But Michael's wife, Joanna, is thirty eight, has short golden brown hair and dark eyes. She’s also plus sized, in an attractive, bones-are-for-dogs-and-meat-is-for-men kind of way. And Dr. D looks exactly like his surveillance photos. Early forties, dark blonde almost brown hair, teal eyes and thin as a rail with lean muscles. The furthest from looking like me as you could probably ever get.
Gonzales and I have been ordered during our painfully dull and mind-numbing downtime to make friends with this couple and find out as much as we can. And as bad and unpatriotic this is going to sound, I don’t care one iota what we do or don’t uncover. Which I’ve sort of expressed rather heatedly to Gonzales today as she not so delicately tried to dress me by laying out my clothes like I’m a damn three year old. 'Control freak' should be tattooed in big black old English lettering on her forehead.
We order, I select the steak tartar and fill the tension between us with more silence. Her eyes forever glue to me in one strange way or another. I pay close attention to the drug doctor eating with his wife. Both of them happily carrying on without a care in the world. Sipping pink champagne from crystal flutes, feeding one another. Something couples in love do. Couples like what I just had a mere four days ago. The love of a good woman and two beautiful newborns.
We flew to DC. The flight was rather painful but my old buddy Brewer kept my emotions from combusting. We relieved the good ol’ times of our time together in the service. Me; being the constant fly on the wall and him the poster boy for Bud Light and Astroglide. A forever flirty, horny, mouthy, southern farm boy who drank copious amounts of alcohol and screwed his way through life. Joining the military right out of high school to see the world. A lot of boys do that. Thinking you’ll be stationed in some beautiful tropical destination. But in reality since 9/11 most find themselves deployed constantly and living in countries consisting of dry heat, too much sand and Muslims. It’s no Tokyo or Pearl Harbor. Trust me; I’ve traveled to over sixty counties and all of the states, with California and Oregon being my favorites. Although after spending two glorious weeks with a perfect, pregnant redhead in Colorado, it’s bound up the list to second place. Anywhere she is will always remain my number one. Just as she is my number one. Always and forever.
So after our flight, we were driven by armored truck to the Pentagon to be briefed, scanned and booked for my new job and placed in suburban hell, constantly reliving my life with Emily in my head just to get through my day.
We were given new identities, an assignment along with the safe link extraction protocol, new government cell phones and strict unwavering orders not to under any circumstances contact anyone from our civilian lives or capital punishment would be swift and relentless, which still left me contemplating whether or not I should break a rule by contacting Davis to get my love a message. I can’t send mail, email or snail mail. I can’t call or order her flowers. Every single part of my life is under strict surveillance. Although if I play it right, I might be able to get word to Davis because he’s a part of this same program. Not technically a civilian. That is my only in. And to be honest, even if this does make me sound off my rocker, I’d love to see them try to punish me, when I do contact him.
First off, it won’t be easy. Not only am I a crack shot with just about every type of gun known to mankind. I’ve also been trained by the best of the best in military tactical assault and hand-on-hand combat. Among my childhood survival skills and my black belt that I earned when I was just sixteen. All of these things I’ve sort of concealed from Emily. Not because I don’t want her to know. I’d tell her anything. But I just couldn’t bring myself to tell her when she was so sore and stressed, lying in that hospital bed for too long. It wasn’t about me. It was about her and what made her happiest. Which, for whatever strange reason seemed to be me, at the time. My guts telling me that the calculating Johnathan will be making her happy enough, once she gets of the initial shock of me leaving. He is the twin’s biological father after all. I’ve always known that her leaving me or in this case, me leaving her, could be a possibility. This just leaves a huge opening for Johnathan to swoop in and capture her heart. He’s a sly devil. And if I was the ruthless man I used to be so many years ago, I wouldn’t hesitate to murder him and dump his body into the ocean for the fish to nibble and eat away at. It’s just a good thing for him that I’m no longer that kind of man. Emily kids that I scare the bejesus out of people with how big I am and how I look.
If she’d only known me back then, it wouldn’t be my looks that were intimidating. It was me as a person. A ruthless, sick, sadistic killer. I was bred by the military’s finest to become that man. Who do you think took out tons of Osama and Saddam’s little goffers and head men? Me. All in the name of the USA. 167 people have left this earth because I’ve killed them. On my own. That’s another reason why this safe link and other assignment has me angry. I work for years to help secure our nation’s safety, removing one hostile at a time. And the one time I need them to leave me be, to let me take care of the only thing I’ve ever really cared about in my forty plus years on this planet, they won’t even consider relenting. All because they need codes, codes that only my brain stores. Eight, twelve digit codes that both me and my fellow co-worker over here possess. And according to my latest assignment update, eight codes equals eight months. Eight months without those sweet arms wrapped around my thick neck. Eight months without her body writhing under mine, telling me how much she loves me as I ravish her with immeasurable amounts of kisses, trailing up and down her beautiful curvy body.
“Honey… Honey.” Gonzales snaps fingers in front of my face again. Honey? Really? Those words sound wrong leaving her lips. They don’t suit her at all. But I guess she’s playing the part. Or I hope. Is what I really mean.
“Yes… Darlin,’?” I drawl like a hillbilly and she rolls her eyes at me.
“I paid the check, are you going to stop swimming in that head of yours long enough to drive us back home?” Her tone isn’t pleasant and I don’t take kindly to being sassed. Not when I’m wound tighter than an eight day clock. And that isn’t going to change anytime soon. Not until I have a beautiful redhead back in my life.
“If you lose your attitude I will,” I snip just a little. My mind coming up with all sorts of colorful and rather hurtful things to lash out with. But I’m a gentlemen most of the time. I need to get out of here anyhow. I need to go to bed early, eating a snickers bar and advert my attention to a novel. Maybe that will calm my ever climbing nerves.
“Fine,” she clips with a ‘humf’ and strides out of the restaurant ahead of me, heels clicking the marble floor the entire way.
I leisurely make it to the front door that is opened by a pleasant, short, black haired hostess bidding me adieu. I nod out of respect and embark from the establishment. Finding a rather unhappy Gonzales, jiggling the keys off her manicured finger and tapping her toe irately on the pavement. The green Lexus is parked at the curb, awaiting us.
“Why aren’t the keys in the car?” I ask her, when I snatch the key from her finger.
“I didn’t know how long you’d take,” she shrugs and I do the polite thing and make my way to the passenger side door of the car and open it for her. With a sigh and a small smile, she slides into the black leather and I close her in.
Well, maybe she will lose her attitude now.
Finding my way into my seat, I turn the car on and we leave. Out on the open road, a sexy car and a woman who I can’t stand. What a day.
“Why are you so angry?” She breaks in about half way home, according to the GPS.
“I’m not angry.”
“Yes you are. I’ve known you for four days and you’ve been this uptight and brooding man. Why?” Her delicate voice lowers and out of the corner of my eye I can see her smoothing the bottom of her too short dress over her tanned legs, nervously fiddling with the hem.
Clenching my fists tighter around the steering wheel, I attempt to cool my jets. I’ve been having a very ha
rd time controlling my emotions since I left California. It’s nearly impossible for me to think straight. When my heart aches so badly and my body misses it’s other half.
“I...” I let out a huge sigh. “I’m sorry. I really don’t want to be doing this job. It’s not your fault. I just have the love of my life back home. I want to be with her and only her. And being away from her and my children is making me crazy.”
Oh wow… Did I just admit I have children? I didn’t even think twice about that.
“Oh...” She slumps down in her seat. “I didn’t know you had children.”
“I have twins. Eric and Jenna, they were born two days before I left.”
“They made you leave after your children were born?” Her voice is so small, I can barely make out what she’s saying.
“They were going to make me leave if they weren’t. My fiancé…,” My heart thuds and suddenly the pain is so unbearable I have to rub my chest. Leaving me to drive with just one hand. She’s not really my fiancé anymore. Is she? I sort of said ‘to hell with that' when I left. I didn’t want her to feel tied down because of me. What was I thinking? I shouldn’t have ever said that to her.
The pain radiates so bad. My breathing becoming erratic and my vision starts to blur. So I pull over to the side street and turn off the car. Hanging my head against the steering wheel, I breathe in deep and try to calm myself. It’s hard, it’s so hard, being without her. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I pull in a deep lungful of air and hold it. And then I feel a hand plant itself on my upper back, across my shoulder blades, making me flinch.
“Sorry.” She pulls her hand back into her lap.
“It’s okay,” I huff, hyperventilating. My palms slick with sweat.
“I’m sorry. I’m a mess. I’m not usually like this. I’m a calm, collected man. I really am. I just don’t know how to deal with all of these emotions.”
Reaching over, she pats my shoulder and gives me a friendly reassuring squeeze which I welcome.
“Talk about it. It might help. I’ll listen. Continue telling me about your fiancé,” she offers, bless her weird heart. One minute she’s a complete tool and the next she’s able to be sweet. Like she’s being right now. And just the mention of the world fiancé has me left cringing.
“She’s not my fiancé anymore.” I bang my forehead against the steering wheel, frustrated. “I’m the idiot who decided to break up with her before I left. Just so she didn’t feel tied down. I didn’t even give her a chance to make up her mind. I made it for her,” I grind out, boiling in my skin at my foolishness.
I should have asked her. I should have talked with my Mama Bear about it. Not made the choice for her.
“Does she love you?” She softly asks.
“Yes.”
“Do you question her love?”
“No.”
“Then don’t worry. If she loves you and knows you like I’m sure she does, then she will probably forgive you.” She sounds so sure of the words leaving her mouth. And I know Emily is a forgiving person. But leaving her when the babies were just born and breaking up with her after we made love, I sound like the biggest asshole on the face of the earth and here I thought Johnathan owned that title. I’m the king of assholeville and he’s the prince. And my Emily is the beautiful Queen of perfectville, a neighboring town. That I should have never been able to visit but when I did, I found myself so mesmerized I couldn’t help but fall in love with its queen. Great, now I’m really losing it.
“Okay,” is all I can make out. I can’t divulge anything more. My personal life is not her life and I don’t air my own dirty laundry.
Turning the car back on, I head home and pull into the drive. Gonzales gets out of her own side and me out of mine. As we walk next to each other into the cookie cutter house, she bumps her hip against mine.
“Let’s get a drink in ya, you scary mo’fo,” She chuckles and I can’t help but join in a little. A drink sounds good. A drink sounds real good.
Inside, she throws off her heels right inside the door with a sigh of relief. I don’t know why women feel the need to endure pain for beauty. It doesn’t make much sense.
“PJ drinking party in the living room, five minutes,” she states, and goes off to her room upstairs and I mine. Stripping out of my god-awful dress clothes, I toss them into the wicker hamper in my adjoining bathroom and proceed to assess my thickly grotesque body in the mirror. I really don’t have a clue what Emily sees in me. She swears I’m sexy. I can’t fathom it. I’m too thick and I look like a 4 next to a 10, when I’m with her.
Returning to my bedroom—which, by the way, is something I’m sure most men would find kick ass. Or some other form of weird verbiage to associate with it. I find it boring and not my taste at all. Medium blue walls, black king sized sleigh bed with a gray duvet. So many pillows you could get lost in them. Next to each side sits a basic, no frills square nightstand. That is where my guns lie, and under the bed I’ve got more weapons. Just like I did at home. It’s my safety net. A safety net that I never told Emily about. I didn’t want her to feel weird sleeping on a bed that was concealing enough firepower and knifes to kill a small army. They are all nestled safely in a long rectangular metal box with a button code to open it. It’s also fireproof, bulletproof and tamperproof. So nobody is getting into that baby unless it’s me or somebody I entrusted the code with. Which is only Davis.
On the wall across from my bed is a matching black dresser and on that sits a giant flat screen state-of-the-art TV. That will, of course, never be turned on. I don’t believe bedrooms should ever have a TV. That’s what a game room or living room is designated for. Bedrooms are meant for three things. Sleeping, making love to my woman or quiet relaxation. And I could achieve all of those things with Emily, living in a cardboard box. I wouldn’t need anything else. Just her.
Riffling through my dresser, wearing only my boxers, I pull out a pair of plaid pajama bottoms and a black t-shirt. I slide it all on and head downstairs. Gonzales, being a smart woman tonight, is wearing something very similar to my getup and she’s pouring three fingers full of bourbon into the bottom of a lowball glass.
“Here.” She hands me the glass and I take a seat on a blue and cream high back chair and she sits across from me on the boring couch.
“Salute,” she chimes, raising her glass in the air. I do the same and we both simultaneously shoot back the first of many drinks to come. I don’t drink often but I need something to relax me.
***
It’s four a.m. in the morning and I’m so drunk I am now seeing two of everything, including Gonzales who’s been jibber jabbering about everything and anything tonight. Blabbing all about her life. Been married once, loves anal sex and sucking cock, never had an orgy. Her words not mine. She’s been in the military since she was eighteen. Spent many years in the Middle East in a small post of eight people living in near poverty. That’s a small portion she keeps running on and on about. All of it I’ll remember for about a day and force myself to forget. I’ve just sat and listened. At the same time, I find myself living in my own mind. That — when you are drunk, at least— starts showing you some really messed up emotional crap when you don’t want to think about it.
Like the third labor scare with Emily in the hospital. We had been lying in bed all night. I stroked her hair and we were watching a Friends marathon on the TV. Both of us laughing whenever Joey said ‘How you doin.' I don’t know why, but for whatever reason Emily loves that part of the show.
“How you doin’?” She teased and turned to face me, pulling her head from my bare chest.
“I’m fine, How you doin’? Suga.” I said, trying to keep a straight face, as I used my best Italian accent. Which sounded pretty stupid. I’m only fluent in Arabic and English.
She giggled so loudly. Reaching up her hand, she caressed my face with a big smile.
“You’re pretty great, you know that?” she said, with all the love and desire a man could ever want a
woman to express. Complete perfection.
“Not as great as you,” I replied, grabbing her hand and placing a kiss on the inside of her palm. Getting a good whiff of her body spray. Which by the way is the best smelling stuff on the planet. And adding it to her natural skin scent is enough to make a man crazy with the carnal need for sex. After my first taste of Mama Bear’s body, her lips, her lady parts, I craved more. And even though I couldn’t have it with her being on bed rest and miserable many parts of the day she still wanted to take care of me and honestly I didn’t really want her to. I wanted to be abstinent because she had to be. But she refused and begged many of the times I protested feeding her my come. But she won, because the one time I pulled away and stood my ground she ended up pouting and even crying a little. Which tore my heart in half. And that day I realized I would always give her whatever she wanted in the bedroom and out of it too, if I was able. Unlike now.
That night, I leaned down and kissed her lips, so soft and supple; it made me sublimely happy to have them pressed against mine. My manhood rose as it always does when I kiss her and she purred in her throat as our tongues tangled in one another’s. Raising the heat in the room a few degrees as the scent of her arousal permeated the air with thick enchantment. I’ve always loved her scents, even when she’s turned on. It’s a sweet, musky mix which is so mouthwatering.
Just thinking about it now makes me hot. So I gulp back and try to clear my cloudy inebriated mind.
What happened next is what ruined the evening and made our lives harder. Her contractions kicked in full throttle, all because our kissing had made her so turned on, or I should say ‘I’ turned her on. Liquid was injected into her IV and within minutes she was out like a light. Snoozing in my arms and I just laid worried, as I stroked her hair with the hand that was tucked under her head and my other hand massaged our babies. My lips pressing little kisses to her messy hairline. I whispered sweet nothings to her as she slept. Telling her how much she meant to me. If I can remember correctly, I think that was the night I confessed something I’d never told her before.
Stricken Resolve Page 9
