Off Limits: A Bad Boy Romance

by Lauren Landish

  "Fuck no, dumb shit," Chris said with a laugh and a snort. "But what I do love is the idea of taking that sweet, sweet cherry and wearing her out. She's already said she loves me and is saving herself for me."

  "You actually believe that shit?" Lloyd asked with a guffaw. "You don't think she's just telling you that while shagging every swinging dick back in . . . where is it again?"

  "She's an Atlanta girl, just like me," Chris said, before realizing the double meaning of his words. I had to give a snort of my own. “You know what I mean. Not a fucking word, guys."

  I laughed, leaning back against the rough walls of our hut. Atlanta girl. "You said it, not me."

  * * *

  Baghdad, Iraq, The Green Zone, 2 weeks later

  Sure, Baghdad wasn't like going on real leave. Even within the city, years after we'd taken over, things weren't exactly making Baghdad a resort town or anything. Still, within the Green Zone, we could do things that soldiers liked to do, namely chill out, get some beers, and if you were really lucky, find a hot chick to share your rack with.

  It was the third night of our time in the GZ, and for me, I was feeling pretty damn good. I was still bedmate-less, but there was a cute little supply clerk from the Indiana National Guard that had her eyes on me, and best of all, both of us were open about the fact there would be no relationship situations involved. It was pure sex, a little fun, and then we went our separate ways. I would have been able to seal the deal, too, if it hadn't been that I was supposed to pull guard duty that night. Guard duty in the GZ is nothing compared to pulling a guard shift out in most of the rest of the country. Between the hours of eight PM and midnight, I only managed to get two hours of sleep, and I drooped over my rifle while my Iraqi Army post-mate manned the tower.

  It was just after midnight when I came down from the tower I'd been assigned to, and I was ready to head back to my bunk. Duty within the GZ was on a rotating basis, and I didn't need to wake up for any formations or any of that other bullshit the next day, so I was planning on trying to catch up on some sorely missed shut-eye before me and Miss Gina Redman of Terre Haute, Indiana found an empty building to occupy together.

  I almost ignored the sound I heard coming from behind the supply shed. It was a common place for people with uptight tent mates or commanders with a bug up their ass to go hook up. While I personally found no fun with the concept of rushed sex in the dark behind a musty tent while sand stuck to the sweat on your ass . . . different strokes for different folks, if you know what I mean.

  I almost kept going back to my bunk when I heard the whimpered cry from the girl, and the heavily accented words, strangled with effort. "No . . . no . . . please . . .”

  I have no problems with being in control with a woman, and I've had chicks that liked it rough. But there's playacting and then there's real resistance. I don't go for that. Darting around the side of the tent, I saw a man pulling at the belt of his ACUs, holding what looked like a local girl by the throat with his free hand. He had clamped down more with his hand after her cry, cutting off all of her air. She was scratching and clawing, but he was short and stocky, with the sort of arms that came from lots of hard work and just natural freaky strength. Her eyes were fluttering shut and her hands didn't beat quite so hard as the blood flow to her brain shut down.

  I didn't even pause, even though I couldn't see the man's face. Taking my M-4, I jabbed the butt stock forward. It hit the man in the back of the shoulder, distracting him enough for him to drop the girl, where she fell to the ground retching and coughing.

  The man turned around, and I saw in the dim light something that made my heart sink. "Lloyd? What the fuck are you doing, man?"

  “What’s it look like? I’m getting some sandy pussy," he slurred. He was drunk, and Lloyd was the sort of guy who could handle his alcohol pretty damned impressively. I'd once watched him down an entire pitcher of beer in ten minutes, get up off his barstool, and then throw two dead center darts on the electronic board we were playing on. For him to be slurring his words meant he had either downed enough to kill a small elephant, or he'd been hitting something a lot harder than beer. From the smell of his breath, I suspected the latter. It took a lot, but when he was drunk like this, he was nasty. “What the fuck you want?"

  "You can't do this, man! You really want to go down on a rape charge?"

  Lloyd reached to his right hip, where I saw the bayonet in its scabbard. We didn't use them often. In fact, our normal rifles didn't even have a lug to connect it with, but you could still find one if you needed it. “I’ll finish her off. There won't be no rape charge. There's just gonna be another sad terrorist beheading." He grinned and turned back to the girl. "Now go the fuck on, Boy Scout. Let the real men handle this."

  He bent down to grab the girl by her torn and dirty clothes, pulling the bayonet from his scabbard while he did. She wasn't very old, considering she was wearing semi-western style clothing and didn't have even a head scarf on. Our cultural briefings had told us girls who dressed like that were either part of Iraq's tiny Christian minority or underage. I couldn't let it go on.

  Reaching down, I grabbed Lloyd by his arm and yanked him away from the girl. "Lloyd, no! Look at her! She's probably not even eighteen, for fuck's sake! Let her go, or I'm dragging you down to the MPs."

  "Fucking bastard!" Lloyd yelled, pushing back into me. He knocked me off balance, the two of us tangling up and tripping. I knew Lloyd was strong, but when he landed on top of me, there was also anger and drunken rage in his eyes. My right arm was trapped, sandwiched between him, my M-4 and my body, while my left arm tried to hold onto his right wrist. Unfortunately for me, Lloyd had leverage, and in his drunken anger, I thought he was willing to kill me. I'd seen that look in his eyes before, when he would be out on patrol and an insurgent sniper would take a shot at us or an IED would go off. His humanity dropped away, and a stone-cold killer would be there in his place.

  "Lloyd, don't do it!" I yelled, trying with all my might to deflect or stop the slowly descending blade of the bayonet. But in the way we'd fallen, my legs were pinned, and Lloyd was able to put most of his upper body weight behind the bayonet. "Lloyd! LLOYD!"

  There was nothing else I could do. I could feel the trigger of my rifle still in the painfully twisted grip of my right hand. I pulled, hoping that the barrel would wound or scare him enough that I could get his ass off me.

  I hadn't realized that when we fell, the selector switch on my rifle had gotten caught in my web gear. The switch wasn't on single shot any longer. Instead, a long, rattling sound came from between our bodies, a sound that of all things reminded me of a beer belch.

  Lloyd stiffened, his arm dropping, the point of the bayonet burying itself into the sand less than an inch from my left ear. He rolled off me, his body already going limp and his blood soaking into my clothing. I rolled with him, dropping my now empty M-4, amazed I was still alive and unharmed. "Lloyd? Lloyd!"

  I looked around, hearing people coming our way. I grabbed the emergency compression bandage from the shoulder strap of my web gear, tearing the plastic envelope open. "MEDIC!"

  * * *

  Two Months Later- Fort Campbell, Kentucky

  "Specialist Dane Bell, you have been charged with the involuntary homicide of Specialist Lloyd James. How do you plead?"

  I looked at my JAG lawyer, who nodded in encouragement. He was a wimp, the kind of officer who would have gotten himself shot if he'd been in any combat unit, and I felt an inherent sort of disgust for him. I'm not one of those types that cannot appreciate any soldier but those who sling a rifle, but my lawyer wasn't a man, in the real sense of the word. He was a weasel. I felt I was getting screwed royally, but by the way he put it, the odds were against me if I didn't do it his way. Without him helping in my defense, the odds were impossibly against me. "Guilty, sir."

  The judge, a grizzled, hawk-faced Colonel who probably had done push ups with Patton and ruck-marched with Chesty Puller, glowered at me from the bench. I could
understand. I'd just admitted to killing not only another soldier, but my friend as well. A Court Martial is not the sort of place where soldiers are given a pat on the back and toasted with beer.

  Unfortunately for me, there were a few problems with my case. First of all, the Iraqi girl that Lloyd had been choking turned out to be the little sister of one of the local insurgency leaders in Baghdad. So, despite her repeated assertions to the Baghdad police that I had saved her life, her story was dismissed as being nothing more than the lies of a terrorist sympathizer. That she was underage and had somehow gotten inside an American base in the Green Zone didn't help. I suspected Lloyd had snuck her in, maybe with the threat of violence, but I didn't know. Hell, she could have been scouting for a terrorist attack. I couldn't have been sure, but it didn't matter to me. Shooting an insurgent is different from raping a child.

  Another problem was that a post-mortem toxicology report showed that Lloyd's blood alcohol content was nearly zero. According to what my lawyer told me, Lloyd at the time of his death had the equivalent of one beer in his body, nothing more. This, more than anything else, confused the hell out of me. I'd heard his slurring words and had smelled something stronger than beer on his breath. I couldn't figure it out.

  Third, and perhaps most damaging to me, was the fact that my lawyer was not one of those types who was passionate about defending his clients. In fact, he'd have much rather been out of the service altogether, working admiralty law with his father up in Seattle. He'd told me as much himself at our first meeting. I wasn't going to get a passionate advocate on my side. So, when the prosecutor tossed me a bone and agreed to a plea-bargain for involuntary manslaughter, I took it. If anything, I felt I had to do some penance for taking my friend's life.

  "Specialist Bell, the court accepts your plea of guilty to the charge of involuntary manslaughter. I've looked over the terms of the agreement worked out between you and the prosecution, and while I find them rather lenient, they are within the guidelines of the UCMJ. In addition, the court takes into consideration the statements of character from your team leader, as well as your service record, which until now, while not spotless, showed that you have served well. Therefore, the court will agree with the recommendation from the prosecution. You are to serve three to five years at the military prison in Fort Leavenworth, Kansas."

  There was an outraged cry from behind me, and I turned my head to watch as Mr. James, Lloyd's father and one of the biggest businessmen in that part of Pennsylvania, exploded to his feet. "The hell you will! That son of a bitch murdered my only son! And he gets three to five? Are you out of your fucking mind?"

  The Colonel glared at Mr. James and banged his gavel on the desk. "Mr. James, it is only at the request of the senior Senator from your home state that I have agreed to allow you to attend these proceedings. He is a personal friend of mine, and he assured me that you would conduct yourself in a reasonable and dignified manner. If you cannot, I will have you removed from the courtroom, and neither of us wants that."

  Mr. James was red-faced, staring daggers at the Colonel before turning his attention to me. "I swear, you bastard, you will serve every day of that. And may God alone help you when you get out."

  He sat down before the MPs could take him away or the Colonel could order him out, and I turned my attention back to the Colonel. When he was certain there would be no more outbursts from the gallery—other than Lloyd's father, the only other person there was a reporter from the Fort Campbell Public Affairs Office, who would handle the press release, military level newspaper story, and statements to the civilian press—he continued. "The court's decision is made. In addition, effective immediately, you will be reduced in rank to that of Private, and upon completion of your sentence, you will receive a Dishonorable Discharge, forfeiting all pay and benefits accrued during your time in service. Do you have any questions?"

  "May I make a statement, sir?" I asked. Other than entering my plea, it was the first time I'd said anything, and this was the third day I'd been in the courtroom. In combat, military justice is swift and certain. In the rear areas, though, justice was less swift but no less certain. The Colonel nodded, and I cleared my throat, squaring my shoulders and standing tall. I may not have been accepted by the military any longer, but I still had my pride. "I . . . I’m sorry for Lloyd's death. He was my friend, and I wish he could have been here today. But despite my fate, which I will not appeal, I feel I have served as honorably as I could have done, and I have never betrayed my oath to protect our nation and our Constitution. That's all."

  The Colonel nodded, with perhaps a hint of compassion in his face after my statement, then turned to two MPs who were acting as bailiffs. He'd read all the same evidence I had, and he knew that if I'd insisted on taking it to a jury trial, a good lawyer had a chance of getting me off. "Secure the prisoner for transport. This court-martial is adjourned."

  CHAPTER 7

  ABBY

  T he house was quiet when I got back, and I was worried that Daddy may have gone to work. Brittany didn't work. I don't think she'd ever had a job in her life, and I could not have faced dealing with her alone. Not on top of all that had happened to me in the past twelve hours. But Daddy . . . I needed him, regardless of how childish it made me feel to admit it.

  On the cab ride from Midtown back to our house, I kept turning over in my mind how damn stupid I'd been. It had taken me a while after I saw Chris's face to make the connection, but once I had, the name Dane Bell stuck out like a sore thumb in my mind. I had been just about to turn eighteen when I read the news about a soldier in the 101st Airborne killing one of his own in Iraq. Chris hadn't told me a lot of personal details about his friends at Fort Campbell, probably because of operational security, but the names Dane and Lloyd stuck out because they were so close.

  I'd known that Chris was older than me when we first met, but it was charming that he was willing to wait. We'd met on a day that Daddy had let me come to the job site, where he was working on a new building for Lake Chevy. Chris had been there on leave from the Army, visiting his dad, and the two of us hit it off. Within two weeks, we were seriously dating, Daddy at first concerned about our age difference, but accepting it because he felt Chris was so mature and noble.

  I, of course, felt the same way, especially when he swore his loyalty to me. "Honey girl," he told me when he had a three-day weekend to spend down in Atlanta before shipping out to Iraq, "you just happen to be the most beautiful thing I've seen in my entire life. Only a damn fool wouldn't be willing to wait for you."

  We'd kissed. We had done a lot of that back then, and I'd let him get to second base. But the one time he'd tried to push for more, I told him no, not until I was done with high school. He'd agreed easily enough, and other than a hand on my backside when we would kiss in his car or out on the lake when we went swimming, he never strayed out-of-bounds again.

  After the killing, Dane's name had been all over the news for a few days. Even though I don't watch a lot of TV news, Daddy loves his Fox & Friends, along with Hannity, O'Reilly, and the others on that channel. It had made for good TV at the time, especially when it came to light that Dane was from a so-called blue state and had actually left college to enlist. Normally, this would have been a cause for celebration, but for the fact that Dane had been involved in what the campus termed 'multi-faith support group,' and the talking heads termed an Islamic acceptance front. Also, the classmates who came forward to get their fifteen minutes of fame described Dane as a misfit, who'd partied and goofed off more than studied, so he had lost his scholarship. "So you see, this little liberal, guilt-ridden sympathizer decided that it would be fun to go and play soldier," one of the commentators had declared one night, the same day I'd gotten the email from Chris telling me about the arrest, "but when the chance came for him to show his true colors, he chose the enemy over his own friend."

  That Lloyd's father had made the rounds of the talk shows after that didn't help matters either. He was mad as hell and used
every chance he got to try and push for Dane to get more time. Listening to his side of the story, you'd think Dane had gone hunting Lloyd purposefully.

  By that time, though, I'd been caught up in my own drama, too much to know the truth from the spin. Chris had written me an it's not you, it's me letter, leaving me eighteen, not knowing which college I'd go to, and having to go with Pete Stantz, of all people, to the senior prom since every other guy worth going with already had a date by then. I'd been considering Georgia Tech and the University of Kentucky at the time, but Chris's breakup made my decision clear. As time had gone on, the hurt healed, and until the night before, I thought I was pretty well off, all things considered. I had decent grades, Daddy was in good health, and I was happy.

  At least I thought I was, until I saw Chris's photo and it all came rushing back to me. The hurt, the pain, all of it. Add to it that Dane had been amazing in bed, so wonderful that my body still yearned for his touch even after knowing what kind of murdering bastard he was, and I didn't know what to do except feel miserable.

  The sound of the front door closing echoed through the house louder than I thought it would, only to be followed by the sound of footsteps rushing to the front door. I stood there, unsure of myself when Daddy came around the corner from the kitchen, his face lined with worry.

  "Abigail Melissa Rawlings, where have you been?" he demanded, anger on his face until he saw the way I looked. His eyes immediately softened, and he stopped, holding his arms out to me. "Oh, baby girl, come here."

  He hadn't called me his baby girl in years, not since I got over wearing my hair in pigtails back in fourth grade, but it didn't matter. I rushed over to him, burying my face in the cotton of the polo shirt that he normally wore to the office. Inhaling the comforting scent, I started to bawl my eyes out. I heard footsteps again, this time lighter and more measured, and I knew that Brittany had joined us. It didn't matter as I continued to bawl, tears and everything else pouring out of me as he held me tight, whispering comforting words that had little meaning except that I was safe into my hair.