by Dez Burke
I normally make it a rule not to say much about my time in the military to anyone, and yet here I am running my mouth off to her as if we’re old friends.
She’s easy to talk to and a good listener. Before I knew it, I was telling her my thoughts on everything from my time in Afghanistan to my love for big asses. Even when we weren’t talking, the silence between us was comfortable and easy. Not strained or weird the way it can be when you first meet someone.
She’s different from the other girls I’ve hooked up with lately. None of them could stand to be quiet for two minutes without blabbering on about absolutely nothing. Usually I don’t have a clue who or what they’re talking about and don’t want to know. Generally along the lines of what the latest social media star is doing. Or how much they love their new pink lipstick. My head hurts thinking about them. Then again, talking isn’t the reason I keep the girls around in the first place.
It’s for the pussy.
Plain and simple.
A simple fact of life is that while chasing pussy serves an important purpose, it can be a fucking drain on a man’s soul.
“Would you mind passing the salt?” Maggie asks, interrupting my soul-searching thoughts.
I pick up the salt shaker from its permanent place on my side of the table and hand it over. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to enjoy a sit-down meal with a woman. Especially in my own house. Come to think of it, I don’t remember that ever happening. Seeing a pretty woman across the dining table from me is nice.
Real nice.
Something I could get used to if I was given the chance. Maggie is out of my league though, so I need to put that right out of my head.
“How is your steak?” I ask. “Cooked to your satisfaction?”
“Perfect,” she replies. “Nothing better than a steak from a grill. This is delicious. I was absolutely famished.”
“I can make some mean barbecue ribs too,” I say. “I’m the Steel Infidels official rib man.”
“Really?” she says. “What exactly does being a rib man entail?”
“I’m in charge of the ribs when the MC throws parties. I make up my own special rub for the meat and prepare the slabs the night before. The day of the party, I get up early and stoke the smoker. If you want tender ribs, they need to cook all day…low and slow. Cooking ribs is a long ordeal. It takes a lot of patience. I don’t know how I got roped into doing it in the first place.”
She smiles at me. “You love it or you wouldn’t do it. The parties sound fun. How often does the MC throw these parties?”
“Often,” I reply. “At least once a month or more. When warm weather gets here, the MC and their families are together every weekend doing something. There’s always a reason to celebrate…the kid’s birthdays, Memorial Day, Fourth of July.”
“It’s weird,” she says. “I always thought motorcycle clubs were about bar room brawls, drinking too much, and playing pool. I never imagined bikers as having families, wives, or little kids.”
My mind goes back to the numerous times the Steel Infidels have been involved in everything from drive-by shootings to wild bachelor parties gone terribly wrong. We’re hardly a bunch of innocent saints.
Far from it.
Maggie doesn’t need to know. Maybe Flint had the right idea all along with this plan of his. It seems to be working out just fine now. I’m realizing I can make this work. Nobody ever called Flint Mason a fool. I need to remember that.
“The kids are great,” I say. “Sam has twin toddler boys.”
“Aww…” she says, “I bet they’re cute as can be.”
“Not really,” I reply. “They’re awful. Total terrors. I was supposed to babysit them last night. If the shooting hadn’t happened, I would have spent Valentine’s night chasing two little Tasmanian devils around the clubhouse.”
“That bad, huh?” Maggie says. “You don’t fool me. You adore them. I can tell by the tone of your voice.”
“Yeah,” I say with a sigh. “I guess I do. The little terrors are something else. Jesse and Flint both have kids too, that are a little older. The whole bunch is spoiled rotten from all the attention they get. They’re little Steel Infidels mascots with t-shirts and everything.”
Maggie yawns and tries to politely hide it behind her hand.
“You’re flat worn out,” I say. “Do you want to take a shower? I can show you where everything is at. The bathroom is small, but it’s clean.” I’m not used to having guests and don’t know how to treat her.
“No, I’m fine,” she says. “I wonder if one of your crew is still going to drop my overnight bag off here? All of my things are in it.”
“I’ll call Flint and find out.”
We quickly clear the table of dishes and stack them in the dishwasher. Maggie excuses herself and heads toward the bathroom while I call Flint.
“How’s everything going?” he asks me over the phone.
“Good,” I reply. “Exactly as planned.”
“I knew we could count on you,” he says. “Charm the pants off her and we’ll be home free. I’ll be glad when this is all over and done with.”
“Me too,” I say with a tired sigh. “I’m already sick of the attention, and it’s just started.”
“Don’t worry. Fame is always fleeting. This will all blow over before we know it. I give it two weeks tops and the Steel Infidels will be back to normal.”
“I hope you’re right. Has Rocco headed over this way with Maggie’s bag? She’s about ready to fall over from exhaustion.”
“He’ll be heading that way soon.”
“Great. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
By the time I finish talking to Flint and walk back into the living room, Maggie is already sound asleep. She’s curled up on the sofa with my heavy coat spread over her. I don’t know if I should wake her and offer to give her my bed or to let her sleep where she is.
Now that her makeup has worn off and her hair is messed up, she looks younger and more vulnerable. With everything going on, I haven’t stopped to think about how the shooting must have affected her. Neither one of us mentioned it. It’s almost as if we can pretend it didn’t happen if we don’t bring it up. Of all people, I should know that never works.
Maggie puts on a tough act. She’s probably traumatized inside and doesn’t even know it.
The way these things work is that it might not hit her until later. Right out of nowhere. Seeing her cameraman shot had to be terrifying. Then to not know if she would survive the attack herself. She must’ve felt completely defenseless and at their mercy. She had no way of knowing the lengths I would have gone to keep her safe.
I bet she hasn’t let herself stop moving for one minute to think about the attack. To remember the sound of the gunshots or the screams of terrified shoppers. By throwing herself into her work and focusing on the Steel Infidels, she’s been able to keep the bad memories at bay.
Sooner or later, she’s going to have to talk about it. To work through the terrifying images in her head. Not tonight though. She needs the sleep.
I sit down carefully beside her on the sofa and gently touch her shoulder. “Maggie,” I whisper. When she doesn’t stir, I move her hair back from her face. My knuckles linger on her cheek. “Wake up, Maggie,” I say again.
She curls up tighter into a ball and tugs my coat closer, still half-asleep.
“Do you want to take my bed?” I say. “I’ll sleep on the sofa. You might be cold out here in the living room.”
Opening her eyes sleepily, she gazes at me for a long moment. “I’m too tired to move,” she says. “I’m fine here. I don’t want to take your bed. You’re too big to sleep on a couch anyway.”
“Don’t you want to at least change into something more comfortable to sleep in? Rocco is supposed to be here soon with your bag.”
“No, it’s fine,” she mumbles. “I didn’t pack anything to sleep in anyway. I usually sleep nude.”
I’m sure that was a slip. Her eyes clos
e again.
“Stay here,” I say. “I’ll find you something to wear. Your clothes can’t be comfortable. You can’t sleep in a skirt.”
I go into the bedroom and search through my dresser drawers to see if I have something that will fit. Any of my clothes will swallow her whole. Finally, I choose my tightest fitting black t-shirt and a pair of grey sweatpants with drawstrings at the waist. She looks so comfortable sleeping on the sofa that I hate to bother her again.
“Here,” I say to her, trying to nudge her back awake. “The shirt might work. I don’t know about the sweatpants.”
“Okay,” she says sleepily. “I’ll put them on in a minute.” Her eyelashes flutter down and she’s out cold again.
There’s nothing else I can do except fetch a blanket for her and wait outside for Rocco. I feel bad for making a lady sleep on my couch.
It’s not as if I didn’t give her a choice though. I’m not going to beg a girl to let me give up my bed. The king-size bed is plenty big enough for two and I’m always willing to share. Maybe I should have offered the option to her.
I’m smart enough to know she would’ve turned me down flat. I’m not Maggie’s type, whatever that might be.
I grab a quilt from the foot of my bed and spread it over her, being careful to tuck the ends in so it won’t slide off. She mumbles something I can’t make out in her sleep.
I should be feeling grateful that she fell asleep so quickly. First thing in the morning, she’ll be up bright and early. Asking me a ton of questions that I don’t want to answer, bugging the crap out of me, and prying into my personal business.
I prefer to keep my life a secret.
From my time in Afghanistan to my association with the Steel Infidels, none of it is anything I want to share. Eventually she’ll realize that and will move on to something more interesting.
Or someone.
The thought leaves me feeling empty.
19
Maggie
The wet sensation of a tongue licking my hand startles me, waking me from a deep sleep. I reluctantly open my eyes to find Sadie sitting on the floor beside me. She’s whining and nudging my hand with her nose.
“Sadie,” I moan. “I’m too tired to pet you. Go back to sleep.”
It’s pitch dark outside. Now that I’m awake, I can hear the loud sound of the frogs again. I’ll never be able to fall back asleep. Once I’m awake, that’s usually it for the night. Insomnia is my curse.
At the end of the sofa, I spot the neatly folded t-shirt and pants Toby found for me. I was so tired at the time that I couldn’t wake up enough to change. Sitting up, I quickly slip out of my clothes and put them on. I’m hoping my bag was dropped off, but I don’t see it.
The t-shirt is big and hangs below my waist while the sweatpants are almost unusable. They’re too long for me, so I roll up the legs and pull the drawstring as tight as it will go. I’ll make it work. It was an unexpected gesture for him to take the trouble to find something for me to sleep in.
Sadie whines again and I rub behind her ears in hopes of quieting her down. She paws at my arm with her foot.
“Someone needs their nails trimmed,” I say. “What do you want, girl?”
Then I hear him.
Muttering and cursing is coming from the bedroom. Loud enough that I can hear Toby through the closed door and all the way across the living room.
“Get down!” I hear him cry out. “The fucking bastards are everywhere.”
Is someone in the house? Have the shooters found us again?
My first thought is to get to Toby. He’ll keep me safe.
Run to Toby now, my brain tells me.
Jumping off the sofa, I sprint across the room and burst into his bedroom with Sadie right on my heels.
I realize my mistake immediately. There aren’t any terrorists in the bedroom or anywhere else that I can see. Toby is alone in the room.
And completely naked.
Not a stitch of clothing or sheet covers him as he thrashes about on the bed, still cursing and murmuring fitfully. The light of the full moon streaming through the window lights up the room enough for me to see him clearly. He’s sprawled across the bed on his stomach with one leg drawn up near his chest.
How is it possible for one man to take up all the space on a king-size bed?
Toby is a big guy with hard-packed muscles all the way from his neck down to his feet. There’s not an ounce of fat anywhere. My eyes land on his well-defined ass and travel down his thighs to his calves.
For the first time, I’m able to see the tattoos clearly that I’ve only gotten a tease of before. A massive tattoo of an eagle in flight with spread wings runs across his back from one shoulder to the other. Various intricate tattoos cover both arms. The large lion’s head tattoo goes all the way from his elbow to his shoulder.
His breathing is labored and stressed. Sweat has dampened his curly, jet-black hair.
“Fuck!” he mutters again as if he’s in pain.
He’s having a terrible nightmare. A horrendous one that he can’t pull out of.
I don’t know what to do. I act before I think, running across the room and grabbing his arm. “Toby! Wake up! You’re having a nightmare.”
A split-second later I’m on my back and his large hands are wrapped tightly around my throat.
20
Toby
“Get down,” I yell. “The fucking bastards are everywhere!”
The insurgent’s bullets land all around me, hitting the walls of the building behind our platoon and sending chunks of concrete flying past my head. What started out as a simple ordinary patrol mission has turned into a cluster-fuck of massive proportions.
Don’t go near the bazaar.
How many times have we been told this?
The large outdoor market is a no-go zone known to be under the command of the insurgents. To make it worse, the locals who buy and sell their goods there act as look-outs for the enemy. I’ve no doubt our every movement is being watched and transmitted back to forces wanting to do us harm from the time we arrived.
We know the rule.
And yet here we are pinned up against a wall with snipers firing at us from every direction. The order came in from intelligence higher up, so we had no choice but to do what we were told. To take out a small group of Taliban meeting at the far end of the bazaar. Our commander said the operation would be low risk and high reward if we could knock them out all at one time.
Low risk for who was my first thought.
Then I put it out of my mind. It’s not my place to question an order.
Ever.
Even when I’m in a fucking disaster of a situation like this one.
I spot a sniper perched high on the windowsill of a building across the road. There’s two more ducked down behind a truck near the street corner with four flat tires. The vehicle looks like it hasn’t been driven in years, and the only thing it’s good for now is cover for the enemy.
The snipers have my platoon cornered up against a concrete wall. We can’t go back down the street the way we came. Our only option is through the shell-shocked building behind us where God knows what is waiting inside. What appears to be a safe solution could turn out to be a booby-trapped compound filled with improvised explosive devices.
The insurgents are known to plant IEDs in areas where the Marines might take cover. Behind a lone rock wall in a barren landscape. Or in an empty truck like where the snipers are currently hiding.
Any place is suspect.
Nowhere is safe.
My team goes ahead of me to clear the first floor of the building. They move room to room checking for hold-outs. I wonder how many times this same building has been cleared before by other platoons of Marines during their seven-month stint of duty.
Day after fucking day, we clear territory. As soon as we finish, the insurgents flood back in.
Over and over.
Like the ocean washing away a sandcastle.
S
ometimes it takes a few weeks or months for the enemy to regain control of an area. If we’re super unlucky, they regroup and are back in days.
I’m beginning to wonder if anything we’re doing is making one bit of difference. I can’t let myself think that way though. For me to be effective, I must believe one hundred percent in our mission. Any sliver of doubt will start breaking me down mentally, and I can’t afford that.
Neither can my buddies.
I’m the platoon’s Guardian Angel.
They depend on me to keep them safe.
Armed with my Mark 12 Special Purpose rifle, I’m expected to watch over and protect my platoon like a Border Collie watching their sheep through the lens of a telescopic sight.
My job is to constantly scan the barren, godforsaken landscape for threats. To size up every civilian and decide if they’re a killer hiding in plain sight. To watch every hand movement of anyone coming near my troops.
When I was given the role of designated marksmen, nobody told me my job would also be to make split-second decisions on whether there was military justification to kill civilians.
Farmers, women…even kids.
After a few weeks in Afghanistan, I became nothing more than a well-oiled machine. Taking care of business and doing what needed to be done.
No second thoughts.
No regrets.
This is just another fucking day in hell.
I wait for the signal from my buddy, Fred, before I move. He motions, telling us the room ahead is clear, so we keep shuffling forward in heavy flak jackets with our rifles raised. In the stifling heat, the jackets and heavy combat boots weigh an extra eighty pounds.
Once we make our way to the roof of the building, I can set up a rifle position to watch the insurgents on the ground. If they’re anywhere within 400 yards, I can take them out with no problem once they’re in my crosshairs.
Fred carefully swings open the door of the next room and steps inside with his rifle raised. Terrified screams erupt. We all rush forward into the room with our guns pointed. Several women with their heads covered in the traditional hijabs are holding onto each other and crying hysterically.
