freak. No normal person can understand the level of sacrifice my career forces. That’s why I give a fuck, I realize. If Presley finds out I’m here for her, and only her, it would change everything. It also has the potential to make things even harder for me. “You don’t blend in with me. Remember? You’re the only woman who has ever propositioned me. Definitely not blending in material.” It’s lighthearted, but I can tell she’s not happy with my response.

  “No. Like I want you to want to be propositioned by me.”

  I choke on a laugh. I can’t help it. The situation is unlike any I’ve ever been in. Staring blankly, the band plays a new song. The first few familiar chords cause an eruption of cheers. It’s a popular song, the whole world knows, but Presley is looking at me like I owe her money. She wants me to respond to her non-question. “Why don’t you just enjoy the concert and forget about it.”

  As I suspected, Presley on alcohol isn’t easy to handle. “I don’t want to forget about it. People, well people in my past, haven’t acted this way toward me, and I want to know why. Is it because I’m not taken? Are other people’s property your thing?”

  Now, I let my laugh slip. “What gave you that idea?”

  She shrugs one shoulder, and her big eyes seem a little smaller as she narrows them in my direction. “The whole alpha male thing you have going on.”

  Oh, yeah, the filter has gone by the wayside almost completely. I play dumb, because while it’s painful to watch her act so unlike herself, it’s also entertaining. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Your muscles. Your size. Your whole military man demeanor. Guys like you love to take what’s not yours. Right? Isn’t that your thing?”

  Pressing my lips together in a firm line, I make sure she’s done with her response. It seems she’s realized how insane she sounds because her eyes widen in shock as she brings up a hand to cover her mouth. “I’ll ignore all of the stereotypes you threw at me and just go with facts. I don’t want women who are taken.

  Presley gasps. “First, my whole life goes down the shitter, a dusty shitter at that, and now I’ve lost my gaydar, too. I don’t recognize myself anymore. I mean, you said you had a girlfriend before, and if you’re not interested in women at the moment, that means, you’re bi?” She shakes her head, a flush of red spreading across her cheeks. “I’m so embarrassed. You must be in a guy phase right now.”

  “And you should be in a don’t drink anymore alcohol tonight phase.” I look at the stage and see the bands switching, and make sure the men I saw earlier are still where I think they should be. “I’m not gay or bi. I only like women. I’m just not interested in any women at the moment.” At least she’s so embarrassed she seems to not want to say another word because the men aren’t where they were when I last surveyed the area. A quick scan tells me they are no longer anywhere in plain sight and my stomach drops. I let my guard down for maybe a minute while I conversed with Presley. Had she not been so entertaining in her current state, I would have been able to stay focused on multiple things at one time.

  I mutter something about how she shouldn’t ever drink and sit down in our bleacher-like seats to get a different view of our surroundings. The opposite of the moments before, I’m ignoring her as I tick through possible scenarios in my head. Though I know she’s speaking, and it’s directed at me, it sounds like warbled underwater noise as I think about what I need to do. If I make too rash of a decision, Presley will freak, if I play it too cool, she’ll be in danger. Weapons aren’t allowed in the amphitheater–a fact that was almost a deal breaker. There were metal detectors and people checking bags as we came in. What I’ve learned over the course of my career is that people find a way. If there’s a will, there’s an asshole willing to dive to seedy depths to make the impossible happen. I’ve learned I need to sink lower. I have to remind myself that this was my idea, an attempt to give Presley something to feel… happy about.

  “I, uh, need to go check something out really quick.” Facing her, I can tell she’s pissed. Or sad. I can’t tell which and I really need to spend more time dealing with her emotions so I better judge her moods and therefore be able to predict her actions. “Stay right here until I get back, okay?” She’s safer in the crowd for the moment, and I’m going to be quick.

  If she’s angry, at least she nods her consent. Leaving her here alone is not ideal, nor would I if the situation didn’t warrant it. I know the couple we saw in the parking lot is seated in the section two over from us and I see them laughing and drinking–singing along as I cut a path up the stone bleachers heading to my truck. The security guards at the gate look at me curiously, and I have to remind myself I’m n
ot surrounded by people out to get me, it’s just because I look different than the locals. I nod at the main guard that grimaced at me on the way in. Presley noticed. She’s noticing more and more. Or rather she’s letting me know she notices and she’s always been keen.

  A couple is making out in a car in the row where I’m parked. The windows are steamed and bodies are tangled in the back seat. I inhale and try not to think about Presley in that way. Her nonstop assault on my will doesn’t help my thoughts. Natural male urges are supposed to be trained out of us during Charge Man Fit training, but I’m faltering. Just for the moment though. I know it’s not a permanent lapse, and she’s not at risk. I won’t report it because I know it’s a fleeting feeling because I’m forming a friendship with my Principal. It won’t be forever. Plus, it’s not affecting my job to the point where I feel the need to be reassigned. My truck comes into view and I know it’s been disturbed. There’s a smear of grease on the door handle that wasn’t there when we left. Carefully, I slide under the hood, dirtying my shirt to see if I spot anything.

  The crowd cheers in the distance as my heart pounds in my chest. There’s a bug. I rip the small square off and pocket it. Unlocking the door, I scour the cab for more listening devices as I try to think who would want to listen to me. I swallow hard as I nearly tear off the seat on the passenger side.

  “What is going on?” A small, scared voice rises from behind me.

  I spin. It’s Presley, swaying on her feet. “I lost something,” I explain, poorly. “Thought maybe I dropped it before we went in.” I clear my throat. “What are you doing out here? You didn’t wait where I told you.” It came out too forceful, but she’s too drunk to argue with me.

  She winces and rubs her head. “I’m not feeling too well, do you think you can take me home?” Walking a few steps away, I discreetly attach the tracking device to the car of the couple making out. They are too busy to notice, and destroying the device would let whoever placed it there know that I was onto them.

  “I thought you were having a good time,” I stutter, trying and failing at balancing both Presley and the situation at hand. “Give me a second,” I say. She sits down on the ground, crosses her legs and puts her face in her lap. Her drinks must have been doubles. Goddamn it. There’s no way I’ll leave her alone tonight. I can’t when this is my fault. My harebrained idea. I brought her here. I put her in danger and I’m the only person responsible for her well-being. How fucking stupid can I be? I’m losing my touch. It was easier when I was haunting the apartment next door to my last Principal, not caring about dumb shit like happiness. That was his demise, I remind myself.

  After another six minutes of her moaning piss drunk in the dirt indecipherable complaints, I sweep my truck for anything else suspicious. I help her into the passenger seat. One thing is for certain, she wasn’t the target tonight. I was. What does that mean? No one in my life knows I’m in Colorado save for a few other Charge Men. Who would want to hear my conversations? What would they want to capture? I’m a bland motherfucker. I’m lost in my thoughts, trying to catalog all of the night’s details for my report mentally, when I realize Presley is passed out, cheek pressed against the passenger side window. Sighing, I drive to my house first, pick up my laptop and gym clothes, and continue on to her trailer.

  There aren’t any unfamiliar vehicles around when I park, but in case someone wants today to be their last day, I park my truck on the other side of the trailer, hidden from view. Helping Presley up the stairs, I grab her key ring off a clip on the side of her purse. It’s in plain sight. For a woman who seems to be frightened of a lot of things, she’s not as careful as she should be. She’s not as careful as I want her to be, I amend in my mind. I unlock the cheap dead bolt and lift her through the doorway as she clings to the roller skate box. It’s pretty depressing inside her trailer. It’s dark and the walls are mottled from too many coats of paint. I’ve seen photos of the inside before, for security purposes, but seeing it firsthand is different. She slinks down on the couch as soon as I release her. “How did we get here?” Presley asks, words garbled. Her big gaze widens as she looks up at me. “You’re inside. My house.”

  I smirk. “I just drove you home. Remember, you asked me to? We abandoned the biggest party we’ll get the chance to attend all year.”

  Presley screws up her eyebrows. “Yeah, you were being too mean to me. Why are you inside my tin box? Did you finally give in? Are you here to, well, you know?”

  Shaking my head, I keep the smile on my face. “Relentless should be your middle name. I didn’t want to leave you here alone. I’d like to point out that you labeled me as gay as the only logical reason I wouldn’t want to fuck you.” I pull out a new weapon. Fear. “Before you drank yourself into a stupor you said you were scared because there was a car outside of your place. I can go if you want.” I hike my thumb over my shoulder.

  Her whole demeanor changes as she spins to look out the window, using two fingers to separate the blinds. “I forgot,” she breathes. “Did you see anyone when we drove up?” I tell her I didn’t and that I parked on the other side so no one would know I’m here. Presley nods continuously as I speak, happy it seems I did my due diligence, but then she cocks her head. “That’s it, then. It has to be a secret that we’re hanging out.” All it takes is one random thought, and she’s forgotten fear and replaced it with women’s scorn.

  I clear my throat as I sit next to her. My leg touches hers. “I didn’t take you for this kind of woman.”

  A scowl crosses her features. “What kind?”

  “One that can’t take rejection.”

  Closing her eyes, she exhales. “I’m sorry for making assumptions about your sexuality.”

  “Apology accepted,” I deadpan. “Do you want some water?”

  “I guess if I can’t have what I really want,” Presley says, crossing her arms across her chest. “Water will do.”

  Her kitchen is half the size of mine and the appliances are even smaller. The yellow, crystal glass I pull from the cabinet looks like an antique. I fill it up from a filter pitcher on the counter and bring it to her. “Water will do,” I repeat back to her, handing over the glass. She misses the first time she reaches for it and I clasp her hand around the glass with my free hand. Her eyes meet mine, and the fleeting sense of danger races through my body. It’s like an electric bolt seeping with warning. Pulling away immediately, I say. “You should drink it all.”

  She drains the glass, water dripping down her chin onto her cleavage. The bolt strikes again, I look to the side, away from her completely. When that doesn’t quell the sensation, I open the blinds and look out of those instead. Danger. Danger. The bug in my truck. Nothing about tonight has been okay, and feeling my cock tighten against my jeans is just the icing on the cake. This is not a feeling I am supposed to have. You can’t protect what you covet. It’s one of the rules. Presley leans over, tucks her legs up, and falls asleep. I only let myself watch her for a second or two before I go back to my truck to get my laptop and retreat to the bathroom. Closing the lid, I sit down, open my laptop, and work on my report. I leave out important details. I lie about the section when it asks about suspicious activity. The knots in my stomach grow larger, and larger until I feel like the moral code of ethics might burst out of my ears. I send the report, keeping it simple, using my phone as a hotspot because it’s also encrypted. I close the lid and slam my eyes shut. Recalling my training is easy, but parts of it aren’t pleasant.

  ****

  You can’t protect what you covet, soldier. After weeks and weeks of mind-numbing exposure in a Pavlov’s Dog type of testing, I no longer react to a woman’s naked body. The laboratory where we, as new Charge Men, had to spend six months of our lives is cold, and I think it’s because it helps. It shrinks my fucking balls. There are goose bumps on my skin, but not a sexual thought in my skull as I take the final virtual reality test and a woman, who would have been my type in every way shape and form befor
e, begins to disappear from the screen. The wires are attached to almost every part of my body, and inside the narrow immersive chamber, anywhere I look, I see her. They used the likeness of my high school girlfriend. The only woman who I came close to loving. I found out after the fact they used first loves for all of the other men in my program. The logic being if they can stop a reaction, the first reaction, they’re able to control the rest. It’s deregulating the responses that all humans come hardwired with. It is freaky.

  I take a deep breath when the naked form vanishes completely and is replaced by a series of war scenes, desolation, murder, crime, and anguish. I much prefer this. Thinking about my past only makes me think of loss and everything I’m giving up to be a Charge Man. I want this more than anything else on earth. More than I want a relationship with my family. More than I want a sexual relationship with a woman I no longer covet. They’ve programmed her out of me. They’ve programmed romantic love and sexual desire out of our systems. Before this virtual reality testing, love was the most prevalent reason men left the Charge. Why their loyalty faltered when lives, literally, hung in the balance. It took half a dozen incidents of men falling in love while on the job for the program to enact something that would…fix it. I’m lucky to be here. I remind myself of that anytime I think they’ve done something that’s stepped over a moral boundary. Which has been more times than I can count if I’m being honest.

  A doctor presses a button to unseal my chamber pod. Cold, oxygenated mist hisses when exposed to uncontrolled air. She uses quick hands to unfasten my feet and arms from the cabling straps. ‘Well done,” she breathes out. I can tell she’s relieved I’ve passed. It’s a headache for them each and every time they put me in here. They have to control all of the variables and it has to be the same experience every single time for it to work properly. “I think this might be your last time in here.”

  I close my eyes and hold my breath as she yanks off the heart rate monitors and takes out my IV. I make a joke about going to space, because it is what it feels like sometimes, and she smiles meekly, barely meeting my eyes. I am butt-ass naked, but that doesn’t register as weird to me anymore. The doctor has not had sexuality systemically flushed from her system, I realize. It’s weird for her. “That’s great. One step closer to the goal.” The doctor nods, then steps out of my way, holding up my gray robe. The lab robe. We all wear them when we’re in testing. Medical. Mental. Sexual. We’re gray, muscular lab rats. “Should I report to Coldren’s office then?” I always speak with him after a session. It’s a skewed psych session where he pours over every detail of my time in the chamber.