Now, let me ask you, what do you want to be when you grow up? A ballerina? A construction worker? The possibilities are endless, don't let your fear of what your parents will think cloud your dreams, unless you want to be a drug dealer.
My sister, Savannah, is the baby of the family. She's pretty, and not because her older brother is saying this, she really is. She's one of those people who have so much happiness it seems to pour out of her. She surrounds herself with positive people and brings such joy to those around her. If I could change one thing about her, she falls in, what she calls, "love" far too easily. She’s laid her heart on the line time and time again only to get it broken. I envy her in a way. She's at least willing to put herself out there. Most people, myself included, have run away from the L word.
My brother is married to a wonderful woman, Meghan. They are polar opposites, but it works for them. Where he is muscular and athletic, as the former defensive end for an NFL team should be, she is a klutz. The girl can trip over air. While he's considered a heartthrob, according to People Magazine, she's the poster child for the girl next door. It took over a year for her to agree to let him take her for a cup of coffee. She worked in the library and he had a term paper due, but the book he needed was checked out at the one by our house. He walked in, and there she was, with her hair in braided pigtails and clothes two sizes too big. He said she had the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen. He went back every day to ask her out and time after time, she turned him down. He went in this one particular afternoon when she was supposed to be working to find she was home sick. The guy, who was working for her, told my brother if he was playing some sick twisted game with Meghan, he would kick the shit out of him. He also told Zane, Meghan was always turning him down because she didn't understand why he was even giving her a second glance. Once my brother told his side of the story, the guy—who walked Meghan down the aisle—helped get Meghan to say yes to him.
When Zane was drafted, she broke up with him, worried he would cheat on her with a cheerleader or overzealous fan. When my brother came home that night, he sat in our kitchen and cried. After several weeks of Zane sending flowers and letters, he was out of ideas on how to get her back. Savannah suggested having the people Meghan feared the most talk to her. Taking her advice, Zane loaded up as many cheerleaders as he could find and went to the library where Meghan worked. After she was told what a perfect gentlemen Zane was and how he talked so much about this girl he was in love with, they knew he was off limits. Meghan took him back the next week. Right before he was injured, he proposed to her during halftime on national TV. Now they have three children, whom I never get to see, but am going to spoil rotten when I get back. Zane is now the defensive coach for the Falcons and says he loves his job more than when he played.
So, tell me the truth, were there really no sparks between you and Mr. Hawthorne? Come on, I know how those older men can be, throwing money at pretty young girls, making you feel like a million bucks. Just be careful, Kennedy, make sure your dad checks him out good, make sure he isn't hiding dead bodies in the trunk of his car.
I think by the sheer size of this email, I'm the rambler now. I did enjoy hearing about your family and I hope you enjoyed hearing about mine. I have a meeting I have to attend in a few minutes, but I look forward to hearing from you again.
Sincerely
Zach
CHAPTER SEVEN
Zach
“Hey, LT, you awake in there?”
Chief stood in the frame of my door, his hair still wet from his shower. I’d been staring at my laptop, half expecting a new email from Kennedy and knowing I needed to respond to my sister, Savannah.
“Hey, Chief, come on in.” I close the lid of my computer as he sits on the edge of my rack.
“Captain Brown asked if we would be willing to tag along with a patrol this afternoon, get a good look at some of the new guys and how they’re doing.”
“What time do we leave?” The last thing I wanted was to drag my ass back into the heat of the desert with a hundred pound pack on my back. Listening as these boys, pretending to be men, talked shit about what they did back home.
“Sixteen hundred, according to Ghost, it's been quiet for far too long.” I hated when the chatter over the radio dropped off, it meant they were waiting for us to do something, or had something planned. Either way, we would need to be on alert.
“Oh, one more thing.” Chief had risen to his feet and was halfway to the door, turning to look over his shoulder, his eyes apologetic. “Captain gave Ramsey the green light to come along.” Any hope of this being a quiet and uneventful patrol just rolled out the window.
Equipment had been checked, water supplies verified and all relevant questions answered. Ghost had chosen three guys to show them how to communicate without using the radio. Havoc wanted to walk in the lead position, needing to get this over with as soon as possible. Doc and I took the rear; he preferred to monitor the guys, watching for heat exhaustion and anyone being reckless. I liked to watch the locals as we passed, watch them as they waited for us to leave, seeing if they tried to contact anyone.
We hadn’t gone half way when one of the guys asked to stop and take a break. Reaper looked to me for direction. I nodded my approval for him to rain hell fire down on the piss ant.
“What the fuck you mean, take a goddamn break? We ain't reached the halfway mark and your poor tootsies already hurting.” Reaper had a way of getting your mind off stuff, while making you the butt of his jokes.
“Well too fucking bad, you pussy! Should have read the fine motherfucking print before you signed your life away to Uncle Sam.” The young man kept his eyes on his boots, trying to avoid the much larger man's taunting.
“Bet you're regretting all those hours you spent in your momma’s basement playing fucking Nintendo, instead of finding a pretty girl with a tight ass. You wasted too much time pretending you were shooting zombies, when you should have been bending some girl over the back of your couch and pounding her from behind, building up some stamina. Now all you got is your left hand and sweat running down you fucking butt crack.” A few snickers can be heard deep in the ranks, followed by the young man telling his friend to shut up.
“I bet your dick is too tiny, huh? Afraid to let the girls know you're working with something shorter than a tampon? That's all right, kid. A few months in this desert, you’ll be a walking, talking, fucking machine who can do back flips while wearing full gear.” Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed two things. First, Ghost building up his momentum, doing a front flip beside Reaper. Second, a local woman stood beside an animal pen, a rifle in her hand, raising the barrel in our general direction.
“Three o’clock!” I shout as the first shot sounded from the woman's gun. Organized chaos spread among the men, who get as low to the ground as humanly possible, returning fire to sources unknown. Ramsey has his face in the dirt, hands glued to the backside of his neck, curled into the fetal position.
The sounds of gunfire were like dueling banjos between the men surrounding me, and the enemy in the rocks and shadows. Echoes of pinging of shells as they bounce off gear, boots and sides of helmets, surrounds us. A cloud of dust, created by the quick movements of the moment, dissipates revealing several bodies slumped over where the insurgents emerged from their hiding places.
A building, behind where the woman with the gun stood, muffles the sound of several men, yelling something sounding like, “move” or “mortar”, it's hard to tell over the noise surrounding me.
“Motherfucker.” Havoc swears from my left, a bullet having grazed his right shoulder.
“You hurt?”
“Fuck no, but the asshole tore my shirt.”
Havoc tucked himself behind a cluster of rocks, a wide rip in his sleeve and a pissed off look on his face. I know how he feels, having to replace a uniform once you get it broken in, trouble with a new uniform is the material is stiff as a fucking board and not warn in the right places.
“You
gonna pick up that fucking gun or cuddle with it?” Reaper kicks at Ramsey, who has yet to open his eyes to the action he so desperately wanted to see. “Put a tampon in that fucking pussy of yours and get in this!” Another bullet buzzes past me as the voices in the shack become more frantic.
“Cock suckers!” Havoc yells as he tosses several grenades into the open doorway of the mud structure. Clanging and more shouted chaos rings out as the tiny balls of destruction bounce around inside. Less than a second later, the first of them detonates; creating a domino effect as whatever they had inside explodes, taking the mud and inhabitants with it. Dust and rocks rain down around us as Ramsey once again finds the ground to be his best friend.
“Everyone okay?” I hear Doc inquire as he jumps to his feet, ready to treat any wounded. I’d had him on nearly every mission, so I know his routine and how to read him. Havoc and Reaper have their guns raised, walking cautiously toward the smoking remnants of the building. Ramsey, finally decided to join the land of the living, watches the backs of the two men inch closer. As he stands, he stumbles and I look to see what had gotten in his way. Nothing catches my eye at first, until he turns around to face me and I notice the area at the top of his thighs. For all the shit Ramsey talks, the reality of real bullets flying at you has hit him square in the face, his fear evident in his wet crotch. Ramsey had pissed himself.
“Viper.” Havoc calls into my ear through the radio. I glance up in the direction I last saw him walking, noticing several pieces of wood smoldering with the last ounce of life they have. He and Reaper stand over what looks like a singed wooden crate. But it’s the piece of wood Havoc holds in his hand, which makes my blood boil. In block lettering, stenciled in perfectly clear English: C-4.
***
Every inch of my body aches as I climb into my bed. The hike back to base had been several degrees more somber, with the exception of Ramsey and the diaper jokes projected at him. Once back behind the barbed wire and illusion of safety, I woke the Captain up with news of the explosives we found. Aarash had managed to get his hands in the pocket of some bottom feeding, pieces of shit, who sold him stolen artillery.
Once upon a time I believed by training as hard as I did, I could help put an end to mad men like Aarash, making the world a safer place for my family and good people like Kennedy. Thinking her name gave me a surge of energy, a desire to know she was okay. Flipping open my laptop, my heart races as I waited for the Internet to connect.
To: Michaels, Zach. LT
From: HorseWhisperer
CC:
Subject: I want to be Barbie
Dear Zach,
To answer your question, completely tongue-in-cheek, I want to be Barbie. She has everything, even two boys who fight for her, Ken and GI Joe. She is pictured and portrayed as the girl who can and will do everything. I envy her courage, always wearing a smile and perfect makeup, taking on every challenge little girls have been giving her for the past forty plus years. She has the latest clothing, which would make my mother happy, and a beautiful horse, which makes me happy. So, yes, I want to be Barbie.
But seriously, I'm twenty-three and I have my Master's degree. I know twenty-three and a Master's degree? I've always been an overachiever. In high school, I took as many college level classes as I could so when I graduated, I was considered a sophomore. I also found loopholes in the rules to graduate college. I tested out of as many classes as allowed and took summer classes every year. Last June, I graduated with a degree in design, but my passion is Equestrian Therapy. As a matter of fact, I just sent a resumé to one of the country's top centers right here in Atlanta, thanks to you giving me the courage to put myself out there. I haven't told my mother about the job, I know she wouldn't approve.
When I applied to college, she insisted I attend Princeton, while I wanted the University of Colorado. My father came to the rescue and made a deal between us. I got to attend U of C, but had to major in design, getting my degree in Equestrian Therapy was on my own time. Thankfully, my father extended his generosity and paid my tuition. For the past year, I've worked with some incredible people, learning what real pain is and adjusting my priorities. My boss offered me a permanent position, but I had to turn it down. I am a person of my word, having sworn to my mother I would return to Georgia and help her in her charity work. I do miss Colorado, the people and especially the horses. Granted, I could spend all of my time with the horse I own here, a rescue my father found through a client, but my mother would frown on the idea. To her, horses are something you brag about owning, not something you care for and treasure. Being seen with the right breed of horse when an important set of eyes are watching is more to her thinking. As much as I would love to get away from my mother, I like the idea of being in Georgia.
I love everything about the area we live in. I love the weather, the restaurants, and people...just everything. I'm also taking some liberty here and assuming you and your brother have the same last name? If this is correct, then I met him while attending classes. He was in a nutrition class I took as an elective. I only knew it was him because all the jocks were talking about him. You're right, he is athletic, and although he may be pleasing to the eye for some, he just didn't do anything for me.
I told my brother what you said about telling my parents about his career choice and he has decided to put his dream into action, so to speak. He is actively searching for a place. I'm sorry, I know I'm being elusive, but I did give my word after all. Your family seems wonderful and easy going. I would love to have a family like that.
As for Mr. Hawthorn, my mother investigated, he’s married, much to her dismay. He also has three children, two in college and one who is married and expecting a baby.
I was shopping yesterday and ran into Hannah, who was looking at engagement rings. Can you believe that? Jason hasn't even asked her and she's already picking one out. I mean, every girl looks through bridal magazines dreaming of what her wedding will be like, but isn't it the man's responsibility to pick out a ring she would like? Maybe I'm old fashioned in that respect, but it’s how I feel.
So a tattoo artist? Do you have any tattoos yourself? I don't want to assume due to your active duty status you have an anchor on your bicep or a naked lady on your chest. As for you describing yourself, you do seem like a handsome man. I've been described as the girl next door, not strikingly beautiful like my sister, Caroline. I have dark brown hair, brown eyes and skin so pale I get a sunburn from the fluorescent lights in the kitchen. I don't like to dress provocatively or display myself in any questionable ways. I wear glasses when I read, which I do a lot of when I have time to myself. My gosh! I sound like I'm forty-three instead of twenty-three.
I love horses; love isn't really a strong enough word for what I feel around them. I enjoy music, although the boy bands of the 90's are my weakness. I play the cello, at my mother's insistence of course, but it isn't my passion and I stumble my way through it.
I can't believe you went to SEAL training to prove your brother wrong! I watched a documentary after you mentioned it and the training looks grueling. You, Zach, have to be very physically fit. Oh no...that sounded like flirting. Honestly, I'm not. I'm like your sister-in-law Meghan; the cute and available guy would never ask me out. I can see why she avoided your brother's attention. Girls like me know what they see in the mirror every morning and it isn't the stuff they print in Sports Illustrated or Playboy, but more like Martha Stewart Home or Housekeeping Digest. I'm okay with the fact I will never grace the cover of a magazine or walk down a runway, but I have a passion for making every patient feel hopeful the treatment I help them with will work. With my years of design school, I can make the vision trapped in someone’s head, become a reality in their dream bedroom. Let's see Tiffany, Ms. November, who loves beach volley ball and puppies, do that.
I won't keep you any longer; I know you have a loving family to communicate with. You left me with questions, and since you admitted you wanted to continue to correspond, I wanted to reply. Te
ll me, Zach, if you could open a tattoo shop anywhere in the world, where would it be? I send you wishes to remain safe and for a speedy return to our great state of Georgia.
You friend,
Kennedy
When Zane and I were growing up, our father would give us, what we coined “life lessons.” He would tell us his secrets to successful relationships. Reading Kennedy's latest email reminded me of what he had told us the summer we went off to football camp. "Boys, girls are going to come in and out of your lives. Some will turn your head, but not your heart. So be careful of the ones that come in pretty little packages. Sometimes they're like those pieces of candy, sweet on the outside, but bitter and awful on the inside. You look for the girl who spends more time filling her brain than stuffing her bra. Looks may come and go, but it's a lot easier to have a conversation when you don't have to use pictures to get your point across."
Kennedy was thousands of miles away, through at least four different time zones, and yet she was as open and honest as she could be. She thought of herself as this plain, ordinary girl, but I suspected the reality was completely different.
I had six months left of my tour. Less than a year remained on my contract with Uncle Sam, and until this last mission, I was still riding the fence on staying longer. Diesel and I had several conversations about leaving and hanging out together. Something was pulling me home, back to the roots, which ran deep. Maybe it was the dream of a tattoo shop, or maybe it was this polite, proper, southern lady who has sealed my decision
Signed, SEALed, Delivered (Trident Brotherhood Book 1) Page 7
