Collateral (6 page)

in the back, right through his heart.

I don't much take after my bastard

father, except when it comes to revenge.

Eighteen is too fucking young to die.

I didn't say I thought twenty-one was too

young to die, and it seemed a distinct possibility

for him, or any soldier, in search of revenge.

About his father. I didn't know him well enough,

nor had I consumed nearly enough alcohol. Later,

I learned that Bart Gleason, who left Cole's

mom two days before Cole's ninth birthday,

was serving a life sentence for murder.

Seems the girl he left Mrs. Gleason for

wasn't such a sweet, young thing after all.

Bart heard rumors about her sleeping around.

He followed her one night. Waited long

enough for her to get naked and knotted

up with another guy, then calmly blew

out both their brains with his favorite

.357 magnum. Probably a good thing

I didn't hear the story that night. My own

parents are big subscribers to the old

“apple doesn't fall far from the tree” theory.

I'd heard it all my life, and maybe believed

it, at least a little. By the time I found out

about Cole's father, though, I loved my Marine

way too much to even think twice about it.

For me is a once-in-a-lifetime,

planets-aligning-at-the-exact-

right-coordinates kind of thing.

I guess I always hoped it was

possible, but never let myself

believe it would happen any time.

I definitely wasn't looking and

so I didn't see it right away.

The kiss at the beach was sweet.

But it was only memorable in

retrospect. The kissing on

the couch quickly moved from

tentative cool to electric hot.

You can tell a lot by the way

a guy kisses. Cole kissed like

summer rain—barely wet,

the temperature of August

sky, thunder-punctuated. Delicious.

Heart thudding, I came very close

to giving him a lot more. I wanted to,

despite forever declarations to never,

ever invite one-night stands, and surely

that was all it would be. Cole is all-man,

and I can't say he didn't try, but when I

slowed him with a simple, “Can't. Not yet,”

he respected the request, though not without

comment.
You positive you're a California

girl?
He wasn't clear about whether he'd

heard all California girls were loose or only

if all the ones he'd met so far were. “Meaning . . . ?”

He started to answer just about the time

Darian came stumbling down the hall

to the kitchen, hair like an eagle's nest,

and wearing nothing but a T-shirt that

barely covered her crotch. Barely.
Hey,

she slurred, sort of giving us the twice

over.
Sorry. Thirsty.
She grabbed a couple

of beers from the fridge. Staggered back

to her room. Cole and I looked at each

other and laughed. “Point taken,” I said.

“And if I don't want to look like that”—

nodding toward Dar, who just then faded

into her room—“I probably better get

to bed. That, or scare the bejeezus out

of you in the morning.” Cole accepted

that with a not-hot kiss, then asked,

Don't suppose you've got an extra

blanket? It's cooling off fast in here.

I went down the hall, pulled the spread

off my bed. By the time I got back, he was

lying there, still as stone, eyes closed.

I covered him, turned away, and heard him

say,
Thanks for the blanket. And for

the great evening. See you in the morning.

I liked how that sounded. And although I

was critically tired, it took a while to fall asleep.

It was full-on morning, light crashing

through the window in brilliant waves.

It took a few minutes to figure out why

I felt so anxious to get out of bed. Then

I heard a muffled male voice, Darian's

high-pitched laugh, and the night before

tumbled back. Marines. Right. I went

straight for the bathroom to shower,

brush my teeth, and put on makeup.

Slid into silk panties, knee-length satin

shirt, a sexy-casual compromise. When

I slipped into the hall, the place was silent

except for the creak of Darian's bed

behind her closed door. God. How

many times could you do it in a twelve-

hour period? I tiptoed past, not wanting

to bother them, or Cole, who I thought

must still be asleep. But no. The couch

was empty, the bedspread folded

neatly. He wasn't there, hadn't even

bothered to say good-bye. Disappointment

clawed. I went into the kitchen, noticed

the glasses on the counter, dishes

in the sink. When did that happen?

But the irritation I felt at the state of

my kitchen bordered on irrational.

I knew it, but couldn't say why.

I unloaded the dishwasher. Loudly.

And, even more loudly, started

loading the crusty dirties.
Hey!

Stop! I planned on doing that.

I jumped at the voice, strange but

not, falling over my shoulder; spun,

pointing a fork like a tined bayonet.

Cole's eyes glittered humor.
Careful.

I'm trained in hand-to-hand combat,

you know. Put down the weapon.

Slowly. Better yet, give it to me. Please.

I handed him the fork, which he put

in the dishwasher. “Jesus. You scared

the crap out of me. Where did you

come from? I thought you'd left.”

He shook his head.
Everyone was

still asleep when I woke up, so I sat

outside and . . . wrote. Hope you don't

mind I borrowed a piece of paper.

“Of course not.” It wasn't the paper

that bothered me as much as the idea

of him rooting around for it. “In fact,

you don't even have to pay me back.”

He smiled.
Maybe I want to.
Then

he looked at me so intently I had to

turn away, inventing some necessary

chore. “You a coffee person? I think

I could use a cup.” I reached up

into the cupboard for the Folgers.

Let me help.
The weight of my long,

still-damp hair lifted suddenly.
Mmm.

You smell good.
His lips brushed

my neck, and it was like stepping

outside in a thunderstorm—a hint

of lightning initiating goose bumps

in places both seen and hidden.

I turned into him, and he lifted me,

sat me on the counter. Wrapped

my legs around his ripped torso,

pulled me into him until the pulsing

between my legs rested against

the throbbing beneath his breast bone,

zero between them but silk and skin.

It was nothing I'd ever experienced

before, this sudden blush of desire

so intense I couldn't believe it belonged

to me. And significance infused our kiss.

I think we both knew it then, though

it took time to acknowledge that some

brilliant stutter of fate had connected

us in such a profound way. I can't speak

for Cole, but for me, the world as I

understood it to be ceased to exist.

In that exact moment, I couldn't have

reasonably claimed to have fallen in love

with him. But in that exact moment,

I still wasn't sure I believed in love.

Anyway, it was enough to be snared

by passion so intense, it bordered surreal.

Swept away, unable to swim and barely

finding air, I would have let him carry

me into my bedroom, make love right

then and there. Instead he pulled back.

Not quite in unison, but staggered closely,

we both had one thing to say. “Wow.”

Wow.

Without follow-through is a huge

turn-on. While Darian and Spencer

spent the day following through,

Cole and I wandered the hills

of the San Diego Zoo. The air

was winter-spiced but I barely

noticed. Everything about me

felt warm. And, while I studied

the animals, I noticed other things.

Like how Cole's hand was nearly

twice as big as mine. And warm,

when it gloved my exposed skin.

Like how I tucked completely

under his arm, the sculpture

of his biceps. Like the way

he adjusted his stride, my legs

no match for his, until we walked

in perfect step. Like how he liked

the big cats best, especially

the jaguars, who paced in short

strokes of sun. Every time we stopped,

we kissed, and lacing every

kiss was desire, rising up big

and bold, voracious as a leviathan.

Sleeps. Dreams fitfully

of sand, unstained from

horizon to horizon, while

overhead

silence floats in mirrored

sky. Disturbing. No pleas.

No screams. No sound

of distress. Not even

the drone of

tear-muffled prayer.

Leviathan wakes. Yawns.

Stretches haunch and claw.

Cocks his head and finds

the ghostly moan of

danger, distant,

but alive. Leviathan cracks

a smile, reveals fear-sharpened

fangs. Sheds the shadow

of nightmares

born within hibernation.

Leviathan embraces blood

hunger. Rises, lifts into

the startled blue, dragon

on the wing.

Cole Gleason

At Camp Pendleton. Like most military

bases, the sprawling chunk of oceanfront

California is pretty much self-contained,

with schools, fast food, golf, and religion

just beyond spitting distance from jets and

helicopters, tanks and heavy artillery.

Some spouses use their housing allowance

to live off-base nearby in one of San Diego's

neat, suburban neighborhoods. The thrifty ones

bank that money and stay with generous

relatives. But from the start, Darian wanted

to cozy up to other military wives.

They understand what I'm going through.

Like I don't. Like a marriage license

somehow ups the ante on emotion. Pissed

me off when she first said it, and it still

makes me mad that she might actually

believe it. It's a chink in the once-solid

armor of our friendship. That makes me sad.

Anyway, on base I can get by without a car.

Her beater Civic broke down not long

after we moved here. She'd mostly

made do bumming rides from me.

But after her wedding, she decided

to quit school, move into base housing,

and play housewife. How can she stand it?

Are, overall, a lot more fit

than other women in their age

groups. Uh, yeah. The gym spells

relief—stress relief, Mommy duty

relief, and serious tedium

relief. Looking at Dar, I can

see she definitely spends time

utilizing the workout facilities.

But is that the
only
way

she relieves tension and

boredom? Better to know

for sure than to keep guessing.

I can't ask her now. She won't

discuss the subject here. Not

in front of these three women.

Military wives talk,
Celine said,

and Darian knows that's true.

She came with them, but maybe

she'll let me take her home.

I look at Celine, whose seniority

makes her the de facto team

leader. “Would you mind if

I drove Dar back to the base?

We haven't had time to catch up.”

But they are caught up

in their own conversation

and don't notice a thing.

Carrie:
 . . . heard the draw

down is going to happen

sooner than they thought.

Meghan:
Is that good or

bad? I mean, are you ready

for a full-time husband?

Carrie laughs.
Maybe not.

But don't worry. There's

always another shithole . . .

I tune back out. Trying to

second-guess the brass is

a fast track to disappointment.

Celine smiles, as if reading

my mind. Then she shrugs.

I'm good with you driving

Darian back as long as she

is.
We both look at Dar, who

is slow dancing with the guy

from the bar. Slow grinding

might be a more apt description.

“I'll ask as soon as the music stops.”

Darian will be pissed at the interruption