by Cait Jarrod
“See ya,” Matt said, and faced her with a downward mouth.
She hated that look! Hated that her actions put it there.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have jerked away from you.”
“I get it,” he said. “At least your dad didn’t storm the woods.”
“I’m eighteen, and they still treat me as if I don’t know what I’m doing,” she fumed, moving toward him.
He pulled her into his arms. Every inch of him hardened, every inch. She rested her forehead against his chest, relished in his solid planes against her cheek. “I want to remember this always.” With a finger, he lifted her chin and kissed her long, hard, and deep. The kiss was like no other she’d ever had. Feelings, desire, and want went into it. She returned the passion and they split apart. “I’ll see you soon.”
“Yeah, okay,” she stumbled over her words and tried to find the strength to step away. Call it instinct, intuition, or whatever made a person second-guess a decision, she now thought leaving would be a really bad mistake. Despite the sensation, it didn’t stop her from heading toward the woods.
“Trina, sweetheart!”
At the edge of the footbridge, she stopped. He leaned against the railings, the moon casting him as a drool-worthy specimen. “Yes?”
“Next time I see you, I hope you ditch the panties then, too.”
She squeezed her thighs together but couldn’t stop the coil from unknotting low in her belly.
“Next time, there will be no stopping.”
Her girlie parts jumped for joy while her brain kicked in gear, remembering her goals and knocking the fun out of what could be. It was time for her to behave like an adult, not fall to his feet like a sex-starved, lovesick teen scared to death of never seeing him again. Time to do the responsible thing. Let him do his duty without her reservations in his head.
“Keep the keychain close.” Comforted that as long as he carried it she would be with him, she forced a smile.
Like a whirlwind, he rushed forward and wrapped his arms around her, pressing his body into hers. He held her so tight she didn’t think he would ever let go, nor did she want him to. She’d love to stay cocooned in him forever. A deep ache pierced her heart and threatened to bubble out of her in a sob. She wouldn’t let him see her break down, couldn’t. She kissed his cheek. “I’ll miss you,” she whispered.
“You’ll always be with me.” His voice wasn’t stable either.
She kissed his cheek again, darted off the bridge, and ran her broken heart through the woods.
Chapter Three
Present day...
Adrenaline pumped so fast Matt didn’t feel anything. His senses locked on high alert. For hundreds of yards, every chirping bird and rustling leaf echoed.
Stretched out atop a hill in Afghanistan, he shifted his sunglasses to the top of his head, and peered in his riflescope’s eyepiece. Today Gunnery Sergeant Frank York would decide if Matt had the guts to become a sniper. He knew he did, always dreamed he would become one. Saving his comrades’ lives from being an unexpected target topped his goal list.
With his bipod leveled on the uneven terrain, he shifted the barrel of his rifle on top of it. From his vantage point, he held the ideal view of his platoon rushing toward a small hut a few hundred meters away.
The stakes were high. A wanted terrorist that no one came close to spotting, much less capturing, barricaded himself inside.
“Stay alert.” His gunny’s voice boomed over his earpiece. “Eyes on the package.”
“Yes, sir.” With another scan over the cliffs, he focused on the building, on the package, and put a finger on his trigger and waited.
This was it, do or die. If he passed, then he’d get advance training. If not, he didn’t know.
Men from his platoon swamped the area, surrounded the hut, and stormed inside.
Seconds ticked off. Sweat beaded on Matt’s forehead and dropped to his cheek.
A loud ruckus broke out. Men yelled with their guns aimed at the hut.
The door flew open. A man, dressed in brown fatigues and a turban, appeared. With his hands in the air, he shook his head so fast Matt couldn’t make out his face.
He secured his grip on the gun, ready for whatever happened next.
“No shot,” Gunny said. His disgust echoed in Matt’s ear. “He’s a decoy.”
A fucking decoy!
Disappointment reared with the men’s shoulders slumping and their guns lowering.
Matt’s head buzzed. He couldn’t suck in enough air. He sat on his ass, snagged his nearby canteen, and gulped some water until his breathing evened out. “Damn!”
He wiped the sweat from his forehead and peered through the scope. The platoon had left. “What the fuck? Where’d they go?”
“First time or almost the first time is the roughest.” Gunny knelt beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Next time.”
He cocked his head and dropped his sunglasses onto the bridge of his nose to block out the bright sun. He didn’t have to say anything to his good friend. Gunny understood his anxiousness, the letdown, but how had he lost time? “How long did I lay here?”
“Not long. I’m quick.”
Gunny wasn’t that quick, not from a few hundred yards. What he considered a bleep of time in actuality had been longer. Not good.
“Don’t beat yourself up. Good men have blackout moments. Experience will rid you of it.”
At least he didn’t fail his test and was still under consideration.
“Let’s get back,” Gunny said, “and have a drink. You need to unwind.”
He would get no argument from him. He needed something to slow his heartrate to normal levels and clear the black specs from his vision. He packed his equipment and moved to the ground floor where he joined a few others. Together they walked out of the area to the armored personnel vehicles.
The long, bumpy ride to base drew out with his endless thoughts. The sense of what he planned to do—kill someone—stayed with him, leaving him edgy and antsy. He slipped a hand into his fatigue pocket and rubbed the keychain Trina had given him. His mind flashed on the river, on them tossing stones into the water, their kiss, and removed himself from the ugliness he faced every day.
He tried not to dwell on home; dwelling led to emotions. Missing people while fighting the enemy was never a good idea. Men would die. But now that he started thinking, he couldn’t stop.
At base, the men jumped out of the truck and headed for food.
“Hang back,” Gunny said and jutted his chin toward a wooden table outside the mess hall. “I’ll get us a few cold ones.”
“All right.” He dropped his bag next to the table, his chest as heavy as his weighted bag. Slipping into a funk meant trouble. His mood came from not hearing from a certain redhead. He slipped onto the bench and pulled out the circular keychain.
“Wished it was a beer.” Gunny plopped a bottle of water on the table and sat across from him. “Is that something special?”
He traced the design. Characterizing the keychain as something special simplified what it meant. When he discovered it in his suit pocket, he discerned the gift was precious but didn’t know how or why. As days turned into weeks, and weeks into years, the keychain represented so much. It meant friendship, a bond between him and Trina. Even more reason why her lack of contact concerned him. “Yes.”
“From your girl?”
His girl. They flirted, basked in each other’s company, and shared a few kisses. Hardly the makings to claim her as his. Not knowing how to classify their relationship, he simply said, “A close friend.”
“Ah, yet she gave you something to remember her by? Sounds like more. Is the owner of the charm the same one you write letters to?”
He grunted. Like a chump, he’d written. A year had almost past since she contacted him, yet every week he pulled out paper and pen and wrote about his life, the parts he could tell.
Gunny rested his forearms on the table and leaned for
ward. “You’re too quiet. What’s up? Did not being able to complete the mission get to you?”
He wanted the chance to get the man who caused so much harm while proving he was sniper material.
“Or my friend, is this girl doing it?” Gunny tapped the Divine charm.
He’d grown too transparent. “Nope, I’m trying to put it all in perspective, sir.”
“Skip the sir. It’s the girl. She’s in your head.” When he remained quiet, Gunny ordered, “Spill.”
Trina consumed his thoughts, day in and day out. Add to it the worry as to why she hadn’t called twisted his insides. They didn’t have a hold on one another, no spoken words saying they’d keep in contact his entire tour. She probably moved on, found another guy.
A ping of something stung his core and raced along his arms to his fingertips. That, right there, the ‘probably moved on to another guy’ whacked him like a grenade exploding.
He removed the bottle cap, gulped some water to stop the rising bile, and recalled what the gunny had told him in boot camp. “Deter the love-bullet from the mind or take one.”
Not since he’d joined the Marines had he done lifetime moments or shared feelings, an act he hadn’t given two shakes about doing with Trina, but maybe it was time he did. “This keychain,” he answered and held it for his gunny to see, “she left in my jacket pocket after my mom died.”
“Nice,” Gunny said, but his attention turned to a curvy woman who hadn’t been here long enough to remove the softness from her face.
He scoffed and picked at the label on his water bottle. His next trip home, he’d find Trina and talk. Hunt her down if he had to. The last several times he visited the States, he couldn’t locate her. With Travis flying cross-country fighting fires, and Bradley being who knew where, he didn’t know whom else to ask. This time, he’d knock on the Lovett’s door and demand for them to tell where she was.
“Hi, Matt!”
He eyed the smiling woman walking by. “Hey, Liz. Having a good one?”
“Sure am,” she said, too perky for a military base.
He nodded and returned his attention to peeling the label.
“She’s a hot babe.” Gunny, several years older than him, glued his eyes to her butt.
“She is,” he replied without shifting focus from his handy work.
“You’ve been here, what—three, four years?”
Where was Gunny going with his questions? “So?”
“You didn’t pay the girl any attention.”
He glanced at the woman in question and to Gunny.
“I’m gonna ask you straight up. When is the last time you got some?”
The label off, he curled it into his palm and upended the water bottle. The wet liquid eased his thirst but did nothing to soothe his irritation for where this conversation headed. His sex life, or lack of, wasn’t open for discussion.
“You don’t wear the stupid, smug face every other bastard has for days after returning from leave.” Gunny didn’t blink, didn’t stop studying him. “You haven’t had your cherry popped. That’s it. That’s your problem.”
If he had acted on what he wanted the last time he saw Trina, he would tell his gunny to go fuck himself. As it was, he couldn’t argue.
Any other guy would have whored around to get the deed done, to pop his cherry as Gunny put it. Not him. He didn’t feel the same about sex, never had.
“Your mom died when you were thirteen? Fifteen?”
“Thirteen,” he said, wondering why he asked.
“Ah, huh. This girl, the keychain one, has had her hand grasped around your balls ever since. Wow. How in the hell have you survived?”
Making love was sacred, an act that only happened when in love, not to nail any skirt walking past, and definitely not to add a tally mark to the bedpost to boost his ego.
“Hell, I get off every day, especially around this place. You’re too young to be sitting on your ball sack.”
“I haven’t found the right girl,” Matt said, half convinced.
Gunny reared back his head and hooted at the sky. “Yeah you have, you lucky bastard.”
Again, he didn’t know where this came from. He checked Liz over his shoulder, talking to a fellow officer in front of the mess hall. Did Gunny think he’d jump in bed with her? “Come, again.”
“The keychain girl,” Gunny said. “She’s it.”
He snorted. Sometimes he thought so. “Nah, Trina and I are close friends.” Although the last time they were together, he wanted a hell of a lot more. “She’s after different things than me.” He didn’t feel like explaining her asshole parents.
Gunny rose and tapped his unopened bottle on the table. “You’re kidding yourself. You have leave next week. Figure out what you want and do something about it before it’s too late. When you’re here, your head has to be in the game.”
He stared. “Which is it? Get emotionally involved to keep my head straight or not? I’m damned if I do, damned if I don’t.”
“Pretty much, but we’re talking about two different heads. One is for relaxing, the other…well, the other can fuck you up. Take care of it, or I’ll have to pull you from the rifle squad.”
The dining room beamed with elegance and money. At one time, the gold-trimmed dishes with matching gold-rimmed glasses imparted Trina with comfort, confidence, and appreciation for having been born in a house of wealth.
Now, they didn’t. Materialistic things put on earth to make people feel better about their shallow existence; the rich flaunting their money in hopes to garner envy.
She laid her fork on her plate and sipped some wine. Not true. Most people didn’t behave the way her parents did.
Except…the man sitting across from her. The only man her parents considered worthy to join in a Lovett family dinner. Calvin Chamberlain stuffed his face with duck and mashed potatoes. He met her eyes, winked, and ate another forkful of food.
No zing. No thrill pumped her veins. And definitely no thigh-clenching chemistry passed between them. Nice, reliable, and he acted as if he adored her.
Polished, handsome, with light brown hair parted on the side, clean-shaven, never a five o’clock shadow. As pleasant-looking as he was, and as much as he idolized her, her thoughts never strayed far from Matt.
“Would you like some more duck?” Her mother’s voice jostled her out of her musings to the garlic-scented dish in the maid’s hands.
“No, thank you.”
Mildred, who’d waited on her family for years, smiled slightly and went toward her brother, sitting beside her.
Every day, Matt stayed on her mind, but today the thoughts of him grew stronger, as if she’d suffocate. Consumed with ambition days before her first year of college, she convinced herself she made the right decision concerning Matt. Nothing was further from the truth. Not sealing their bond dug at her conscious with each passing day.
She gazed out the window to the stables. Every day, she went horseback riding to escape reality and not think about him fighting in the war. She tried not to overthink on how much she missed him. The longing compared to the way her horse reacted when they grew uptight and nervous, pawing the ground with their front hoof. With each pass, a layer of soil would erode. The same for her but rather than soil, a layer of her spirit deteriorated with each fleeting thought.
The scariest thing, the hope he would return diminished a little more each day. Months passed since she received any form of communication. Her letters and emails went unanswered, text messages not read. Maybe he relocated before the letters reached him, or the cell service so terrible he didn’t have a connection. The messages lost in cyberspace. Still, the emails should have arrived eventually.
Her soul grew heavy, numb from the fear he would find another woman to comfort, love, and respect him. The things she should be giving him. What should she think? Ever since they met, hardly a day had passed that they didn’t make contact. She had no other choice but to believe if he wanted to reach her, he would ha
ve.
Much to her chagrin, her parents were happy—ecstatic a doctor sat at Sunday dinner, something they never allowed Matt to do. She twirled the stem of her wine glass, careful not to spill a drop on her mother’s precious tablecloth.
Why hadn’t she fought for him? Stupid question. Interning with a top brain surgeon, she knew the exact reason why. Money, status. Yet, those things didn’t give her gratification. And now that she was reaching her goal, she realized more than ever she’d screwed up. Lost the man she wanted and had to face a life of complacency.
Matt had so much to offer. Watching how he dealt with life was a lesson in itself. He didn’t belittle anyone, didn’t expect her to be something she wasn’t. She rubbed her chest. She missed him so much she ached deep inside, so deep the heaviness threatened to stop her heart.
She blinked away her tears before her mother accused her of having a tender moment toward Cal. He could give her a nice life, not an exciting one but a doable one.
“Aren’t you glad I stayed persistent about you two being right for one another?” Mom squeezed her hand.
How should she respond? Should she say, “No, Mom, he’s not my type? What were you thinking? Look at him? He’s fine for passing time with but nothing more?”
So she put on the queen’s smile and batted her eyelashes. The professors at Dartmouth had educated her in the body’s anatomy, every bone and muscle. Her college classmates had taught her how to turn an uncomfortable situation into something tolerable, how to fake an orgasm, not that she’d been with a man to test the latter, and how to avoid giving your opinion to avoid an argument. Like now. She batted her eyelashes again at her mom and then at Cal.
He grinned.
She stopped and let her brother, who sat to her left, fill her wine glass for the third time.
“Thanks,” she huffed.
“Any time,” Bradley said, filling his. He sat across from a chin-lifting, pointy-nose brunette, who didn’t speak unless spoken to and kept her pinky finger out at the side whenever she drank.
Last year during Christmas break, she’d sat on the chopping block. Mom had invited Cal to dinner without any consideration for her wishes. Having money, status, and being one of the top surgeons at John Hopkins, he exceeded every criteria Mom set for the ideal man for their little girl. She had resisted dating him but after almost a year of not hearing from Matt, she succumbed.
