The look on his face was one of pleasure. “She’s gone for good. Fuck her sorry ass. Now it’s just you and me, Son.” He eyes me for a moment, his brows turning down. “Don’t you dare fuckin’ cry. Men don’t cry.”
I wasn’t a man, I was a young boy. I couldn’t help the way my bottom lip quivered, nor the tear that rolled from my eye. Mom had tried to stop him hurting me, got in the way of his fists more than once, taking my punishment on herself. Even then at my tender years, I’d hated it.
I got a fist in my face then. “Men don’t fuckin’ cry,” he repeats. “I’ll make you a fuckin’ man if it’s the last thing I do.”
His blow, so strong, had laid me out on the floor. I lay, stunned, trying to process Mom had left. But surely, I’d see her again?
I never had. No calls, no visits. No birthday cards or presents at Christmas. The one person who’d made my life bearable had disappeared off the face of the earth. Did I hate her? I didn’t know. She’d abandoned me, yes, but was now hopefully out of range of his ire. Safe. It had been my childhood dream to find out where she disappeared to and to go join her. Until those fists met my flesh time after time. That was when all a son’s love had died for the woman who gave him life. How could she have left me with him? She should have taken me. She would have if she’d loved me.
He’d never divulged where she’d gone. As I grew older, I never bothered to search. She’d known what my future would be, yet she still chose to walk out.
“Drive me home, Son.”
Yes, this was my life. Nothing more than his taxi driver. He’d lost his licence when driving drunk, got it back for a time, then lost it again. A never-ending cycle.
I always knew I was a commodity to him. He had no love for me, never showed affection. I was a means to an end, his meal ticket for the future. It made me bitter, and in turn, I used him as well, only waiting until I turned eighteen, then I’d start to put my plan into action. Soon I’d be able to fulfil the vow to never see him again.
Suppressing a sigh at his demand, I should have known by now it would have been useless to make plans for tonight. They’d be fucked, just as they always are. I suppose I’d expected he might cut me some slack if I’d played well, and as it turns out, I couldn’t have done better. Expect my dad to show some decency or give me a reward? Stupid. It’s more likely that hell will freeze over.
I seethe, inwardly, but nevertheless agree. Right now I’m dependent on having a roof over my head as my plans come together. Am I using him? Yeah, but I have no regrets about it. He’s used me every day of my sorry fucking life.
“Just give me five minutes, and I’ll take you home.” Shielding my eyes from the setting sun, I see an arm raised in a wave.
“Now, Son.”
I breathe in and hold my breath, knowing I have to give in or suffer the consequences of going home with him in one of his more cantankerous moods. While nowadays it’s more me evading his fists, or catching a raised hand and preventing it connecting, there’s always the risk my rage would match his own. Being arrested for assault or murder would not help me attain my future.
Resigning myself to texting the girl who’s waiting for me instead, I take out my phone as I walk alongside him. Keeping a few paces behind, I call up her number.
“Finn?”
“Sorry, babe. I’ve got to take the old man home. Can’t make it tonight.”
“Can you drop him off and come back later? I can wait.”
I eye the way my father is stumbling and know the next few hours will be spent taking him out to meet his friends, then collecting him when he becomes too belligerent for even them to deal with. Once back at the trailer, he’ll insist I hang around, waiting on him to keep yet more beer in his hand then, finally, helping him into bed before or even after he passes out. Subsequently I’ll be cleaning up the vomit that’s invariably present, maybe even having to change his bed after he’s pissed himself. I’ve had a lot of practice.
“Nah, not tonight.”
There’s a silence on the end of the phone and then come the words that aren’t entirely unexpected. “Well, you call me when you’ve got time, and maybe I won’t be busy myself.”
“Babe…” But she’s already gone.
Fuck my life.
Telling myself I’ve just got to hang on for a few more months, I take Dad home like a dutiful son, take him out, bring him back, pander to him, then when he’s eventually asleep and, as expected, after I’ve cleaned up both him and the carpet, go to bed myself.
I’m woken by the sound of crashing—not an unusual occurrence. Dragging myself out of bed, I emerge to see what damage has been done. He’s tried to make himself a coffee but dropped it because of his shaking hands. I clean up the mess, then start returning to my bedroom.
“I’m hungry. Cook me something.”
I would argue, tell him to do it himself, the words on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow them with a reminder it’s too important that I have a base for the next few months. Biting my tongue, I cook him bacon and eggs, knowing most of it will go to waste, especially as he washes it down with his first beer of the day.
“What are you doing today?” he queries, a calculated look in his eyes. He’ll have a list of chores a mile long if I allow him to get started.
“Training,” I tell him, knowing those chores will immediately lessen in importance.
His eyes gleam. That’s something of which he approves. Wobbling, he stands, the action making him fart loudly. “You’re a good boy,” he tells me in passing, burping a lungful of sour breath in my face. “Going to get that scholarship, I know you will.”
If I do, I’m not going to take it, but my excuse gets me out of the house, and training isn’t a lie.
First, I drive to the beach. I’ve lived in southern California for all of my life, and swimming has always been one of my favourite pastimes and a way to escape. In the water I feel weightless and free, though doing it solely for pleasure stopped when I first set on my dream. Now I follow a punishing schedule, trying to put in at least a mile, timing myself to improve my performance as this is what will hopefully get me on the rung of the ladder to the next stage in my life. Back on the beach, I do push-ups and sit-ups, working until my muscles scream. Now I run a circuit I’ve estimated is a mile and a half while trying to beat my best, grinning when I shave off another second. After that, I dive back into the ocean to cool myself off this time, floating on my back and focusing my mind on the dream that’s within tasting distance.
I’ve always excelled academically, fuck knows how. It wasn’t in the genes my dad passed onto me, and I have to suspect those had come from my mom. She was intelligent enough to get out, even though she’d left me behind. Did she think I was turning into my old man? It’s a fear that’s always lurked in my mind during the intervening years, spurring me on not to be like him, in any way, shape or form while battling the fear nature might always win out.
Days pass, and I begin to grow excited. Dad sees the gleam in my eyes and thinks it’s because of my football future. I don’t tell him it’s not. When the day I’ve been waiting for arrives, I sneak out of the trailer before he awakes.
I’d signed on the dotted line some weeks back and passed the background test as I’d always kept my nose clean. Now I’m taking the Armed Services Vocational Attitude Battery, a punishing series of tests. I emerge triumphant with a score in the high 80s and get my Navy contract. But that isn’t what I’m aiming for.
It’s coincidental, but when I get home elated about my marks, Dad is waving an envelope at me which he’s already opened, of course. It’s the offer of a football scholarship. He wants me to sign right there and then, even going so far as to offer a pen to me. I brush him off with a comment about first reading what I’m signing up for.
I bide my time. The Physical Screening Test is fast approaching, and this will be when I see whether all my training has paid off. I pass with flying colours, and that night return home with the SEAL contract in my ha
nd. I hadn’t had a moment’s hesitation when putting my signature to that.
The second PST I conquer just as well as the first, and hell, I’ve never been so pleased in my life to receive my instructions to go to bootcamp in Illinois.
“The fuck?” my dad asks, as he sees me packing my meagre belongings into a rucksack. “Where the hell are you going?”
“I’m joining the Navy.” Already I don’t want to admit what arm of the services I’ve actually qualified for, wary even now of it coming back to bite me if Dad goes around spouting it off.
“You-you’re fuckin’ what?” His face goes red. “You’re not throwing your fuckin’ life away. You’re going to be a football player.”
“Nah, that’s your dream, Dad. Not mine.”
“You ungrateful bastard!” he roars.
Deciding I’ll allow him just one, I brace, but for once he’s not drunk, and his punch snaps my head back. I no longer need his address or a roof to lay my head under, I’m moving on. I flex my muscles and crowd toward him, my hands wrapping around his fists.
“No more, Dad. It finishes now. I’m going, and you can’t stop me.”
“I’m your father. You can’t leave me. You’ve got the scholarship…”
Being my father is a title he’s never earned. Nothing he can say will dissuade me. I toss him away from me, making sure he lands on the couch.
I don’t bother to argue. “Goodbye.”
I get into my car and drive away without one glance in my rearview. I’m never going back. That was a vow I kept.
3
Seven years ago
Stormy…
I’m back in the sandpit again. Squinting, I take the shades out of my pocket and put them on as I walk away from the briefing. I listened, of course, but where I’m sent doesn’t bother me that much. I’m used to having no say in what mission I’m sent on. Whatever it is, I’ll do my best. I’m serving my country. This is my life and it’s everything I’d ever hoped it would be, though it can never be described as easy.
I sink to my ass, take out a bottle and drink some water, idly staring at the base bustling around me as I find my mind drifting back to how I got to where I am today.
It was hard fucking work, but all those years back, I made it through training, formed friends in BUD/S—good men who had my back as I’d had theirs. I achieved my dream and became a SEAL. But I didn’t stop there, continuing training in whatever opportunity came my way, specialising in explosives and obtaining college credits in computer science. I’m also the best damn sniper on the team, aided by my steady hand, good co-ordination and the way my brain has no problem calculating wind speed and distance. I make the most of all the chances given to me, knowing I’ll pay it all back in spades as I’ve no desire other than being part of the teams so long as I’m physically fit enough or still alive. I’m a lifer. I can think of no other way I’d prefer to spend my days on this earth.
I’m proud to be one of the best, working with the best, always striving for the highest accolades in anything I do. Not for public recognition of course, there’s no chance of that, but for the sense of a job well done, and the knowledge that we’ve all come through. As part of the teams, I’ve worked ops all around the world, essentially living the life I’ve always dreamed.
I might not get the thanks, cheers or praise, or the adulation and money that would come from being a professional football player but I don’t give a fuck about that.
On a rare occasion, I might think back to where I’ve come from, but never with regret that I’d embarked on the wrong path. I didn’t come from a happy home, but as it’s turned out, I’ve found a far better one instead.
A few months back I was transferred to a new team to take the place of a man who hadn’t re-upped. While I’ve worked on a number of continents, I’ve done a few tours in Afghanistan, and my fluency in Dari and Pashto, the two main languages of the region, was the main reason I was chosen. I’d learned as a challenge to myself, finding learning the alien tongue not too dissimilar to my first attempts to speak to a computer in program code.
To date, this deployment has been fairly easy, though we’re working behind enemy lines. The op is helping to train the Afghans so hopefully, in time, they can take on the battle themselves. That I can talk to them in their own language smooths much of the way.
I’m still learning the strengths of my new team, never being one to take men at face value. That they’re also SEALs means I don’t have to question the inherent trust we’re all on the same side. But as to each individual, well, I can’t help reserving judgement. In my eyes, a man has to prove himself. I’ll have their six, and know they’ll have mine, but a designation means shit until you’ve got the measure of a man through experience. A therapist would say my distrust stems back to my dad. He was my parent, but nothing he did earned the title he wore.
If I’ve got the reputation of being standoffish, then I don’t give a damn. I’ll be cautious until I’ve reason not to be and dislike joining new teams for that reason. That said, I’m slowly coming to appreciate the strengths of my new team members. They’re a good bunch of men, and I’ve discovered I like them.
Take Pooh, named because he looks just like a teddy bear, well, I’ve reached the stage to believe he’s a real friend of mine. We couldn’t be more different in background—he’s still got parents who are as proud as fuck of how he earns a living, together with a wife and a new baby born just a few weeks ago. Me? I’m very much single, and happy to remain so.
Buster was harder to get to know. Unlike Pooh, he keeps his personal shit to himself. I’ve learned as much from his interactions with others as I have from the actual man. He prefers hand-to-hand combat, hence picking up his handle. We’d been ambushed a week or so back, and he hadn’t hesitated to have my back. It was that incident that solidified my admiration for him.
Tailor? He’s the unofficial leader of our group, the oldest and most experienced. The origin of his name is a bit blurred. Sure, he’s great with a needle and thread, including in the absence of the platoon’s combat medic happy to stitch up a wound, but the shortened version Tail works as well, as chasing it is one of his specialities. He’s an open book, never keeping anything back, and always ready with his booming laugh. He kind of adopted me and while my natural instinct was to resent it, I tend to gravitate toward him.
No one knows why Gun got his name, the story’s been lost in the mists of time. But he’s a crack sniper, almost as good as myself. And Slice, well, his wet work is to be admired, and a silent death has been delivered many a time.
Years back when I’d joined my first team, I’d just been Finn, appropriately kept because of scuba diving. By the time I joined this unit, everyone was using my new handle, my reputation for being impatient with anyone not giving one hundred percent or issuing some bullshit command just to keep us on our toes had preceded me. When faced with a fuckup, the storm clouds came rolling in, covering my expressive face and betraying me. Apparently, they knew when to step back as my features would grow dark. At that point, I became Storm, or Stormy.
When you’re named, you’re stuck with it whether you like it or not. Sometimes in the dead of night the name gives me pause. Am I more like my old man than I’d like? On too short a fuse and liable to lose my temper? It’s a notion I prefer to dismiss. I don’t get angry for no reason, nor use my fists when I’m in a rage, or not often. Instead, words are my weapon of choice. I’m adept at leaving no one in any doubt as to what I’m thinking.
Truth is, I don’t suffer fools gladly. Luckily, in the platoon of my fellow elite SEALs, we haven’t many of those.
Never once did I regret not following my father’s dreams instead of my own. I had more excitement in my life, and more than that, my life had a purpose. I wasn’t entertaining wannabe experts sitting in the stands, I’ve amassed no fortune, though the pay for a SEAL isn’t bad. The life I live has me fulfilled. I’m wired for this, far more than I would have been as a football player. Re
ceiving the Navy SEAL Trident pin had been the proudest day of my life.
“Any questions from the briefing?” Lieutenant Commander Smythe stops by my side. I jump to my feet. “No, Sir.”
Smythe’s new. A week or so back, he replaced our previous task unit leader who’d taken a bullet to his leg. I’m still feeling him out, but so far I’m not impressed, and at times have silently questioned how he’d ever made the grade. Sure, the words out of his mouth sounded right, but he didn’t have the mental agility which I admire. Once a plan’s in place, he seems slow to change it up as the situation demands.
I’ve kept my thoughts to myself, but tonight, as our team leader walks off, I leave my reminiscing behind and go over to join my team, reaching them just as Pooh brings the very same thing up.
His eyes stare in the direction Smythe disappeared. “I worry he won’t bend if it’s necessary.”
As I nod my agreement, Gun shows he disagrees.
“See? There’s something to be said for sticking to your, well, guns.” He grins self-deprecatingly. “I’d rather know what I’m heading into and what I’m doing, then have someone constantly changing it about. Smythe is someone I respect.”
“Patton was better,” I observe, referencing our previous leader. “I trusted him.”
“You trust your own fuckin’ self,” Buster observes without malice, and with a grin. “Sometimes I don’t think you trust us.”
“Getting there,” I tell him, honestly.
“Oh, we pass, do we?” Tailor tosses in with a smirk.
“Guess we’re honoured,” Slice chuckles. “We all know how high your standards are.”
“Stormy’s standards have saved many lives,” Pooh puts in to support me. “I, for one, am fuckin’ glad he’s with us.”
“Hear fuckin’ hear.” Tailor adds his endorsement, then changes the subject without giving me time to get embarrassed. Praise from him is praise indeed. “Anyway, good news, after the op tomorrow, we should be heading back Stateside.” He pauses to light a cigarette. “What are you guys doing when we go back on leave? What do you have planned?”
Stormy's Thunder: Satan's Devils MC Utah Page 3
