Havoc (2 page)

“Housekeeping,” she purrs as she knocks,
sounding like the intro to several pornos. Her glance shoots my
way. She licks her lips, knocks again, and says, “Housekeeping . .
. clean towels?”

There's suddenly movement on the inside.
Thank God. I can't miss this flight. I don't feel like having to
explain to Sir why a man of the corps broke his word. She scoots
back, and the door is unlocked, revealing Glove's obvious
still-asleep face. He groans at us and attempts to shut the door,
but Lordy places his monster hand on it to keep it open.

I turn and nod at her, “Thank you,
ma'am.”

“Sure,” her body presses against mine once
more, briefly. Two steps away, she tosses her doe face over her
shoulder, “Room 422 if you need anything else.”

My head bows at her again, and Lordy gripes,
“How much do you hate sex?”

“I don't hate sex.”

“I think you do.”

“Didn't we have this talk last night?”

“We started this talk before you pussed out
like you always do.” Before I can snap, he continues, “Did you see
her? She was at least an eight.”

“Six,” I retort, shutting the door behind us
loudly, the sound causing displeasure to Glove, who is in his dog
tags and boxers with bloodshot eyes and stumbling around.

“A–”

“Drop it. We have a flight to catch.” I roll
my eyes.

Another grunt comes from Glove as he falls
onto the unmade bed, face first, shutting his eyes again.

My voice deepens and resonates, “We don't
have time for this shit, Glove. If you make me miss my flight, I'll
drop your sorry ass like a bad habit.”

“You'd have to have a bad habit before you
drop it, Mr. Perfect,” Glove groans against the mattress. “Aside
from not smiling.”

“Does not having sex count as a bad habit?”
Lordy offers.

Glove's chuckles are muffled but obvious.
Annoyed, I kick the mattress, making him bounce and continue
emitting noises of obvious irritation.

Rolling over onto his back, he sighs, “I
think pissing me off does.”

“Stop thinking, and just put your damn pants
on.” I kick them over to him.

Barely making it on time for security and
boarding, we shuffle onto the plane, Glove and Lordy in the seats
in front of me, their codependency shining bright this morning. I'm
in a window seat, the row empty other than me. One thing I love
about flying on the first plane in and last plane out—usually, it's
lighter people wise. There are only seventeen of us on the plane
headed for Texas on a straight flight. Not bad.

After we've reached cruising altitude, Glove
gets unbuckled, makes a pass at the flight attendant, and then sits
on his knees to peer over the seat. To irritate me.

“We're celebrating our return home tonight,
you game?”

I don't respond.

“Come on, Grim,” Lordy, Glove's biggest
supporter and enabler follows suit with his posture then the
protest. I swear, it's like having two half twits for younger
brothers, even though Lordy is older than both of us. Growing up, I
wished to God for brothers. Nowadays, I realized He didn't give
them to me for safety reasons. I would most likely have skinned
them or buried them alive. “You have to. Sam and Dean from boot
camp will be there. Couple of girls I know you'll like—if Glove
doesn't fuck 'em all first.”

They are walking stereotypes that all men
think about is sex. I guess the average guy in his 20s does. But,
I'm 21, and I think about it only occasionally. Between push-ups
and combat training, that's all they talk about. Glove brags on
endeavors, most of which I think are exaggerated like a letter to
Penthouse. Lordy eats them up like he's lacked it most of his life.
Me? I listen. I'm always listening. To everything. To everyone.
Observing. Monitoring.

At times, when Glove is sprinkling on the
embellishment, I can see he's doing it to forget that there's real
danger we face—bullets aimed at our heads and hearts, enemies
lurking on the home front and in the field. He gushes about it, so
he doesn't have to remember the sounds of innocent people screaming
or his own teammates dying. He buries himself in sex, so nothing
keeps him up at night.

Lordy, on the other hand, has a bad breakup
song written on him, like a kick-me sign—lousy tune, with a
suck-ass chorus, cheap lyrical stabs at the ex because the singer
can't find another way to express his angst—every boy band,
ex-Disney Channel, pre-pube voice and body, kind of bad love song.
His sexual conquests are billboards to whoever dumped him that he's
over it, over her—neither, of course, the case. I even caught him
staring at her photo once while out on assignment.

I envy them both. They feel real emotions.
Pain. Fear. Regret. I don't. I feel nothing. And sex, when I do
have it, is an escape from that abyss, a vacation from the reality
that my life is pretty empty.

“Or haven't already,” Glove winks.

My head looks out the window, too dark to see
anything.

“What do you say, Grim?” Glove continues to
push.

“I say turn around before I make that
hangover of yours worse.” I shut my eyes in hopes of shutting them
out.

Ignoring my wishes, as usual, he continues,
“It'll be out on my cousin Derek's ranch. Beer, bitches, poker
.”

“Do you not lose enough money on your
own?”

Glove chuckles. His laugh is an obnoxious mix
between a stoner and a CEO. I open my eyes to his smug smirk. I
regret doing so, “That's a yes.”

Ugh. I shut my eyes again. Not now. It's too
early in the day to deal with Glove's bullshit at this constant
rate. The problems waiting for me when I touch down are much worse
than his childish remarks. I just need a minute to prepare for
battle. Returning to where I came from is more than a battle. It's
like the battle that starts the war.

Shuffling off the flight, I toss a nod to
Lordy and Glove, acknowledging their departure from me even if it
is only temporary. I head straight for the sliding glass doors,
where I know they’ll be waiting. I am greeted by Mrs. Callaghan as
soon as she sees me. As suspected, she flings her thin body at me,
the smell of blonde hair dye fresh and her expensive perfume faint.
She hugs tightly. I let her. No kids, so I'm the closest thing
she's got, and even I walked away from her, that life, those
thoughts of a cookie-cutter family long before the military. While
she's like a replacement mother, she never expects me to behave as
if she really is my mother. Often I do anyway.

“You're alive!” she squeals, pulling away,
her dark brown dress reminding me fall is here. It even feels
cooler than I suspected.

“Come on, Mrs. Callaghan, you knew I was
alive. You sent me packages.” I adjust my duffel bag hanging over
my shoulder.

“Mindy,” she jabs my chest with her finger,
her blue eyes twinkling in relief that I am standing before her
once more.

“Sorry, ma'am.” I go out into the world and
turn on military me, Grim, forgetting to turn it off when I return.
Military me has no mother, no father, no ties to anything that
could blur my duty. Back home, I'm a little less cold, but not
much.

She reaches up to pat my shoulder, “Glad
you're home.”

I sacrifice a smile. I turn to Sir, who looks
like I've inconvenienced his day. Not surprised if I have. With his
arms behind his back, his sheriff uniform rubs it in my face that
he quit his career to take care of me, rubs it in my face that
there are more important lives for him to be tending to that aren't
mine. He lets his eyes settle on me. Evaluating my condition. He
demands gratitude for leaving the Navy behind to raise me. I wish
he hadn't. I might have stood a chance to grow up better.

“Sir,” I extend my hand to shake his.

He nods, shakes in return, and says, “I see
you're still a good Marine.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Mindy's eyes shift back and forth,
disappointed again. She always is in moments like this—when a
father should show relief and excitement that his son, his only
son, is alive. We burned that bridge long ago. I wish she would let
go of it. I am not a fan of being the one to let her down.

I follow the two of them to Mindy's black
Range Rover she shares with Doug, her husband. There's something
admirable about the way they share their lives down to the vehicles
they own. Not many words are passed among us three, and what does
probably doesn't meet the requirements of a conversation.

Settled in and on the road, Mindy asks, “How
about we have your welcome-home dinner tonight?”

The thought of getting it over with
immediately so I can be left in peace is tempting. Being social on
my first day back and allowed to round off the rest of leave in
solitude screams bargain.

“Karen will be able to make it,” Sir
speaks.

Karen must be the current MILF of the month.
It doesn't bother me that Sir dates. Hell, it's been enough time
since Mom died. I just don't like that he dates women with children
who he can “parent” and “father” for a couple months before
abandoning them. Not really fair to do that to those kids. It's too
late for me, but that doesn't mean he has to fuck up their lives
too.

“I can't tonight.” I bluntly deny and adjust
my dog tags. “Plans.”

On the balance scale of meeting Sir's new
topic of interest and sucking back a couple of beers with people I
can tolerate more than him, it's not hard to see where the winner
is without effort.

“That's fine,” Mindy approves of my position
immediately, aiming to please me. “Doug and I have plans with the
Tillman's tomorrow. Apparently, they want to try that new Brazilian
Steak House downtown. Day after?”

“Karen has to work the evening shift.”

“She's a stripper?” The question has no
judgment behind it. Wouldn't be surprised. One emotionally dead
person belongs with another or alone. Like me.

Mindy stifles a laugh with her wedding-ring
hand, the oversized jewel gleaming in the sunlight. Sir doesn't
look amused. Though it was not my original intention, I'm slightly
pleased his feathers are ruffled. At least I can play the role of
the smart-mouth son right, sporadically.

Sir snaps around, hitting his body roughly
against the seat, “Not a stripper. She's a nurse.”

“A naughty nurse?” The comment makes Mindy's
laugh escape and his nostrils flare—a warning he's had enough.

“Well, if Slugger wants it then, that's when
we'll have it,” Mindy comes to my rescue, waving off Sir and
anointing me victorious. “Your temporary friend will just have to
make another meal.”

Sir stares at me, his dark blues filling fast
with a gray overtone. I look away, not prepared for the nonverbal
fights that are waiting for us. My face rests on my fist as I stare
at the passing traffic. He grumbles something, possibly profanity,
as he settles back in his seat. I may not be too thrilled to be
attending this party at Glove's cousin’s place, but the more time
away from Sir, the fucking better.

The ranch has plenty of space for all the
ways to a southern guy's heart—places for small bonfires, private
paths to the lake even if it is a little low, and plenty of places
to shoot off firearms. It’s far enough away from the neighbors so
they can't call the cops. Knowing Glove and Lordy, it's a good
thing.

Within the first couple of hours, I'm
gathered around the poker table, taking money like it's chump
change from some guys Glove went to high school with. By the amount
of money I've stacked up, I’d say I cyphered more than just their
slush fund.

“Card shark,” the one with the backwards cap
sneers.

I shrug and look at the girl who has been
eying me since I walked in the front door. She's mildly attractive
in a Miley Cyrus who doesn't suffer from Hollywood Syndrome sort of
way. Brown hair, wavy; big, brown eyes; tight, low jeans; modest
button-up plaid top, the top two buttons undone; cowgirl boots.
Wouldn't mind seeing those in the air.

I look back at the table that's dispersing,
pocket my funds, grab beer three I've been nursing in case I decide
I wanna drive home late tonight, and head out to the bonfire.

I stroll past her. Her eyes follow my path in
front of her body. The two of us end up sharing a log to sit on by
the fire. Glove’s across the way. The blonde girl under his arm
licks his neck, while he chugs down another bottle. Every girl he
finds looks like she just stepped out of an audition for Playboy.
Blond. Fake. And needy.

“Havin' fun yet?” Glove glances at the girl
beside me. She nods and scoots in closer. Now, I can smell her
scent. Cinnamon. Not a winner, but not a deal breaker. Looking at
me, he asks, “You?”

“It's OK,” I shrug, leaning to my
jean-covered knees.

Annoyed and intoxicated, Glove grunts, “Would
you believe this is the guy chicks go after first?” I watch the
blonde push her tongue against his ear. She looks like a snake, her
slender arms wrapping tightly around him, her crop-top sweater
showing a bit of her pink bra underneath.

I point to the blonde beside him, “You should
probably handle that.”

“Glove love is worth the wait, Grim. You
should know.”

Disgusted, I shake my head and take a drink.
“I shouldn't know that.”

Miley's stunt double beside me giggles. At
least she's capable of more than that vacant stare.

Lordy creeps from the shadows, button-down
shirt open, exposing his wife beater. His cowboy hat is lowered to
hide his face. Between the hat and the boots, he looks like a
walking stereotype. He's from Georgia, for Christ's sake. I was
born in this state and have never looked as commercial as his
getup.

“Hey, Glove,” he states and takes a swig.
“This little thing doesn't believe I've got a good shot.”

Poison words to a man, let alone a solider.
To be fair, Lordy has a fairly good shot sober—not above your
average Marine, not below, nothing to complain about, but nothing
to boast either. However, when the two of them have beer pumping
through their veins, they tend to get a little cockier. With
whiskey or other liquor, they think they're king shit. This isn't
going to go well for one of them but magnificently for me.