Havoc (12 page)

While his buddies hover by our table,
cackling it up like the jackals they are, Foster leans down closer
to Lordy's face, right by his ear, and says loud enough for us to
all hear, “But since you're from the South, they're probably one
and the same, huh?”

Lordy reacts before either of us are able to
stop him. With a quick draw of his hand, he bangs Foster's face
against the edge of the table. Foster bounces off the edge and
soars backwards.

As his buddies prepare for a battle, Glove
and I rise to our feet, more than ready to throw punches in Lordy’s
defense. Acting as a border between Foster and Lordy, I hold out a
hand of caution, palm up, while I shoot Lordy a quick glance.

His face doesn't look as dead as it did a
minute ago. Now there's light back in his eyes, a small twinge of
panic on his face, as he looks down at Foster, who is struggling to
get on his feet.

“Next!” The petite cashier calls out to me,
snapping me out of my thoughts. Maybe making Howard bleed wasn't
the best idea, but I'm starting to wonder if, when it comes to
females we care about, that's just how some of us men get.

Thankfully, the grocery store isn't as busy
as I'm sure Sir was hoping. The entire trip takes a little less
than forty-five minutes. Maybe I can still steal a moment with
Haven while Sir is getting the grill going, though with my luck,
he's going to force me to do that too in an another attempt to
create space between Haven and me.

After I close the front door, the sound of
Sir’s voice alerts me to proceed with caution. His tone surprises
me. Stops me. Freezes me against the door. It sounds melancholy.
Pensive.

“It's OK. You can call me Whiskey. Everyone
else does.”

“OK . . . Whiskey. I'm sorry I interrupted.
Please, what were you going to say?”

“I was trained, Haven. Disciplined to obey
orders. Keep calm in every situation. Being levelheaded, even
tempered is the difference between life and death as a soldier. And
I always was, except when it came to her.”

Mom. The fact he's talking to Haven about her
of all people gets my heart racing. He's rarely mentioned her to
me, but now he'll talk to Haven about her as if it's no big deal.
Why? What's his angle? What's the point?

“There was something about the idea of harm
to her that sent my sanity out the window. Nothing could ever
explain it. I went through years of training, the kind that breaks
a man’s natural reactions. But when it came to her, I don't know.
It was basic. I wanted to protect her.”

My head balances against the door softly. His
words ring in my ear. I know what you're going through. No! I can't
listen to this. I shouldn't. But, I can't force myself to move.

“I've seen the same blanket of instinct on
Clint's face. I saw it when I walked in on him watching you sleep
yesterday. I saw it when he escorted you through the party. I saw
it today when he planted Howard's face against the car.”

My face twitches into a smile at his
description. Maybe I don’t do everything wrong after all.

“He'd give up his life for you.” I would.
“And that scares the hell out of me.”

In a very soft tone, Haven finally speaks up,
“Me too.”

That makes three of us.

“Mr. . . . Whiskey, I don't know what I'm
feeling. It's all overwhelming.” God, I'm overwhelming her. That's
not my intent. Damn it. Am I coming on too strong? Of course I am.
But, I can't help it. “Part of me is scared, not just of him but
his feelings. He comes on so strong and so fast. It's terrifying.”
I bounce my head against the door—hard enough for a lesson for me
but soft enough so they can’t hear. “I want to be normal, to be
desired and loved. Part of me wants to be that girl that Clint
wants me to be. I just . . . I just don't know right now.”

My free hand rubs the side of my head. I
never wanted to feel like I was overpowering her. I never intended
to tear her in half like this, but what could I expect? Given the
situation. Given my actions. Of course she's feeling this way. She
just needs time. I can give her time, at least 84 more days for a
start.

I roll over and extend my arm across her
waist, pulling her into me. She slips beside me the way a key does
into a lock, as easily as the air that fills my lungs. Feeling her
faint scent of vanilla tingle my senses and wake up all parts of
me, I raise up onto my side. Leaning over her, I place my lips to
her neck and kiss softly, afraid to wake her but anxious to.

Her reaction is incredible. She lets out a
soft moan of my name, “Clint.”

Excited, I drag my lips up to her ear to
continue to hear the sound of her moaning. With each kiss, she
moans a little louder, and I grow more excited. How the hell is she
doing that?

“Clint, baby, that's how we got in this
predicament.” She giggles and glances over her shoulder at me.

Not being able to stop my lips from caressing
her, I continue and ask between kisses, “What predicament?”

At that moment, she rolls over onto her back,
her dark, loving eyes bright and inviting. I lean down to kiss her
on her lips, while my hand goes to slide across her stomach.

“The one you're touching.”

My face looks down sharply to a small but
obvious bump. “You're pregnant?”

She giggles at my reaction and strokes my
face, “Really, every morning?”

She's pregnant?! We haven't even had sex yet!
How did she, uh, we . . . .this . . . What the hell is going on? I
stare at her body, which is gorgeous. There are very faint scars
that I can barely see, her skin has a lively glow, and her body is
at least two sizes bigger than when I first rescued her. How?

“You would think the luster of me being
pregnant would wear off on you by the fourth time, but–”

“Fourth time?” I exclaim, sitting up. At that
point, I see two framed photos on her side of the bed. One is a
picture of her in a beautiful, white wedding dress with me in my
dress blues snuggled up beside her. Our wedding? The one beside it
is three children climbing all over her, with her laughing, all of
them beautiful, all of them relatively young, all of them boys. Our
children?

Concerned, she sits up a bit, the sheet
revealing her slinky, white sleepwear. “Are you feeling OK?”

I look down at my hands, spotting a white
gold band on my left ring finger. Holy shit! I'm married! I'm
fucking married! And I have kids! Holy hell, I have kids. . . . I
have got to be dreaming. I mean, I must be dreaming. Oh. Wait. I
must be dreaming. I must be dreaming! I have a wife and a family,
all the things I swore I would never have, not only because I
wouldn't live that long but because I couldn't imagine any female I
would want to spend that much time in my life with.

I nod. My hand strokes her bump again, a knot
growing in my throat. What do I do for a living? Surely, I'm not
putting my own family through what Sir put us through. Long months
away from them. Missing the important things like the first time
they walk or their baseball games. My body moves again, and the
metal around my neck clinks, shattering the hope that I would be
different than him. But I need to be different than him.

“Still hoping it's a girl, huh?” The words
cause my grim face to break into a smile. She's glowing, not just
pregnancy glowing but a ball of live energy buzzing before me.
Because of me. Because of what we've made together. Because of the
endlessly growing family we're raising. I nod at the question.

“Good , because I don't think I can raise
four boys while you're away. It's hard enough with three.”

Suddenly, very defensive, I snap, “Are they
misbehaving? Are they troublemakers? Are they–”

She giggles and places a hand to my bare
chest, lightly grazing my tags, “Aw, come on, Clint. You know how
your boys are.”

I don't. I guess I should since this is my
dream, but I don't. I should know their names and favorite sports.
I should know their ages and what they look like when they're
excited. I should know what they're allergic to, what they look
like when they cry, how peaceful they are when they sleep, but I
don't. I don't know anything. In fact, it feels more like I stepped
into someone else's dream and am just playing out the role. But who
else would dream this for me? Why am I dreaming this for me? Why am
I dreaming?

Her mouth tilts up and kisses mine rather
aggressively, yanking me away from the pattern I was spiraling
into. It's hot. Excited. An obvious hunger stirring inside her that
only I can feed. That she wants only me to feed. She pulls away and
raises her eyebrows at me, temptation sparkling around her face.
“Boys are still asleep.”

I lean down to kiss her again when her
stomach tosses a hard kick. My child is kicking. My fourth
offspring is kicking, its life rolling around inside her. Our life.
In disbelief, I smile at the feeling. Is this what I'm keeping
buried in the Pandora's box of my head?

“Are you OK?” she says so softly I almost
can't hear her. I nod, but she repeats, and this time, her lips
aren't moving, “Are you OK?”

I violently jerk myself awake to see Haven on
the edge of the couch, stroking my leg softly. My head swivels
quickly, and I observe that I am at home.

“Are you OK?” She cringes like she did
something wrong.

“Yeah, I'm fine. Why?”

“I got up to pee and was lying back down when
I accidentally nailed you pretty hard in the stomach with my knee,”
she says, concerned, terrified her fragile figure could cause me
harm. She clutches the edge of the couch.

“Yeah, I'm fine.”

She looks relieved. “Were you dreaming?”

Protective, after all it is the first one
I've had in what feels like a lifetime, I answer, “I was.”

“Thought so. You were moaning out loud.”

“What? I was–”

“Nothing too graphic,” she quickly calms me
down and giggles. I love that sound. I could listen to that sound
for a lifetime. “Just happy little sighs. Good dream?”

“It was.”

She tilts her face at me like she's reading
exactly what it is I don't want read. “Do you not dream very
often?”

I sit up beside her, my arms resting on my
legs, “No.” My mouth stumbles for a second, unsure if I should
share this information, but for some reason, not being able to
stop, I explain, “I haven't dreamed in a while.”

“Are we talking a few days or a few
months?”

“Years.”

“Years?” her voice croaks out. “Are you
serious?” I nod, embarrassed until I see a look of remorse in her
eyes.

“It's OK. It's not quite a medical disorder.
They thought it might be, but all the tests came back fine. They
can't explain it. They just assume I dream and don't remember
anything from them. The docs on base say it's a blessing. Won't
have battle scars replaying in my subconscious.” My words seem to
ease the regret of her asking. “Less likely to have any
posttraumatic stress.”

“That's a good thing, though, right? With all
the things you've seen.”

“In ways. Yes.”

“I would hate if you had nightmares the way I
do.” The quiet reminder that her past is still eating at her tenses
my body up once more.

Sensing the effect of her words, she shifts
closer to me, the scent of vanilla the same as it was in my dreams.
My crotch recognizes the smell as well, like it's a secret trigger
to help it rise.

“So, what were you dreaming about?”

My eyes lift up and fall
into hers. They're wide in anticipation, hoping that I'll jump in
and share my secrets.

“You.”

Her face lights up. I'm not sure if she knows
it immediately, but as soon as she realizes it, she looks away.
She's blushing, and it is the most beautiful sight. As soon as
she's gained her composure, she leans back against the couch, tucks
her legs beside her, her knees landing right on the edge of my
thigh, and asks, “What about me?”

Do I tell her? Do I tell some girl I just met
a couple days ago that I was dreaming of a future with her?
Marriage? Children? A normal girl would run screaming. This isn't a
normal girl, though. Nothing about this situation is normal. Not
her, not me, not how we came together. The only aim for normality
we have is to figure it out together.

The doorbell rings, and in a way, I'm
thankful I don't have to make that decision right now. If I'm
fortunate, she'll forget about it, and I can keep this dream my own
dirty little secret.

I slide from underneath her legs and pop up
and over to the door, not surprised when I see Lexi Striker through
our peephole, our own little slice of education perfection married
to the good doctor himself. From her pristine, pressed, black suit
and the way her jet-black bobbed hair is pinned away from her
porcelain skin, I gather she's done at the university for the day.
Fall semester, she teaches early classes; spring semester she
teaches afternoon classes. She claims it keeps her balanced.

Opening the door, I wipe the smitten look off
my face, unsure that I'm ready for the world to see it, unsure they
would even know what to do with it. “I assume you're here for a
‘lesson’ with Haven.” Although the team supplied the new Haven’s
identity with a diploma, Lexi has taken it upon herself to give the
real Haven the education she needs—and seems to crave. She's
attempting to do it in a way so that Haven doesn't feel much
pressure or like she's an uneducated child who still needs to be
taught. Just another step on her road to normal, I hope.

“Well, you're not interested in my lectures
on classic fiction, so yes,” she snubs me in a playful way, a
little elbow in my side. She's got me there. Metaphors and
analogies about how screwed up America is or how love is lost in
society just don't do it for me.

“Hey,” Haven readjusts on the couch and
greets Lexi. She asks, “Are we going to talk about The Great Gatsby
today?”