I'll Be Home for Christmas

by Jessica Scott

  He stalked off, needing to get away from the LT before he really did something stupid. Because as much as he hated LT Randall, the bastard was right about one thing: Garrison had kept Carponti out of a ton of trouble. If Randall wanted to make an example out of Carponti, now was a prime opportunity.

  He really didn’t want to call home and tell his wife he’d gotten busted. Maybe he should start watching his mouth.

  He grinned bitterly. Yeah right.

  * * *

  “Everyone tracking?” Carponti straightened from where he’d been leaning over the sand table and looked around at his boys.

  Half of them looked dead on their feet. The other half looked shell-shocked from the attack two days ago. And the one after that. And the one after that. Things hadn’t stopped since Garrison had gotten hit. Somehow, they just seemed worse without him.

  Their company had endured three more attacks but no more serious injuries. No one was taking things well but in Carponti’s platoon, everyone was acting like Garrison had died and he hadn’t. There was no way he could take the guys out on the road like this. No one had their head in the game.

  Goddamn it.

  “All right, look. We had a bad mission but Sarn’t G is going to be all right so y’all need to stop moping like a bunch of crybabies.” He folded his arms over his chest. “Besides, he’s going to be so pissed off when he wakes up. He’s got this tube in his dick like this long.” He held his hands shoulder-width apart. “I mean it’s ridiculous.”

  “How the hell do you know?” Wilks asked.

  Carponti forced himself to grin like it was just another day. “Because I drew a smiley face on it before he left.”

  “Bullshit.” This from a skinny kid they called Tigger because he bounced when he played whatever video game they’d stolen from the commo geeks. Tigger was six and a half feet tall and weighed a buck fifty soaking wet.

  Carponti placed his palm over his heart. “Hand to God. He’s going to get an awesome Christmas present when he wakes up in Germany or the States or wherever they ship his old ass to.”

  Chuckles scattered through the group and Carponti figured it was best not to push his luck. “Everyone rack out. No computers or shit. Just get some fucking sleep. We’re going to be busy as hell tomorrow and I don’t want Tigger falling asleep in the turret again.”

  Tigger flipped him off. “One time and I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  Carponti blew him a kiss. “Go to bed, sweetheart. If it gets cold, I’ll come snoodle with you.”

  He waited until everyone was racked out before killing the lights. The hundred-man bay descended into darkness, lit only by the emergency exit lights near the doors and the occasional flashlight as someone ignored the directive to go to sleep. Carponti couldn’t summon the energy to care about the few rebels.

  “You’re not crashing, Sarn’t C?” Wilks’s bunk was at the foot of Carponti’s.

  “Nah. I gotta go find LT Miller and the new platoon sergeant and some other shit.” Wilks didn’t leave. Carponti sat up. “What’s wrong?”

  Wilks swallowed hard a couple of times. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “Sarn’t G’s going to be okay, right?”

  “Yeah, man. I saw him. He’s gonna be fine. Now go the fuck to sleep.” The emotions he’d tried to lock down were surfacing, threatening to break free. If the boys saw him fall apart, there was no telling the chaos that would unleash.

  So he’d lied. And now he needed to get the hell away from all of them because he was this close to losing his shit completely.

  Carponti stalked away from the bay, away from his boys who were all racked out, sleeping off the adrenaline from the constant chaos.

  He stalked away. He didn’t care where, he didn’t know where, he just needed to get away.

  Garrison was gone. Jesus Christ, putting Garrison on that MEDEVAC was the most god-awful thing he’d ever done.

  He slammed back against the nearest barrier, sliding down the concrete. He ground the heels of his hands into his eyes, fighting the grief that ripped through him, tearing and slashing and cutting.

  His ass collided with the ground and he pulled his knees to his chest and finally let the grief come, ignoring the pain in his ribs. He wept bitterly for his friend, his mentor, his brother.

  The tears tore out of him, ragged and raw and bitter.

  He hadn’t been able to get an update on Garrison. Nothing from that fuckwad lieutenant Randall, nothing from the CO. Trent had been more busted up than Carponti at Garrison’s condition.

  For the first time he could remember, Carponti had no jokes, no smart-ass comments. He’d gotten his boys racked out like Garrison would have expected him to do.

  And now this? Garrison would whip his ass if he saw Carponti fall apart like a crybaby in some deserted sector of the base where only the camel spiders congregated. But he couldn’t stop. Jesus he couldn’t stop.

  He didn’t know how long it was before the tears stopped coming. He sat there as the moon slid over the top of the barrier and illuminated the smoke and the dust swirling beneath the stars. Distant explosions echoed in the night.

  He should get up.

  He should head back. He wanted to call his wife but the words he needed were just… they were gone. He had nothing. No way to tell her what had happened. It was better that she didn’t know anyway. She’d worry about him and the last thing she needed to do was worry about him.

  He’d call her soon. Whenever he felt like he could bullshit his way through a conversation without telling her everything that had happened. He wanted to call her and just listen to her voice, telling him about something at work or griping about the line at the grocery store. God, he’d give anything to go grocery shopping with her. Something so simple.

  He just wanted time with his wife. Just a few minutes alone, listening to her talk. Feeling her breathe on his chest. He’d been gone so much.

  He’d call her. Soon. But not today. Because as badly as he needed to hear her voice, she’d hear the sadness in his and she’d worry. He didn’t want her to worry. He was terrible at lying to her. Every time he tried to surprise her with flowers or a date night, she caught him.

  He dragged his hands over his face. His eyes felt raw and swollen.

  He needed to get back. To find LT Miller and check on him. Check on Trent. To do something.

  But instead, he sat there, staring up at the stars. He wasn’t a praying man. But he sat there, looking at the night sky unable to think of anything except how tore up Garrison had looked in that hospital bed. A whispered plea crossed his lips.

  “Please, let him be okay.” His voice broke. His eyes burned.

  And after a while, when he was empty and raw, he wiped his eyes, brushed off his pants, and went back to work.

  * * *

  Nicole stepped back and looked at the tree. It tipped slightly at the top but for the most part, it was straight. She reached for her cell phone in the breast pocket of her husband’s dress shirt and checked it for the umpteenth time that morning. It wasn’t on vibrate. Vic just hadn’t called. She slipped the phone back into her pocket and studied the tree.

  She didn’t think she was going to be able to make it any straighter than it already was. Folding her arms over her chest, she simply stood there for a moment and tried to find the courage to climb into the attic and pull down the decorations.

  She sighed hard and reached for the glass of wine she’d poured herself before dragging the tree in off the roof of her husband’s truck and into the living room. The scent of fresh pine needles filled the air.

  She hadn’t gotten a dreaded phone call from Laura, either, which meant that Vic was probably busy, not hurt. She could console herself with that. She didn’t really have a choice. The wine was sharp and crisp across her tongue, sliding smooth and easy down her throat.

  Her laptop was on the kitchen table. No new e-mails from Vic the last fifteen times she’d checked it. She knew he was okay. But she still wanted to he
ar it in his voice. Something.

  But no matter how many times he’d deployed, she’d never been able to explain to him how hard it was to wait for news. She always worried about sounding like a nag. Like he was over there, dodging roadside bombs and she was bitching at him about a phone call. She knew all she was asking for was a phone call but sometimes? It felt like she was asking too much.

  She took another look at the slightly tippy tree and took another drink of her wine. The silence from her husband made her miss him; that was all. She hadn’t had a good laugh in, well, forever.

  She padded over to her inbox, looking for the last note from Vic.

  Sorry I haven’t called much. Been insane over here. I’m fine. We’re all fine. Just busy. Will call as soon as I can.

  I love you

  PS still waiting for that video you promised.

  She smiled. The note was from a week ago. She looked at the box on her kitchen table, filled with junk food and five-dollar previously viewed movies.

  She could make him a video, right? It wasn’t much different from having a glass of wine and writing him a dirty letter.

  She swallowed the rest of her wine even as her blood warmed at the thought of touching herself for him. She thought of how surprised he’d be—and how thrilled. She smiled.

  She was going to need more to drink.

  Chapter Six

  “Why the fuck aren’t your optics tied down to your weapon, soldier?” Carponti looked up as Tigger attempted to stand up straight while the new platoon sergeant, Sergeant First Class Iaconelli ripped him a new asshole.

  Carponti tossed down what he was doing and strolled over.

  “What’s the problem here, Sarn’t Ike?” Carponti said, and stepped between him and Tigger. He hated the nickname Ike, which was why Carponti made every effort to call him that.

  It must have looked a little strange having a five-foot-ten ginger kid step between two men who were easily six feet tall but then again, Carponti wasn’t exactly counting on having to get into a fight.

  But he damn sure wasn’t going to sit there and let Iaconelli treat Garrison’s boys like they were fucking morons, either.

  “Mind your own business, Sergeant,” Iaconelli snapped.

  Carponti tipped his chin. “Tigger is in my squad, ergo this is my business, Sergeant. So I say again, what seems to be the problem?”

  Iaconelli glared down at him and Carponti couldn’t miss the fact that his eyes were rimmed with red. Either Iaconelli wasn’t a big sleeper or there was something else wrong.

  “His optics aren’t tied down.”

  Carponti looked over his shoulder at Tigger’s weapon. “They’re tied down just fine.”

  “No they’re not. It’s not done like this.” Iaconelli held up his weapon, which had some intricate mixture of five-fifty cord and hundred mile an hour tape securing his optics to his weapon. “This is how we do it in my old platoon.”

  “Well,” and Carponti turned and held up Tigger’s weapon, “this is how we do it in Garrison’s platoon.”

  “This isn’t Garrison’s platoon anymore,” Iaconelli snapped.

  Carponti handed Tigger back his weapon. “If you have a new standard, tell us. Don’t come in here and get your panties in a twist and start yelling. That’s not how we do things here.”

  Iaconelli looked shocked that a junior ranking sergeant would be so openly defiant but then again, Carponti didn’t actually give a shit. Maybe someday his mouth would get him in trouble but right then, with the guys still reeling from losing Garrison, the last thing he was going to let the new guy do was become another LT Randall. Fuck that.

  “You’ll do things the way I say we’ll do things. This is the army, not a democracy.”

  Carponti smiled coolly. “Were you potty trained at gunpoint?” He held open his arms. “Come here, big guy, let me give you a hug.”

  “If you fucking touch me…” Iaconelli stuck his finger in Carponti’s face and Carponti seriously considered planting a kiss on the tip of it. He wondered if Iaconelli would punch him and how much it would hurt. Considering Iaconelli was a fucking giant who spent way too much time in the gym, Carponti would probably lose a couple of teeth before it was all said and done. “Fix the goddamned optics,” Iaconelli snapped.

  Carponti offered a mock salute. “Roger that, imperial overlord.”

  “Carponti…” Iaconelli’s word was a growled warning. Carponti couldn’t have cared less as Iaconelli stomped off.

  He turned back to the platoon, who looked somewhere between amused and slightly horrified. “You heard him, ladies. Let’s fix the optics so Uncle Ike doesn’t have a reason to yell.”

  Carponti set the guys to work taping down their optics and went back to work on his own project. He wanted to take a few minutes to go see if Jackson would let him call home but lately, the network had been sucking and Jackson had been too busy to let Carponti steal a few minutes.

  He hoped Nicole would understand. Goddamn he missed her.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Oh goody, you’re back.” Carponti looked up into Iaconelli’s face and kept his own expression as innocent as he could. It was an expression Carponti had perfected at the age of six. “I’m sewing; what’s it look like?”

  “You’re sewing?” Iaconelli’s hands shook as he folded them across his chest.

  “Yep.” Carponti could have screwed with him about his hands shaking. He could have asked when was the last time the mean son of a bitch had had a drink.

  But he did none of those things. Iaconelli had come on board yesterday, two days after Garrison had gotten sent back to Germany. Carponti had finally gotten the most useless status update ever from Captain Davila: They had no flipping idea how long Garrison was going to be there before he’d get shipped back to the States.

  So Iaconelli, the poster boy for interpersonal hostility, was in charge. And to say that Carponti and Iaconelli had differing opinions on things… well, there was a better chance of peace in the Middle East than Iaconelli and Carponti getting along.

  He hadn’t meant to get into a pissing contest with Iaconelli right off the bat but well, things just kind of happened that way. Until the incident a few minutes ago, Carponti had bitten his tongue because he hadn’t felt like being the leader of the insurgency. But he drew a line when someone screwed with his men.

  He had other things to worry about. He sat there and sewed the little strip of fabric. It centered him. Reminded him that there was still something good out in the world—his wife.

  He hadn’t called home in a few days. Every time he thought about it, he felt empty. Cold. He wanted to hear Nicole’s voice but he didn’t want to talk.

  He didn’t know what to say. So he said nothing. Maybe he’d still get out of there in time to make it back to Texas for Christmas. He tried to ignore the shadow of Iaconelli standing over him. He wasn’t sure he could leave the guys alone with him right now. Carponti didn’t trust him and as badly as he needed to be home with Nicole for her first Christmas without her dad, he wasn’t sure he could live with himself if something happened to the guys while he was gone.

  He couldn’t tell her that, though. She’d loved him through choosing the army so many times, this was the one time she needed him to choose her. He needed to be there for her this Christmas. Less than two weeks away. He could see her soon.

  He was holding on to that hope like a lifeline.

  “Yes, I’m sewing. Everyone has a hobby. Take Jax over there. He’s playing World of Warcraft with a girl in Scandinavia. At least that what ‘she’ told him. I suspect it’s some bored fat slob on another base somewhere here in Iraq but you can’t tell him that. He swears they’re getting married.”

  Iaconelli’s face flushed and Carponti could see him trying really hard not to lose his temper. “You’re sewing,” Iaconelli repeated.

  Carponti lifted both eyebrows. “You seem to be hung up on this fact but the simple fact is that yes, I am sewing.”

&n
bsp; It was almost comical watching the myriad of emotions flash across Iaconelli’s face as he tried to find some kind of cogent response. “Have you been to the shrink lately?”

  “Clean bill of health after my last explosion.”

  “Obviously someone missed something if you’re sewing,” Iaconelli snarled. “Okay smart-ass, I give up. Why are you sewing?”

  “It’s for my wife.” Carponti grinned in pure innocence. He didn’t need to tell Iaconelli what he was sewing. “So she’ll send me a dirty video.”

  Iaconelli’s expression twisted into some form of modified horror. For a man who had been on the initial run to Baghdad, that was saying a lot. Carponti smiled and blinked.

  Iaconelli held up one hand when Carponti opened his mouth to speak. “Just. Stop.”

  “What?”

  “Not another word. Put the goddamned cross stitch away and get ready to go to a mission brief.”

  “Do I have time to go call my wife? It’s almost Christmas and I want to see if I can get her to talk dirty to me.” Iaconelli thought he was kidding. Carponti didn’t need to correct him. He was enjoying Iaconelli’s horrified reaction a lot. It had probably been a long time since someone didn’t cower at the big platoon sergeant’s feet.

  Iaconelli started to argue but relented. “I don’t give a shit but if I find you whacking off anywhere near my bunk, I’m cutting your dick off.”

  Carponti smiled. “I love you, too, Sarn’t Ike.”

  “Carponti, I’m not fucking kidding.” He looked ready to blow a gasket. Or maybe have a heart attack; Carponti wasn’t really sure.

  Iaconelli choked and turned a slightly different shade of purple. Which was really hard considering his skin was already darker from being in the constant sunshine. It might be almost Christmas but it was still hot as balls and sunny as hell during the day. The nights?

  The nights, he froze his ass off. He’d tried to crawl into Iaconelli’s bunk the other night—with his sleeping bag—and Iaconelli had threatened to kill him. There was nothing wrong with grown men snuggling to keep warm but apparently Iaconelli would rather freeze than partake of body heat. About five of them had piled into the middle of the bay to keep warm because they hadn’t been given enough fuel and well, when the gas ran out, so did the generators that powered the heat in their bay.