Bittersweet Melody

by Belinda Boring

  “Don’t ever presume to tell me what he would want,” I’d growled, ignoring the pain flickering in the doctor’s eyes. With ragged breath, I’d slowly loosened my grip. “You didn’t know him. Understand?”

  It was only when he nodded and apologized that I finally stepped back, placing enough distance between us so he could call for security.

  That slip in judgment had earned me six months of anger management classes paired with weekly therapy. More words and labels were thrown about.

  Depression.

  Post-traumatic stress disorder.

  All perfectly normal for someone in my situation, and each diagnosis came with bottles filled with pills to help me cope.

  It was complete bullshit, but if there was one thing I’d learned quickly being enlisted, it was to follow orders.

  Talk. Listen. Medicate. Smile. Nod. Hide the ever-present anger. Jump through whatever hoops necessary so everyone would leave me the fuck alone. Show how well I was rehabilitating back to civilian life so the inquisitive prodding and questions would stop.

  And now, years later, I could fake my way out of anything. I’d assimilated. I wasn’t perfect, but I managed.

  Or so I thought. My carefully constructed façade had crumbled the moment I’d recognized Caylee, rendering everything I used to survive inadequate.

  I was screwed. Plain and simple. There was no point denying it.

  The sound of someone clearing their throat snapped my attention to the present. “You okay?” Sure enough, Marty stood, watching me, his eyebrows raised.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled, rubbing my hand over my face. “Guess my head’s not in it today.”

  “No shit, Sherlock. It’s like working out with a ghost today. What’s going on?” Stepping away from where he’d been spotting me, I returned the weights to their resting place and sat up.

  The movement cooled my skin as sweat trickled down my spine. “Remember how I told you I had a visitor the other night after our gig?” The clinking sounds of the machines around us being used tugged at my focus.

  “Yeah, you mentioned someone from your past had shown up. Is that what this is about? You’ve got your head in the clouds over some woman?” Marty’s face split into a huge grin. Tossing a towel at me, I took the brief respite from the conversation to wipe away the sweat at my brow.

  “It’s not just any woman, though,” I answered, an image of Caylee resurfacing in my mind.

  Marty shrugged. “Unless she’s got a killer skill set in the sack, she’s just like every other female on this planet.” While I had no problems with the opposite sex—a real Midas touch when it came to finding willing bed partners—Marty was nothing short of a man-whore. Women flocked to him, eager to claim the privilege of being another notch in his proverbial belt.

  “It was Owen’s wife.”

  “Well, damn,” he replied, all humor draining from his features. Dropping down beside me on the weight bench, Marty let out a heavy sigh.

  “Exactly,” I added.

  “Why didn’t you tell me? When you mentioned it earlier, I assumed it was just another groupie wanting to ride on the Hensley Love Train.” His smile was weak. He understood just how huge this was.

  “Honestly?” When he nodded, I continued, suddenly feeling cold despite the heat generated from the hour-long exercise routine I’d done. While my injuries from that last tour had healed, I’d never gotten out of the habit of working my muscles to keep them flexible. “I don’t know. Shock, maybe? I haven’t seen her for years, and then suddenly, she was there.”

  “I’m almost hesitant to ask what she wanted,” Marty asked, whistling low.

  “I think she wanted closure. At least at first.” Stretching out my leg, I absently began massaging my upper thigh. I didn’t need to see the skin beneath the dark grey material of my pants. While the muscle had eventually mended from where the bullet had shredded it, it had come at a cost. To save my leg, the surgeon had cut away the damaged flesh and infection—the results being an indention like someone had taken an ice-cream scoop to that part of my thigh. “She wants to be friends.”

  “Friends?” Marty released a strangled exclamation, the water he’d been drinking spraying a little from his mouth. “Shit. Did you tell her you don’t do friendship?”

  I nodded. “And she didn’t listen.” A small curve lifted the edges of my mouth. “Owen used to talk about how stubborn his wife was. He was right.” As if on cue, a familiar pang of grief hit me. No matter how much time passed, the reaction was the same.

  “So what are you going to do?” That was the golden question of the hour.

  Finally standing, I draped the used towel over my shoulder and offered my hand to Marty, pulling him up beside me. “I guess I’ll be her friend and see what happens.” The words felt foreign on my tongue.

  “Be careful, man.” Gripping my shoulder and giving it a friendly squeeze, Marty bent over to grab his own towel and water bottle. “Make sure this is something you want as well, and not because you feel obligated to her. I know you carry a shitload of guilt with you, but getting involved might be a mistake. I’d hate to see someone get hurt.”

  “Awww, you care.” I laughed, playfully punching his arm, trying to lighten the pressure in my chest. “I promise I’ll be fine.”

  Marty snorted, rolling his eyes. “I didn’t mean you, asshole. I meant her. I don’t give a shit about your feelings.”

  “And here I thought we were friends, that we had each other’s backs.” I cringed the second the words escaped, no hope of retrieving them once they were spoken. There was nothing like a heavy dose of reality to remind me of the truth.

  When it came to looking out for my buddies, my track record sucked.

  Brush it off.

  “I’m here if you need me, okay?” Sincerity coated Marty’s comment as he cast aside all joking. “I was serious about being careful. Despite who she is and what she represents, I won’t let her mess with your head.”

  We’d never talked about how heavily I relied on our friendship to keep me sane. Marty had casually sidestepped my initial attempts to avoid getting close—hell-bent on making me his wingman. I’d mocked his efforts, snidely replying I wasn’t interested in developing some kind of weird bromance with him.

  He’d been patient, persistent, and relentless.

  Right now, I was relieved he had.

  Each time I’d gone out with my unit—whether it was a routine patrol, a tactical exercise, or a specific mission—there was comfort knowing I wasn’t walking into a possible clusterfuck alone.

  This felt exactly the same.

  It would either be successful, or it would leave a path of destruction with Caylee as one of the casualties. I didn’t give a shit about me. No, my fear was for her. I’d already laid waste to her life once with the death of her husband.

  On second thought, could I really deal with the responsibility of hurting someone else on my conscience? Especially Caylee?

  This friendship was rife with potential land mines.

  “Damn,” I murmured under my breath as the reality of what I’d agreed to washed over me. “I’m an idiot.”

  “I could’ve told you that,” Marty chuckled, both of us gradually heading over to the men’s restroom to change. Our workout was over.

  “What the hell am I doing saying yes to her? Everything inside me says this is a bad idea—screams it.” Pushing through the door, the mixed scent of sweat and soap greeted me. The room was empty, a few steel locker doors ajar.

  “Is that what you want? To say no?” Marty asked as he pulled his bag out, dropping it down onto the wooden benches before sitting beside it. When I glared at him, he held his hands up in surrender. “Just playing devil’s advocate here.”

  “It’s not about what I want. It’s about what I should do. I have no business involving myself in that woman’s life.” Rifling through my own duffel for my regular clothes, I paused. “Don’t you think I’ve done enough damage?”

  “Mayb
e. Maybe not.”

  His evasive answer elicited a grunt. “Some help you are.”

  With a knowing look, Marty dodged the towel I threw at him. “If you feel that strongly about it, do something.” He gestured at the top shelf of my locker where my phone rested. “Call her. Tell Caylee you’ve changed your mind. Say thanks but no thanks.” For some reason, the very thought of it didn’t sit well, the idea sour in the back of my throat. Marty must’ve caught my reaction, some telltale expression, because his smile turned into a wider, smug grin. “Or not.”

  “Fuck,” was all I could say. As tempting as it was to end things with Caylee before they truly began, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Some part of me—a masochistic part that seemed to enjoy torturing myself—needed her.

  She’d recognized that demand before I’d even acknowledged it.

  “Give it a chance. I’m not saying you have to become best friends or anything. Just take it slowly and see what happens.”

  Nodding silently, I grabbed my gear, telling Marty I’d see him later tonight at the gig. We had a standing arrangement with the local bar to play for their patrons each week. Suddenly, the lure I felt before each show captured me—the sound of our music filling the air as people swayed back and forth to each beat. I’d be a fool to deny that the rush of performing wasn’t addicting.

  It was exactly what I needed right now to clear my head—that and a willing female paired with a bottle of Jack Daniels. Hell, I wasn’t even picky. Tequila or Jim Beam would equally hit the spot.

  Those were the things that soothed my soul.

  Caylee’s name floated to the surface.

  Pulling out my phone, mindful of where I was walking as I navigated my way out of the gym, I quickly sent her an invite to come see us play.

  She responded only moments later with: sure. where and what time?

  Before I could chicken out, I typed out the details, letting out a nervous breath as I pushed send.

  “You’re messing with fire,” I uttered under my breath.

  But for the first time in years, I didn’t care about the flames.

  As terrifying as it felt, they intrigued me.

  Chapter Six

  Caylee

  “Rebecca?” I called out, tentatively knocking on her bedroom door. “I’m not sure what you’re doing tonight, but I’m going to listen to Cooper play.” Even though I knew she’d retreated to her room hours ago, there was no immediate answer. “Rebecca?”

  “Oh. My. Gosh!” Her shrill shriek pierced the air, removing any hesitation I felt. Bursting in, I prepared for the worst—danger—my house buddy lying on the floor, bleeding or something.

  What I didn’t expect was to see her cross-legged in the middle of the bed, her laptop open, and her eyes wide with excitement.

  “Caylee!” She beamed, her hands shaking a little as her eyes darted back forth between me and her computer screen. “You will never guess what just happened. Quick, pinch me.” When I continued standing there, gaping, she snapped her fingers impatiently. “Seriously. Pinch me. I need to know I’m not dreaming.”

  Our friendship was still pretty new, but so far, we’d discovered how compatible we were. It had been scary answering the flyer pinned to the student bulletin board: Roommate needed. Must be clean, responsible. No pets. Non-smoker preferred. I wasn’t naive enough to believe everyone was inherently good, and I’d heard my fair share of horror stories of seemingly innocent situations taking a drastic turn for the worst. Consoling myself that the university wasn’t the same as some sadistic creep trolling Craig’s List, I still exercised caution when the ad’s owner suggested we meet on campus at one of the more popular coffee shops.

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry a little from relief when I arrived to find a petite brunette, her hand clutching her messenger bag beneath the table. We took one look at each other—quickly evaluating to see if our appearances revealed some kind of hidden psychosis—before breaking out into grins.

  What was meant to be a brief meeting turned into hours and what would become one of many easy conversations between us.

  Rebecca Freeman was a twenty-two-year-old junior majoring in theatre, and after having a run-in with the previous tenant in the house she’d shared, had reluctantly sought someone new to help cover rent and utilities.

  Later, over a bottle wine and way too many Oreos, she confessed I’d been her last attempt. In her bag, she’d gripped tightly the can of mace she never left home without. It had reduced us to a mess of tipsy giggles as I asked her what she planned to do in a public place if I had been a serial killer, targeting her as my next victim.

  The colorful and extremely graphic tale she shared next cemented our friendship in an instant. She was exactly the kind of person I needed if I was going to put the past behind me and finally focus on my future.

  It hadn’t been the one I’d originally planned, but it was the one granted me.

  I was tired of grieving and feeling lost.

  Rebecca Freeman was a blessing.

  Honoring her request, her eyes widened and she gasped. “This is real!”

  “As much as I enjoy guessing, you need to clue me in.” Currently lying back on her pillows, a goofy grin plastered across her face, all she could get out was dramatic sighs. “And breathe! Whatever it is, it isn’t a reason to hyperventilate.”

  “Oh, I beg to differ,” she countered quickly, one eye popping open. “My world has forever been altered. He knows.”

  Still completely and utterly clueless, my brow scrunched. “He?”

  Suddenly, Rebecca jumped up, grabbing her laptop and pointing furiously at the screen as she gulped in air. “He. Knows. Who. I. Am.” She was so excited; each word was punctuated heavily with an invisible exclamation mark. “He knows!”

  When I didn’t reply with the appropriate enthusiasm, my giddy roommate exhaled impatiently, finally revealing what she’d been viewing. The moment I saw the screen, everything clicked. The fact she was still coherent was a miracle—previous encounters had reduced her to breathless squeaks and incomplete sentences.

  I didn’t spend a lot of time on Facebook, but my roommate did, and one of the pages she liked to stalk religiously was an actor she admired. I often teased her that it was a little more than admiration and she was scarily close to being one click away from certifiable.

  She’d simply snorted and replied that once she’d properly introduced me to the sexy yumminess that was Stephen Amell, I would totally understand her addiction.

  “What’s Mr. Amell up to today?” Biting my lip, I tried not to crack a smile while I watched Rebecca swell with another blast of animated elation, on the verge of exploding again as her hands flapped in front of her. “Is there a new video or something?”

  “He liked my photo!” she erupted, her words tumbling out rapidly.

  Damn. This was huge. Even I could see that. While I didn’t have her same exuberance for certain things, her energy was infectious. Plopping down beside her, I pulled the computer onto my lap for a closer look. “He did! Wow!” As I clicked on the photo her post was connected to, it was hard to ignore Rebecca’s second wind as she danced around her room. If she ever decided a career in film and stardom didn’t appeal, she could wow the crowds as a Vegas showgirl. She had the strut down pat as she pranced about, stopping in spurts to flail like a Muppet.

  My friend was nuts—in a good way.

  “I posted a selfie from the other day when I wore his shirt. He sent out a call for everyone to share their photos, and who am I to refuse Captain Amell?” She actually rolled her eyes at me, like she couldn’t believe it was even an option. “I have no idea how he saw it, though. My phone doesn’t let me tag his page, and I was in a rush.”

  “Maybe he’s stalking you.” Just as I predicted, her eyes widened like saucers, and a fresh burst of feverish dancing threatened to detonate.

  Her victory pirouette came to an abrupt halt. “No. No way.” I could almost see her mind ticking over, trying to
find a reasonable answer. “I’m nobody.”

  Cocking my eyebrow, I shrugged. “I beg to differ. I think you’re pretty epic. I’d stalk you.”

  “You live with me, stupid,” Rebecca grunted, the first time during our whole conversation she appeared somewhat serious. “Huh. Do you really think so? Really?”

  “You never know. He had to see it somewhere.” I swear she seemed to inflate, whatever thought running through her mind building up to something. With Rebecca, you could never predict what would come out of her mouth next. “And to think, I now have official bragging rights as the roommate to the girl the Arrow knows.”

  That seemed to push her completely over the edge. “WOOOOHOOO!” Tears leaking from her eyes, Rebecca collapsed onto the end of her bed, clutching her chest in a swoon.

  “You’re crazy,” I retorted, unable to hold back my laughter. Her quirky personality and energy was contagious. Questionable sanity or not, she was in a good mood, and it meant she’d be open to celebrate. “If I can drag you away from this, want to come down to the bar and watch Cooper play? We can drink a toast.”

  The change was absolute. At the mention of Cooper’s name, the atmosphere in the room switched—removing all evidence that we’d just been in the midst of a huge fangirl meltdown. “A chance to see Cooper in all his sexy swagger? Hell yeah.” Jumping up and then striding over to her closet with a new sense of purpose, Rebecca’s expression was now one of determination. “You need a kick-ass outfit, roomie.”

  “Which is why I’m going to search through my own clothes.” Chuckling softly, I dragged myself to a stand, giving her room one last look. We were really fortunate with the place we rented, both of us having reasonable sized spaces to claim as our own. While I’d kept mine simple, choosing to decorate it with throw pillows and photos of loved ones, it looked like a Comic Con convention had thrown up in Rebecca’s. She said it was research—helping to keep her inspired and motivated toward her lifelong dream to dominate the movie industry. She loved everything about the world she’d immersed herself in—she was unashamedly passionate.