by Stella Noir
"Jeez," I say, more to myself than to him.
But, of course, he hears me. I'm not looking at him, instead focusing on my glass.
"Could we just...do this, then?" I ask, still not looking at him. If he wants to skip pleasantries and simply get down to business, well then, so can I.
"Yes, let's," he says. His tone is no longer brash. He's still anything but nice and relaxed, but at least he doesn’t sound like this interview is the most annoying thing ever.
I wonder what that outburst of laughter was all about then. I had hoped it meant that he'd loosen up a little, but apparently, that was not the case.
"So, um," I begin, but stop to clear my throat. No more stuttering, no more insecurity. I straighten up and take another sip from my drink. This Scotch is starting to grow on me. I always thought whisky would be too strong for me, but I'm beginning to appreciate not only the warming and relaxing effect it has on me, but also the taste. It's peated, but not too much, and the burning taste of alcohol is accompanied by a soothing hint of honey.
"All right," I begin anew. He's looking at me, his eyebrows arched in expectation.
"Since we didn't have a chance to talk before this meeting," I say, "let me bring you up to speed on the main objectives I want to accomplish in this interview. Unless... did Joe tell you everything?"
I turn around to face him, just now realizing that I have no idea what Joe has told him about me or this interview. Does he even know why he's here? The fact that he called my job a "little assignment" makes it sound like this is a school project.
"What did Joe tell you?" I ask him.
He shrugs and takes another sip from his drink before answering.
"He said that there was a young woman who's writing about army life and was looking for young veterans to interview for an assignment or –"
"It's not an assignment," I interrupt him. "I'm not a little school girl. I work for the City Heartbeat and this might become my first editorial piece if I don't screw it up. So if you'd –"
"All right, all right," he says, raising his hands up in defense. "I didn't mean to offend the young lady."
Young lady?
He's not taking me seriously, and I hate that.
"Well, you are," I say. "Offending me, I mean. It'd be nice if you could stop that, even though I understand you don't like being here."
He casts me a look that's hard to read. At first I believe it’s the same sinister sneer he displayed before, but there's something more behind it. It feels as if he's seeing me for the first time.
Then he says something that truly surprises me. "I'm sorry."
I find myself dumbfounded for a few moments. His change in demeanor is truly confusing.
"I'm sorry if I gave you the impression that I don't want to be here," he continues. "Truth is, I'd be here no matter what. I come to this bar almost every other day. That's what I told Joe when he told me about the young reporter I should meet. I told him I'd be here and she could join me for a drink and pose a few questions, if she felt like it."
Our eyes lock, and all of a sudden, I’m lost in the vast darkness of his. There's so much depth behind them. They say that eyes are the mirror of a person's soul. If that is true, his soul is shrouded in an abyss of blackness that is frightening to the core.
"Well, okay," I say, shuffling my notes. "Let me start with these questions then."
I pick up my pen so I can take notes, but then I remember that I wanted to record our interview, as well.
"Is it okay if I record our conversation?" I ask him.
He furls his eyebrows and lets out a grunt that could mean anything. "If you must."
I hesitate for a moment, my hand hovering above my bag ready to search for the mini recorder. For a moment, I contemplate conducting the interview without recording it, just so I don't irritate him any more than necessary.
Then I decide that my job is more important than tiptoeing around this man's mood.
"I must," I say, trying to sound confident as I produce the recording device from my bag. This time, I manage to do it without dumping everything all over the floor and creating an awkward mess.
"Okay," I say, after switching the device on. "As per your request, I'll skip the pleasantries and get right to it."
He huffs. "Please do."
"You were in the Army for how long?"
"Marines," he corrects. "I was a Marine. Big difference."
I gulp. "Okay. Marines. I'm sorry."
I make a note in my notebook and circle it.
"And you were in the Marines for how long?"
He sighs. At first I think it's because my questions are annoying him already, but I soon realize that he has to think about it before answering.
"Six years," he says. "I was discharged after six years."
"Why?" I want to know.
He turns around and looks at me. "Is that important?"
I arch my eyebrows, trying to remain strong and confident, even though the way he looks at me chills my blood.
"Is it a secret?" I ask back, proud of my sassy comeback. "The reason you were discharged. Is there anything shady about it?"
He pierces me with his dark eyes, trying to intimidate me once again, but it doesn't work. Not this time.
"No," he says eventually. "I'm just wondering why it's of any importance."
"It is," I say. "Or... it might be."
"I was wounded," he says. "During my last tour of duty. They sent me home and I was told I wouldn't be back in the field any time soon, probably never. They would've placed me in an office if it were up to them."
"And you didn't want that," I assume.
He glares at me.
"I didn't join the Marines to sit in an office all day," he snorts. "If I'd wanted to do something like that, I would have chosen a different career path, don't you think?"
"Of course," I agree.
He waves at the bartender to order another drink and casts a questioning look in my direction.
"Oh, no thanks, I'm fine –"
"Your glass is empty," he remarks. "Might as well have another."
I let him order another round because I know that protesting will be a waste of time. He didn't say I had to finish the drink, after all.
"Why did you join the Marines then?" I ask once our drinks have been delivered.
"I wanted to do something useful," he says. "Didn't have a lot going for me back then."
"What do you mean?"
He sips at his drink and shrugs.
"Never was good in school, never cared much for anything, really. If I hadn't enlisted in the Marines, I would have ended up God knows where," he says.
He pauses and clears his throat before he continues speaking. "I didn't want to end up in some fucking low-paying job and be looked down upon my entire life. As a Marine, you get respect, make money, feel valued, all without having to be one of those booksmart guys."
He pauses again and looks at me. "You know, the goody-goody kids."
I know what he's saying.
"Like me?" I give voice to his thoughts.
He smirks. "Yeah, good girls like you."
I blush, and it's only partly because of fury. Him calling me a good girl sends a weird rush through my body. Maybe it's just in combination with the way he looks at me, but he certainly has an effect on me.
But I don't want to focus on that right now. I can't. I shouldn't. I have to ignore how handsome and sexy he is and continue with this interview if I ever want to be considered a professional journalist.
"You don't know me," I snap back at his 'good girl' remark. "But I get your point."
"Did you go to college?" he wants to know.
I nod. "I did. But if you don't mind, I'm the one asking the questions here."
His eyebrows fly up in surprise. If I didn't know any better, I'd think that earned me a point in his book, not because of the college degree, but because I dared to stand up to him.
"Continue asking your questions then,
" he says, drawing another drink from his glass.
I nod and look down at my notes.
"So, you said you wanted to be valued, make a good income, be respected," I repeat. "And you felt joining the Marines was the only way for you to achieve that, given that you were not a good student with aspirations of going to college."
I look at him. Our eyes meet and lock, fixating on each other for a few awkward moments, during which I expected him to react in some way, but he doesn't. He just looks at me expectantly, neither agreeing or objecting with my comment.
"It wasn't about defending your country?" I clarify. "Most soldiers would say they felt driven to fight for our values and freedom and democ —"
"Fuck that," he interrupts me. "No. None of that mattered for me. My reasons were... selfish."
He takes another sip from his Scotch and I do the same, just to be polite. I'm beginning to relax a little more around him, but I'm not sure if that's just the alcohol working its magic or if I'm actually warming up to him and his harsh demeanor.
He doesn't seem to think much of himself, and that saddens me. He is a beautiful man, rugged and sinister, but so insanely handsome that my heart flutters like a trapped butterfly just sitting next to him.
It’s then that I glance down at his hands and notice that he's not wearing a ring on his left hand. Joe never told me anything about his marital status, but I'm surprised that he’s still single.
He's contradicting in so many ways. Confident and tough on one hand, sad and full of self-loathing on the other.
"Selfish?" I repeat, trying to catch his eyes, but he evades me. "Selfish because you wanted the recognition for yourself?"
"Yes," he says. "I told you. Respect, money. That's what it was all about for me."
"You have both of those things now," I tell him. "Did you feel like you got what you wanted? While serving, I mean."
He shrugs. "I can't remember."
That's an odd answer, one I didn't expect.
"You can't remember?" I ask. "It hasn’t been that long ago that you —"
"Next question," he interrupts.
My eyebrows fly up as I turn to look at him. "So, you didn't then?"
He glares at me. His rage is so palpable that my heart skips a beat.
"Don't make any assumptions about me just because I'm not giving you the answers you want," he says. "If a clear 'Yes' or 'No' is what you're after, I can assure you that we won't get very far with this interview of yours. Life is more complex than that."
I resist the urge to roll my eyes, and instead give a small nod.
"I'm aware of that, no need to lecture me," I tell him. "Still, it would be nice if you could tell me a little more about your experiences while serving. I mean, you had these specific expectations when you signed up — were they met? How did it make you feel? Did you gain the respect you were seeking?"
"Why does it matter?"
I sigh. Why must he be so difficult?
"I thought you were interested in military life," he adds. "Joe told me you wanted to know about our duties, everyday life during deployment, our tasks, the problems we faced on-site, stuff like that. What does all of that have to do with my feelings and expectations?"
I don't know how to reply to that. What on Earth did Joe tell him? He knew what I was looking for to write my story.
"Um, not exactly," I mumble, unsure how to continue.
"What do you mean by ‘not exactly’?" he asks, the impatience apparent in his voice.
"I mean, I'm not interested in your everyday experiences, per se," I try to explain. "Of course, you can tell me about what happened during deployment. But I'm really more interested in the effect those experiences had on you. You've dealt with – are dealing with – post-traumatic stress disorder, right?"
His eyes flicker and he looks at me alarmed, as if I'd just caught him doing something wrong. And then his eyes veil over.
"Who told you that?" he hisses.
I'm confused.
"Joe," I say. "This is why he recommended that I talk to you because I’m writing an article on young veterans who've been disagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder and –"
He jumps up from his barstool and brusquely starts rummaging in the inside pocket of his leather jacket.
I look at him, dumbfounded. What's happening?
He produces a few bills and slams them on the bar.
"We're done here," he announces coldly.
"What?" I exclaim, my voice high-pitched and shrill. "Why? What happened? What did I do?"
"I didn't sign up for this," he says, throwing a dark look down at me.
He makes a move to walk away, but I grab him by the arm. I don't know why I'm doing it, and the moment my hand catches hold of his muscular bicep, I regret it.
He stops mid-motion and turns around, looking down at me with cold eyes, glaring at me as if he was ready to kill me.
It's not like I have any power over him, he could shake me off easily like an annoying fly.
But he doesn't do that. Instead, he just continues to stare at me with that furious, dark glare.
His harsh demeanor and intimidating stature scare the shit out of me, but right now there's another emotion dominating his presence.
Sorrow.
He's hurt, and the pain casts an unyielding shadow over him. Just looking at him right now makes my heart ache.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, tears starting to well up behind my eyes.
"Sorry for what?" he barks at me.
Sorry for whatever happened to you. Sorry for making you talk about it. Sorry for putting you in this situation. Sorry for holding you back when you were trying to escape from it.
I can't say any of it. I don't dare. Whatever it is, it's facing it head-on that seems to be scaring him away.
Our eyes are locked on each other as the silence stretches between us. I don't know what to say. I don’t know what to do.
He doesn't give me time to come up with something. He yanks his arm away from my grip. I stand there silent and frozen as I watch him storm out of the bar into the dark night.
CHAPTER FOUR
Jed
"What the hell was that about?!"
I don't waste time on greetings and brainless smalltalk. Joe knows it's me, and if he knows me as well as he claims he does, he should have expected this phone call.
I hear him sigh at the other end, only worsening my already enraged mood.
"Did you talk to her?" he asks. His voice is calm and relaxed. He seems a little too calm and secure about this.
"No," I lie. "There was no reason for me to stay once she revealed the true purpose of that interview. The ones you lied to me about."
I'm pacing along the street, taking wide and quick steps, literally running away from her and her questions as I put distance between myself and the bar.
"So, you did meet her then?" Joe clarifies.
"Yes, I met up with her," I bark back at him. "Under false pretenses! What the fucking hell, man! I told you, I don't need that shit. I'm done with it, I'm good. I did what I was forced to do and I got over it. Why the hell would you lure me to a fucking interview with a silly little girl who has no idea about any of this and just needs my pathetic ramblings for a heart-wrenching story for that damn newspaper?"
I'm furious. I did this as a favor to Joe because I owe that man a lot, and he lied to me, just to get me to agree to do something he knew I wouldn’t be willing to do if I had known what it was all about.
And I'm furious, because I can't forget her face. That beautiful, innocent face. Those eyes. They were the most beautiful color of blue, but it wasn’t just the color that got to me, it was the compassion and perceptiveness I saw in them. When she looked at me, it felt as if she was reading me. She's as innocent as can be, pure, pale and spoiled. It's obvious that she's never been exposed to true hardship, but she is capable of seeing it when it's right in front of her in raw form.
It scares the hell out of me. She fuels a raging
need inside of me, one that's hard to control. Those eyes, her touch. Twice, she touched me. She tried to hold me back and she wasn't afraid. That dainty hand on my arm felt like a hot dagger burning into my flesh. I wanted to push her away immediately, to make that aching sensation go away, but a part of me longed for it. It wandered all the way to my heart, hypnotizing me to her charms, mesmerizing me to her goodness.
I want to find out what it feels like to let her in to my heart, my life, my soul. A part of me wants to be strong, willing to face the pain, and let her help me heal. The thought of fucking her is maddening, overwhelming.
"She's cute though, isn't she," Joe says in a light-hearted voice, as if he wanted to add a sweet touch to my hungry thoughts. "I thought you two might hit it off."
"Hit if off?" I repeat. "Is this a fucking game to you? You lied to me to get me to do something you know I wouldn't want to do."
"Yeah, yeah," he says. "And I knew you'd react this way. I felt kinda' bad because I feared that she may not get the kind of interview she wanted from you. Call me stupid, but I hoped you'd get over it and at least share a few drinks with her, get to know her, warm up to the idea of getting close to someone again and –"
"So, you not only lied to me, but to her as well," I say. I'm nearly out of breath due to my fast pace, still stalking down the sidewalk in the opposite direction of the bar. "What a good man you are."
"I didn't lie to her," Joe argues. "She was looking for young veterans who've dealt with PTSD because she wants to talk to them about their healing process. I thought of a few names, but yours came up first."
"Well, you'd better give her one of the other names," I say. "I'm done doing you any favors."
I can tell that he's about to say something else, but I don't want to hear it. I end the phone call and hail a cab to take me home.
I had been storming off in the opposite direction of my place when I took off from the bar, so I find the taxi driving past it just a few minutes later. My eyes are glued to the windows as we drive by, wondering whether she's still inside.
Joe has been trying to get me to meet someone for months. It's as if I've become his personal project. I don't know why he keeps it up, why he's so keen on me opening up to someone else. I was in therapy for as long as I had to be, completing the mandatory time period. I passed on extending the sessions once I believed I was feeling good enough to face life without pouring my heart out to Dr. Bennett on a weekly basis. I have Joe to thank for that. He was the one who forced me to get therapy in the first place and he was the one who helped me to get out of the hole I had dug for myself.
