Murder

by Ella James

  He licks his lips and lifts his eyes to mine.

  “Here—have some.” I push a glass his way. His hand closes around the stem.

  “My Dad was in the Navy,” he says. He takes a swallow and again, his eyebrows lift. He nods, as if to say good stuff. “So Dad joined the Navy to pay for med school,” he continues. “I wanted to join the SEALS, but they said I was part colorblind or some shit. Couldn’t see all the shades of green and red they wanted. Ended up in the Rangers, and on up, instead.”

  “On up?”

  He looks down at his plate, then back up at me. “I retired from ACE.”

  “What’s ACE?”

  “Used to be called Delta Force.”

  My eyes pop out of my head. “What?”

  He nods, forking another bite of pasta. “Yeah, like that show on TV called The Unit.”

  “So you were in it for a long time? I don’t know your age.”

  “Yeah.” He brings his napkin to his mouth.

  “Not going to tell me your age?”

  “I’ve almost forgotten,” he says with a grin.

  “You must have done some secret stuff. A lot of secret stuff?” I laugh at myself. “God. I get excited. Sorry.”

  His face goes a little pale. Or did it? Did it? Damn. “Feel free to tell me to STFU. I’ve always been a freak about secrets. I just want to know all the things.”

  Okay—his face is pale. I drop my head into my hands, then lift it, smiling sadly. “I need to be like journalists over in China and North Korea. Just have a censor right beside me, smacking me when I say the wrong things.”

  He smiles and shakes his head. “You’re fine.”

  We eat in silence for a long moment.

  “I suppose now is not the time to ask why you had a craniotomy.” I roll my eyes at myself.

  He shakes his head, chewing some green beans. Swallows. “Up to you. Ask anything you want.”

  “I’m asking then. Because I’m curious. If you don’t want to talk about it, tell me your favorite singer and I’ll take the conversation that way.” I wink exaggeratedly, making fun of myself.

  He laughs. “Gwenna.” It’s so nice to see his smile. He rubs his eyes as it fades, then looks right at me. “It was an IED. A bomb.” His face washes out a little, and I feel like shit for asking.

  “I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have asked. I don’t like to be asked all the time myself—about what happened to me. I thought it might be something like that.” I swallow hard. Heat rises in my cheeks. “I have a brain injury myself.”

  THIRTEEN

  BARRETT

  “I don’t want to ask a lot of nosy questions, but I felt a little weird not telling you. So if you ever want to talk or anything…” She leans her head down and I watch her pull her wavy hair into a rubber band that was around her wrist. Then she turns her head to one side, pressing a hand against the back of her head. “Mine is right there. I have a plate there. I had a bad car accident. Hit and cracked that part of my skull.”

  My mouth goes dry. She sounds so damn matter-of-fact. I swallow as resistance to the idea rises in me. “Do you…still struggle with it?” I ask carefully. “With the brain injury?”

  She shrugs and turns to face me fully once more. “Sometimes. If I’m stressed out, I forget dumb things like where the bread is at the grocery store. I think I stay more tired than other people. I need to exercise consistently if I don’t want to feel depressed or anxious. But I usually stay on top of it.” She lifts a shoulder, like she’s mulling my question over. “I had to take anti-seizure meds for a while right after it happened. I hated those. I had to do a lot of physical therapy, but that was more from other injuries than from the traumatic brain injury. Now my only lasting issue is that white looks like pink.”

  I frown.

  “I know. It’s weird.” She gives a soft laugh. “The color white—it either looks like blue or pink. Usually pink.”

  I consciously suppress my face’s urge to twist in surprise. “My skin?” I ask.

  “Well, that’s not white.” She laughs again, a small, dry sound. “You don’t look like some pink alien or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about. Even eyes are white where they look white. Clouds are blue-gray. But that works for me. Red is red, blue is blue, and sometimes white is white. But like the petals of a gardenia? Snowfall? That stuff is a little pink. I actually like it. Pink happens to be my favorite color.”

  She grins, and I can’t help but chuckle. “You’re quite the optimist.”

  “Actually—” she folds her napkin in half before she looks back up at me— “I’m a pessimistic realist with a calculated good attitude.”

  I give a little hoot: a sound I’ve never really made much until I started hanging out with her. My gaze holds her brown one. “That’s amazing. Is the accident what happened to your ankle?”

  She nods. “Can I ask you a question? I don’t want to—”

  “Ruffle my feathers?”

  She smiles, or maybe it’s a smirk—though I doubt it. “I’m pretty stalwart.”

  “What’s your rank?”

  “I’m a Master Sergeant.”

  “Nice. So was your head why you left?”

  I swallow, deciding what to tell her. It doesn’t matter. Nothing I say does. Very soon—probably early next week—I’ll put an end to all of this. I nod. “I was in the special forces, like I told you. The type of anti-terrorism recon…the tasks I did.” I shake my head, because no fucking way am I going into detail there. I leave it at, “I’m left-handed,” and hope she doesn’t have too vivid an imagination.

  “Shit. I’m sorry. That must be hard.”

  I look into her eyes, and all of a sudden, mine sort of sting. I blink. “It’s fine.”

  She tilts her head, and I swear, her eyes are like an X-ray machine. “I can see you’re still a badass. But c’mon… I know how it is. It’s not a cakewalk, losing everything you know and like about your life.”

  I blink down at the table.

  Suddenly I hate myself for telling her this shit. Because somewhere in the back of my mind—I knew she would do this. I knew she would care. I’m such a sick fuck.

  “Has it caused you a lot of trouble? Is that too personal? You seem to be doing so well. But…your scar is pink. When mine was that fresh, I was still using a wheelchair part of the day because I was so tired and weak. I was on all kinds of anxiety meds and sleeping meds and seizure meds. I was a hot mess. You’re teaching me fight moves.” She arches her brows and leaves them that way, daring me to tell her everything is good with me.

  “Sleep,” I manage, after pushing past the image of this girl in pain.

  “You have trouble sleeping?” The concern in her eyes is almost too damn much. I want to turn away. Somehow I force myself to hold her gaze. I even manage to nod.

  “That doesn’t shock me completely.” She stretches a hand out on the table and starts picking at her purple nail polish before she glances back up. “My dad—you know—he used to have nightmares about the Gulf War. After what happened to me, he helped me find a good therapist for my PTSD. Now I’m—well, not perfect or anything, but it’s interfering with my life a lot less.” She smiles, looking embarrassed. “You’re so quiet all the time. It makes me want to talk!”

  I want to tell her I wasn’t always like this.

  “Oh, hell. Do you need a hand with that?”

  She sighs and cradles the bowl against her chest. “I should be able to hold a fishbowl. Even though I am drunk.” She rolls her eyes, then blinks a few times, like a bird who just flew into a window.

  It’s a struggle not to smile at her, she’s so fucking cute. “Where are you headed?”

  She nods to the corner of the room—to where my crowd is.

  “Over there with John and Nic?” I ask her.

  Her brown eyes widen. “How’d you know?”

  Because there’s no other woman in this bar that’s a perfect fucking 10. She must be the one Bluebell told me abo
ut. I just wink, and leave it at, “They’re good guys.”

  “I’m too drunk to tell.” I frown as her eyes fill with— Are those tears? I look her over, wondering if I should pry. Probably not. If she gives me any encouragement, I’m likely to take it and run. And tonight is not the night I need to fuck some sweet, teary-eyed girl. Especially one who knows Breck’s people.

  I stroke her arm and nod. “Trust me.”

  I see a drop of water on a strand of hair just over her forehead. Before I think to stop myself, I press my fingertip to it.

  “Snowflake,” I murmur. Her eyes blink up at mine, so wide and trusting. “What’s your name, snowflake?”

  “Gwenna.”

  “Anyway.” She brings her hands together in front of her, in a prayer type pose. “Let me close by saying it amazes me—how badass and strong you are. And I’m really happy you’re still here, to kick my ass. It’s a crappy first year. Are you a year from when it happened yet?” She rests her cheek in her palm, her elbow propped up on the table. “Are you doing better or worse than you expected?”

  “I don’t know.” I have to stifle a laugh at all her frenzied questions. And at the same time, I feel kind of warm and have to swallow.

  She lifts a brow. “So…worse.”

  This girl.

  I can’t help laughing.

  “I’m blunt,” she says, “I know. I got more blunt after my wreck. Just less tolerance for bullshit I guess.”

  “Well, bullshit sucks.” I feel a stab of guilt. I push it down.

  “Did your brain injury impact your hand?”

  I hold it out. “No. I hurt my neck too. The scar you saw? Shrapnel that severed some nerves.”

  She leans forward in her seat, reaching across the table. I hold my hand out, feeling a weird dip in my belly. I flex my thumb and index finger, showing her they work, although she probably already knows from sparring with me.

  “You can’t feel anything?” she asks tapping my pinkie.

  “Just pressure.”

  “Yeah…” A thoughtful frown twists her lips. “My face is like that too.”

  I want to touch it. To look into her eyes and…

  I blow my breath out.

  Gwenna sinks back into her chair, across the table.

  “I’m sorry about your job. Reminds me of my stuff. What I knew how to do wasn’t an option anymore. It was really hard. What were you doing before you bought the house? How long had you been stateside?”

  I drum my fingers on the table, thinking back. “I was over there in Germany, in the U.S. military hospital, from…mmm, August 2014 to November. Came back over here, was in Virginia from December to February of this year, doing rehab. From then…”

  I shrug. I can’t tell her the truth. Flailing. Getting unaddicted to Ambien and having nonstop nightmares. Visiting Breck’s family. Camping up there near his house for three months in a cabin with no amenities and nothing but the empty sky to keep me company. “Regrouping, I guess. I’ve got some family…”

  I’m veering into bullshit territory, so I’m grateful when she nods enthusiastically. “So, seeing them and stuff? That’s good.”

  GWENNA

  His blue eyes rest on my face with preternatural interest, a serene sort of focus that makes me feel like the only person in the world. He’s got a fork in his fingers, his right hand hovering near the side of his plate. The denim blue cotton of his shirt stretches across his shoulders, the color of it making his eyes look deep oceans. His dark curls hang over his forehead, messy and delicious. His face is pale. His face is beautiful. His lips and nose and eyes and cheeks and jaw… the features feel familiar. Every time I look at him, I get this weird sensation that I know him, combined with the thrilling shock of coming face-to-face with a breathtaking stranger.

  Oh. My. God.

  This is so not good.

  I flex my toes inside my sneakers, trying to keep my cool and not betray my…intense— sort-of obsession with him. We are neighbors. Nothing more. For a thousand reasons, most of them my stupid mouth and lousy self-esteem, but also because I’m pretty sure he’s not looking for more.

  Any butterflies I might or might not be having—any blushing or heart palpitations or giddiness or desire to take him to my room and jump his bones—all those things are obviously related to me being long overdue for male company.

  And that makes sense, I tell myself. I picture Helga telling me it all makes sense. How anyone’s feelings about themselves would change if they went through what I did. How by now, anyone would be lonely.

  “You should put yourself back out there, though. One toe at a time.”

  I push her voice away and realize Barrett is staring at me. I blink and drum my fingers on the table. “Zone-out moment! Sorry. I swear I have adult ADD. Among other things.” I mime a knock on the side of my head. “So what were we saying? Did I already ask you if I should call you Bear or Barrett?”

  He smiles, one side of his mouth first, then spreading to a full-on, lovely, gentle smile.

  “Squirrel,” he says. “You remind me of a girl I knew in high school we called Squirrel. She was always bouncing around, losing her focus. It was funny.” He smiles once more, then brings a hand up to his hair, touching his forehead lightly with the fingers of his right hand as his face takes on a slightly more serious expression. “Yeah.” He nods, blinking at his plate. “I got called Bear.” He looks at me. I look at him. That’s not the question I asked.

  He sits back, away from the table, staring at its edge. “Not anymore.”

  His dark brows draw together, and I wait for his gaze to come to mine. And wait. My throat feels heavy as I read the pain on his face.

  “Ohh. So no one calls you that because you’re not active duty anymore.” I can understand that feeling just a little. Losing your identity overnight. It’s hard. It’s sad. When he looks up at me, with his lips pressed together and that veil of sadness over his features, my chest aches.

  “Were you with them for a long time? The people in your unit…or team or whatever? Or hey,” I slap the table lightly, “you know, maybe it’s time to get some ice cream and watch Finding Nemo.”

  “Finding Nemo?” He does this funny little thing where his face frowns, but his mouth smiles.

  I lift my brows. “Could be a really nice distraction.”

  I’m rewarded for my bumbling awkwardness by the first real laugh I’ve seen from him tonight.

  He grins, shaking his head. “You’re funny.”

  “I try.”

  I have the urge to tell him more of my story, just to take away some of the isolation I’m sure he must feel. But it only takes me half a second to realize my story is about a wreck that happened on a trip with a friend. His probably involves dead friends, extreme scenarios beyond the imagination of a civilian like me.

  “Anyway.” I take a deep breath. Let it out. “You should keep in mind that you can use me for advice or referrals and stuff. For PTSD stuff. If you even need it. And you can talk to me, if you ever want some Squirrel help.” I give him what I hope and pray is a kind, low-key type smile. “When I say that, I mean it, too. When my thing happened, my people didn’t really get it. I was too overwhelmed to explain it to them. I got really depressed and things were bad for a while. You might have more friends. Other vets and all that. But you know, if you need another one.”

  I salute him, then double over and hold my head, laughing like the lunatic I am. I peek up at him. “Is that offensive? Army equivalent of the Atlanta Braves tomahawk chop? Tell me no. Please.”

  I look up and find him looking down at me with a surprised look that softens as my heart pounds. “Gwenna.” He blinks at me. My stomach flips because he’s so serious. I start to sweat because I’m worried I hurt or offended him or made him mad.

  Instead, he asks softly, “Are you really this way with everyone?”

  I lean away from him, snariling apologetically. “I told you! Yes: insane.”

  “No.”

  �
�Crazy?”

  “Kind.” The word is low and so soft, for a moment I wonder if I imagined it.

  My cheeks go hot. I go to roll my eyes but end up leaning my head back, looking up at the ceiling and giving an awkward little laugh. “I try to be.” I wink. “Just so you know, BTW, you’ve won me over as a friend. I don’t feel nervous when I smile around you.”

  “That’s good. You have a lovely smile.”

  I swallow. “Thank you.”

  He stares at me for a long moment, so long my heart pounds. Finally, he nods and says, “You’re welcome.”

  I choose that moment to take our dishes to the sink. As I tidy up the kitchen and he tries to help, we touch on the subject of my dad, and how he died of a heart defect no one even knew he had.

  Barrett listens, drinking up my words, or seeming to. His eyes never leave my face, not even when we walk into the den. As I curl up with the remotes on one side of the couch, he’s leaning into the corner of the other side.

  I turn one of the iron lamps on—a sun-shaped one with little holes all in it, creating dozens of tiny dots of light. “Does this bother you?”

  His eyelids look a little heavy, but he gives a small smile. “Not at all.”

  I reach into the basket beside my end of the couch and grab two blankets, a big, fuzzy bear blanket for me and a bigger brown fleece for him.

  “You’re going to like this movie. I swear. Everyone does.”

  I’m right—for a little while. He watches Nemo with apparent interest. Then, around eight thirty, his eyelids start to sag. I start to shake his shoulder but remember what he said. About his trouble sleeping. I remember how I used to hate to sleep alone. Here at my house, maybe he would sleep more soundly.

  Maybe I just want to look at him.

  FOURTEEN

  GWENNA

  I take care of real bears, but I sell plush ones. Right after the sanctuary opened, I used some money from my own savings to buy the two bear suits for visits to St. Jude Children’s Hospital. The first time I went—with my brother Rett—I thought about how nice it would be to hand out teddy bears to the kids there. So I reached out to a few toy companies. On sanctuary letterhead, of course.