Havoc (17 page)

Haven who is now dressed for dinner in her
jeans and brown, long-sleeve shirt slips down stairs as I change
out of my sweats into something more presentable. Sir likes his
stripper, uh, nurse woman a lot from the lengths he's going to
trying to get us to meet. Usually, he conducts his business as
normal. If I meet her, I meet her. If I don't, I don't. But this
one . . . this one he's been adamant about me meeting. Honestly, if
it wasn't for Haven, I’d still be finding ways to scoot around it.
Haven thinks it'll be good for us to meet her, her logic being that
she owes Sir that much for letting her stay here. And I can't tell
her no, not that I ever want to.

I rush down the stairs after tucking my gray,
long-sleeve shirt into my jeans. That's the moment when I notice
the nurse is placing dinner on the table we haven't used since
Mom's death. Fuck. This night isn't going to end well.

Karen makes romantic eyes at Sir as he places
a bottle of wine on the table as well. My eyes search in a panic
for Haven, whom I don't see. Suddenly, she wraps her arms around
one of mine, and I feel anxiety drain from my face.

Sir looks up and says proudly, “This is my
son, Clint.”

Karen turns to me. She looks physically fit
from her figure. I imagine she works out at least three times a
week. Her hair is down, just past her shoulders. Eyes are brown.
Skin is olive. Too much makeup layered on. Dark shade of lipstick.
Nothing about any of that gives me reason to believe she's going to
last or that she should be considered special enough to sit at the
table we never eat at.

“Ma'am,” I politely nod at her.

She struts over and shakes my hand, “It's
nice to finally meet you.”

I nod as Sir watches. His behavior is
strange. He's never cared that much before if I approved of his
conquests. Why should he start now? Quickly, he speaks up, “Is
everyone hungry? Karen makes a mean potato casserole.”

“Starving.” Haven tries to ease the tension,
to move my body toward the table I won't be sitting at. I resist
her. She doesn't know. I haven't told her why we don't eat there,
but something tells me she gets it, even if she doesn't express it.
Sweetly, she coos, “Um, Whiskey–”

“Johnny.” He raises his eyebrows at her.

“Did she really call you Whiskey?” Karen
asks. “I've never heard anyone call you that.”

Not a good sign if she's never heard him
called that. That's what everyone in the neighborhood calls him,
with the exception of me. It's like he's keeping parts of himself a
secret, like he's hiding his life behind some mask instead of what
he actually is. I feel my stomach ache in realization of our
similarities. I've spent so much of my life trying to be nothing
like him, yet somehow we’ve ended up more alike than I can
stand.

“Sorry.” Haven says slowly, trying to hide
her own confusion. “Johnny, can we eat at the regular table?”

I fight the urge to smile that she said it
for me. I wouldn't have asked. My actions would have been to simply
move my plate and Haven’s to where we eat, leaving them to their
own devices across the room. There's structure and order in this
house, even in the depths of distaste we have for one another.

“Sure.” He seems relieved. So we have the
table in common too. “Of course.” Karen appears annoyed based on
the sounds I here. Sensing her resistance, Sir asks, “You don't
mind, do you?”

“There's so much more room at this table for
all of us.” She taps her foot on the ground unhappily. The sound of
her heavy wedge heel is as obnoxious as she is quickly becoming.
“Besides, the bar table is so impersonal.”

“Maybe,” Haven clutches my arm tighter. “But
to us, it doesn't feel that way. This feels more like the family
table.”

Sir's face widens in surprise at the words.
Rarely are we referred to as a family. Never by each other and less
and less by those who've known us for any length of time. The word
seems to spark something inside him. I try to refrain from letting
my face react. Just because Haven says the words doesn't make them
true.

“Fine.” Karen’s hands toss in the air. “If we
must.”

Once her back is turned to grab items from
the table, Sir nods in thanks, and I lean down, placing a soft kiss
on the side of her forehead to show my gratitude. I rush over to
help relocate the items from the table to the bar table, while
Haven sits down, saving a seat beside her.

Once we're settled, we begin a quiet meal
together. Karen goes on and on about her job. Haven is sweetly
social, asking questions that will keep Karen talking. Anything
that keeps her focus from Haven and me is aces in my book.
Occasionally, I catch Sir staring at me like he's seeking my
approval. What does it matter if I approve of Karen or not?

I haven't eaten much of her casserole, not
necessarily from taste but a lack of appetite. Between Sir
confusing me with why he cares what I think and getting the feeling
that Karen is seeking to replace my mother, my stomach doesn't seem
open to being filled. Like she's as tuned in to me as I am to her,
Haven can sense something is wrong. She attempts to help by
stroking my thigh gently. She's got my mind headed away from the
problems of the dinner table and back to the ones of us in the
bedroom. How can I get from this shady friends zone to last lover
zone?

“Wait, you never wanted kids?” Haven's
confusion snaps me back into the conversation and away from
wondering what she looks like naked.

“Oh, God, no,” Karen shrugs, folding her
hands in her lap. “That would be too much, way too much.”

My head tilts at Sir. Normally, he dates
women with kids so he can continue to pretend to parent something.
Dating a woman who not only doesn't have any but flat out despises
them is beyond abnormal. There's trying something different and
then this nonsense.

“Really?” I lean back.

“Really,” she shrugs again.

“Why not?”

“There's something about the idea having to
take care of someone like that around the clock that doesn't quite
do it for me.”

Confused, I remark, “But you're a nurse.”

“Yeah.”

“That's what you do for a living. You take
care of people around the clock.”

She shifts forward, elbows on the table,
“It's different when you don't get a break from it.”

“OK, but you said you were the oldest of
five. You must've had plenty of practice with your brothers and
sisters. Watching them grow up and help take part in it didn't
inspire you to want your own?”

“Quite the opposite in fact.” She meets me
eye to eye.

“I guess it's a good thing I'm all grown up
then.”

The comment makes Haven giggle in a nervous
way and displeases Karen more, “Are you?”

“Excuse me, ma'am?” The comment is followed
by Sir freezing up.

“I mean are you all grown up? Johnny, I’m
sorry, but I’ve got to say something here.” Karen’s eyes never
leave my face as she shoots her “apology” to Sir. “Forgive me for
noticing, but you're twenty-one and still live at home with your
father. You've got your girlfriend spending the night in your room
like you're fresh out of high school. Shouldn't you be in your own
apartment? Paying your own bills? Your own expenses? Living your
own life?” The words fly out of her mouth relentlessly.

As a Marine, I've dealt with many hostile
situations, most of which deal with other countries’ strong
distaste for Americans, America's beliefs, and other political
bullshit, all of which I leave behind enemy lines where it belongs.
Through all of that, I never imagined I’d have to deal with it spat
in my face during shore leave. Not in my home. Yet, here it is
occurring and not even by Sir. And while I despise him for so many
reasons, we never heavily display the aggression we both harbor
deep down. There's a difference here now that we haven’t dealt with
before—the difference between this woman attacking me now versus a
couple weeks ago. Weeks ago, what she just said would've been
background noise, taken as a poor training mission to rattle me. It
would've rolled off my shoulders never to be thought of again, but
now, I can't seem to do that. This is the goddamn problem with
having emotions. You can't just feel the good ones like the peace I
get when Haven smiles or laughs. You have to relive the pain like I
did yesterday talking about Leighyani's betrayal, like I did with
the idea of sitting at the table being like spitting on my mother's
grave, and now it's the realization that this perfect stranger is
making her own conclusions about me with so little information.
Everything about me out of her mouth is disapproving.

Hatred writhes inside of me. The fact that my
emotions are clouding my judgment is just adding fuel to the fire
of my annoyance. What if I can't turn this shit off when I get to
work? What if I'm permanently stuck being a fucking basket case in
my own mind? This is the kind of shit that puts yourself and others
in danger out in the field. I guess the worst part isn't even the
fact that Sir's current assistant in the jack off department is
judging me but what her accusations mean to Haven. Will Haven’s
view of me change? Does she now think of me as a fragile child too
afraid or too stupid to leave the nest? Does she think I'm weak?
Too weak to care for her?

I swallow the anxiety and meet Sir's eyes,
“Sir, may I please be excused?”

Stunned, he nods, folding his hands on the
table, “Yes.”

“And what kind of son calls his own father
Sir?” she continues, shaking her head as her wine glass travels to
her lips. “It's like he's not even yours.”

My body relocates itself to the garage for a
moment of clarity. I’d love for Haven to come after me, but at the
same time, I'm relieved she didn't. To inhale air not tainted with
loathing for me settles me some. As much as I’d like to go for a
run or hit the gym, neither of those seems like the best idea right
now. I can't imagine bailing on Haven like that, or worse, leaving
her to deal with that Table Nazi Sir is calling his girlfriend for
an extended amount of time.

I grab a towel from the workbench drawer and
settle myself next to the front wheel of one of the only escapes
left in the house, my mom's Harley. A classic, restored beauty.
Elegant and timeless just like her memory. I plop down beside it
and begin polishing in slow circles the way she taught me.

“Think of it like a lady,” she exclaims,
eyeing the seat with a smile. “You have to be patient.”

“Patient.”

“Gentle.”

I repeat so she knows I'm listening,
“Gentle.”

“Forgiving. Understanding.”

The comparison to girls doesn't register to
me. After all, they're just girls. Someone to cheer for me during
the game and dance with when the time comes. Kiss them if I feel
like it, or ignore them if I don't. I don't always get them. Why is
everything such a big deal with them? Why do girls cry so much?
Does that ever stop?

“Like women, hogs are unique. No two are ever
the same.” She straddles the seat and touches the handles,
smirking. And why are you only supposed to be with one girl? I
mean, if no two are the same, shouldn't you have lots of girls?
This conversation is confusing me.

In a whine, I ask, “When are we going for a
ride?”

She rubs the towel in circular motions across
one of the mirrors. “Remember circles, Slugger, always slow and
perfect circles.”

I whine again, “Mom, when are we going for a
ride?”

“Your father says you're too young.”

He's always trying to ruin our fun, our
lives. Mom says he's just overprotective of the things he loves. I
think he's just forgotten how to live. How to enjoy life. Another
reason never to join the military. Yep, pro ball player only.

“So what's not too young?”

“Sixteen.”

“That's six years!”

“And like the right woman, it's worth the
wait.”

I wish she would stop comparing the two. It's
just giving me a headache.

She smirks, and I roll my eyes. “These are
life facts, Slugger. Write 'em down.”

With a grumble, I kick at the concrete floor
with my toe. “I'm not writing that down, Mom.”

With a chuckle, I shake my head, the
realization I'm no longer alone taking my senses a minute to
register. Just her presence in the room shifts the vibe entirely.
How does she do that? She says nothing, and neither do I. I know
what she wants to know. I shouldn't force her to ask. She's already
done so much for me tonight.

“She's wrong, you know.” I stare at my own
reflection in the polished metal. “I would've left and never looked
back if it were up to me. Sir said it was a waste of my hard-earned
income. That I’d just be throwing money away at a place I would
only be at a couple times a year. Stressed that I should save up
until I really needed my own place.”

“Makes sense.”

“Yeah, but it was a lie.” I turn to face her.
“And so was when Sir said that it would be like me turning my back
on the people we owed so much to.”

“What was it really then?”

“I think he didn't wanna lose the only part
of my mother he had left.” The look on her face is warm and soft,
like she can relate. “And as much as I feel I don't owe Sir
anything, I guess part of me thinks I owe him that much. He gave up
being in the military to be with me. I gave up leaving home for
him. Debt repaid.”

Haven crosses over to me, and I rise to my
feet. Her small frame that smells of cherry and soap tries to
swallow me up by placing her arms around my waist. She nestles into
my chest, and I allow my arms to fall around her body, cradling her
. . . this moment . . . us.

Soon after she can feel I've relaxed, she
pulls away, “You ride?”

“Do I or can I?”

“Can you?”

“I can. Learned at eighteen. After that whole
Leighyani deal, I convinced a few buddies of mine to do a couple
city rides.”