by Aubrey Irons
I don’t even respond, I just turn on my heel and march out of the restaurant; guess I’m just fresh out of punchlines.
Chapter Four
Hudson
P A S T
I’m back in the broiling heat, the shrieking chaos and the pure, undiluted hell on Earth of war - back in Helman Province; back in Afghanistan. My back’s to the wall, my pulse racing in my ears like a goddamn jet engine as I count to three before whipping around the corner and firing. The gun jolts in staccato, hammering pulses through my shoulder as I focus on the shelled-out office building where they’ve taken defensive positions. I barely even hear the mortar warning through my com before the Humvee forty feet to my left just fucking erupts in fire and light, and I can fucking feel the hot flash of death cross my face.
I’m screaming as I run, ignoring everything in my earpiece and barely registering the singing sounds of bullets flying around me as I pound the turf as fast as I can towards the raging, burning hull of the truck. I’m ten feet from it, the heat almost unbearable when I can hear Logan’s voice barking in my ear; ‘NOT Bryce’s Humvee.’
Yeah but who’s-
Later, I’ll swear to everything in this world and the next that I could hear the fucking bullet the second before it tore through my shoulder. I’m down, face-down in the dust and ash as more metal screams over my head, and all I know in that moment is that despite every thought I have on freedom, and my country, and about good triumphing over evil, if I die there, in that fucking desert, I’m going to have words to say to whatever God is waiting for me on the other side.
P R E S E N T
I grunt and blink the sweat out of my eyes as I swing again, feeling the rivulets of moisture drip down my face and neck to dribble down over the ink and scars of my bare chest. The air burns in my lungs and my arms are one fire, but I just keep swinging; always swinging. The glove connects with the bag, every muscle in my arm screaming in pain and triumph at the perfect hit and the aching, numbing soreness I know will follow. Some guys when they got back, they drank or fucked it away; like I used to. Other guys like Bryce took it worse and turned to self medication, and the whole dark, broken dream that comes along for the ride with that. The fucked up part is, the pain never actually goes away. You can numb it a million different ways with drugs and sex and whatever else you can think of to distract you from the fact that part of your soul is missing, but it’s always there, right below the surface.
I swing again, swallowing the burning in my throat as I pant, pushing myself harder, longer; don’t stop, never stop. My breaths coming short and hard, my head swimming as I connect with the bag again, and again, and again - I connect with the bag one more time before the pain is so real I can’t actually lift my arm again, and I collapse onto the living room floor. I can barely breath, or see through the sweat, but I laugh as I glance at my stopwatch and realize I’ve been punching this damn bag for an hour straight.
I’m getting too old for this shit.
I also realize I was supposed to call Logan when I got home and let him know how things went.
Oh, yeah, you know, fantastic. Hey buddy, thanks for sending me into the fucking LION’S DEN back there with Reagan Archer.
I know he and Bryce have no idea what happened with Reagan and I that one time - the time I got so close to everything before I let it all blow away - because if they did they’d have probably killed me by now. Well, Bryce maybe, but Logan for sure. But, I also know neither of them are blind. I mean, I’d like to think I play things close to the chest, but you don’t go through what we went through without being able to read the other guys like an open book.
“Have you lost your fucking mind?!”
I wince as I hold the phone away from my ear. Ok, I made two mistakes tonight. The first was taking Reagan Archer out to what was basically a thinly veiled date; the second - and maybe the dumber of the two - is telling Logan about it.
I’m supposed to be at Reagan’s, but after the way she stormed out like that, I knew pushing it by going over anyways was not going to lead to good things. So I’m back at my penthouse, with two of my guys keeping a low-profile guard on her building.
“Hudson, you’ve pulled some stupid shit, but this is beyond the fucking pale.” I can practically feel the venom leaking through the phone from his voice before he barks into the receiver again; “You fucking idiot!”
“Logan!” I yell, reaching for the pack of emergency cigarettes I keep behind the spoons in my silverware drawer and tapping one out; “Look, it was stupid, I know. I-”
“Did you fuck her?” Logan spits out, his voice ice cold; that tone he only takes when he’s about to fuck something up - like, in this instance, my face, the next time he sees me.
“Wha- No! Come on man!” I stick the God-knows how old cigarette in my mouth and light it, coughing on the dry, ancient smoke that fills my lungs like burning sand.
“Oh, and smoking; nice. Good fucking job, Hudson; hell of a night you're having.”
“Will you calm the fuck down!” I spit out, making a face. The cigarette tastes like a horse’s asshole; well, at least what I imagine the butt of a horse tastes like at least. “Of course I didn't, what’s wrong with you man? She’s not that kind-”
“That wasn't meant as a dis on her, idiot. That's 'cause I know you.”
I suck at the horrible cigarette, feeling the bile rise in my burning throat; “The hell is that supposed to mea-”
“The guy who slept his way through half of Italy and Turkey? The guy that almost got us shipped over to the fucking U.S. State Department in Cairo because he couldn't keep his fucking dick in his goddamn pan-”
“That was a long time ago, bud.” My voice is beyond frosty. And it was. I’m a different guy now, and I’ve worked damn hard to get here.
Logan is quiet on the other end of the line for a moment, his breathing coming in regular, controlled measures. Finally, he sighs; “I know; I know man.” His voice is calmer, and he’s back to speaking to me like a normal person; “Look, I'm sorry, brother.”
“It's cool” I mutter out. That’s one thing about the three us; we might fight like the devil amongst ourselves sometime, but we’re always quick to tamp that fire out. I guess that’s what going through what we went through does to you.
“You can't date her; you know that, right?”
I stamp out the cigarette in my kitchen sink and turn on the viking range to clear the smell of smoke out of the place; “Yeah, I know that.”
“We're supposed to watch them, Hudson; that was the promise. To protect and help them, and make sure they're safe.” Logan pauses; “That's it, brother. There are other fish in-”
“Ok! I know! Fuck-” I trail off as I walk back into the massive library off the kitchen where I’ve set up my boxing bag and stare out through the tinted floor-to-ceiling windows at the New York City skyline. The old me would have loved to show off this view to any and every girl I could charm up here, but I’ve stopped all that now; because of the promise.
Well, and of course, because of her.
Except I can’t let that happen; not what I want to let happen. I toss the phone onto the couch behind me after I hang up with Logan and turn to stare back out through the window at New York. All of this - the money, the penthouse with the view, the cars, the girls, the power - all of this means nothing, really. And I don’t need Logan telling me how I can’t bring her into all of my baggage; I already know that. I already know that I can’t let her in; it’s why I pushed her away before as much as it’s killed me for five fucking years thinking about it.
I’m broken, and a girl like Reagan Archer is the last person on earth I need to sift through the pieces.
Chapter Five
Hudson
P A S T
“I can’t go back, man.” Bryce’s eyes have a wild look in them, and even though he’s technically looking at me, it’s more like he’s looking through me. He’s rocking on the balls of his feet; “Fuck, man; fuck.”
I nod grimly, wincing as he squirts disinfectant over the gash in my bicep he’s just pulled the piece of Humvee fender out of. Sure, we’d all thought it before, even talked about it when it was just the three of us. Any guy out here in this fucking hell on Earth is a liar if they tell you they’ve never even thought about the idea of just lighting out of there. Following orders and saying yes is the one thing they drill into your head more than anything else in training. Fuck; saying yes is the glue that hold the entire chain of command together. You say yes, you shut your damn mouth, and you follow your fucking orders; that’s the job. You don’t debate yourself, you don’t weigh anything against whatever moral compass you’ve got spinning inside, you just do it. If the call was bad, then it was bad, but you move on.
Except what if you can’t? What if you hit that one wall of your spirit inside they never got through; the wall to the part inside that keeps you being human when you’re faced with the horrifically inhumane every single day?
It’s just the three of us left now from the nine of us that found ourselves in the Taliban ambush. I swallow heavily and choke back the rage as I glance back at the first of the two Humvees we rolled in with; the one that hit the IED and lit up like the fucking Hindenburg before they even knew what happened. I look around us at the burning wreckage of the village. In war, bullets don’t discriminate between Taliban psychos trying to murder you and innocent villagers just trying to get the fuck out of the way, as much as you try to do so. I look at the bodies strewn across charred and cratered streets and in the smoldering ruins of what were homes, businesses…
…Or a school, like the one that burns quietly like a funeral pyre behind us.
Logan catches my glance and shakes his head fiercely; “That isn’t what we signed up for, man.” He follows my eyes to the burning school; neither of knowing but both of us hoping to God it was empty; “I’m here to fight for my country, not watch bombs drop out of the sky onto fucking schools.” He spits, his face shaking.
“Drop out of the sky; right out of the sky.” Bryce is staring at the dirt in front of him and just rocking back and forth.
“So, what, we just walk away? Here in the middle of the fucking desert?”
Logan catches my eye and nods quietly; “The radio went out with that second IED hit; as far as they know back at base, the whole damn convoy got taken out.” He gives me a hard look; “This isn’t going to stop, Hudson. Every mission is going to be like this; every mission is going to be bad guys hiding behind kids and the guys back home hammering them with bombs anyways.”
“You’re talking about desertion of duties during wartime, Logan.” I say my words slowly; “They shoot you for that.”
“I’m going to shoot myself if I have to be part of something like that!” Logan jabs his finger at the burning school across the shelled street at us, the flames still licking the burning Afghan air.
“And it’s only desertion if they think you deserted. If you’re dead, well…” He trails of and looks up at the mountains on the horizon.
“Where the fuck would we go, man? What do we do, fucking walk back to the States?”
“I don’t think we do go back, Hud; ever.”
I swallow heavily as I let his words sink in; we’d never go home. I mean it’s not like there’s anything left for me back there anyways. It’s not like my job at the garage before I enlisted was my dream career, and the only family that still even remembers who I am is my drunk asshole Dad, and if he remembers who I am between sips from that bottle, I’d be fucking shocked. Really, at this point the only family I’ve got are these two guys right here; my de facto brothers. I don’t know much about either of their lives before the Marines either, but I’ve heard enough to know they’re not much different than me.
“So, where?”
Logan’s face is grim; “Haul ass to the Chinese border, skip across and try and hook up with some of the Blackriver guys there.” He shrugs; “We’re not the first guys to do this, Hud, and the mercenary groups are always picking up guys with skills and a spotty background checks.”
I grimace; “You want to be mercenaries? Out of the frying pan into the fire?”
Logan’s laugh is hollow, and it ricochets sharply off the empty streets of the village; “Look around you, man; we’re already in the fucking fire!”
Bryce looks up at Logan’s outburst, his eyes looking more focused for a moment as he nods; “We can’t go back, Hudson.”
Yeah yeah, you can never go back, as they say. Except this time, I know they’re right. I’m already a completely different man than I was before, but I’ll be damned if I let them take the rest of me; “So, that’s our only option?”
“We’re in hostile territory in an active war-zone, surrounded by countries that hate the United States and people that would kill each other to be the first to string us up or cut our fucking heads off,” Logan looks at me and his eyes soften for a second; “I don’t really see what other option we’ve got, man.”
Fuck it; he’s right and we all know it. It’s go forward or go back, and we all know we can’t go back. I turn to Bryce and nod at his twisted ankle; “You ok to walk?”
He shrugs, yanks the morphine pen out of his med-pack and stabs himself in the thigh with it; “Now I am.” He grins.
Logan nods towards the pickup parked next to burning sheep hut that looks relatively untouched; I’ll drive if you can navigate, Hud.”
Fuck, we’re really doing this. “Any fucking idea where China is?”
“East?” He chuckles, winking at me; “Out of the frying pan, Hud, and out of the fire.”
Months later though, it still feels like we’re very much in the fire. When we’re scraping by, making a living selling ourselves and our services and parts of our souls to whatever awful piece of shit will pay us the most, I know we all still feel the burn. When Logan goes a little crazy, and Bryce goes to the needle, and I decided to be just like my father and find peace in the bottom of a bottle, it sure as shit still feels like we’re in the fire. Maybe we can never go back, but we’ve also got no place left to go.
We feel those flames for more than a year like that; the hurt and the pain searing itself into us every single day. That is, until the day we meet William Archer, and everything changes.
REAGAN
P R E S E N T
I wake up to the sound of my apartment door slamming shut, and sit bolt upright.
I live alone.
I’m out of bed before my head is even fully awake, and I grab the first deadly weapon I can find, which happens to be one of the heels I wore last night. With the fiercest face I can muster with my heart hammering in my chest, I fling open my bedroom door and scream bloody murder as I brandish the stiletto at the figure standing in my hallway shrugging of a winter jacket.
He turns and grins that cocky, arrogant smirk of his at me; “And a good morning to you too, Princess.”
Hudson?!
I freeze with the stiletto still brandished above my head, blinking as I stare at him trying to figure out just what the hell he's doing standing in my apartment and leering at me like that at 6:30 in the morning.
“What- I mean, how-” I start to sputter, my mind still trying to piece together the reality him being here right now when I see his eyes dip for a moment, and his grin only gets bigger as his eyebrow arches along with his smirk.
I am suddenly keenly aware of the fact that I'm standing in the hallway with him in nothing but a thin t-shirt and panties, and with a gasp, I'm dashing back into my room and slamming the door to the sound of his laughter. “What the fuck are you doing here?!” I shriek through the door as I press my forehead against the wood and groan to myself as my face burns bright with embarrassment; “How did you even get in?”
Hudson is still laughing, and I can h
ear him jangling something against the other side of the door that sounds like keys; “Donald gave me a set,” He chuckles, pointedly ignoring the first part of my questions. I yank on some pajama pants and fling the door open again just as he marches past my door into the kitchen. My eyes narrow at his back, trying to will my cheeks to stop being so damned red.
“Aw, no battle-cry this time?” He turns and grins at me, his eyes twinkling; “I'm hurt.”
“Yeah well, break into my place again and you will be hurt.” I mutter, feeling my ears burn as he only chuckles at my empty threat and breezes past me into the kitchen.
I'm momentarily thrown off by suddenly realizing what he's wearing. He's not in a tux this time, and is instead curiously in running shorts and a black undershirt, despite the fact that it's freezing outside. I stare at him as he pokes his nose into my refrigerator, totally forgetting my train of thought as my eyes rove over the sleeves of tattoos running up his muscled and defined arms and across his chest and collarbone. I’ve seen them partially before I guess, but it’s only now seeing them in the daylight that I realize how beautiful they are. I recognize one image as the same Marine corp emblem that my father had inked onto his arm as well, but on Hudson the design is set into a twisting and complex background of other images and inked names.
I’m once again drawn to his shorts and I wrinkle my brow; “Wait, what are you wearing?”
He frowns; “What do you wear to the gym?”
“We're not at the gym, though.”
He grins; “Yeah, but we will be after we eat.”
“Excuse me?”
He sighs heavily and rolls his eyes as he pulls away from the fridge with a carton of Almond milk in his hands. My jaw drops as I watch him open it before he brings it to his lips and takes a swig.
