Mindy starts sauntering away toward Le Le, whose eyes I'm not sure have left us since we walked in. After nodding at several faces who’ve acknowledged my presence, I lead Haven over to the food. She still hasn't eaten. Damn it. I knew I should have tried to convince her to eat something before she showered. She must be starving by this point. Hell, she was probably starving then. I should know better. Get a grip, Marine. Do your damn job!
I pick up a plate and pile just a few items on, carefully selecting each item with purpose. The expensive glass plate with golden designs swirled around the outside passes from my grip to hers, “Here. Eat slow. Small bites. Your body will process it better. I picked things that will be lighter on your stomach. Not too rich in taste.”
She smiles as thanks. My heart thumps again, hard. What the hell is wrong with me? I just had a physical. What could possibly be wrong with me? Cautiously, I slide an arm around her waist, sizing up her response before taking further action. When she doesn't cringe and doesn't try to free herself, I escort her to an empty couch in the living room, where she sits on the edge, and I sit beside her, allowing myself to act as a barrier to the rest of the world, protecting her from looks, scrutiny, and physical harm.
I watch as her mouth welcomes the bite of warm-baked bread roll. She releases a slight moan out loud. Holy hell, I wasn't prepared for that. My body threatens to stiffen to attention. If you so much as make brief cameo, I'll castrate you. Any action it thought of taking stops. Good. Glad we're on the same page. For Christ's sake, the girl is just eating. And even if the simple motion of her eating is more hypnotizing than anything I've ever seen, there's no reason my body should feel obligated to misbehave. I'm a fucking solider. I've got self-control. Haven notices I'm staring. Sensing she's about to panic that's she's doing something wrong, I let a slight curve appear on the corner of my mouth to offer her reassurance. And it does. She returns to eating a little more carefree. It's cute.
I'm not sure how long she's been eating or I've been staring, but I know it’s distracting because now Sir is clearing his throat, demanding our attention. I should have noticed his arrival. She clouds my senses. She slaves my attention. That's dangerous.
“Evening,” his greeting is directed at her. She struggles to get the bread out of her teeth so she can respond when he holds up a hand, stilling her. “It's quite all right. Enjoy.”
Sir follows that by leaning his elbow on the edge of his chair, exposing to us an accessory that he feels he should always wear for my comings and goings, his own hello–good-bye accessory, an expensive watch my mother bought for him on their first wedding anniversary. My eyes wince over his attire—black dress pants, white button down, and black sport coat—a look very similar to my own, making our resemblance apparent. Making my stomach cringe. I want to be nothing like him.
“That's a lovely dress.” His compliment causes my hand to grip the back of the couch tighter. “Looks remarkably close to one Clint's mother had. Down to the small slit at the bottom.”
Watching the process on his face goes about as well as I could have predicted. How could I have forgotten he would know the dress better than anyone? Damn it. If my brain could just slide out of this fog for a few minutes, I would've known better. I mean, she still would be in the dress, but maybe I could have done damage control before he saw her in it. Sir starts reminiscing. All the details gunning for him like a runaway freight train. When he realizes that it's not similar, but the exact dress, he shoots a look to me. Alarm. Betrayal. Disgust. Each emotion only allowed one blink. He doesn't want to have this discussion any more than I do.
In a barely steady voice, he begins again, “I spoke to those that needed speaking to, and by morning, you shall have a new identity.”
“First name Haven,” I quickly clarify.
“She can't keep–”
“First name Haven, Sir.”
His eyes flare at me. I do not recall the last time we butted heads this much. I don't remember the last time I cared this much about anything to fight for it. Regardless, she wants her name. I'll give it to her even if the cost is standing toe to toe with my commanding officer.
A massive exhale escapes him. He raises his whiskey glass to his lips and growls, “Noted.” My eyes look down at Haven, who can sense the tension and is retreating inside herself. Assuming Sir senses it as well, he continues his conversation, “Those who will be helping your transition are around the room. Let's start with Mindy Callaghan.”
“The nosy neighbor lady?” Haven’s description catches Sir off guard.
I chortle. Her memory works just fine. “Yes. Her.”
Unsure of what we're talking about, Sir continues, “This is her home. She's a chef. Lives to cook. Grows all her own fruits and vegetables, often enough for most of us. Mindy is married to Doug,” he points, “who was one of the highest-paid lawyers in Texas for several years before he stepped out of the game, for the most part.”
Doug is the same height as his wife with her heels on. He has a slight humped-over back, a graying beard, as well as frosted tips of gray on his dark brown hair, which swirls perfectly on top of his head. His skin is pale in comparison to hers, wrinkled from lack of exercise or possibly from too much stress he's swallowed in his time.
“Why'd he stop?” Haven blurts out.
“Many of us have secrets here. We look to one another not only for shelter but redemption, not to live alone with the demons that tried to consume us but rather to glimmer in the restoration we have given each other. We’ve become one through the pain and take a stance to help others the way society avoided helping us.” Sir raises his glass and tips it toward the Callaghans, who are positioned next to the fireplace, engaged in flirty conversation with one another. They tip back, their attention returning to each other right after the gesture.
I know many of these secrets, but some are still a mystery to me, including what brought my own parents here. I've never asked, and Sir has never told. I guess it never really mattered why we moved here, just that we had.
His brief overview continues with a nonchalant head tilt. “To the left—the man holding that woman's hand—his name is Christopher Striker, an ER surgeon. The woman is his wife, Professor Lexi Lu. The young woman lingering close to the bar area is Leighyani, their daughter.” My eyes steal a short glance at Le Le, who is giggling behind a wine glass. “She's a student at the Dechert Able University downtown. She, Clint, and Howard are all the same age.”
Haven turns to see the view that I have, the plate of food she was enjoying now basically empty.
“Leighyani and Howard have no idea what haunts their parents or what each of us has done for each other. They only know that, if there's ever danger or they are in trouble, someone can get them out. Any one of us will get them out. Clint’s the exception—he’s the only one who knows the truth or some of it anyway.” Sir’s finger taps the side of his glass, “And now you. I expect that you will keep the information to yourself.”
The fact that he even considers she can't be trusted agates me. My legs shift. My fingertips drum the side of the couch as I try to take deep breaths. I have to remain calm. I have to stay stable no matter how much I feel Sir is out of line for thinking she would betray us. God, if I could get my own head out of my ass for just a minute I wouldn't second guess his need to be assured she wouldn't let her mouth run away from her. It's logical. Strategic. Wise. Damn.
After Haven nods, Sir resumes speaking, “Anna and Felix West are settled at the dining table with their son Howard. Anna is branch manager at a local bank, a retired hacker from a government agency. Felix owns quite an amount of land in Reckonberg and a few of the surrounding cities as well his own construction company, which happens to put up most of the houses on the land once he sells it. Howard–”
My tongue flies without thinking, “Who attends the same university as Le Le, has a heavy drinking problem, an addiction to throwing his parents’ money away, and a disgusting tendency to hump anything with a pulse.”
Haven's eyebrows rise. Whether it is in surprise of my description or of the fact this was the first time I stepped up to say something about someone in the group is unsure. My strong distaste for the jerk cut through and escaped. I know better than this. Hell, I have to stop behaving like this. Sir silently demands an apology with his facial expression. He’ll get it. But, it won't make what I said any less factual. “Sorry, Sir.”
“You will learn their faces. You will learn their names. Most importantly, you will learn their skills and what they can do for you. They will help create the evidence to support your new back story. As of today, you are the daughter of an old Navy friend of mine who passed away. You’re here to explore and think before you decide on college—or whatever you want to do with the rest of your life. It's enough to get the ball rolling and keep questions, especially from Leighyani and Howard, down to a minimum. I'm sure this has been a bit much for you to process, so I'll give you some time now. Take a breath. Refresh your plate. When you feel comfortable, begin to make yourself known.” Sir rises to his feet, whiskey glass now empty. I know where he is headed. “If you'll excuse me.”
And when it's just the two of us once more, Haven's dark-brown eyes relax. Her body language echoes the sentiment. For what has to be the first time since we've walked through Mindy's front door, she looks like she might actually believe she's going to be OK, that she might be able to survive. This is good. This is a great. We may have a long way to go, we may have a long uphill journey to push through, but at least now I know she's got some sort of faith she can do it. And if she's got that, that's more than enough for me and my heart.
85 Days Till Deployment
A steady stream of screams flows out of a pair of hefty lungs, shooting me into a panic, my knife gripped in my hand, ready to attack an intruder. My eyes quickly adjust to see no one is in my bedroom but me and Haven, who has gathered herself close the headboard.
She looks terrified but not of me. It's like she doesn't realize where she is, and that twinge in my chest returns. What the fuck is that? Acid reflux? Sitting up with my arms draped on my gathered knees, I watch her cycle through the emotions of horror, relief, excitement, resentment, fear, and confusion. This is the fifth time in three hours she's shot up screaming like that, drenched in a wicked, cold sweat. Each time, I alert myself with the same amount of attention, each time prepared for someone to break in and try to take her away.
I thought sleeping on the floor would help give her the space she needed to rest. I thought letting her feel safe by me being on a sleeping bag on the floor would provide a measure of comfort, yet every time she screams, I feel like I'm wrong. I hate being wrong. I'm never wrong. I'm never this confused or conflicted. It's making me feel like I'm waning in my own skin. Helpless.
There's a light knock on my door. Sir.
Reluctantly, I rise to my feet, pull my black tank top down, and shuffle over to the door, cracking it open to see his judgmental face beginning to wear thin.
Not speaking to him, I stand with my entire body at attention, both hands behind my back.
“Clint, I know she can't help it–”
“No, Sir.”
“But have you considered the option of maybe giving her something to help her sleep?”
I have. The thought of drugging some poor girl who only God knows what she's been through just doesn't sit right. In fact, it makes me want to punch a hole through my door just to ease the tension of that thought, even if it's just for a moment.
“I don't think it's a good idea, Sir.”
“And letting that poor girl scream helplessly is?” His point is valid. “I understand what you think drugging her might do. Might make the nightmares worse. Could risk the chance of her falling into a psychotic episode. Allergic reaction. A number of things. But think, Marine. Something needs to be done.”
My fist clenches, and I resist the urge to let it go into his jaw for being right. Those possibilities would mean I'm not protecting her. That I'm not doing my fucking job. That I can't save her.
“I'll give her one more chance, then I'm calling Striker, and we're giving her something.”
“Sir–”
“Subject closed. Are we clear?”
I nod and respond the only way I can, “Yes, Sir.”
He disappears back down the hall, and I shut the door as quietly as I can.
“Is he mad?” her soft voice chirps.
My heart sinks. The fact she's worried about the grumpy old bastard instead of herself is sweet and highly unnecessary.
“Should I go? I should go.”
“No.” My head snaps around to see her shaking in fear, hands still clutching my white sheets. The way her hair is tossed around her head, her dark-brown eyes softening from sadness, my old T-shirt loosely hanging from her yet still giving her magnificent breasts a glowing shape, is incredible. How someone can look so fucking sexy such a mess is unreal. I feel a stirring in my pajama bottoms and will it to calm itself down. Now is not the time.
“But–”
“Haven,” I approach the bed, careful to keep my movements slow and precise, not wanting her to think I'm doing harm. “He's fine. You're . . .fine.” That's a lie. I try again, “You'll be fine. You're safe here. Do you understand that?”
She nods slowly, and the blanket drops from her now-relaxed hand, revealing her mocha-colored thighs that look like a tall drink of caffeinated heaven. Holy hell. I lower my head down and rub the base of my neck. Get a fucking grip.
“Clint.” My name twirls off her tongue, an unexplainable treat to my ears.
I instantly look up, “Yeah?”
She seems skittish by the way she pushes her hair behind her ear and buries her face, almost ashamed, “Will you lay with me?”
Nervous myself, I clear my throat, trying to will my voice not to be hoarse. “Is that what you want?”
“Yes, please.”
“Then of course.” I lean down to grab my pillow only to discover my hand is shaky. What the hell is the matter with me? I've slept with a female before. Well, I've had sex with one before, obviously. I've never just spent the night beside one with her in my arms. Gripping my pillow, I look over at Haven as she slowly starts scooting her body to one side. This isn't just any female, though. This is an angel, a grace from God lying in my bed asking me to be beside her.
I place my pillow back on my queen-sized mattress and slink under the covers. She rolls over so her body is curved, her back presenting itself to me. My eyes lazily roll over the curves, thoughts of all the things I plan to do to her when she's healed clawing their way up from the depths they were banished too. What kinda sick perv fantasizes about a woman like this?
Haven still seems to be trembling, though her eyes are shut once more. I roll over onto my side, snake my arm around her stomach, and crush her body back into mine, her back hitting the wall of my chest, a wall to stand between her and the outside world. A wall to create a new version of herself on the other side. A wall to lean against, find shelter in. I grip her tighter, and to my surprise, she lets out a long sigh, the trembles subsiding. Her body relaxes completely, molding into me like a custom-made glove, like the piece of me that has been missing for so many years.
I banish the stirring emotions from my mind, shut my eyes, and get lost in the pattern of her chest rising and falling. After all, it's begun to match my own.
Before I know it, the soft buzzing sound of my six a.m. alarm begins vibrating against the hard wood of my dresser, alerting me it's back to reality. With a harsh groan, I use my arm that's been wrapped around Haven to shut it off only to return it immediately to its newfound preferred location, tucked around her waist. Raising myself over to peer down at her, I realize she hasn't moved since I crawled into bed beside her. Not a stir. Not a scream. Not a sound. I feel my face beginning to smile in pride. I did that. I took care of her. Like I should. My hand prepares to remove itself when the tip of her thumb strokes it. The smallest bit of breath catches from the moment I f
eel an unfamiliar flush across my body. It's a warm energy spreading everywhere throughout me and fast. With the feeling igniting like wildfire, I lose the smile and slip away before it gets worse. What is that? Am I coming down with something? Did I catch some sort of flu while I was out in the field? My hands scrub my face hard. What's the problem, Grim? What the fuck is wrong with you? I let my feet hit the ground. That's right. Running. A good steady run in reality is what I need to get myself back together.
Five miles, forty-one minutes. The only thing I want on my mind is beating my time from the day before. Sweat out the stress of constant contradictions, the confusion. Pump through the pain of the broken creature waiting in my bed for me to be beside her, her gorgeous face, cleaned and healed from, smiling at me. That warm feeling returns, trying to take over. That's what I get instead of clarity. That's what I get instead of ease. The fact that I improved on my time is a mind-fucking mystery.
The door to my bedroom creaks open as I walk in, the sweat in my hair running down. I need a shower.
Startled, I see Haven awake on her feet and anxiously tapping her foot up and down. I think I might have just interrupted an attempt at an escape. I'm beginning to wonder if she feels safe here or if this just feels like another prison she can't escape. I pray that's not how she sees me. I pray I'm not just some new villain for her to hate.
Weary, I say, “Didn't think you'd be up yet. Thought soldiers were the only ones who willingly woke up before sunrise.”
“I've always woken up before the sunrise.” The words whisper from her body. “It's the only way I know how to measure time. I used to scratch tally marks on my wall . . .”
My shoulders slouch as my jaw begins to violently throb. I'll kill him. If it is the last thing I do, I will hunt him down. I will put my KA-BAR to his throat and slice in one clean sweep.
Without a word, I offer my sweaty hand for her to take. Leading her over to the window, I push back the dark-brown curtains and expose a view I tend to take for granted.
Havoc Page 7
