by Kara Liane
I know I have a temper on me, but it helps in this industry. I think my gut instincts also act as a good barometer for measuring the quality of my work, and it serves me well often. I was playing with my hair incessantly at the moment, running my fingers through the wild curls. It was a thing I did to calm myself, twisting my curls around my finger and then pulling my finger out to see if I’d get a knot. I know I’m weird, but these are the quirks that make me . . . well, me. Without my idiosyncrasies, the world would certainly be a dull place indeed.
I moved on from playing with my hair to playing with a spoon and trying to balance it on the tip of my nose; I know, I lead such an exciting life. I finally remembered to heat the curve with my breath so it would help hold. Don’t judge me, I saw it in the movie Overboard as a kid, and it’s fun to try; well, that is when you’re alone and not trying to impress anyone. That movie was one of my faves growing up—mainly because it was one of the only movies I ever got to watch. My all-time favorite movie, though, is Top Gun. It’s funny how to me it’s a classic, but if you talk to anyone under the age of thirty today, they have never heard of it. You are not my friend, or even worthy of being my foe, if you have not watched that movie.
That’s why when Brent informed me of his dog’s name, I was in complete shock. I couldn’t believe we had anything in common, or that it was that easy to click with someone. I was going to ask him if it was because of the movie and make some smartass remark like “Where’s Goose?” but I refrained from doing either. Instead, I changed the subject because I was a coward. This is why I felt so torn. I read about people finding one another when they weren’t even looking, but it couldn’t be that easy. Could it?
I randomly hiccupped, and it hurt like a son of a bitch. I hated when that happened. I rubbed the necklace I always wore around my neck; I had a habit of reaching for it when I needed to soothe my nerves. The pendant was my reminder of what life was all about. I touched it without even realizing it half the time, thus drawing other people’s attention to the initials. They would always ask what it meant. I never told anyone, though, because it was too private and personal; it was just for me. Sometimes the worst scars are the ones you can’t see, and that’s all I’m going to say about it. And my reply when people asked what it meant was literally “nothing.”
Pussy broke the trance I was in. I let go of the necklace and let it settle back against my throat. She started purring uncontrollably and rubbing her head on my leg. I knew she was buttering me up so she could try to sneak out to visit her boyfriend. Eh, what the hell. I was in a generous mood, so Pussy could play away. She could accompany me down to get the mail at least. I’d go through the motions of checking the box, but it wasn’t like I expected to receive anything of significance.
Chapter 9: Pussyfooting Around
Everly
I stood up and opened the door. I looked down at myself and decided my outfit of sweatpants, tank top, and toe socks was totally and completely, 100 percent appropriate for grabbing the mail. I walked out my door with my mailbox key in hand. Pussy strutted behind me to some imaginary beat, trying to wave her pussy around. That cat cracks me the hell up, but it’s guaranteed she gets more dick than I do. I made it down the three floors to the lobby. Pussy was meowing like crazy, either letting the tabby know she was around or bitching because he was nowhere in sight. I grabbed my stack of mail and walked back up to my floor with her trailing behind.
After her lazy butt made it through the door, I locked up and turned to her to say, “Sorry, Pussy, but I think we’re doomed to be partners for life.”
At that comment, she stuck her tail up in the air and ran off. I swear she knows exactly what I’m saying. With that little move, she was telling me to go fuck myself. Apparently it would just be a lonely party of one, with me being the only guest. Not even my cat abided by girl code.
I started sifting through the stack and weeding out the junk mail. I got to the bottom of the pile. The last envelope was from my office.
I could tell it was Steve’s writing, so I opened it immediately thinking, Shit, is this a pink slip?
Inside was another gross-looking, dirty envelope with a note wrapped around. Steve had scrawled something on his favorite canary-yellow, lined notebook paper. I read aloud.
Evy,
This letter came Friday right after you left for the day, so I figured I’d mail it out to you in case it’s important. You might not get this until Monday anyway, but I guess there’s always a chance you’ll get it sooner. I’ll get cracking on your edits; don’t get all bent out of shape yet. I like where you’re going with the story. I know I don’t tell you this often enough, but you do a damn good job. You really have something, kid! See you Monday.
Steve
For the record, I hate that he calls me Evy, but he does it on purpose. I try to take it as a compliment—he could call me something far worse. It also amuses me that he refers to me as “kid.” Again, I try to take it as a compliment since he does it to anyone under the age of forty. Plus I did it to Stuart, so I guess it’s only fair. Steve’s only fifty-six, but he clearly thinks of himself as very old and wise. I was also bowled over by the praise. Jeez, that’s the nicest thing he’s ever said to me. I was surprised I wasn’t hyperventilating into a brown paper bag at this point. That letter was definitely getting pinned to my fridge like a preschooler’s first finger painting.
After the shock of Steve’s praise wore off, I paused to further examine the dirty envelope. I was trying to assess its features. It was tattered, but it had clearly been crisp white—once. Now it was caked with dirt and grime. Sadly, it was just a mess of an envelope now. A hot mess much like me, ha! It was so creased that I was surprised the thing didn’t fall apart in my hands like when a vampire turns to dust in the sun. There was no return address, and I didn’t recognize the handwriting. Surely no one who was pissed at me would send me anthrax through the mail, right? I decided to go ahead and open it, casting cautionary measures aside. I pulled out a well-worn letter. Attached to it was a large sticky note. Jesus, another note inside a note! What the frick is going on? I read that one silently. It was quite brief.
July 13, 2017
Ma’am,
I know you don’t know me, but I room with Brent. He’d never send this, and he’ll be angry when he finds out I did. I snatched it from his pocket last night because it deserves to be sent. I’m a hopeless romantic and I lost my girl once. I don’t want Brent to lose his. Forgive the intrusion, but maybe you’ll both thank me one day?
Forever hopeful,
T.Sgt. Harold Jefferson, USAF
Bagram Airfield, Afghanistan
I couldn’t move or breathe.
Afghanistan! Holy Mother!
I’m not such a total twit I didn’t think he wouldn’t be in harm’s way, but I had been hoping for some other, safer, location. I had hoped for him not to be smack-dab in the middle of the shit!
God, he must hate me right now.
My hands shook as the reality finally set in of what a complete and total bitch I truly had been to him. I didn’t grow up around military. I had one experience with an ex-soldier that I don’t care to go into, and it had soiled my view on military guys. Let’s just say he left a bad taste in my mouth—for many reasons—and leave it at that.
Shit, sometimes I’m such a hypocrite. I dig into people’s lives for a living, and yet I couldn’t put the clues together to come to the realization that Brent was a hero. Even if he never saw combat, I could still appreciate his sacrifice and sense of honor and duty. Even if he wasn’t on the front lines—I would never know—he was still a hero.
I never cried. It was something I just didn’t do. Tear production wasn’t in my DNA. I always thought blubbering was for pussies. How wrong I was. At that moment, a tear slid down my cheek and dripped to the floor at my feet. I could have sworn I heard the splash when it hit the tile. I felt destroyed, because it finally hit me that I had let this man slip through my fingers.
&nb
sp; “Tech Sergeant Jefferson, I have no idea if I should thank you or curse you right now,” I tried to get out through the horrible knot in my throat.
I slid to the floor and just sat there with the letter next to me. I couldn’t bring myself to read it. I was not worthy of his words.
There was no way to describe what I was feeling. I think the problem was that I had too many emotions. When a journalist can’t even formulate a coherent sentence and string the necessary words together to articulate what her brain and heart are feeling . . . I knew I was in trouble. I finally made it from the floor to my couch—baby steps, people! At least I had my signature coffee in hand, which helped calm my fried nerves. All synapses were firing, but I still felt the signals weren’t making it to all parts of my body. It was an effort to get every component to work together.
After a good chunk of time passed by, I finally felt ready to digest the letter and examine it with a critical eye, from a professional standpoint, naturally. This I could do. I was not ready for the personal aspect yet. After assessing the letter from all sides, I would pursue the hardest part: reading it as me, as a woman, and as the intended recipient.
I should have realized this before, but Brent was a man who had probably seen too many horrors in his life. I felt that pull to him that he described. I’d admitted it enough times to myself, but failed to let the sensations ensnare me in their grip. I had done enough research on veterans for my articles to realize Brent probably suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder. He had referred to “pain.” I pictured him in front of me with the look in his eyes that can only be described as “someone who’s seen too much shit in their life.” It’s the mark of a combat veteran. How did I miss that before? Maybe I didn’t want to see it because then I’d have to admit something was also wrong with me on a deep level. But it was clear as a new pane of glass that his suffering called to me. I had finally met my match in the pain department.
That’s why, subconsciously, I pushed him away. I was the chicken shit, not him. No, not this brave man. He was so strong, not just in the physical sense, but also in his mind and spirit. I was in awe of him. Maybe I could trust him. I realized he put me at ease. Maybe, just maybe, I could open up to him. I know the petals on my bud are locked up tighter than any flower on the edge of a winter-to-spring day, but if you only knew why, then you’d understand.
I had thought I was too messed up to be with him. But maybe I’m not. Maybe we could heal each other. It sounded like a lot of work, something that would take a lot of time and effort. We’d have to expend a great deal of energy. So the real question was this: is he worth it? I guessed there was only one way to find out. If he was willing to take the leap of faith and ask me to give him a chance, then I should do the same. I realize he didn’t intend to send the letter, but he still put it out there, laid it all on the table.
I read the letter so many times I probably had it memorized. I nursed my coffee long after it had gone cold. I heard that annoying alien chime from my phone, but I ignored it; Stuart was at it again. I realized I should look into blocking his number.
I went back again to thinking about—or rather overthinking and overanalyzing—each line and point Brent made. I responded, rather loudly I might add, to his pleas and questions in my mind.
He had me just as thrown off. I can’t believe he hadn’t noticed that. But I think I have a pretty good poker face. With that bitch vibe I give off, I know I mask certain things. I was pissed at myself, though, for being so transparent with him that he could tell I was scarred by pain too. A small part of me was relieved that someone could realize I have feelings too—it meant maybe I was human after all. But I spent years cultivating that facade, so it also felt uncomfortable to be discovered.
And for the love of all the saints, why the frick didn’t he just scoop me up and throw me in his bed? Damn him! I would have willingly done anything and everything that night. If he only knew what I needed and wanted from him. He might have been a man with needs, but I’m a woman with just as much pent-up frustration, sex deprivation, and lust. I think men often overlook the fact that we’re also creatures with sexual cravings. I get all the jokes about claiming to have “headaches” and being tired and all that shit, but we have just as much of a voracious appetite as they do.
I also would have waited for him. Hell, I have been waiting for him! He just doesn’t know it. Quite frankly, I didn’t realize that was I was doing either . . . until now. If you recall, I was about to tell him I wanted to see him again, but then he opened his mouth and ruined the moment. I couldn’t stay mad at him, though. He’s a man of honor, and he was taking the right course of action by telling me he was leaving. I get it now. These missed chances and missed opportunities were just sad. He talked about fate, and then fate goes and rebuffs us.
He was damn right about one thing—I don’t need protection. Who the hell would I need protection from? I would have to let that thought marinate a little longer. I scanned the ending again. I agreed with him. I felt like I knew him too. I sighed heavily and reached for my necklace, once again seeking comfort in the here and now. I licked my very dry lips, and realized my lids were starting to droop. I was out of coffee and finding myself very exhausted by the feelings the letter unearthed.
I folded the letter into a neat-but-dirty square. I grabbed my phone, dragged myself from the couch, and kept the letter lovingly tucked into my palm. I went to my bedroom and put the small square next to my phone on the nightstand so I’d remember to put it in my pocket in the morning. I would take it with me wherever I went until he came home.
As I finally climbed into bed with Pussy kneading herself a nice little spot next to me, I had one more thought. I kept coming back to one key point. What stuck out the most was when he said he wouldn’t hurt me.
So me being the optimist that I am—ha ha—I would definitely hold him to that. If he did step out of line, then he’d be sorry when he found out what I’d do to him. PTSD would look like a picnic compared to the EBRD I’d give him. In case you’re wondering, that’s for Everly Ball Removal Disorder.
Aww nuts, was that too harsh?
Chapter 10: Hopefully a Homecoming to Remember
Brenneth
July 13, 2017
Maybe dreams can come true . . . that cucumber-melon scent I fucking drooled over hung in the air. I could smell her, all of her. All senses were engaged as I locked on to my target. Everly Reynolds certainly knows the way to a man’s heart—and it’s not through his stomach. Nope, it’s farther south, ladies. She was standing at the foot of the bed in the hotel room I was staying in, since I still hadn’t found a place to live. She shimmied out of her denim skirt and threw off her black top.
Before me stood a goddess more beautiful than any who had come before. No other woman could compare, and those that would come after her wouldn’t either. Well, actually, there wouldn’t be any after her. I was lying on the bed with my arms folded under me, propping up my head, just admiring the show. I was clad in only my black cotton boxer-briefs, and the flagpole was raised. I couldn’t help but grin and think about how lucky I was to get to watch this woman strip for me.
Ev ran her palms over her gorgeous breasts. I groaned, enraptured by the sight of her stiff nipples doing a taunting, hypnotic dance through the sheer material of her bra. The ripened, juicy tips would be in my mouth soon enough. I’d suck and lick them like they were my favorite piece of candy. I’d devour her on the first go-around and then do her all over again, slowly. That way, I could savor her properly. She brought out a different side of me, one that channeled my base instincts.
The nude-colored satin of her panty-and-bra combo made my mouth water. My balls tightened up in a fit of lustful need. She was exquisite. She was perfection. And she was mine for the taking. Oh, I’d fucking take, but I’d also give right back. There was no other woman on earth I could, or would, give more to. She made me think long-term as time ticked by with each moment I was in her presence. With a body built fo
r sin and a mind built for great things, she was a force to be reckoned with. She held all the cards and she knew it. She could play her hand better than any woman—or hell, even man, for that matter.
I couldn’t wait to bite her in that spot where the shoulder and neck meet. It’s my favorite erogenous zone to go for. When you’re in the throes of passion, it’s sure to get a girl to scream. Her creamy nectar would spill forth for me instantly—I just knew it. I was licking my lips and salivating just thinking about getting a taste of her.
And I couldn’t fucking wait for her to finally taste me. I had been fantasizing about it long enough. I wanted to command her to suck my cock, but I didn’t want to be forceful or a hasty bastard. I was hoping she would want to do it, without being prompted. There is nothing sexier than a woman taking charge of the situation when it comes to sucking dick. I would certainly give her a hefty amount of throat coat once she sucked me good and thoroughly. I was getting lost in the possibilities that were piling up in my dirty mind.
“Am I boring you?” she questioned.
Her eyes pierced me with their emerald glimmer, and I found myself speechless. I loved it when she brought out this sassy side. There were times I wanted to rise to the occasion and take the bait, and then there were other times I wanted to let her steamroll me. Either scenario would be fine as long as she was involved.
“Fuck no!” That’s what I wanted to yell at her, but I refrained and went in a different direction.
“Everly, you’re fucking torturing me is what you’re doing! There’s so much to look at and play with that I don’t know where to begin. I’m fucking dying over here just thinking about what I can, and will, do to you. Or what you’ll do to me.” I said the last part with very little restraint.
