“Calm down.” Sarge growls in Arabic. “‘Kunt ’asmae.” I hear you.
Deacon bursts out laughing.
I glare at him. “Real mature, fucker.”
He wipes his eyes. “I’m sorry, but every time it sounds like he’s sayin’ ‘cunt ass.’” Another burst of laughter.
I shove him. “Keep your eyes up; stop fucking around.”
“Yeah, I know. They’re not here; now chill the fuck out.” Sarge turns away from the man, who scurries back into his house, slamming and locking the door.
“What? No invite inside for cookies?” Deek grins like we’re hanging out in a bar not neck-deep in enemy territory.
Sarge shakes his head. “Dead fuckin’ end, boys.”
Swizz comes up from the rear. “Base wants us back to debrief.”
“They’re gonna be real fucking excited to hear we ain’t got shit to tell.” Sarge waves for us to head back to the convoy.
We return the way we came, still on alert, but more relaxed than when we came in.
“Few more days and we’re headed home.” Deacon pulls a smoke from behind his ear. “Went by fast, yeah?”
“Wasn’t too bad.” I’ve talked to Blake a few times and found out The General’s health took a nosedive. He used words like hospice and final wishes. Not happy about going home and losing the man, but it’s not like staying in this sandbox will keep it from happening. After all, death is inevitable.
“I’m lookin’ forward to my own bed, but not working the kinks out with my woman.” Swizz’s eyes roam while he talks. It becomes like second nature. Even after we get back on US soil, it’s hard to break the habit of constantly searching for something that might kill you. “First few weeks of deployment she’s great, but then she starts getting cranked up I’m not around, and by the time I get home, I’ve got weeks of ass-kissing to do.”
“That’s bullshit, man.” Deek takes a drag of his smoke. “This is why Daniels and I stay untethered. Better to go back to plenty of women with open arms than one who’s pissed as shit you’re out working and trying not to get killed.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” I’d hate to be out here dealing with shit only to go home and deal with someone else’s shit.
The only girl I even considered getting close to was the one I met in Vegas. Seems like a lifetime ago that I spent the night in her arms. AJ. I smile at the memory of our last kiss as it seems to be seared against my lips and my brain. I’ll have to reconnect when I get back.
“You guys got any big plans once we’re home?” Mack, who’s always pretty quiet, speaks up.
“Just get caught up on my fuckin’.”
“You are such a charmer.” I clap Deek on the shoulder. “I’m shocked no one has snagged you up and married you yet.”
“Suck it, Daniels. You know you’re going to do the same.”
“You pansy bitches mind focusing with your heads back there and not your dicks?” Sarge yells from up front.
“Yes, sir!”
“Load up.”
Deek takes off running toward the front seat of the Humvee. “Shotgun!”
I go after him.
He swings open the door, and I hook him by the vest and knock him back. He stumbles. I swerve then jump into the front seat.
“I win.”
“You bitchass—”
I slam the door, laughing. I don’t have to hear the rest of Deek’s colorful curse. The man can mix bad words to invent new ones, but knowing the guy for as long as I have, there isn’t one I haven’t heard.
He jumps into the seat behind me. “Prick.”
“Dick.”
Swizz climbs in the driver’s seat. “Lick.”
Mack hops in behind him. “Stick.”
We all burst into laughter, half delirious because we’re in the home stretch now. I’m so close to getting back on US soil I can practically smell it.
The growl of the engine coming to life vibrates all around us. I watch out the window as the Humvee pulls forward, following the one ahead.
With the exit of our vehicles, the town comes back to life. Through the haze of dust kicked up from our tires, people peek out their windows and one by one begin to pour into the streets.
A little boy races from the front door like a puppy who’s been caged, and I grin, thinking he’s not much older than Jack. He has a toy in his hand, a truck or maybe a tractor. He kneels and runs it through the dirt, and I can imagine the engine noises he’s making with his mouth while he does it.
I’m about to turn away from him and give Swizz shit for stopping when the little boy’s head snaps up, his eyes huge.
What the fuck?
I turn to the direction he’s gaping.
An explosion racks my ears.
Heat sears my side.
I’m airborne.
Everything goes black.
~~~
I’m burning.
Engulfed in flames.
But, fuck, my lungs. I’m still breathing.
I can’t open my eyes, but it doesn’t matter. The pain paints a vivid image of my death.
I’m being filleted alive.
I roar in agony, the sound giving voice to my end.
I beg for the sweet relief of a final breath. Rolling to my side, my body heaves as the torment refuses to let me go.
The murmuring of speech surrounds me: hopefully, the whispered sounds of angels who’ve come to take me. I vomit, spit, and cry out against the blistering of my flesh and yet nothing lessens it.
“Kill . . . me.” A sob bursts free, and although I’m blind, I can feel my cheeks streaked with tears. “Please.” My body crumples together in another spine-snapping heave. “Kill . . . me.”
Their voices get louder. They’re speaking Arabic.
These aren’t angels. They’re my enemies.
The chatter between them continues, and even through my suffering, I pick up on words.
Jundi ’amriki. American soldier.
Maelumat. Information.
Aistakhdamah. Use him.
I’ve been captured.
This is how it all ends.
With the knowledge of what the enemy does with American soldiers, peace washes over me. The pain will be over soon.
In the darkness behind my eyes, I see my mother’s face. God . . . this is going to kill her. Blake and Layla, Axelle . . . Jack, I promised him I’d come back. I say a silent prayer that he’ll one day forgive me.
And then there’s another face.
Dark hair, eyes that smile along with the softest lips. Her voice and laughter that wash over me like warm sunshine and brighten even the darkest mood. Had I known this is how it would end, I would’ve told her I was falling in love with her. I would’ve given up being a Marine to spend the rest of my life serving her instead of my country.
AJ.
I frown.
I never even knew her real name.
A firm grip on my jaw shakes me. “Tell us what you know and you live!”
The broken English and thick accent confirm what I already know.
I’m gonna die.
I grunt past a wave of nausea. “Might as well kill me, boys.” I grin and my skin feels like it’ll split. The tang of blood coats my mouth along with dirt and ash. “You ain’t gonna . . . get shit . . . outta me—”
The blow to my head comes from nowhere.
I’m swallowed in darkness.
Sixteen
AJ
“Hey, you’ve reached Braeden. You know what to do.” The drawn-out beep blares in my ear for what feels like the millionth time.
I open my mouth to speak, but the speech I’ve been rehearsing every night for the last week drowns in confusion.
It’s been six months and seventeen days since Braeden said good-bye. I hang up and grip my phone between my hands, willing him to call.
I managed to push him to the back of my mind for the last six months. I focused on work, making new friends, settling into my Las Vegas life
style. I hardly ever checked the calendar. It wasn’t until I started to get a restless feeling, like some internal clock was telling me his time was up that I counted down the days.
The day of his return came and went.
Then a week passed and I didn’t get a phone call.
At the end of every show I’d race to get out, half expecting to see him leaning against the wall outside the amphitheater or yelling my name from the parking lot of my building, surprising me as he always did. But there’s been nothing, no contact.
It wasn’t until a few days ago, after drinking a martini alone in my dark apartment, that I decided to call. I wanted to tell him how worried I’ve been. That I’m afraid to look at the newspaper because I’m terrified of seeing his name printed in that cold black ink that announces another Marine was lost in the war.
He said when he got back we’d pick up where we left off. Even if he changed his mind, wouldn’t he at least call?
I wipe at my sweaty hairline and groan. I don’t have time to be obsessing over someone who most likely has blown me off.
Even with every window—all two of them—open in my apartment, it’s still stifling hot. I fan myself with a piece of junk mail I brought up from the box when I got back from running this morning. I’ve heard summer temperatures in Las Vegas could get scorching, but I’m from Dallas, so I can handle a little heat. But after running in it, I came home and jumped in the shower, and as soon as I dried off, I was coated in sweat again.
I flick the thermostat on the wall and punch the down arrow, and still nothing but hot air comes from the vents.
“I’m so sick of being poor.” I head to the freezer, pull it open, and stick my head in it when my phone, still in my hand, rings. I frantically scramble to answer, hoping beyond hope it’s Braeden but realize quickly it’s not. “Hey, Andre. You’re up early.”
“Adeline.” I hear a rustling of paper in the background and picture him sitting at his huge dining room table with a French press and the newspaper. I wonder what he sleeps in. Fancy silk PJs? Plaid flannel pants with no shirt? Naked?
Oh no, do not go there!
“Is everything okay?”
I blink at a bag of frozen peas covered in furry freezer burn. “No, it’s not okay.” I haven’t heard from Braeden. He’s either forgotten about me, or—my pulse throbs in my temples—he could be dead. “Everything sucks.”
His low and gruff chuckle chips away a little of my macabre mood.
Next to Will, Andre’s become one of my best friends. Though our relationship feels like something more, he’s made no attempt to kiss me or take things to a deeper level. We’re friends that go on dates, and I find he’s always figuring out ways to filter me money, like the game of pool he purposefully lost so he could give me a thousand dollars. I knew he botched up his last few shots, and as much as I appreciated the cash for my parents, I was surprised he wouldn’t try to win that kiss.
And that’s how it’s been for us—the occasional touches, the lingering stares, the flirty conversation—but when it all comes down to it, he’s never made a move. A man as masculine and potent as Andre must be getting his needs met somewhere, but he never talks about it. He’ll disappear for a day, excuse himself to take private calls, yet I’ve never seen him with another woman.
“Oh come on, surely not everything sucks?” Humor fills his voice, and hearing a man like Andre use slang further lightens my chest.
“The AC in my apartment is broken.”
“I suggest you call your landlord.”
I press my forehead deeper into the freezer and breathe the frigid air into my lungs. “I will. What are you doing today?”
“After I finish my coffee, I’ll hit the gym. I have meetings this afternoon. Are you coming over?”
“Yeah.”
“The pool is perfect.”
And being in the water will keep me from autodialing Braeden. “That sounds nice.”
He clears his throat, something I’ve realized he does when he’s about to breach a sensitive subject, so I brace myself by closing my eyes. “How are things with your parents?”
With my face cool, I step away from the freezer, slam the door, and plop down on the couch. “They’re good. My dad is still without a steady job, and my mom is taking extra shifts to pick up the slack, but the hours are killing her.” I give all the same responses and try to sound lighthearted about it, even while inside I despise that they both have to endure financial instability at this stage in life. Again, I find myself thankful for Andre’s help.
“If there’s anything I can do—”
“You’ve already done so much.” I turn toward the TV that has been playing the morning news since I woke up. “I swear I’ll pay you back.”
A banner appears at the bottom of the screen below the beautiful black-haired anchorwoman.
Fallen Heroes Return Home.
“Andre, can you hold on a sec?”
I scramble for the remote and turn up the volume.
“The bodies of six Americans killed in Iraq were flown home to the U.S. in flag-draped caskets on Tuesday. The body of Sergeant Chris Jarrett and five other Marines are finally home after their convoy was hit by a roadside bomb just outside of Fallujah.”
Photos of the fallen show up on screen, and I scoot closer to study their faces while the anchor reads their names.
No Braeden Daniels.
He’s not one of them.
And yet my stomach churns with anxiety as I watch the timber boxes being carried one by one by Marines wearing their dress blues.
“Andre, I, uh . . . I should go. I need to call my landlord about the air.” The lie falls easily from my lips.
“Sure. I’ll see you later.”
“Yeah.”
My finger shakes as I swipe through my contact list to his number and press the phone to my ear.
“Hey, you’ve reached Braeden. You know what to do.”
The beep screams in my ear. “Braeden! It’s AJ . . .” Oh God, what am I doing? What if he’s fine and only wants to move on? Maybe he met someone new, someone who lives in California, someone less maintenance. What do I say? Hey, if you’re not dead and only blowing me off please give me a call?
“If you’re satisfied with your message press one.” The robotic woman’s voice snaps me from my stupor. “If you’re not satisfied with your message, press two to re-record.”
I press two and hang up.
“Shit.” I clutch the phone between my two hands. “No, he’s not dead. There have got to be thousands of Marines in Iraq; he’s not dead.”
I fall back to the couch and close my eyes. Please, Braeden, be okay. I . . . this world needs you in it.
It’s been so long since he’s been more than a passing thought, a dream-inspired memory, but right now it feels like he left only yesterday.
This is stupid.
I’m sure he’s fine.
But then, why hasn’t he called? Texted? Why doesn’t his phone get service?
I’ll never know because our telephone connection is the only link between us.
I blow off going to Andre’s and spend the rest of the morning before work, searching for any information on what could’ve happened to Braeden. I thought a person could find anything on the Internet, but after hours of searching using every keyword I could think of, I didn’t find anything that would tell me where he is. I even tried calling Camp Pendleton, which proved to be more of a dead end than the Internet. I sat on my couch, flipping the three channels on my TV obsessively while my mind spun with possibilities to his whereabouts, and none of the conclusions were good.
Feeling nauseated, I force myself to eat something and then gather my things for work. He’s not dead. I won’t accept that. But the alternative is that he’s forgotten about me, which is a pain I can’t bear to wrestle with.
I move like a ghost to my car and drive in a daze to the hotel. I’m on autopilot when I walk into my dressing room and prepare for the performance just
as I do every night, but something aches in my chest.
It’s as if I lost something I never even had.
Braeden’s forgotten about me.
On some level, I’ve been holding out for him, hoping there might be a chance for us. Stupid, stupid, AJ. He told you not to wait!
I move through my pre-performance stretches, but my mind is somewhere else: replaying all the times I spent with Braeden like watching old movies to relive a past you know you’ll never have again. They loop over and over through my head in a sad reminder of what little time we had together.
“AJ!” I’m pulled from Braeden’s ghostly arms by Cedric’s firm voice and coarse stare. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“What?”
“Stage call was five minutes ago!” He ducks out, leaving me to race after him.
Holy shit, I almost missed my first performance.
Skirting around people backstage, I climb the scaffolding. My foot slips, and I gasp but manage to hold on. Heart hammering in my chest, I continue up. With deep breaths, I try to focus, to push away all thoughts of the man who so easily cast me aside, and concentrate. At the top, I swing my legs over and with shaking hands wrap the silks around my waist to prepare for my entrance.
Shrouded in shadows above the stage, I scan the crowd.
For one stupid second, I imagine Braeden is out there, that he’s watching me with pride filling those beautiful green eyes.
The orchestra plays its opening piece, and below me, the stage comes alive with activity.
I count down. The song builds and I scoot out to drop in.
When the strings hit their high note, I let the silks fall and roll out with them.
There’s a collective gasp from the crowd, followed by cheering.
My hand slips.
I reach, but it’s too late.
The floor comes rushing toward me.
The room erupts in screaming.
Pain, like a blade, slices through me and I black out.
~*~
Braeden
I blink open my eyes to the dim lights of a hospital room. It’s a different room and yet it seems no different from the one before. And even though I’m alive and my eyes are open, it feels no more significant than cracking the window in an empty house.
The Final Fight (Fighting Series Book 8) Page 15
