Havoc (16 page)

“Next on the evening news,” the mustached
anchorman starts. His face is aged. His pale skin, coated in
makeup, looks like an old man doll. His eyebrows are as thick as
the mustache, big and brown, almost bulging out of his slender
face.

My eyes wander over to Haven, who is glancing
up from her novel to see the report. I let my stare linger down the
curves of her face, to her neck, where my tags lie so comfortably,
like they've always belonged there. Maybe they always have. Unable
to help myself, I let my eyes sink lower to the curves of her
boobs, which perk up in her light yellow sweater, illuminating my
sexual frustration. A small bulge rises in my pants, and I adjust
in my seat. Stop staring at her, Grim. It'll help.

Slowly, her head turns to face me, her eyes
falling into mine, both of us sinking into this moment, this moment
where all I have to do is slightly lean over and kiss her.

“The victim, who was stabbed in the throat
with a pencil, finally passed away this evening.” Unexpectedly, the
moment disappears as the anchorman steals the attention I was just
claiming.

The TV shows a picture of young male, his
pale face smiling, in what appears to be a high school photo. The
guy has hazel eyes, a crop of jet-black hair swooshing from a side
part, and a clean-shaven look. Looks like nothing special to me,
but it obviously means something to Haven.

“According to the latest investigation, it is
still yet to be determined if the stabbing was an accident or
homicide. The victim's father has still not been located for
questioning.”

At those words, Haven throws herself off of
me, covers her mouth, and rushes to the downstairs bathroom off the
side of living room. The speed is so outrageous that I feel like
I've got whiplash.

Like an on switch has been flipped, something
inexplicable takes over, much like in the field when my instincts
know what to do without guidance. Like I was programmed to take out
a target from birth, my body instantly pounces to its feet and
rushes to Haven just as she flings her face into the toilet bowl.
My hands swipe her hair gently out of the way. I can honestly say
this wasn't how I imagined I'd grab her hair for the first
time.

With my free hand, I gently caress her back,
firmly but slowly. Whatever's escaping her needs to be gone, yet I
want her to know I'm here. Strong. Unmovable for her.

The unleashing continues at an unreal rate.
My senses are becoming overwhelmed from the smell, the sound, the
fact that I can taste the pain of every heave tickling the back of
my esophagus. Breathe, Marine. You can do this. You've handled
worse, at least body fluid wise. Watching Haven in this kind of
pain feels like I've been thrown in the pit of hell to rescue an
angel but don't know how.

When her body stops convulsing under me, she
lifts herself up and eases her back against my chest. Drained. I
reach for the hanging hand towel and softly wipe her lips before
patting away the droplets of sweat.

In a delicate whisper, I offer, “How about we
head to bed?”

Haven looks up at me, her eyes filled to the
brim with tears. Tactfully, I stow the towel and stare down at her,
not willing to force her anywhere until she's willing to move. I
don't know what triggered the vomit attack, but I damn sure don't
want to trigger it again.

After she nods, I help Haven up and to our
room, where I give her a bit of privacy to change into one of my
old T-shirts and a pair of pajama shorts. Call it compromise. Mindy
loaded her up with tons of designer wear, but I think she looks
more beautiful in my old Ts. Something about seeing her in
something that belongs to me gives me an ease I don't know how to
explain. I don't know that I care too.

Once I'm changed into a pair of pajama
bottoms and a tank top, I crawl in bed, let her head nestle on my
shoulder, and extend one arm around her. I won't push her to talk.
I just won't. She deserves her space and respect. Maybe I should
act as if everything is normal? Maybe I should just behave like
this is any other typical night in bed.

I reach for the crime novel that's sitting on
my nightstand beside her Wuthering Heights and, in my steadiest
voice, ask, “Do you wanna read for a while?”

She shakes her head slowly. I give her
another look, seeing the tears back in her eyes on the brink of
falling. I can't stand to see her heart aching like this. I can't
stand not knowing how to fix it. I hate being so fucking helpless.
Suddenly, there's a sharp pain in my chest. I wince. What the fuck
is that?

Trying to brush off the feeling, I pull her
in closer, open my novel with my free hand, and do my best to focus
on the printed words. They seem to appear so empty even though they
fill the entire page. They seem meaningless. Vacant. I can't
concentrate while she's in pain in like this. Hell, pretending is
bringing on the headache of the century. Come on, Grim. Get it
together. Treat this like any other mission. Objective: Remain
calm, so Haven knows she’s safe. You can do this, Marine.

Her fingertips start to rattle the dog tags,
the clinking of metal somewhat soothing. She knows I'm here. Even
if she doesn't feel safe, she knows where she is. Whatever prison
she's trapped in inside, she's still here, still with me.

“About earlier . . .” she whispers, my finger
turning the page even though I can't recall a word I just read.

“You don't owe me an explanation.”

“No, but you deserve one,” she declares in a
hushed tone. “I want to give you one.”

Closing the book, I lean over and place it
back where it came from, my breaths long and slow. The anticipation
of what's coming has me on edge. Whatever she says, I will not love
her any less. She will still be mine. I will still protect her.
Everything is going to be all right. Fuck, though. If that's true,
then why do I feel like what she's about to say is going to fuck my
world up.

“The news report victim was . . . Left
Arm.”

Clueless to who or what that is, I remain
silent.

“Left Arm was Old Man Banks’s oldest son. He
was sent to watch over me when Old Man Banks would go into town for
a couple of days. Left Arm was just as rough as Old Man Banks when
I didn't obey, though instead of the gun, Banks gave him a bat to
use when I wouldn't succumb. He, unlike his father, often lacked .
. . stamina. Moments with him were significantly shorter but by no
means less painful.”

My body unconsciously wraps my other arm
around her and constricts, tight like the gates of guardianship
they should be. Tight like heaven's heavily guarded territory.
There's no other way to hold an angel with broken wings when such
an evil, life-sucking force is exposed.

“But after a while, there was no pain, just
numbness. I was thankful for it. I'd been thinking about ways to
escape. Green Eyes, Banks’s other son, brought his science books
when he came. He didn’t have any interest in me, so I read his
books, too. I studied hard where vital arteries and organs are. For
weeks, I sharpened a pencil with vengeance and hatred. I was not
going to miss my chance. Old Man Banks left that morning right on
schedule. Left Arm came, and I stabbed him. Once. Precise. In the
throat. It bought me enough time to run. I stole his car. I had no
idea how to operate the thing, but I guess, when you need it, your
body takes over. Anyway, I drove until I ran out of gas and started
running again. Old Man Banks always said, if I tried to run away
again, he'd kill me. So I knew, I knew I had no choice but to keep
going. And I didn't stop until . . .” The tears fall onto her
cheek. “Well, until . . .”

“Until you collapsed in my yard,” I whisper,
pushing a strand of hair out of her face. At that, she curls
against me like a wounded animal who is ashamed of the injury she
bares. Holding her tighter, I lean down and plant a soft kiss on
the side of her forehead, knowing only one word can express
everything, “Alpha.”

She killed someone. Haven, the beautiful
angel who landed in my front yard, murdered someone. She'd killed
her keeper's son for a chance to live. A life for a life. This
should change everything about the way I view her. A couple days
ago she was this innocent, misused princess who had escaped the
wicked clutches of an evil stepfather-like person—a little fairy
tale-ish, but give me a break, that's how it sounds—but now she's
not some damsel in distress. You could call her a cold-blooded
killer, but that would be a lie. She's a warrior. The best kind.
One with an innocent face and ruthless means. I'm not in love with
some girl who was mistreated and abused. I'm in love with someone
who, the more I get to know her, reminds me of myself. She has her
own walls to keep the outside world out crumbling at the same speed
as mine. She wanted to keep her name. She wanted to expose herself.
I hide from mine, but I’m being exposed anyway.

After she tells me about killing Left Arm, as
she referred to him, she slips quickly into the grasp of sleep. For
a while, I just stare at her, knowing her secret is safe deep
within me but at the same time wondering if I really know the girl
cuddled up on me. It takes a couple of hours, but eventually, I
realize I'm getting to know her much like I'm getting to know
myself. One brick at a time. The fact she killed someone to set
herself free doesn’t change my love for her in the least bit. It’s
just one more fact to add to the angel I’ve been nursing back to
health.

Though Haven seems to have found some relief
in revealing her secret, it keeps me from sleep. Should I tell Sir?
This information would make his search that much easier. I don’t
want to misuse the trust Haven left in me by telling her story.
But, it's more important that we find that bastard and give him his
death sentence.

Haven and I spend the day around the house,
tidying up, doing laundry, watching old movies like Casablanca and
Romeo + Juliet, the version with Leonardo because I can tolerate
it, and enjoying each other's company. This is the way it should
be. Always.

By the early evening, we've managed to
migrate back to our room, where we end up staying until time for
dinner with Sir and his girlfriend. I can’t hold that subject at
bay any longer.

“How many are you supposed to be able to do?”
Haven asks from our bed as I sit up from doing push-ups. In
downtime, she reads. I like to push toward those Spec Ops
requirements.

“Personal goal is fifty a minute.”

“I think you can do it.” Her encouragement
makes me smile. A small, devious smirk crawls on her face, “The
question is, can you do it with extra weight?”

Puzzled, I nod, “Probably. What kind of
weight?”

She searches around with her eyes before
finally grabbing our books off the nightstand. Both of them are
light, and together, they really won't make a difference. I
reposition myself for more push-ups. She places the books on my
back. Honestly, it feels no different, but seeing her impressed
face makes me wish it did. I do fifty push-ups in just under a
minute, knowing the real trouble comes from not stopping when you
hit that mark.

“Impressive. What if I sit on you?” Her
laughter is now growing louder.

It's by far the most beautiful sound I've
ever heard in my life. She laughs, and the world seems to make
sense. That sound and the fact that, with each passing moment, I'm
more human doesn't seem to suck so much.

“I dare you.”

“Dare me?” She sounds like she doesn't
believe it.

Haven pops up and suddenly saddles herself on
my back. Still laughing, I start to push my body up and down, the
sound of her laughter louder and louder. Doing my best to keep my
composure during this pretend training exercise, I hold back as
much laughter as I can. Finally, I collapse and start laughing
uncontrollably just like her.

She leans her face down, so it's snuggled
beside me. With a push of her hair out of her face, she asks, “Not
as light as I look, huh?”

Still in the mood to tease, I shrug as she
slides off beside me, “Lighter.”

Her hand goes to playfully pop me, when I
catch it and fold our hands together. I slide my body up, so I'm
leaning down over her, wanting nothing more than to kiss her,
something I have yet to do. Not sleeping with her is fine,
understandable, respectable, but not kissing her makes me feel more
and more like a chump. It's not completely my fault. Every time I
go to make a move, something or someone gets in the way. Yeah,
sure, I could do it quick and sloppy between running errands or
doing chores, but I want it to mean more. That and, of course, I
don't plan for it stop once it starts. At that moment, I watch her
lips slightly part in an inviting way. Her eyes shift from mine
onto my lips. Even her breathing has seemed to change, now shallow.
Anticipating. All signs suggesting she may be thinking exactly what
I am. God, I hope I’m not making this up.

“I’m home! She'll be here any minute!” Sir's
voice interrupts the moment. The two of us sit up. She blushes as
she looks down, but I don't. I'm not embarrassed we almost got
caught kissing. I'm frustrated because it seems like she’s ready,
but we just can't get there.

“We'll be right down, Sir,” I exclaim, rising
to my feet and helping Haven up on hers.

I remember my first kiss. I was nine. She was
ten. I looked older, so she didn't feel bad. I later found out she
told her friends I was fourteen. She also told them it was the most
amazing feeling in her life. Up until now, I never understood how
something so simple could come with so much excitement. Waiting for
the perfect moment to kiss Haven is like waiting for Christmas
morning as a kid. You know Santa's coming, you know the gifts are
going to be fantastic, you know it will have been worth all the
wait, but you still can't help but feel like it's never going to
come.