Havoc

by Angie Merriam

  “Illegal–”

  “No, Sir.”

  He glares, “I hate when you don't allow me to finish my sentences.”

  “And I hate when you're patronizing, Sir.” He's missed that phase in my life to talk to me like a small child. I'm an adult now whether he accepts it or not. I'm not incompetent or naive, though my reactions to Haven are leaning dangerously close to those things.

  “Where are your tags?”

  My eyes shift toward my sleeping beauty. The look on my face says it all.

  “This isn't good,” Sir quickly states, shaking his head. “You're not thinking straight. Clearly.”

  His eyes flick toward Haven. I resist the urge to jump down his throat, rip it out along with his lungs and then his heart just so he can experience a bit of the agony that I'm in. That she's in.

  “I want her to stay with us.” I push past the immediate confusion on his face. “With me.”

  “No.”

  Ignoring him, I continue, “She's got something in her past after her. I can tell by the way she's so observant of her surroundings, Sir. Not sure of the details exactly. I suspect abuse from the bruising, though she hasn't said much.”

  “And you want her to stay here?” The disgust in his voice makes my jaw clench. “Did you go out drinking last night too? Are you still drunk?”

  “Sir–”

  “Do you hear yourself? You know nothing about her.”

  “It doesn't stop you from bringing women home, Sir.” The sharp jab pokes at his patience, but he's poking at mine.

  Tugging at his collar, he argues, “This isn't a random girl you picked up at a bar or nightclub. She's a complete stranger.”

  “But–”

  “She could be a killer.”

  “But–”

  “She could've had a bad fight with her boyfriend and ran away mid-argument from a couple blocks over, Clint. That would be the most likely case.”

  I don't answer. That thought hadn't occurred to me. If she is, what kind of man would treat his girlfriend that way? And what kind of woman would let herself get treated that way? No. He's wrong. He has to be. Whatever or wherever she’s running from isn't some half-cocked moron from suburbia. He's not some frat boy with a temper. It's much worse. I can feel it, among feeling other things. Ugh, again with the feelings.

  “You aren't thinking logically here, Clint.”

  “Sir, just hear me out,” I plea once more. I'm never like this. I've never been someone to whine against orders, to damn near beg for something he wants. Hell, I've never wanted anything other than to be a Marine and in Special Ops. I can't beg to get there. Even if I could, I wouldn't. “She needs our help.”

  “You don't know her.”

  “Sir, with all due respect, I know how to read a situation. We're trained to do this. You should remember that.”

  The slight reminder of his Navy past, a lifetime ago now, always triggers something inside. Always buys me moment if I really need one. I do not exploit his weakness often because the man he once was no longer exists, just like part of me doesn’t.

  “I'm telling you she needs our help. If we let her go, if you force my hand to release her, she will die.” The words leave my lips, and I feel lightheaded. I can't let another person I care about just leave like the others have. I can't—I won't let the only thing that's got me feeling human again just wither away and die. I may not understand my feelings or know what to do with them, but I do know something. I'll save her. I'll protect her life like it's my own. In a way, I feel like it is. The next words are spoken precisely so they will not be misinterpreted, “I. Will. Not. Let. Her. Die.”

  There's a faint sound of my dog tags clinking. She's awake. The corner of my mouth turns upward. Sir erases that by rising to his feet, towering at 6' 3", and relocating closer to her. Intimidation tactic 101. I rush to her defense. While the number of whiskey bottles he's thrown back in his years since retirement settle clearly in the front of his stomach, he's still fit enough to scare criminals and someone fragile like her.

  “Young lady,” Sir places his hands behind his back and stands at attention. “I see you are awake.” She nods. “It is my understanding that you are running from something or someone.”

  “Like I told you–”

  “Clint, if you would like this young woman to stay here, if this young woman wants our help, then she will answer the questions that follow.” His stern face returns to her. “Do you understand?” She nods. Thank God. “Name?”

  “Haven Davenport.”

  Relief washes over me. While it didn't matter to me if she answers the questions for him or not, because frankly if he won't let her stay here, I will find a place for us, I am thankful she did.

  “Nice to meet you, Haven. My name is Johnathan Walker. Friends call me Whiskey. I'm actually the sheriff of Duckenbauch County. Do you know where that is, Miss Davenport?”

  “Reckonberg.”

  “Very good,” he nods. He's pleased. “Are you a runaway?”

  Her silence returns. Damn it.

  “All right, how old are you?”

  “Eighteen.”

  Wow. That was not the answer I was expecting. I'm not light years older than she is. I am only 21, but just hearing that seems hard to believe. Would I be a bit more at ease with the idea of us together in a romantic sense, when it comes to the romantic sense, if she were a little older? Yeah. Did I just say romantic sense? What the hell is going on?

  “Do you know your date of birth?”

  “In twenty-seven days.”

  Not quite the answer Sir was expecting, but nonetheless, it's the one he got. Simple information that we take for granted like that can be easily erased from the mind if it subdued to enough torture and trauma. The fact someone did that to her makes me want to start counting up toward the day when I put him in the ground. Six feet won't be deep enough. I don't really want him to get to enjoy the sweet taste of death. I want him to spend an eternity tortured the way she has been and will be, even once she moves past the initial pain.

  “Miss Davenport, are your parents the ones who you are running from?” She shakes her head. “Are your parents alive?” The next head shake is slow.

  Both of her parents are gone as well. My heart calls out to her. I want to tell Sir to shut up, no more questions needed. I get why I get this girl. I get why part of me is dying to connect to her. She's just as disconnected from the outside world as I am. No parents. No thoughts of a distant future. Just here and now. It's like my body and mind were sensing this, looking for shelter in another individual like me, dormant until they were found. Though knowing she might be silently suffering as much as I am or was, I don't want to suffer with her. I want to stop her pain. Give her joy. Give her that poison people call hope, the very venom I've begun to taste. It's sweet and addicting.

  “Is it your legal guardian you are running from?”

  She nods, but her body is shaking, screaming she's uncomfortable. I wish he'd stop with all the questions. They can wait. Bravely, ignoring Sir's attitude and judgment that's sure to follow, I touch the tags around her neck, making them give a slight clink sound. The noise seems to cause peace within her the same way they do me.

  “I know that these questions are hard, Miss Davenport, but I have to ask a few more. Did your guardian abuse you?” Of course, Sir! She nods. His chest tightens as he growls. “Violently or sexually?”

  “Both.”

  Sir isn't fond of many things. As far as human behaviors are concerned, men who violently and sexually abuse women sit at the top of the chop-their-heads-off list. Nothing is more disgraceful. Disgusting. Oddly, this is one of the only things we see eye to eye on. Men who behave in such manners shouldn't be called men. The term scum is even too noble. I can feel my own blood beginning to boil once more. Get a grip, Marine. Now is not the time.

  “Well, Miss Davenport—er—Haven, would you . . . care to stay with us?”

  I hold my excitement back. Geez, I have excite
ment? Since when? “For how long, Sir?”

  “You ship back out in three months, Clint. That should be enough time to create her a new identity, a new life, and possibly put away her old one.”

  Demanding his attention come off of her, off of the damaged woman he sees before him, I clear my throat. “I want her here where you can protect her when I can't.”

  “We're not discussing that option, Clint.”

  “Sir–”

  “I said–”

  “I heard what you said.” My voice rises in a way it never has before. Frankly, when it comes to matters with Sir, what he says ultimately goes. There's usually very little to warrant long conversations or arguments. This is indeed the longest conversation we've had since I decided to join the Marines and skip college. But this is different. Just as that moment was. Life changing. Baffled by my action, he tries to shake off the perplexity and take back command. “It is not a debate, Sir. You were once told it takes a village to protect the wounded and a village to heal it. With all due respect, Sir, we are that village. And we will protect her.”

  Those were the words Striker and Mindy said to him shortly after Mom died, when he had to return to duty before he could request to pull out. They assured him that I would be well taken care of in the approaching years and that so would he. Mindy promised that we would never be alone. She meant that in both a non-literal and very literal sense. Striker said he knew a thing or two about protecting those who needed it. At the time, I had no idea what he meant, and until just now, I didn't understand the importance.

  “We'll protect her,” Sir repeats, his eyes locked on mine. “She'll stay here with me while you are on active duty. I'll pull some strings. Do my best to get everything settled by first thing in the morning. As for tonight, we need to introduce her to the village.”

  Satisfied, I take in a long, deep breath. Sir places his hands on my shoulders and nods. I nod in return. The wall that we both prize, standing between us, losing a brick from the bottom—not enough to make it come crashing down but enough to be on high alert.

  He lets go of me and addresses Haven, “I need to wash up for dinner. Clint will help you get settled. See the two of you shortly. Excuse me.”

  With Sir headed to his room, his initial thoughts revoked, and my angel with a new home, I do something I can't recall the last time I genuinely did it. I smile widely.

  I escort Haven up our cherry wood stairs and to the first bedroom down the hall on the right. Mine. The guest room is a couple doors down, but it doesn't matter. The only thing she might keep in there are her clothes.

  She carefully sits on the edge of my bed, gripping my mattress like it’s her life. It seems like we go through phases of fear and comfort. Any time there's the slightest change, fear jumps on her face. The air-conditioner turns on, a car drives by, the neighbor's dog barks, and she tenses up, panics. Then, once she spots from my expression there's no reason to be alarmed, she calms back down.

  I watch her for a brief moment as she admires the sight that I call my room. The walls are plain white, never been home to anything other than Little League plaques and photos I removed years ago. There’s my military-made bed, the nightstand beside it, home to my cologne, aftershave, and the latest best seller from my favorite author. None of it screams adventure or non-trustworthy playboy. I hope she finds comfort in that.

  As I open my white closet doors, I state in the calmest manner I can, in the way I've been trained to in delicate situations, “I know you're hungry. And I know you're probably still terrified of the situation and the potential threats that lie on the other side of the front door. But everything will be all right, all right?” My eyes meet hers, feeling like those words are a lie. That's what I'm trained to do—lie in difficult situations. Never show my true hand. Bluff. But I don't want those words to be a bluff. I will do everything I am capable of to turn those standard lines into true ones. A flicker of hope enters her eyes. My face twitches before I turn around and reach for a pair of jeans. God, I still haven't showered. “We're going to have a welcome-home dinner for me tonight. Any time I arrive back from deployment, there's a dinner with everyone. Kind of a close group. You need something to wear.”

  Her delicate but curvy body isn't being done justice. She's got on a light, long-sleeve shirt, jeans at least three sizes too big, and a tattered bra. I can tell by the strap that she constantly has to readjust to have it do anything for her. Yes, she's dangerously thin. Yes, she has almost no amount of fat to her. But the way her frame is structured, as soon as we get her healthy and her body starts to fill in, she's going to be a walking bombshell. My fist is going to end up breaking many jaws.

  I toss a pair of jeans and a dress shirt out for myself and mumble something about still needing a shower. Shit. She'll probably need one too. “You'll also need–” My voice shuts down as my body straightens up.

  Her face is aimed down at the ground. Her body is shaking in terror. I've seen enough victims in my time to know what is occurring. She's reliving a moment with the bastard in her head. She can't go back there. I can't protect her there.

  “Haven, do not think of him.” It looks like I've briefly got her. I have to keep her here. With a snap of my fingers and a point to my eyes I state sharply, “Focus. Right here. Right now. With me. Understand?”

  She nods. She looks less frightened by her memories now and more by my tone. Fine. I'll take that.

  Knocking some things out of the way, I pull out a long tote from the depths of my closet, more like the depths of my heavily suppressed consciousness. Yanking the lid off, I try not to get too lost at the sights inside. I remove the wooden picture frame that's home to a photo of my mom, me, and Sir from the first baseball game I ever had. I was three. Sir looks younger. His face more cut. His body more lean. The deep features remind me of a younger Josh Brolin. With his arm stretched around my mother's slim shoulder, she looks even smaller than I remember. Her face looks soft. Her features rounded. The glow on her sun kissed skin all natural, the same shade as her hair. I remember being told how she could be a stunt double for Kate Beckinsale long before I knew who that was. And I'm at their feet, leaning on my bat, looking like a miniature mixture of the two. Sir bought me that bat. It was also one of the only games Sir did attend. My attention relocates to the other objects in the container. Her jewelry box filled with presents from Sir comes out next. I remember the day he went looking to sell the stuff, swearing he had placed them in the for-sale box. I don't want anything that's on the inside but didn't want him to pawn my mother's memories for profit. An old teddy bear she got me when I sprained my wrist joins the not-now pile. Her planner from our last year together follows suit. With all those things outside the tote, I can do nothing but stare.

  “Have I mentioned how beautiful you look in that dress?” he coos at her, stroking the back of her palm, staring deep into her eyes, her blue anchor tattoo with the linked wedding bands flashing at me.

  Mom's brown hair is all pinned up on the top of her head except for two curled pieces that hang by her face. The black dress looks fancy. Her shoes look fancy. Everything from a distance about her looks fancy. It's funny to me because Mom is so not fancy. The bird tattoos on the back of her neck, the one on the inside of her hand, the fact she's wearing his tags around her neck instead of pearls. Come on now. That's not really fancy.

  I wiggle around, so I'm sitting on top of my bended legs. My hand pulls at the buttoned-up collar of this yellow dress shirt Mom insisted I wear. I hate things with so many buttons. Who needs that many buttons? I wish she'd let me wear my baseball tee.

  “Quit fidgeting,” she scolds, fixing the strap on her black dress, her hand skimming across the trail of peacock feathers that fall down her back. I love her tattoos. I can't wait to have some.

  “And sit on your bottom like a respectable gentleman,” he demands.

  I plop to my bottom and flop my face into my hands. I'm not meant for fancy restaurants like this even if they do have the best bre
ad sticks in the entire world. At all the tables are people like my parents. People huddled close. People staring into each other's eyes. There are only a few with children dressed up like me. Why do our parents insist on dragging us around to places like this? I would've settled for pizza and a movie.

  “I love you.” He raises her hand to his lips and kisses the back of it.

  “I love you too.”

  A smile joins my face. While it's gross to see my parents so into one another like the people you see on TV, at the same time, I'm thankful we're all together. I'm thankful they can still stand each other after all this time. I'm glad, when they look at me, even to scold me, there's still love in their eyes. Most of my friends’ parents don't behave like this. What they have I think is special. I can't wait to have it someday.

  With a sigh, I rise to my feet, hold up the dress for her to admire, and nod, doing my best to put that memory back in the past where it belongs.

  “Might be a bit of a tight fit, but I think it'll do.”

  “An old girlfriend's?”

  If only it were that simple. “My mother's.”

  She looks even less relieved than had it been an ex’s.

  “It was the only piece of clothing I kept. She, uh, died of an unexpected aneurism when I was ten. Forced Sir to retire early. I have no aunts or uncles. Both of my parents were only children. Both of their parents died before I was born. Called me the miracle that linked two family-less lives. I was supposed to be one of many.” I lie the dress down on the bed beside her. I didn't know that fact until the doctor announced postmortem that she was pregnant. Death won again. “I packed away what I wanted to preserve of her memory. She wore that dress every time Sir arrived home from being deployed and every time he got ready to leave. It was her hello–good-bye dinner dress.”