The One Worth Waiting For

by Alicia Scott

  “Why, Suzanne? Why now? Why me? You understand, of course, that as soon as I remember enough, I’ll leave. I’m still a SEAL, you know.”

  Her throat tightened, but she didn’t look away. “Of course, Garret.”

  He stood suddenly, the washcloth dangling from his hand while he paced the room with unconcealed tension. “You should have told me, damn it. You should have let me know.” He turned and pinned her with burning eyes. “I deserved that much at least.”

  She sat up, and trying to be as subtle as possible, began folding the old quilt up and over her naked figure. “I wanted you, and you wanted me. We made love. I didn’t realize you wanted a narration in between.”

  He swore, hating the anger and confusion that gripped him. Mostly because she was partly right. If he’d known from the start she was a virgin, he definitely wouldn’t have continued. Men like him didn’t seduce virgins. Maybe because he was old-fashioned enough to believe the first time should be special, with someone who cared, with someone who would be around. Certainly she shouldn’t have lost it to someone who was just passing through.

  Standing naked in the middle of the room, he ran a hand through his hair, feeling uneasiness gnaw at his belly again. Why hadn’t she told him? She’d just given him her virginity, something a woman could only give one man, one time. But she hadn’t let him know. She hadn’t let him truly get close to her.

  He pivoted to face her, feeling angry and uncertain. “You should have told me,” he said yet again. Then not knowing how else to explain the tightness in his chest, he turned sharply and stomped out of the room.

  From under the cover of her old quilt, she watched him go, feeling a burning in her throat that matched the hollowness in her stomach. When she shifted her hips, she felt the new ache from the ancient act and had to squeeze her eyes shut with the intensity.

  And she remembered the old saying, “When God punishes you, He answers your prayers.”

  He tossed amid the sheets, the thin white cotton tangling around his lean hips and muscled legs. Somewhere in the depths of sleep, old scars burned fresh and he writhed once more with pain.

  * * *

  Walking, the ax heavy in his hands. He neared the top of the hill, his footsteps slowing, dragging. He knew what lay waiting on the other side—unbearable sights of unimaginable savagery. He didn’t want to look, he didn’t want to see, but his feet carried him forward anyway.

  The bodies, scattered across the ground like broken dolls. The ruins of the tents, smoking and black. The birds, circling overhead, guarding their gruesome feast.

  A victim of his own dream, he had to walk through the scene of carnage time and time again, knowing already what he would find and that he was forever too late to halt the tragedy.

  He kept walking through the ruins, the ax growing heavier and his chest squeezing tight. Until he was at the last tent and seeing her once more, her lifeless body cradled against Zlatko’s brawny chest, her beautiful honey blond hair sweeping the ground.

  Zlatko’s hands that had torn wooden doors in half now tenderly brushed back his wife’s hair. Shoulders that had once carried two full-grown men to safety now shook with the force of his grief. And from his cracked lips rose the heartrending keening of a tormented soul, wailing through the smoke-filled sky.

  Garret looked at it all—the last stand by a bunch of peasants’ wives, already chased to the edge of the city by the war. Here they’d tried to build a new camp amid the destruction. And here they’d died, alone and defenseless, while their men were off fighting the flames threatening to burn the city to the ground.

  So much death, so much ruin.

  He felt the rage inside him begin to grow. He wanted to find the men who slaughtered children. He wanted to corner each and every one of them and see the fear in their eyes as he personally demonstrated all the types of pain that could be inflicted upon a man.

  The savagery grew, relentless and fierce. A warrior’s blood, old as time, flowed strong and raw in his veins. He would find the butchers. He would hunt them down to the very ends of the earth. He would wrap his hands around their bare throats. He would make them pay for the blood spilling into the Miljaka River.

  He awoke with a jolt, his breath still thundering in his chest, the anger still burning in his blood. The first rays of morning were peeking into the window, but he didn’t notice. He just knew his hands were clenched at his sides, the adrenaline pounding loudly in his ears.

  He had to go, he thought wildly, bolting upright. He hurtled out of the old bed and began throwing on his clothes. He had to go—today. He had to find whoever had done the slaughter and tear them apart with his bare hands. He wanted the satisfaction of slamming into fleshy faces with meaty fists. He wanted to hear the tearing of cartilage, the soft thud of hammered flesh.

  The need, the savagery of it, was unbearable.

  He slid his feet into shoes without putting on socks and, like a wild man, began buttoning his shirt. He grabbed the door when only halfway done, not caring anymore, and threw it open.

  He ran face-to-face into Suzanne.

  She came to an abrupt halt in the hallway, her face paling and her eyes growing wary as she self-consciously smoothed a hand over her walking clothes. He didn’t say a word, but her gaze took in his burning eyes and haggard features, slid over his twisted shirt and sockless feet, and she knew.

  Slowly, painfully, her eyes came back up to his face. “Would you like something to eat before you go?” she whispered softly, amazed by the calmness of her own voice. Her heart thudded unbearably in her chest, and for one horrible moment, the blood rushed from her head, leaving her dizzy and swaying.

  Garret shook his head furiously, his fingers mangling his buttons. “I gotta go,” he said hoarsely.

  She looked at him sharply and, for the first time, noted the pallor of his skin, the sharp lines around his eyes. His dark hair was still rumpled and tousled. Long creases from the pillow marred his cheek.

  Her gaze narrowed and she willed herself to take a deep breath. “Garret, if it’s about last night—”

  “I’m leaving,” he growled. His fingers fumbled with the last button, then suddenly, with a vehement oath, he tore it from his shirt altogether and tossed it to the ground.

  Her face paled; she closed her eyes and wondered for the tenth time why she’d allowed him back into her life. And why, oh, why, she’d ever thought she could just sleep with him and have it be that simple.

  He twisted his shirt, trying to get the incorrectly buttoned cloth to hang straight revealing a purplish love bite on his shoulder. She had to look away. Even then, her eyes burned.

  “You don’t have to leave,” she whispered, the words so hoarse she barely recognized them. She would not do this. She would not make a scene again. Damn it, hadn’t she learned something all those years ago?

  He gave up on straightening the shirt and began forcing the edges into his unbuttoned jeans instead. “Of course I have to go,” he said curtly. “If they really thought they could get away with it…Damn it, where’s my belt?”

  His hands stopped suddenly and her cheeks turned crimson as she followed his thoughts. His belt still lay on her bedroom floor.

  Slowly, his eyes rested on her cheeks, and for the first time, his frenzied movements calmed. He saw the shadows under her eyes, the tight line of her lips. All at once, though she didn’t say anything, he understood how much he was hurting her.

  He swore vehemently under his breath and wondered why the hell it wasn’t raining. “Suzanne—” he began, but she cut him off.

  “You don’t have to explain,” she said stiffly, her eyes refusing to meet his own. “We’ve always known that as soon as you healed…” She shrugged, the motion at once feeble and vulnerable. “I just don’t want you to go because of last night. That’s all.”

  “I wouldn’t leave because of that,” he said quietly, his dark eyes resting on her face. “Damn it, Suzanne…” Once more he searched for the words and once more he
cursed himself for never being able to express what he wanted to say. “Last night was special, Suzanne. At least, it should have been. You gave me your virginity. Hell, you can only do that once. But I didn’t know. I couldn’t…I couldn’t make it right.”

  She blinked, feeling her throat tighten another inch. Because he had made it right. He’d made her feel things she’d never felt before: beautiful, desirable, feminine. He’d taught her how to kiss and be kissed, how to hold and be held. She’d waited fifteen years for last night, and she didn’t care that it hurt. It was what she’d wanted it to be.

  “Why…?” She had to stop and lick her dry lips. “Why are you leaving, then?”

  His face grew somber, his jaw suddenly clenched. “I have to find the people who killed Zenaisa,” he said simply.

  Instantly, Suzanne stiffened, her hands curling into fists at her sides. Her gaze caught his warily. “Zenaisa?”

  “Zlatko’s wife. She held the camp together. She…she took care of people.”

  Slowly, Suzanne nodded, her fists relaxing slightly. “What camp, Garret? What people?”

  For the first time, a puzzled frown creased his brow. “Sarajevo,” he said at last. “We were in Sarajevo.”

  “Your team, then,” Suzanne filled in, her eyes widening. He remembered. He finally remembered.

  But the man in front of her was still frowning. He racked his brains, searching for Austin or C.J. or anyone at all that he should know. But he just saw Zlatko and Zenaisa and the broad Slavic faces of village people sitting around a fire. “Not the SEALs,” he said finally, then shook his head. He was a SEAL, damn it. Of course there had to be SEALs. Assignments were done in teams of seven or fourteen. Where the hell was Austin?

  Suzanne began to study him covertly, her face carefully composed. “Were you on a mission?” she probed quietly.

  “Yes. No. I…I fought fires. The mortar shells were burning the city to the ground. The Olympic stadium, the government buildings. Everything.” And there wasn’t enough equipment and not enough time for proper training. He led the men into the flames, armed with axes and hoses, but unprotected from the heat and the snipers who whizzed bullets over their heads.

  Why was he fighting fires? SEALs specialized in hostage rescue missions or deep reconnaissance behind enemy lines. Why the hell was he playing fireman?

  “Garret,” Suzanne said carefully, “you were shot in D.C. What can that have to do with fighting fires in Sarajevo? Perhaps you are just remembering something you once did or even heard of. Even I’ve read about John Jordan who’s been leading some program to fight fires there.”

  Garret half nodded, puzzling over her words. John Jordan, Global Operation Fire Rescue Services. It sounded familiar; he understood the name and the program the Rhode Island native had started in Sarajevo. It was a seat-of-thepants effort to help and to train the volunteers struggling to keep the city from burning to the ground.

  He knew about it. Perhaps he’d once helped.

  But then he saw Zlatko, felt the weight of the ax in his hands, and saw the ruins of the camp.

  “The Miljaka,” he whispered.

  “What is that?” she probed calmly.

  “The river. The river that runs through Sarajevo. And it was in the note, Suzanne. ‘The waters of Miljaka still flow red.’” The ravaged camp, Zenaisa. He squeezed his eyes shut.

  Suzanne watched him, slowly twisting the bottom of her T-shirt. She didn’t know whether to go to him because he looked so stricken, or to run away because his memory was returning, and in a matter of hours, he could simply walk away.

  Even last night, he’d reminded her that he couldn’t stay. And she’d already given him the only thing she had to give.

  “Garret,” she said at last, willing her voice to be level, “even if the shooting was tied in with…this river…what does that mean?”

  He shook his head, hating the gaps in his memory he couldn’t quite fill. Why was he a fire fighter? Where was his SEAL team? How long had he been there? Would he really have deserted the SEALs? And why did the dread still sit low in his stomach? Did something worse still linger on the corners of his mind that he just couldn’t grasp yet?

  So many people dead. Such horror, and he didn’t even understand why or what his role was. What if it had been his fault? What had he done to get himself shot in D.C.? And who had shot him?

  He shook his head, pressing his palms against his temples while the questions swirled around with sickening uncertainty. “I don’t know,” he muttered in frustration. “I just don’t know.”

  Suzanne took a deep breath and felt a small measure of control return. “Maybe you should give it a few more days,” she suggested gently. “Until you know who’s out there, you could be walking into some kind of trap. If things are starting to come back this fast now, just another day or two could make all the difference.”

  He scowled, but recognized the sense of her words. His body just rebelled at the thought of waiting even longer when the adrenaline in his blood already screamed for action. He flexed and unflexed his fingers, not able to get the pictures out of his mind. He was not a man who sat patiently. He was a man who did.

  “Garret…?”

  “You’re right,” he snapped at last, whirling around in the hallway and staring down at his mangled shirt. His lips tight with annoyance, he pulled it out of his jeans and began to unbutton the twisted shirt and rebutton it properly. “A day or two, I suppose. To put it all together.” He shook his head in frustration, his fists crushing the light cotton fabric.

  Suzanne didn’t say anything, feeling at once as if she’d won but lost anyway. So he wasn’t leaving just this moment; she was only delaying the inevitable. His memory was returning, and now time poured through her hands again.

  Unconsciously, she laced her fingers together. She’d told herself she would be strong; she’d told herself she wouldn’t care. But she’d only had one night, damn it. And there was so much more she wanted…

  So many more days she wanted to keep him.

  She turned away and walked into the kitchen before she made a total fool of herself. After his anger last night, he probably didn’t want anything more to do with her. She wouldn’t ask again.

  She wasn’t sixteen. She didn’t whisper words in the rain and she absolutely, positively, would not miss Garret Guiness this time.

  But somehow, she’d thought she’d have more than just one night.

  Chapter 9

  The high-pitched squeal of the router cut at last through his reverie. With a start, Garret realized he was holding the tool with one hand while the table leg remained untouched in its clamp. He shook his head, frowning, and turned his attention back to cutting a mortise in the top of the table leg for the mortise-and-tenon joint. He was supposed to be finishing the table, damn it, not woolgathering.

  He adjusted the goggles over his eyes and managed to make a rough mortise with the router. Then he sanded out the cut until it was smooth, forming a tight fit for the tenon. One down, three to go.

  He shook his head again. He should be done with the joints by now; he just wasn’t concentrating well. His head filled too easily with scenes he didn’t want to know. Too many times he saw the destruction. Too many times he saw Zenaisa and Zlatko and the others.

  But he was no closer to understanding any of it. If anything, he fought the memories. Because the dread still lingered low in his stomach, and somewhere deep inside, he understood he wouldn’t like what was to come.

  Something terrible had happened. Something that had taken place outside a war-torn city and had followed him all the way to D.C. Something that had earned him a bullet in the back.

  He found himself staring blankly at the router yet again and clenched his jaw in frustration.

  Just focus on the table. The beautiful wood, the smell of sawdust and the buzzing hum. He cut out the second mortise.

  The table was decent, but not everything he’d originally wanted it to be. He’d stuck with a simple p
attern for the legs, not wanting to spend too much time at the lathe. He really wanted to finish the table today.

  Finish it up, sand it down and stain it quickly with a water-based stain. After dinner, maybe he could present it to Suzanne, his small token for her generosity.

  It seemed like the least he could do.

  He moved on to mortise number three. He actually liked the work more than he’d expected. There was something simple and elemental about the feel of finely grained hardwood in his hand and the rich, warm scent of sawdust filling his nose. He liked watching the pieces come together. He liked the clean elegance of the design and found pleasure and satisfaction in seeing his own work develop. He was beginning to understand how his father could spend a whole life in a wood shop.

  But even so, there was no adrenaline surge in making a table. No heated rush of right now at this microsecond of time in this place this act must happen or everything will fail. And exactly at the right instant, the roar in his ears, the thunder in his blood, his chute might rip open into the cloud-choked night or his MP-5 might explode with a clean burst of three shots.

  Those were the moments that filled his blood with fire and sparked his dark eyes. Those were the challenges he lived for. He didn’t look for simple pleasures or quiet moments. He lived to act, to master, to combat.

  And right now, just waiting was beginning to get to him.

  If he could only make all the pieces of his memory come together…

  If he could only stop remembering Suzanne’s pale face when he said he was leaving…

  He shifted restlessly, feeling the uncertainty and doubt inexplicably swirl in his gut. He needed to get going, he thought with near savagery, forcing the last table leg into the clamp with more pressure than was necessary. Memory or not, he needed to move to figure out Step Two in his plan.

  He adjusted his goggles, and resolutely blanking his mind, cut the last mortise.

  When Suzanne walked out onto the back porch a little before eight, she found him on his hands and knees in front of a newly assembled table, staining a leg. For a long moment, she simply looked at his back while he brought the brush down with a smooth, steady stroke.