Havoc (3 page)

“He's got a great shot,” Glove tosses the
empty bottle aside. “Wanna prove it?”

“Fuck, yeah.” His excitement increases.

I lower my head. The military trains you that
guns and liquor don't mix, yet ego and testosterone tell you the
exact opposite. I simply shake my head, reminding myself that
someone has to be levelheaded here. I know it's going to be me. It
always is.

“Grim, you in?” Lordy asks, excited, pulling
the curly redheaded girl to his side.

“Someone has to make sure you don't fuck
everything up.” I stand. Cowgirl follows suit. I should get her
name, though I don't know that I feel that strongly about her
yet.

“As usual.” Lordy's remark reminds me that
I'm always babysitting these two jackasses on and off duty. It's
exactly like having siblings.

We relocate to the other side of the ranch,
where there is more open space they often use for shooting, at
least according to the story Glove is telling the blonde female,
who only seems concerned with how many different places she can
plant her tongue. A small group of us linger for a bit, while Glove
slips away to grab the shotgun, immediately handing it to Lordy. My
spider sense tingles. Instinctively, I become more alert and aware
of the surroundings. There are groups of trees in front of us,
mostly in good shape, some lower branches on the brink of breaking.
Not much grass in the area. Trash congregates, like in a freshman
dorm room. The house is yards behind, enough so no one inside
should be at risk. Far right is the bonfire and its new occupants,
far left a trail down a less-lit area, most likely to the lake.

Folding my arms across my chest, I watch as
Lordy raises the shotgun, pulls back, and fires, destroying a beer
can target. Nothing about it is impressive other than a drunken
moron operating a weapon.

“Good Lordy! Good Lordy! Did you see . . .
that shot! Whooo!” he chokes out his trademark phase.

I shake my head and lean against the tree
beside me for support, keeping a disinterested eye on him. He gets
louder as he repeats the phrase as if he's really king shit. This
is going to end poorly for him.

“Wow,” the redhead coos, touching his arm
with her index finger. “Unbelievable.”

I choke down a laugh that almost escapes. It
grabs everyone's attention. Suddenly, I look like the asshole who
can't appreciate good showmanship. I can. There's just none
here.

“You think that's funny?” the redhead girl
whose voice is more squeaky than sultry says.

“Yeah.”

She sneers, “That shot was amazing.”

Sure that it's just the booze talking, I
shrug, “If you say so, sweetheart.”

“Well, I do.”

“Well, you're stupid.” The comment causes the
group with us to chuckle. Harsh looks come from some in the crowd,
and I toss a hand up. “Oh, what? That shot could've been made by a
toddler. It was training-wheels easy.”

Lordy snatches his beer that's resting on a
log. “No way.”

Annoyed, I place my beer on a tree limb, turn
to the cowgirl who won't say no to me, and command, “Come here.”
She does as I say. I lead her over to the same spot Lordy was in,
ask someone to replace the can, and position her. Once in a proper
stance, her weight shifted correctly, I have her raise the gun.
“Ever shot a gun before?”

“No.”

“Good,” I nod, needing this point proven
without a doubt. Feeling her body melt into mine, excited by
something off target, I drag her attention back to the point at
hand. I state like a commanding officer would a new trainee, “Eyes
focused.”

Once I'm sure she can do it, I stand back,
and she fires, nailing the can dead center, the same way Lordy did,
igniting a bothered look in his eyes.

“See,” I shrug and take the gun from the
girl. The crowd snickers and whispers that maybe I was right.
Politely, I nod at her, “Thank you. And nice shot.”

She blushes and looks away, “Thanks.”

“How about a little competition then?”
Lordy's attitude ratchets to Superman level. He’s clearly forgotten
the real reason they nicknamed me Grim. There's ending badly and
then this. Tragic. “Strip shooting.”

Quickly, I lay down the gun on the log, eyes
still on it, insuring that no one touches it. “I don't wanna see
you naked, Lordy.”

“Not me, numb nuts.” He takes another sip. I
look up, still aware of the gun’s location. “Every shot you miss,
your girl loses an article of clothing.”

“I choose the article!” Glove states, raising
his beer.

“We'll have someone set up the targets.” A
volunteer presents himself. “Yeah, see, he’s more sober than us and
can do that.”

I roll my eyes. “Look, Lordy–”

“Don't be such a party shitter,” Glove groans
almost in a pout. “I wanna see some titties!”

“Then take her upstairs!” I point to the
snake who is now groping his ass.

He chuckles and winks, “More titties, Grim.
There are never enough.”

“Fine.” My reluctant sigh is followed with
this: “Tell Strawberry Shortcake over there that we're all hoping
the curtains match the drapes.”

Lordy laughs, sparking more laughter and
relaxing the crowd once more. I'm only partially kidding.

“I'll be your girl.” Cowgirl raises a hand at
me, volunteering like I knew she would.

“Good.” I raise my eyebrows at her. She looks
excited again. She can consider this foreplay because, once I get
her into bed, there's not much else. I don't do that intimacy
crap.

Quicker than expected, glass beer bottles pop
up around the surrounding area—different competitions, if you must
call them that. More like lame jokes with the punch line being a
naked chick. I've stopped drinking altogether, more sober now than
I was when we started. Glove and Lordy, on the other hand, have put
back two shots a piece between beer refills.

“I am now referee Glove,” he anoints himself.
I swear he's an oversized thirteen-year-old, Playboy magazines
hidden under his mattress and all.

The first glass bottle is in a tree, a higher
limb shaded by the dark, I guess, for confusion. Civilians often
forget we have night training on top of what they think of as
regular training. Plus, knowing that I'm headed for Spec Ops, I
personally train for things in the dark in my shore leave time. I
let Lordy go first. He misses. Barely nails the limb it's sitting
on.

“Whooo!” Glove squawks. “Take your top
off!”

Strawberry Short-Whore rips off her
see-through top. The black bra exposes a disappointing B-cup rack.
The Wonderbra must be doing most of the work. Hope her nipples are
bright red to make them less unsatisfying. She giggles and bounces,
proud of her lack of parts. Good for her. Self-confidence is
key.

My turn. I shoot without much effort. Glass
rains to the ground. My attention shoots to the cowgirl who stepped
into my court. “Hope you're comfortable. They're not coming
off.”

“I got this.” Lordy has the last sip of
whatever beer he's on. The next shot is a series of bottles lined
up from front to back. The shot has to travel through all of them.
He fires, nipping the neck of the first one.

“Fail!” Glove declares, excited. “Bye, bra.
You won't be missed.”

In a drunken attempt to be sexy, she tries to
seductively slide her bra off. It backfires. She gets a bit tangled
instead, making her look like a moron. They deserve each other. No
surprise at the sight underneath. The nips are indeed cherry
red.

I line my shot and fire, bullet ripping
effortlessly through each bottle, shattering them and the dreams of
everyone who was hoping to see Cowgirl naked at this event. Sorry.
It'll just be me later.

“Damn it!” Lordy shouts. “Somebody get me a
beer!”

'Cause that's gonna help. I merely watch,
knowing I'm never not in control the way he is. It's dangerous—for
you and for others. I wonder, though, is it worth it? Is it worth
it to be lost without your sense of self? Without your conscience
reminding you of all the shoulds and should nots? The failures? The
misunderstandings? The lack of forgiveness?

He chugs the bottle halfway before he
announces we can proceed, “That's better!”

“Get him, baby!” Redhead jumps and giggles.
Stupid.

Next mission. There's a bottle on each limb
of a tree, up four limbs. Suddenly, it's yelled out, “One
handed!”

Lordy grunts like it's not hard, even though
just picking up the gun right now seems to be slightly challenging.
I'm grateful the group has pushed itself back to avoid being caught
in the danger zone. If he were sober, this would be an easy thing
for Lordy. Hell, they all would be. It's like he needs to be
humbled by his own stupidity occasionally. I don't know why. He's
skillful but still has room for massive growth in that department.
He drunkenly leans to the left and fires, hitting bottles one and
two, but bottle three is only grazed. Bottle four’s completely
untouched.

“Come on!” His rant is like a small child in
desperate need of a timeout. If this wasn't a party and I trusted
myself to drive, I’d haul his ass home right now. While he still
has minor gun control, if he keeps downing shots like TicTacs, he
won't. That's when the fun stops. That's when trouble is around.
That's when I'll put this puppet dance to an end.

“Let me see that thong,” Glove demands of
Lordy’s girl. The blond cobra grinding her ass against him has her
own purple thong popping out.

Lordy's trophy reveals a very tiny piece of
material that to call it a thong seems generous. Glove looks
intrigued and admires the package. His eyes are sketching down her
measurements to place in his spank bank, I'm sure.

Curious, he asks, “Landing strip?” She bats
her eyelashes, refusing to respond. He mutters, raising his beer,
“Eh, we'll find out soon enough.”

He shoots me a wink. I take my stance and
knock the bottles down like some show pony. Annoyed, I growl, “Give
me a fucking challenge, Lordy.”

“How about the plate?” he says, knowing it's
his best bet to gain ground. He grew up shooting plates with his
father. It's what piqued his interest in guns in the first place.
They shot all kinds—clay plates, pottery plates, dinner
plates—though that pissed his mother off. He turns to Glove's slave
and demands, “Get four plates from the kitchen.”

As she disappears, he explains how girls will
toss two plates as high up in the air as they can, and we're
expected to shoot them before they fall—the dispute being can you
hit both plates in a row. Juvenile. He's clearly trying too
hard.

Lordy goes first. Both plates fly into the
air. Shattering one causes Redhead to perk up, but he fires again,
missing plate two. It lands on the ground, her hero’s spirit with
it. I ask for something more difficult and he gives me plates.
Jesus. Such a disappointment.

I raise the ante and look at Cowgirl. “Wanna
be impressed?” Eagerly, she nods. “One eyed.”

I shut one eye. My plates fly into the air. I
shoot the first one without a thought. The second I let get closer
to the ground before I fire, shattering it as well. Needed to build
a little suspense.

Through clenched teeth, Lordy swears every
curse word known to man and some I'm sure alcohol made up. The
crowd cheers, and I turn, not smiling but with a remotely pleased
look on my face.

The redhead pouts, “I feel like I got
hustled.”

“Lordy's usually a pretty good shot.” Glove
offers sympathy, fresh beer on his lips. “But, uh, Grim never
misses. Obviously.” She drops her jaw, and Lordy shrugs, probably
thankful he got to see the girl naked with minimal effort. The fact
it's in front of a crowd probably keeps any humiliation or guilt he
might be feeling at bay. Playfully, Glove adds, “Did I forget to
mention that? Damn it.” She huffs again, and he points, “Drop
'em.”

Off the thong falls, and Lordy chuckles as he
pops her on the ass. “Everything matches!”

Laughter starts, and people, including the
naked girl, head toward the house. I collect the box of shells and
prepare to put the gun that's still in my hands out of those
idiots’ way. Here I am again cleaning up their mess.

Cowgirl still lingers behind. She's watching,
waiting for me to make a move. The sooner the better. I'm ready to
see those boots above her head and hit the bed for the night.
Watching over those bastards is exhausting.

“What's your name again?”

“Amber,” she pulls her hair to one side of
her face. “Grim, right?”

“Yeah.” Most people don't know my real name,
and I prefer it that way. Keeps it from coming out of the wrong
mouths. Keeps me from attaching myself to many people. “Thanks
again.”

“Yeah,” she nods rapidly, her hands sliding
in her back pockets. “Thanks for helping me keep some self-respect,
you know, helping me keep my clothes on.” I nod and turn my head
toward the house when she follows with, “Wanna help me take 'em
off?”

A small smirk is on my face, my back still to
her. I toss a look over my shoulder and respond, “Follow me.”

We slip through the main party. It’s dying
down as drinks are running dry and mouths are getting lost in one
another. The two of us head upstairs into the only empty bedroom
left. The others are filled with people doing exactly what we're
about to. Once inside the cheap deer-and-camouflage decorated room,
I place the gun in a closet, shells next to it, and shut the
door.

The moment my hands are free, she pounces on
me, her body leaping into my arms, shaking my balance a bit by the
unexpected attack. God, why do women feel they need to reenact shit
they read in romance novels? Her legs are wrapped around me
tightly, her bird-thin lips pecking away at mine like I've got food
inside. Weird. My hands grab her ass. She moans fiercely. That
sound is surprisingly pleasing. We continue until we stumble onto
the bed, rip off clothes—though I mention she should leave the
boots on—and paw at each other. Her hands are small, clumsy, most
likely from the amount of alcohol she's consumed. At least, I hope.
I reach for my pants pocket, slip on a rubber, and let her crawl on
top. She wiggles and bucks her hips, her hair tickling my chest.
Within a few short minutes, her moans are on the verge of climax.
Damn, already? No work required with this one. Thoughts of me
fucking her must have really done a number on her. She increases
the pace. A deep moan pops out of her, indicating she came. Hard.
Good. I can finish then. Swiftly, I roll her over and put those
legs right where I wanted them earlier, parted high in the air. My
hands grip her hips, fingers touching a fairy tattoo, and push into
her hard. Harder. Harder. I shut my eyes to forget. Forget that,
when this night is over, I have hell to return to. I increase my
rhythm. Forget that it feels like I live in a prison when I return
to his house. To that man. Forget that I'm all alone just waiting
for death to capture me on the field. Being home just puts me
farther from it, angering me.