Havoc

by Angie Merriam

  He shoots me a wink. I take my stance and knock the bottles down like some show pony. Annoyed, I growl, “Give me a fucking challenge, Lordy.”

  “How about the plate?” he says, knowing it's his best bet to gain ground. He grew up shooting plates with his father. It's what piqued his interest in guns in the first place. They shot all kinds—clay plates, pottery plates, dinner plates—though that pissed his mother off. He turns to Glove's slave and demands, “Get four plates from the kitchen.”

  As she disappears, he explains how girls will toss two plates as high up in the air as they can, and we're expected to shoot them before they fall—the dispute being can you hit both plates in a row. Juvenile. He's clearly trying too hard.

  Lordy goes first. Both plates fly into the air. Shattering one causes Redhead to perk up, but he fires again, missing plate two. It lands on the ground, her hero’s spirit with it. I ask for something more difficult and he gives me plates. Jesus. Such a disappointment.

  I raise the ante and look at Cowgirl. “Wanna be impressed?” Eagerly, she nods. “One eyed.”

  I shut one eye. My plates fly into the air. I shoot the first one without a thought. The second I let get closer to the ground before I fire, shattering it as well. Needed to build a little suspense.

  Through clenched teeth, Lordy swears every curse word known to man and some I'm sure alcohol made up. The crowd cheers, and I turn, not smiling but with a remotely pleased look on my face.

  The redhead pouts, “I feel like I got hustled.”

  “Lordy's usually a pretty good shot.” Glove offers sympathy, fresh beer on his lips. “But, uh, Grim never misses. Obviously.” She drops her jaw, and Lordy shrugs, probably thankful he got to see the girl naked with minimal effort. The fact it's in front of a crowd probably keeps any humiliation or guilt he might be feeling at bay. Playfully, Glove adds, “Did I forget to mention that? Damn it.” She huffs again, and he points, “Drop 'em.”

  Off the thong falls, and Lordy chuckles as he pops her on the ass. “Everything matches!”

  Laughter starts, and people, including the naked girl, head toward the house. I collect the box of shells and prepare to put the gun that's still in my hands out of those idiots’ way. Here I am again cleaning up their mess.

  Cowgirl still lingers behind. She's watching, waiting for me to make a move. The sooner the better. I'm ready to see those boots above her head and hit the bed for the night. Watching over those bastards is exhausting.

  “What's your name again?”

  “Amber,” she pulls her hair to one side of her face. “Grim, right?”

  “Yeah.” Most people don't know my real name, and I prefer it that way. Keeps it from coming out of the wrong mouths. Keeps me from attaching myself to many people. “Thanks again.”

  “Yeah,” she nods rapidly, her hands sliding in her back pockets. “Thanks for helping me keep some self-respect, you know, helping me keep my clothes on.” I nod and turn my head toward the house when she follows with, “Wanna help me take 'em off?”

  A small smirk is on my face, my back still to her. I toss a look over my shoulder and respond, “Follow me.”

  We slip through the main party. It’s dying down as drinks are running dry and mouths are getting lost in one another. The two of us head upstairs into the only empty bedroom left. The others are filled with people doing exactly what we're about to. Once inside the cheap deer-and-camouflage decorated room, I place the gun in a closet, shells next to it, and shut the door.

  The moment my hands are free, she pounces on me, her body leaping into my arms, shaking my balance a bit by the unexpected attack. God, why do women feel they need to reenact shit they read in romance novels? Her legs are wrapped around me tightly, her bird-thin lips pecking away at mine like I've got food inside. Weird. My hands grab her ass. She moans fiercely. That sound is surprisingly pleasing. We continue until we stumble onto the bed, rip off clothes—though I mention she should leave the boots on—and paw at each other. Her hands are small, clumsy, most likely from the amount of alcohol she's consumed. At least, I hope. I reach for my pants pocket, slip on a rubber, and let her crawl on top. She wiggles and bucks her hips, her hair tickling my chest. Within a few short minutes, her moans are on the verge of climax. Damn, already? No work required with this one. Thoughts of me fucking her must have really done a number on her. She increases the pace. A deep moan pops out of her, indicating she came. Hard. Good. I can finish then. Swiftly, I roll her over and put those legs right where I wanted them earlier, parted high in the air. My hands grip her hips, fingers touching a fairy tattoo, and push into her hard. Harder. Harder. I shut my eyes to forget. Forget that, when this night is over, I have hell to return to. I increase my rhythm. Forget that it feels like I live in a prison when I return to his house. To that man. Forget that I'm all alone just waiting for death to capture me on the field. Being home just puts me farther from it, angering me.

  She's howling, I hope in pleasure, but at this point, I have no care either way. I pump into her harder. I feel myself swell, fingers gripping hard enough to bruise, but I know I won't. I'd never hurt a woman like that. I slip out and let the liquid pool in the condom, along with disgust for myself. I didn't even like this girl. I just didn't wanna think about the abyss I set myself in. I just didn't want to feel so goddamn empty all the time, even if that euphoria was just for a few minutes.

  She rolls over and strokes my side, outlining the Alpha Omega tattoo by my ribs, “Wow.” A pause. “I guess you really never do miss. That was the best sex I ever had! I came twice.”

  I shrug, toss the used condom in the trash next to the nightstand and shut my eyes, the reality of the world setting back in. The sooner I can sneak away, the better. I need to get away from this room with walls that look like a PETA nightmare, from this girl, from myself.

  87 Days Till Deployment

  I don't dream. The last time I had one I was ten. My mom had just died, and I dreamed of her in a long, white dress with wings and a bright, white light surrounding her. She whispered alpha, our family code word for safety. It was our word that we were protected, that everything was OK. Eleven years and I haven't dreamed since. There's an actual medical condition where people no longer dream, but that's not my case, I'm told. The military doc says I dream; I just don't recall them. He says it's a blessing; post-combat dreams are haunting and awful. Reminds me that I lack many things that make a person human.

  Groggy, I manage to wake myself up off the couch. I bailed on the girl about twenty minutes after sex. She went on about being pre-med, her professors being the best, and something about a lecture before she finally shut up. It's not really my thing to care pre-sex let alone post. Twenty minutes really is pushing my acting ability. I rub my eyes, fix my black polo collar, and am greeted by Glove and Lordy, who are half awake themselves.

  “Feels good to be home, huh?” Glove's remark is followed by him looking around for his shirt. I swear he's allergic to his own clothes. At least he has pants on.

  “Yup,” Lordy chuckles. Scratching the back of his neck, he grumbles, “Uh, how shit-faced was I last night? I don't remember much.”

  I'm glad I put the gun away. “Remember getting your ass handed to you by Grim in that shotgun contest?”

  Lordy shakes his head, “Why would I agree to do that? I'm not stupid.”

  “You are when you're drunk.” I shrug and check my pockets for the essentials, my exit moments away.

  “And it got that girl you banged last night naked for all the world to see.” Glove waves his hand like a magician.

  A look of panic comes on Lordy's face as he sits down beside me. “Shit. What was her name? Penny? Petunia?”

  “Petunia?” We croak in unison.

  “I kept calling her my peach, my Georgia peach.” His confession pulls a sneer to my lip.

  “That's sick, man,” I state.

  “I'm from Georgia.”

  “And isn't that bad enough?” Glove backs me. He folds his arms
across his bare chest, having given up early on his shirt search.

  “Bro, can you put a shirt on?” I look down.

  Cocky, he flexes, “Jealous?”

  My head tilts up, eyebrows down. While we are all built for the job—weeks of training will do that to even the most non-sculpted human—Glove is slender, more slender than a Marine really should be. He's got light features with a flawless face. Doesn't appear threatening. I could break him without burning a hundred calories. Lordy is on the huskier side, with a broader build than me, filled in completely, nevertheless still toned, his baby face even less threatening than Glove's. It would take an extra push to break him in half, but that's it. I may be the one with a medium build, but I'm the one who looks like a bouncer crossbred with a cage fighter.

  “Presley?” Lordy calls out another name, still trying to figure out who his redheaded treat was.

  “Stephanie.” Glove plops down in the love seat across from us. “Her name was Stephanie, for Christ’s sake.”

  “The fact you have incredible slut name recall but forget where you put your own clothes is pathetic.” I shake my head as the cowgirl from last night appears at the bottom of the stairs. The walk of shame, that dreaded moment when all eyes are on you after a bang with a guy you just met. I hate girls feeling cheap and used in front of an audience, at least when I'm sober, but if you're dumb enough to wait for sunrise, you deserve a bit of the shame. After all, what sits in the dark will eventually fuck you up in the light if you let it.

  “Thanks again, Grim. I had fun last night,” she says in a soft tone, inviting me over to have a conversation in private. I don't do private or sentimental. I really should come with a warning label. Caution: Contents are hot and a little fucked up.

  “Me too,” I lie.

  “So . . . call me?”

  I hate lying but the need to appear more human than the two idiots I hang out with outranks it.

  “Sure thing, Abby.”

  “Amber,” she corrects me. Her shoulders slump, her keys appear in her hand, and she leaves.

  Fuck. Me.

  “Wrong name? Really, Grim?” Glove judges. Feeling Glove of all people judge me over sex repulses me. I feel my skin crawl. I need a good run. I need a shower.

  “Not all of us have super slut memory skills,” Lordy jumps to my aid.

  I stand up. “Well, now that I've emotionally damaged another woman, I'm out.”

  The joke gets a laugh. I prefer to leave before the conversation turns personal, past the sex bridge, the only one I want to cross with them. They may be my friends, but they know military Grim, not suburban Slugger. I prefer it that way. They don't complain.

  Thankfully, when I arrive home, it's empty. The awkward “where were you all night” nonverbal conversation can be avoided. While Sir and I don't talk in depth about much, it never fails that, if I'm gone all night and he's here when I return, it's judgment day. Was I behaving in a respectful manner? Was I carrying myself like a man? Like a man of dignity and respect? Was I upholding the laws a Marine is governed by?

  I change into sweats, an old T-shirt, and hit the neighborhood for my usual run. I prefer to do it as soon as I wake up, get my day started the right way. Call me a man of routine if you like; I prefer to be referred to as disciplined. For the alcohol I consumed, I'll probably hit the gym after my run for some boxing. Can't keep those useless pounds on. No, I'm not that vain, but I'm headed for Spec Ops and can't reach it treating my body like Glove and Lordy—endless drinking, endless food binges, endless sex. I know what's expected. I've studied. I will rise to that challenge. There is no failure. They will be as proud to have me as I am to join. One day. One day soon, I hope. I started pushing my body for the corps early on. Started running every day at twelve, first to have some time away from Sir, then to beat my own records. At thirteen, I started lifting weights. Since sports were not of any interest to me anymore, I began studying basic military workout regimens and immersed myself within them from fourteen to seventeen. I looked like a fitness model before graduation, and after months in training, I could give some of those airbrush jokes a run for their money. For me, it's not about the looks but the strength. I want to be able to hold my own, drop a man in life or death.

  Five miles in forty minutes or less is my next goal. I'm getting closer. Five miles in forty-five minutes is where I am. I hope to reach five miles in thirty. Gotta push myself more. With a long breath, I stroll up my driveway toward the front door, sweat pouring down my neck and drenching my shirt. Another drawback of waiting so long to run—extra heat.

  “Clint,” My name echoes in the air.

  I turn around, and a sight I could do without is headed straight for me. Le Le. A living, breathing, embodiment of proof that I've had human emotions, even if they were ones I’d like to forget.

  “Heard you were back.” She pauses in front of me and pulls her porn-star, long, black hair to one side of her tanned face. Her father's dark-brown skin creates most of the color in hers, while her mother's Asian heritage plays out more in her features, like her hair and slim size. One hand strolls across her red V-neck shirt to lightly stroke her boobs. Her attempt in seduction is failing, but I'll admit the girl's a pro. If Adam had gone down with her, she would've seduced him into eating all the apples on that damn tree—no snake help needed. Trust me. I've been there.

  “Yesterday.”

  “Look good.”

  “I look sweaty.”

  “Some of my fondest memories of you are just that way.”

  Not in the mood for her and her manipulation games, I get to the point, “Did you need something?”

  “Actually.” Her body slides closer to me, her designer perfume overwhelming. Did she bathe in it? Damn. “There's a concert here in a like a week. Wanna go with me?”

  No. Hell no. I would rather suffer in peace. “Uh . . .”

  “Come on, Clint. You said we could be friends, yet every time I try to hang out with you, you give me the brush-off. I said I was sorry things ended the way they did and for what happened. We have to move past all that.”

  “I already have.” The words are true. I let it go right after, but that doesn't mean it never happened. One evening away from the house and Sir will do me good. Besides, loud music will drown out her voice. “Yeah, I'll go.”

  “Awesome!” Her painted face sports a smirk, like she's won some sort of prize. She hasn't. Her face turns up toward the sunlight, revealing the layers she cakes on to look like a real-life doll. Sad.

  “I gotta finish my workout.” My body turns away to head to the front door.

  “See you at dinner tomorrow night,” she calls, newfound hope in her voice.

  Hope. The poison of truth. A lifesaver people hold onto at the wrong times or wrong situations. Us is not something that should be associated with hope. Or prayers. Or a miracle. There is no us. That subject is dead, as dead as it gets. As dead as the rest of me is.

  86 Days Till Deployment

  The alarm sounds. Six a.m. When I'm on leave, I do my best to stay in a routine from sunup to sun down. Some days, I imagine that it's probably nice to live carelessly. Recklessly. Stuffing my face full of stacks of pancakes, watching reality TV, drinking from noon until the party starts at midnight. That's a less-productive way to forget that you're human.

  I pull myself out of bed, make it neatly, throw on sweats for my run, brush my teeth, and head out the front door for a quick five miles. One of the best things about running is the clarity that accompanies it. The only thing that matters is pushing myself, staying focused. It reminds me of the field. Getting the job done. Nothing else matters. None of the bullshit that was said in the bars, none of the regret for saying or not saying something in an argument, none of the mistrust that floats around us all. Nothing but getting that job done. And while I don't feel many things, that determination to complete the mission feels remarkable. It’s the best feeling in the entire world. The only thing sweeter would be death.

  As I rou
nd the corner toward home, the sun finally joins me, lighting my cement path. Ahead of me, I notice something I'm positive was not in my yard before. I always know my surroundings. It's my job. I slow down to the sight sleeping in our grass like it's a mattress. Cautiously, I lower to my knees, guard still up if I have to defend myself. Suddenly, my heart drops alongside of my knees. This woman is unconscious and, by the movement of her chest, barely breathing. My hand brushes the hair out of her mocha-colored face, checking out the harsh cuts and deep bruises covering what should be flawless skin. I stiffen, feeling my blood boil. How could someone do this to a woman, let alone . . . an angel? I know that sounds crazy, but just one look at her, and I know she had to have fallen from heaven, wings burned off by the sun. The angelic glow around her fragile body is one my mom used to tell me about during my bedtime stories—how angels sometimes fell to Earth to walk across the world, protecting us from unknown dangers. Each angel different. Unique. But every angel had a glow like this. A pure energy force around them, one that even those of the strongest will and hardest heart couldn't fight. I allow my eyes to roam over her long thin legs, her sharply angled face with high cheek bones, and her thin lips have appear to have a slight cut at first glance. Even unconscious she looks more beautiful than any other woman I've ever seen.

  My arms swoop her up and cradle her closer to my chest, similar to the way I imagine people hold babies. Her head falls against my heart, and my knees buckle. What the fuck? She's as light as she looks, lighter even, and my knees buckle? The packs I have to haul around are easily four times her size, so what are my knees doing buckling? I swallow the confusion and look down at the sight. I feel a twinge in my chest. Now what the fuck is that?

  In the house, after placing her down on the couch, I try to shake away whatever is trying to attack my body from the inside. Maybe I'm trying to fight away a cold. I back off and examine the abusive marks on her fragile frame, searching for evidence that maybe I'm wrong, that she's not an angel. Maybe a lost junkie. A sorority girl with a bad partying habit. However, her body says no such thing. Malnourished, yes. Addiction, no. This . . . creature has bumps and bruises she couldn't have given to herself. The way some of the bruises are angled up and some down, it looks like she was held down. From the sight, it was by a thick strap. Mental patient? Her body shifts around slightly, the sunlight glowing around her once more. Angels aren't real, dumb ass. They're just stories, kid stuff my mom would tell me to remind me there's still good in this awful world. And yet, I have this feeling inside me I just can't shake. Feelings? What? I must be getting sick.