Standing guard, our weapons at the ready, we wait. Finally, when we get our orders to move on target and confirm kills, it feels like a lifetime has passed. There’s no way anything survived. We move quickly and efficiently, keeping our formation as we approach. I don’t cover my nose to try to erase the smell of the dead tonight. Tonight, I relish the feelings of my stomach flipping. We did it. The vibrations of excitement hit the air and enter my bloodstream. A moment later the ugly truth rears.
What would America do if they knew we were a useless cog in a war machine? Would they panic? Do they assume it’s out of our hands at this point anyway? The media won’t tell them we got lucky—that our win tonight was dumb fucking, fumbling luck, and they’ll praise our name, call us heroes for taking another step, the final step, to end the war. They won’t see our frustration, total lack of accountability, the haphazard planning, nor will they know our fear. Pure, fresh from the tap, terror at knowing the only thing standing between annihilation and humanity is a useless cog. Because it was a success. Maybe that’s how it is for all people who do anything labeled a success. Maybe they’re all just praying no one knows it was equal parts luck as it was devout preparation. The buildings on the farm are all cleared. It doesn’t take long because of the precise accuracy of the missiles dropped.
Choppers land southwest of our location, their blades cutting the air, making the smoke swirl. There’s a body fifty feet from me, Rexy sees it the same time I do. Knees bent; he jogs quickly.
“It’s him,” he says, and repeats it a few more times in shock, while stooping next to the body, pulling out his flashlight, night vision removed.
Out of breath, I stop when I reach Rexy, and flip up my nods. I want to see the man with my own eyes. How many years have we seen mugshots of this man? Thousands of pictures of him in different disguises? He has been the face of this war since the beginning. Way back when we, as a nation, stood unguarded and unprepared for the massacre that was the start of the war. Us against the terrorists. Humans against these inhuman beings that seemed to only want death and destruction. They harbor no empathy, no regard for life in any form. Old or young, this man and the people he commanded smote millions of people, innocent lives. Blood trails out of his mouth, just on one side, as his lifeless eyes cast a gaze to the heavens. A place he surely won’t be heading. Years of studying his moves and stalking those around him always ended in disappointment. Until now. Until the moment he was no more.
“We got him,” I say, narrowing my own eyes at this picturesque moment. Brothers have retired trying to get this guy. Armies around the world made memes and jokes of his face. Tonight, the victory is ours. “Oh my God. We got him,” I repeat. Of course, we did when I take into account the arsenal that was used, but seeing the man dead in person is surreal. We never knew if this moment would come. “The man is responsible for those first terror attacks all over the U.S. and here he is. Gone for good. It’s hard to believe.” I swallow hard, emotion clogging my throat.
“Like a fucking celebrity or something, right? We’re looking at history right now,” Rexy says before radioing to our officer. It only takes a few minutes for everyone else to join us, a huge circle around a solitary lifeless human body. He doesn’t look like the most awful person in the world right now. I have to remind myself of how much loss of life he’s responsible for.
“His entire cabinet was killed in the barn,” Grange says. “We got them all.” He relishes saying the last sentence. Like it’s a prayer.
“Every single one,” someone else chimes in. “They won’t bounce back from this. They can’t. All their communications are offline. All of their minions will scatter. They’re ready for this to be over with. These men were the only ones keeping the war alive. It’s really over.”
Politics will fix the rest. Or at least that’s what I assume.
Someone finally says what we’re all thinking. “It’s over. It’s finally fucking over.”
Cheers erupt in a violent celebration. Photos are taken of the body as proof and for the media, and I drift back toward the helicopters. Their blades slapping the sky in a familiar pattern that lulls me. My heart rate returns to resting on the long walk back to our ride. Sliding my hand into my pocket, I finger the tiny trinket I keep in my pocket on every mission I’ve ever been on. It’s a little metal Camelia. I roll it between my thumb and forefinger before letting it fall back to the bottom of my pocket.
I take a ragged breath as I lean into a seat, removing my helmet and night vision. Hope turns into joy and that turns into visceral anticipation. “Time to go home,” I whisper to myself.
_______________
I had a normal video call with Clover four days ago. In an effort to surprise her, I kept quiet about when I was returning from the U.K., I crept back into my house last night at midnight. All the lights were off at her house and it took all of my power to not barge into her house and take her in every way possible. I want to play it cool, because I have big plans for the first time I see her. It’s going to be perfect. Everything that Clover Wellsley deserves. I didn’t sleep a wink because my sleep cycle is all fucked up, and because the diamond ring my mom gave me is sitting on my dresser burning holes into my subconscious. Mostly because I’m not sure I deserve Clover, and I’m still hung up wondering if she’ll actually say yes. We’ve been apart longer than we’ve been together. Even when we were together, we weren’t really together in the ways traditional couples are together. My stomach wants to heave chunks all over my bedroom floor when I finally let my feet meet the wood and make my way to the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. The sun is rising, and the feelings of security and happiness overtake my nerves about what I’m going to do today.
Pouring a cup of coffee, I look out my front window and I unexpectedly see Clover. She’s wearing a silk pajama set that swoops low, revealing her cleavage and that hugs her thighs perfectly. Black running shoes, laces untied are a stark contrast to the pink silk. I narrow my eyes in her direction as I take my first sip of coffee.
“What in the fresh hell,” I mutter, drawing nearer to the window to get a better look. God, I’ve missed her. My heart pounds out as my love for her swells. Her darker hair is in a mad tangle on top of her head. Her body is lithe and sculpted. She’s up to some sort of antic this early in the morning. Clover motions to her roof saying something, her warm breath cutting a fog in the cold November air. She lifts her arms and points, raising the hem of her top exposing the abs that I want to kiss, and that’s when the shirtless man, pants unbuckled, walks out of her front door and looks where she’s pointing.
I clench the handle of the coffee cup so hard the ceramic breaks and hits the floor sending coffee all over my bare feet. I don’t move. I don’t blink. I let the murderous rage do the moving. It ignites inside me like a fucking torch. I breathe, closing my eyes, praying when I open them the scene will be different, that I’ll be back in my fucking metal box in London. That this nightmare is something I’ll work through when I wake.
What would happen if I walked outside right now? The unbearable urge to confront them is dampened when my cell phone rings. It’s my father. I told him I was home. God love him, he knew I’d be up this early. I answer on the third ring, holding my shaking hand up to my ear. “Hey Dad,” I say, swallowing down the lump in my throat.
His greeting is bright and cheery. I watch as the shirtless man gets a ladder from his garage and props it against the side of Clover’s house. “Let me buy you a plane ticket home, Son. To celebrate my victory as Mayor of Greenton.”
If he had called a half hour ago, I would have told him no, because I have plans. I continue staring as the man climbs up, and walks unsteadily across the roof, making his way to the bricked chimney. Clover jumps up and down, hand covering her mouth as he shuffles his feet awkwardly. I can imagine the words coming out of her mouth. She seems frantic with worry, arms flailing and posture swaying.
“When?” I ask, clearing my throat. “I’m so happy I’ll be with you t
o celebrate the big win,” I deadpan, my voice cracking. “Mom must be planning the party of the century.”
The man makes it to the chimney, barely, then reaches inside and pulls out a brightly colored bird. The motherfucking bird. My dad tells me about the events leading up to the main celebration in Greenton and I ask appropriate questions when I should, being totally distracted with Clover and her neighbor and their body language. “Yeah, yeah. Sounds perfect, Dad,” I agree with the time of the flight he suggested. It’s tonight. “Bentley will be able to pick me up?” I ask. “Not you, and Mom, and the whole town,” I assert. “As much as I love Mom’s fervor, I’m not up for it right now.”
Dad laughs. “Bentley can pick you up from the airport if that’s what you’d like. Can’t say I blame you, it’s the only low-key option as far as I can tell. Now that you’re responsible for ending the war everyone is going crazy here.”
I shake my head. Since the news broke of our mission that ended the war, it’s been nothing but one big, sugar-coated media rush. Opinions are like assholes. Everyone has one. Doesn’t mean they’re right or even based on fact. I don’t listen to the buzz because the only thing that matters is that I’m home because there won’t be any more attacks and the governments are going to strike hard and fast when copycat artists start chatter of something else. For all intents and purposes, the snake was beheaded, and the minions were set free.
“I didn’t end the war, Dad. We got lucky.”
“Yeah, yeah, Son. Whatever you say. We raised you to be a humble, honorable man.” I can hear the smile in his voice. Why do I want to do dishonorable things and tear that man’s head from his neck then, Dad?
The man climbs down the ladder, handing the bird to Clover when he’s close enough for her to reach up and grab it. She races into the open front door, the bird clutched in both hands like it’s a live grenade. She returns about thirty seconds later.
“It’s over,” Dad says, emotion swelling in his voice.
“I can’t wait to see you,” I counter. “It’s going to be so nice to be in Greenton after being away.” When the guy gets to the bottom of the ladder, he folds it up and turns around, Clover clutches him around his neck. “I gotta go. Nature calls,” I tell my dad. He bids me goodbye and tells me he can’t wait to see me once more.
After I hang up, I toss the cell onto a chair in the corner of the room without taking my eyes off the couple in front of me. And they are definitely a couple. He’s cradling her around her waist, fingers digging into the silk like he’s familiar with the texture, knows how it bunches when it lands on the floor. I stagger back a step, and then another as the pain crawls from the tip of my toes to the top of my head. The heartbreak takes root inside my center, my heart, as Clover grabs the sides of the guy’s face and plants her lips, my lips, on his mouth. Just once.
“It is over,” I whisper.
I lose my breath completely—absentmindedly forgetting to take in oxygen. I watch as he pulls out of her embrace and strides into his side of the duplex, the taste of my girl on his lips. I catch my breath in a sputtering, noisy inhale. How can she do this? Why? I want to rush over there and get answers to all of the questions invading my mind. What are the odds of me bearing witness to what just happened? Slim to none and for some reason, the universe thought I needed to see it. In vivid detail. I rub my eyes, shaking my head—a limp attempt at erasing it from my mind. It’s my fault. I told her to make friends. I was gone. I have no right to be upset. I never had a claim on Clover after only two weeks. She never loved me. She loved the idea of me. Of us. The hold I had on her lessened in my absence. I was foolish to think a woman like Clover could be kept. That she’d marry me. Beating that dude to a pulp would do nothing to help my cause.
Walking back to the bathroom, I clean the coffee off my feet and bring the towel to the front room to clean the mess. After I sop up the ceramic littered coffee, I stand with the larger pieces of the broken cup. It used to say Back by Popular Demand. The shards laying in my palm don’t say anything anymore. I glance out the window, my hands still shaking.
Clover is staring at my house, like she knows I’m in here. Or wished I was. Maybe she feels guilty for what she’s doing. Or maybe she really doesn’t care at all. My mama has a canvas hanging in the hallway back in ‘Bama. It says, ‘Show me what you love, and I’ll tell you who you are.’ I’m a lying, cheating, manipulating pile of absolute hogwash.
Chapter Eighteen
___________________________________
Mercer
IT’S TEN IN the morning and Bentley and I are back at Dizzy Rocket. He drove us straight here after I landed last night. I didn’t have my fill of oblivion, so I called him early this morning and told him to pick my ass up. We banged on the good side of the DR doors two minutes before Glenda opened up shop. It’s quiet, not even the breakfast crowd has shown up yet. Everyone is probably at home gearing up for the party in town square tonight. No one likes a damn festive occasion more than Greenton. American flags are attached to every light pole and red white and blue décor is pasted to the windows of the businesses lining the main drag. The occasion is the war ending and the mayoral elections.
“Let’s get Glenda to fix you some eggs,” Bentley says, grabbing my shoulder from behind. “You drink any more of that heartbreak hooch on an empty stomach and more than your heart will be broken.” Glenda glares at me from the kitchen, her gaze like angry lasers. Bent leans down. “She’s scary, Ballentine. Your hero status is running out. Especially after you put a hole in the bathroom wall last night.” I’d forgotten about that. My damn fist mustered up a mind of its own.
I down the bourbon sitting on the bar top in front of me, remnants of someone else from last night, and shove the glass away. The room tilts, and my seat moves. My cell phone is open on Clover Wellsley’s social media. There are colorful squares with her life staring back up at me. I drag my finger down on the screen and wait to see if anything new pops up. Nothing. Just a photo of her bird from three days ago and a stupid poem she wrote about him escaping up the chimney. I hate the bird, the poem, and the chimney. Most of all, I hate what Clover has done to me.
“Order yourself another bourbon,” I tell Bent.
He growls at me. “She knows it’s for you, dumb ass. As loose as I am, I don’t even drink this early. Don’t you want to go visit with your parents? You showed up drunk last night and left before they could even tell you good morning.” When I don’t respond to him, he lays his hand on top of my phone to cover it. “Listen to me. Get the fuck out of your head. There’s a way things that are bending change before they snap. You know, a little shiny, losing shape. That’s you right now, my friend. You’re a stone’s throw away from a loud ass snap.”
I lean back and almost fall off the stool. “That’s not me, it’s physics, Bent. You’re right about one thing. I need to have a clear head when my dad gives his acceptance speech. I’m so angry. There’s nothing I can do to forget. To get that woman out of my damned head.”
Bentley moves his hand off my cell and puts his hand back on my shoulder. “No one has figured out the female species. They’re the world’s most confounding mystery. Why do they do what they do? Who are they really?” He pauses for effect. “The government has a compound of them like Area Fifty-One where they laugh at us men while we navigate all the shit that makes no sense!”
I update Clover’s feed and a new image appears. A photo I myself saw in person an hour before. It’s Greenton Main Street, all the patriotic décor on display. A block or so from DR.
“She’s here,” I say, choking on my own tongue. Bent is in his own world, telling me conspiracy theories about women that explain why he’s single. Rising from the chair, I slide my phone back into my pocket and grab a large bill out of my wallet. I slam it on the counter and thank Glenda. She snarls at me. “Bent, buddy,” I interrupt. “The more likely scenario is you’re an asshole. That’s okay, though. I love you. But I’ll love you more if we get the fuck out of here
right now. Clover is here.”
He quirks a brow. “In Greenton? Wellsley lost the election. Why would she be in Greenton?”
My heart races. “No, fucker. She’s here,” I say, gaze darting to the door when two shadowy figures appear. “Here, here,” I add. “Glenda,” I call out, sliding over the counter in a baseball slide. Bentley follows. “The nation requires the use of your back door.” I wince when I realize how bad it sounds. We’re crouched behind the bar. It’s sticky from spilled sweet drinks last night. We move around the edge until we get back to the kitchen. The room tilts sideways as I stand and push my back against the wall. We’re hidden from view at this angle.
“We’re here for breakfast,” a woman calls. It’s Goldie. Fuck. Why aren’t they at the Slippy Egg? Sweat breaks out under my shirt as my body goes into flight mode. Bent’s eyes go large and round. Glenda responds to Goldie to tell her she’ll be there in one shake of a stick.
Before she leaves the kitchen, she comes over, grabs me by the collar of my shirt, and pulls me to her. “Last get out of jail free card, boy. You owe me working hours tonight after you sober up. Floors need cleaned, the grease trap could use a hose down, and you will fix that hole.”
I nod furiously.
Glenda turns her glare to Bent. “Take him home and sober him up. His daddy would be so ashamed if he saw him right now. With the party tonight too.” She tsks in a way that actually does make me feel like I’ve disappointed her.
“Yes, ma’am. Of course, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am. That breakup of his is really eating at him. Gotta appreciate a broken heart,” Bentley says, trying to win my favor.
“Get out of here. Don’t touch anything in the back room,” Glenda hisses, grabbing two menus from the cart next to us.
Almost Had You Page 20
