by Shandi Boyes
“You sniffing around hoping Isaac left out a bone?”
Brandon smirks, misconstruing my statement as a joke. I wasn’t joking. He fidgets on the spot, kicking dust up from the loose gravel when he notices my furious wrath.
“I just want to make sure Izzy is alright,” he replies, peering sheepishly into my eyes.
“Then why not go knock on the door like a real man?” I ask, my brow arched.
He laughs and shakes his head. “Been there. Done that.”
I stare into his eyes, confused by his statement.
“I’ve tried numerous times to see Izzy since she left the hospital. My attempts were always denied… by Isaac.”
I’m not surprised by his confession. I thought the jealousy issues that plague me with Ava are fierce. It is nothing compared to the jealously Isaac has when it comes to men getting close to Izzy. I can’t say I blame him, though. From the gleam Brandon’s eyes get when Izzy is in his vicinity, I have no doubt he would trample anyone in his way if Izzy was ever placed back on the market.
“Izzy is fine. She's with Isaac, where she belongs,” I inform him before pivoting on my heels and ambling back to my car.
My brisk strides halt when Brandon mutters, “Even with Ophelia being alive?”
The beat of my heart kicks up as I turn around to face him. His face is washed with confusion, and his brows are furrowed tightly.
“How do you know about that?” I ask.
Brandon’s pupils enlarge as his throat works hard to swallow.
“You gave Izzy the photo, didn’t you? You thought it was your way in. The key to breaking up Isaac and Izzy.”
Brandon’s lips form a snarl and he shakes his head.
“Bullshit,” I retaliate, pacing to stand in front of him, wanting to look him in the eyes as I call him out as the weasel he is. “You weaseled your way into Izzy’s life by pretending you’re her friend, all so you could undermine her relationship with Isaac. I’ve got news for you: you can’t fight fate, so I suggest you give up while you’re ahead.”
“I'm her friend,” Brandon responds, his tone surprisingly strong. “Everything I’ve done is because I’m trying to protect her.”
“She doesn’t need your protection,” I roar when I spot the gleam in his eyes. “She has Isaac. She has me. She doesn’t need you. So go jump on your white horse and find another damsel in distress to save, because Izzy doesn’t need saving.”
I count down to ten as I walk back to my car. If I don’t control my anger, I’m going to burst.
“Are you going to protect her like you did Gemma?” Brandon shouts, his voice crammed with anger.
I freeze when Gemma’s name seeps from his lips. Surely I didn’t hear him right. My pulse is blaring in my ears, so I must be mistaken. I have to be. When I spin around to face him, I have no doubt he said what I thought he said. The look of fear in his eyes in the only indication I need to know he’s aware of the night that still haunts my dreams……
“If only you liked white chocolate,” Gemma gabbles, plopping onto the barstool next to me.
My hearty chuckle rumbles over the music blasting out of the jukebox in the corner of the room. I’ve spent a majority of my night with members of my squadron at a dime a dozen watering hole in the middle of a town we are stationed at. Although rundown, Cantina Vault is a buzzing hive of activity. Line dancers and regular nightclub patrons share the floor space; Air Force officers from Second Lieutenants to Brigadier Generals are spread as far as the eye can see, and the beer is the coldest I’ve ever guzzled. What more could a man ask for?
I toss down half a bottle of beer before turning my eyes to Gemma. Gemma is the first female Lieutenant in my squadron. With her wittiness and willingness to give anything a shot meant we became close friends in a short period of time, but in all honesty, when I was first introduced to Gemma, I was concerned about how she was going to cope with the rough conditions we’d immersed ourselves into. It wasn’t that I was a chauvinistic asshole; I was just raised by my father to protect my mother and sisters, so I assumed it would take me a bit of time to adjust to Gemma being a fellow officer, not my little sister who needed protecting.
The adjustment didn’t take as long as I was predicting. It lasted all of one week—the time it took for me to walk in on Gemma showering in the male latrine. The boiler in the female dorm broke so Gemma ducked in our latrine, expecting my squadron to be longer at our TI drill than we were. After raking my eyes over Gemma’s naked body, any worries about treating her like my sister flew right out the window.
Although she's a little on the short side and couldn’t weigh more than a pile of feathers, Gemma is gorgeous. No doubt about it. Cascading blonde hair falling to her shoulders in a satin waterfall; rich, prominent green eyes that dazzle even in the poor overhead lighting; and perfect unblemished skin, except for the smallest mass of freckles sprinkling her tiny nose. She's beautiful – a prime example of both looks and personality, but even being hot enough to cause my dick to stir, nothing has ever happened between us. Gemma likes to say it is because she has the wrong skin coloring, but it isn’t that. There has only ever been one girl I want to jump the friendship line for: Ava. So as much as Gemma’s offer is tempting, I’ve never taken her up on it.
I angle my body to the side, tilting in closer to Gemma. “Who said I’m not a fan of white chocolate?”
Gemma drifts her glistening eyes from the diverse gathering of people cavorting on the crammed dance floor to me. She cocks her brow before pulling her “I’m not buying the shit you’re selling” look she regularly uses when dealing with her male counterparts in the Air Force.
“How long have we been stationed together? Nearly ten months?” Gemma queries with her lips pursed.
I nod, agreeing with her assessment.
“In that whole time, I’ve not once seen you share the love with your fairer companions.”
I laugh. It is the only plausible reaction to her absurd misconception. For one, the week before we deployed, I had a very compelling meeting with one of Gemma’s sorority sisters from Alaska. Two, any time we go out, Gemma spends her night dancing like the floor is on fire, too busy to be paying attention to my female companions. And third, but not at all least, just from the impish glimmer in her eyes, I can tell she's full of shit. She has eyes like Jorgie, I can see straight through to her soul.
“Jealously has never looked so good,” I quip, my tone doused with smugness.
Gemma’s head snaps to mine. “Jealous? Please! You had your opportunity—you lost it. No second chances around here,” she remarks, wiggling her index finger in front of my face.
I chuckle at her sassiness before taking a swig out of my beer.
Malted liquid sprays out of my mouth, dousing the wooden countertop and Gemma’s face when she says, “I also snuck a peek at the photo you hide in your foot locker. Ava is very beautiful. I can understand your fascination.”
My heart freezes at the mention of Ava’s name, but thankfully my outward appearance gives no indication to the treachery of my heart.
“I'd like to say this is the first time I’ve had beer sprayed in my face, but, unfortunately, it isn’t,” Gemma mutters, dabbing her face with a midnight black napkin.
Once all fragments of my spit beer have been removed from her face, she lifts her expressive eyes to me. “Ava is in San Diego, not on the moon. You know that magic tin can we’re flying home in on Monday? They have similar ones that can fly you to any destination of your choice. San Diego included.”
I smirk against the rim of my beer before taking a mouth-filling gulp. “You sound like my sister, Jorgie.”
Gemma smiles broadly. “I need to meet this Jorgie. She sounds a little too good to be true,” she jests before placing an order with a bartender for a virgin margarita.
“Loose lips sink ships,” I mutter to myself.
I learned the meaning of that saying the weekend following Warrior Week. That week of training should be called Hell
Week. We slept in tents, ate funky combinations of beans and rice and practiced war-like conditions, but it wasn’t the unappetizing setting or the less- than-stellar accommodations that gave it the coveted title of Hell Week. It was TI Drill Sergeant Cody Spencer. He was the hardest, bare-knuckled and bloody drill sergeant I’d ever encountered. After a week in his presence, I could barely crawl, let alone walk. Deciding we needed to celebrate surviving our trip to hell and back, our regiment went out to a local salsa bar. After celebrating as if it was Cinco de Mayo, my lips become as loose as the salsa dancers’ hips. One slip up during a game of twenty questions saw me mentioning my high school crush’s name. Ever since that night, Ava’s name is mentioned at every celebration.
I slam down the remainder of my beer and signal to the bartender for another. My squadron only has two days remaining in Afghanistan until we return home from our second stint. We’re guzzling down our drinks like we aren’t paying fifteen dollars for a can of bootleg beer, but when you’re celebrating a successful end of our tour without any causalities to your unit, you’ll happily pay the premium price, because you can’t put a value on that – it is priceless.
“Why aren’t you out there dancing?” I ask Gemma, noticing the direction of her gaze. Her glistening eyes are absorbing the hot sweaty bodies mingling on the dance floor.
Her nose screws up. “Grabby McGee is being extra grabby,” she replies.
My eyes rocket to the dance floor. Madden McGee is a fucking sleaze, and that’s putting it nicely. He was born and bred with Air Force blood pumping through his veins. His uncles, grandfather, and brothers all served in the same squadron of the Air Force. Although his predecessors honored his family name, Madden has done nothing but tarnish it. He ignores any instructions given by his superiors, he treats the female members of his squadron as if they're inferior, and he has his nose so far up his own ass, he thinks his shit doesn’t stink. He's the type of guy who gives Air Force Officers a bad name. I also have a knack for reading people, and I didn’t like him from the moment I met him.
I drift my eyes back to Gemma. “Do you want me to talk to him?” I offer.
“No,” she says, dramatically drawing out the short word. “I can handle Grabby McGee.”
A smirk tugs on my lips. After seeing the way Gemma handled Warrior Week, I have no doubt she can handle a worm of a man like Madden. After accepting her virgin margarita from the bartender, Gemma hip bumps me before making her way to a handful of female squadron members mingling at the side of the dance space.
“Come find me when you're ready to go,” she yells.
After a handful of beers, I decide to call it a night and head back to base. I straighten my spine, extending to my full height so I can seek Gemma in the crowd of people cavorting on the dance floor. Although we aren’t a couple, we always arrive and leave together when we go out drinking. When my search fails to locate her shiny blonde locks, I move to the bar. A bartender with inky black hair and a neck tattoo stops wiping the counter and paces toward me.
“Have you seen Gemma? Blonde hair, green eyes, around this tall,” I ask, holding my hand across my chest. “She’s been ordering virgin margaritas all night.”
He smiles. “White floral dress?”
“That’s the one.”
Gemma is the only girl who can pull off a floral dress in a war-torn country.
He stops drying a glass and gestures his head to the entrance door. “She left a few minutes ago.”
My brows furrow. “She left?” Skepticism radiates from my voice. I normally have to drag Gemma out of any bars we visit.
“Thanks,” I say, tapping my knuckles onto the wooden bar top before spinning on my heels.
As I walk to the double swinging doors, the churning hampering my stomach revs up a gear as the feeling of something not being quite right overwhelms me. My steps to the door become urgent, only hindered by the beer sloshing in my twisted stomach. When I emerge out the double wooden doors, a blast of humid air hits me in the face, making my stomach churn even more. My neck cranks to the right before drifting to the left. There's a handful of late-night, drunk partygoers scattered on the sidewalk, but Gemma is nowhere in sight.
My head shifts to the side when a young blond-haired man stumbles out of a side alley. His face is ashen and his pupils wide. I lift my chin in greeting as I eye him with curiosity. I’ve never seen a kid look so rattled before, even after serving in Afghanistan for two years. The blond kid’s eyes stare into mine. His chest thrusts upwards as he battles to secure a full breath.
His eyes snap to the side at the same time a faint scream overtakes the hum of music pumping out of the bar. My head rockets to the side at lightning speed. I freeze and take a step backwards, winded like I’ve been sucker-punched in the guts. The shock of what I witness quickly converts to fury as the scene unfolds in front of me. I charge down the alleyway, my steps no longer impeded by the alcohol I drank. The blood rushing through my veins turns potent, blackened by the fury scorching it.
“Get off!” I scream, my deep angry snarl bouncing off the stained brick walls.
“Stop it! Stop it! Get off!” I scream again.
Blinded by rage, I grab the first man I see and throw him against the trash can he is standing next to. His head connects hard with the steel edge, sending a stream of blood running down the side of his face. He stands, dazed and confused. Holding his wounded head in his hand, he staggers down the alleyway. I storm toward a group of men, dragging them away from a pair of fear-filled green eyes staring up at me, pleading for me to save her. A man I’ve seen before but misplaced his name stops in front of me. He cracks his knuckles and sneers at me.
A bone being fractured bellows through the eerie quietness when my clenched fist connects hard with his jaw. When he falls to the ground, I grab another man, and then another, unleashing hit after hit in a haze of rage. Even outnumbered, the scent of fear never approaches me. I'm running on pure adrenaline, too enraged to stop the anger burning me from the inside out.
My sweat-drenched shirt clings to my chest when I fist the shirt of another man.
“Stop, Hugo. It’s me. It’s Brody,” says a voice quieter than a mouse.
My wildly swinging fist freezes mid-air, inches from a terrified face. The same face of the man who stumbled out of the alley mere minutes ago stares up at me, terrified and confused. My clouded eyes dart up and down the alley. I unclench my fist when I find the alley empty of the men who were here ten minutes ago. My chest rises and falls as my body fights to rein in my usually carefree composure.
Any sense of normality vanishes when a painful sob shreds through my ears. My eyes dart down to Gemma, huddled against a brick wall. The roughness of the brickwork scratches her skin as she scrambles across the cracked, stained pavement. The strap of her dress is broken, her knees are bloody and bruised, and black lines of mascara are running down her pale cheeks. Her frantic eyes scan the area as her entire body shakes. I remove my blood-stained shirt, snubbing the trembling that has encroached my hands.
“Don’t touch me. I don’t want you to touch me,” she stammers out.
“It’s okay. I won’t touch you.”
I crouch down in front of her to carefully drape my shirt over her shaking body. She peers up at me, wide-eyed and in shock. Her lips quiver as a mass of moisture swamps her eyes. I return her stare, allowing my eyes to issue the words my mouth is failing to produce. My apologies for what she went through, while also relaying that I won’t hurt her. When the sounds of sirens approach, Gemma leaps forward and digs her nails into my arm, clutching onto me for dear life, like I'm her safety shield……
I’ve never forgotten the terrified sobs that tore from her throat that night.
I lunge for Brandon, grabbing the scruff of his shirt before he can react. Hauling him to within an inch of my face, my furious eyes scorch his. The mad beat of his heart pounds the edge of my clenched fist that is pinning him against the car. He eyeballs me, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, but
not a sound seeps from his lips.
“Who are you?” I query, my voice failing to conceal the shivers havocking my body as a flurry of memories delve into me.
Brandon’s eyes dance between mine, but not a word parts his mouth.
“Who are you?” I scream again, tightening my grip on his shirt.
He stares into my eyes. “My name is Brandon James--”
My teeth grit, furious he's trying to play me for a fool.
“McGee,” he adds on.
The air is vehemently removed from my lungs. I roam my eyes over Brandon’s face, studying him in precise detail. Same hazel eyes, defined nose, wonky smile; it was just the blond hair that lead me astray. I take a step backward, overwhelmed by a surge of emotions pummeling into me at once.
“You’re Grabby McGee’s brother?”
Fury unlike anything I’ve ever felt makes it hard for me to secure a full breath when Brandon nods. I yank him forward before slamming his body back with vicious force. Metal crunching echoes in the quietness of the night. Even with his back slamming into his car with brutal strength, Brandon’s face remains staunch, not giving any indication of the pain rocketing through his body.
“Do you know who I am?” I ask, my words a vicious snarl.
Brandon’s nostrils flare as he inhales quick, sharp breaths of air.
“Yes,” he mutters, his chin quivering.
My stomach tenses, copping an emotional blow as every secret I’ve fought to keep hidden becomes exposed. My panic doesn’t last long, replaced with anger. Angry that I was ever forced to keep such a secret. Fury scorches through me, burning my chest with its ferocious heat.
