Havoc (4 page)

She's howling, I hope in pleasure, but at
this point, I have no care either way. I pump into her harder. I
feel myself swell, fingers gripping hard enough to bruise, but I
know I won't. I'd never hurt a woman like that. I slip out and let
the liquid pool in the condom, along with disgust for myself. I
didn't even like this girl. I just didn't wanna think about the
abyss I set myself in. I just didn't want to feel so goddamn empty
all the time, even if that euphoria was just for a few minutes.

She rolls over and strokes my side, outlining
the Alpha Omega tattoo by my ribs, “Wow.” A pause. “I guess you
really never do miss. That was the best sex I ever had! I came
twice.”

I shrug, toss the used condom in the trash
next to the nightstand and shut my eyes, the reality of the world
setting back in. The sooner I can sneak away, the better. I need to
get away from this room with walls that look like a PETA nightmare,
from this girl, from myself.

I don't dream. The last time I had one I was
ten. My mom had just died, and I dreamed of her in a long, white
dress with wings and a bright, white light surrounding her. She
whispered alpha, our family code word for safety. It was our word
that we were protected, that everything was OK. Eleven years and I
haven't dreamed since. There's an actual medical condition where
people no longer dream, but that's not my case, I'm told. The
military doc says I dream; I just don't recall them. He says it's a
blessing; post-combat dreams are haunting and awful. Reminds me
that I lack many things that make a person human.

Groggy, I manage to wake myself up off the
couch. I bailed on the girl about twenty minutes after sex. She
went on about being pre-med, her professors being the best, and
something about a lecture before she finally shut up. It's not
really my thing to care pre-sex let alone post. Twenty minutes
really is pushing my acting ability. I rub my eyes, fix my black
polo collar, and am greeted by Glove and Lordy, who are half awake
themselves.

“Feels good to be home, huh?” Glove's remark
is followed by him looking around for his shirt. I swear he's
allergic to his own clothes. At least he has pants on.

“Yup,” Lordy chuckles. Scratching the back of
his neck, he grumbles, “Uh, how shit-faced was I last night? I
don't remember much.”

I'm glad I put the gun away. “Remember
getting your ass handed to you by Grim in that shotgun
contest?”

Lordy shakes his head, “Why would I agree to
do that? I'm not stupid.”

“You are when you're drunk.” I shrug and
check my pockets for the essentials, my exit moments away.

“And it got that girl you banged last night
naked for all the world to see.” Glove waves his hand like a
magician.

A look of panic comes on Lordy's face as he
sits down beside me. “Shit. What was her name? Penny? Petunia?”

“Petunia?” We croak in unison.

“I kept calling her my peach, my Georgia
peach.” His confession pulls a sneer to my lip.

“That's sick, man,” I state.

“I'm from Georgia.”

“And isn't that bad enough?” Glove backs me.
He folds his arms across his bare chest, having given up early on
his shirt search.

“Bro, can you put a shirt on?” I look
down.

Cocky, he flexes, “Jealous?”

My head tilts up, eyebrows down. While we are
all built for the job—weeks of training will do that to even the
most non-sculpted human—Glove is slender, more slender than a
Marine really should be. He's got light features with a flawless
face. Doesn't appear threatening. I could break him without burning
a hundred calories. Lordy is on the huskier side, with a broader
build than me, filled in completely, nevertheless still toned, his
baby face even less threatening than Glove's. It would take an
extra push to break him in half, but that's it. I may be the one
with a medium build, but I'm the one who looks like a bouncer
crossbred with a cage fighter.

“Presley?” Lordy calls out another name,
still trying to figure out who his redheaded treat was.

“Stephanie.” Glove plops down in the love
seat across from us. “Her name was Stephanie, for Christ’s
sake.”

“The fact you have incredible slut name
recall but forget where you put your own clothes is pathetic.” I
shake my head as the cowgirl from last night appears at the bottom
of the stairs. The walk of shame, that dreaded moment when all eyes
are on you after a bang with a guy you just met. I hate girls
feeling cheap and used in front of an audience, at least when I'm
sober, but if you're dumb enough to wait for sunrise, you deserve a
bit of the shame. After all, what sits in the dark will eventually
fuck you up in the light if you let it.

“Thanks again, Grim. I had fun last night,”
she says in a soft tone, inviting me over to have a conversation in
private. I don't do private or sentimental. I really should come
with a warning label. Caution: Contents are hot and a little fucked
up.

“Me too,” I lie.

“So . . . call me?”

I hate lying but the need to appear more
human than the two idiots I hang out with outranks it.

“Sure thing, Abby.”

“Amber,” she corrects me. Her shoulders
slump, her keys appear in her hand, and she leaves.

Fuck. Me.

“Wrong name? Really, Grim?” Glove judges.
Feeling Glove of all people judge me over sex repulses me. I feel
my skin crawl. I need a good run. I need a shower.

“Not all of us have super slut memory
skills,” Lordy jumps to my aid.

I stand up. “Well, now that I've emotionally
damaged another woman, I'm out.”

The joke gets a laugh. I prefer to leave
before the conversation turns personal, past the sex bridge, the
only one I want to cross with them. They may be my friends, but
they know military Grim, not suburban Slugger. I prefer it that
way. They don't complain.

Thankfully, when I arrive home, it's empty.
The awkward “where were you all night” nonverbal conversation can
be avoided. While Sir and I don't talk in depth about much, it
never fails that, if I'm gone all night and he's here when I
return, it's judgment day. Was I behaving in a respectful manner?
Was I carrying myself like a man? Like a man of dignity and
respect? Was I upholding the laws a Marine is governed by?

I change into sweats, an old T-shirt, and hit
the neighborhood for my usual run. I prefer to do it as soon as I
wake up, get my day started the right way. Call me a man of routine
if you like; I prefer to be referred to as disciplined. For the
alcohol I consumed, I'll probably hit the gym after my run for some
boxing. Can't keep those useless pounds on. No, I'm not that vain,
but I'm headed for Spec Ops and can't reach it treating my body
like Glove and Lordy—endless drinking, endless food binges, endless
sex. I know what's expected. I've studied. I will rise to that
challenge. There is no failure. They will be as proud to have me as
I am to join. One day. One day soon, I hope. I started pushing my
body for the corps early on. Started running every day at twelve,
first to have some time away from Sir, then to beat my own records.
At thirteen, I started lifting weights. Since sports were not of
any interest to me anymore, I began studying basic military workout
regimens and immersed myself within them from fourteen to
seventeen. I looked like a fitness model before graduation, and
after months in training, I could give some of those airbrush jokes
a run for their money. For me, it's not about the looks but the
strength. I want to be able to hold my own, drop a man in life or
death.

Five miles in forty minutes or less is my
next goal. I'm getting closer. Five miles in forty-five minutes is
where I am. I hope to reach five miles in thirty. Gotta push myself
more. With a long breath, I stroll up my driveway toward the front
door, sweat pouring down my neck and drenching my shirt. Another
drawback of waiting so long to run—extra heat.

“Clint,” My name echoes in the air.

I turn around, and a sight I could do without
is headed straight for me. Le Le. A living, breathing, embodiment
of proof that I've had human emotions, even if they were ones I’d
like to forget.

“Heard you were back.” She pauses in front of
me and pulls her porn-star, long, black hair to one side of her
tanned face. Her father's dark-brown skin creates most of the color
in hers, while her mother's Asian heritage plays out more in her
features, like her hair and slim size. One hand strolls across her
red V-neck shirt to lightly stroke her boobs. Her attempt in
seduction is failing, but I'll admit the girl's a pro. If Adam had
gone down with her, she would've seduced him into eating all the
apples on that damn tree—no snake help needed. Trust me. I've been
there.

“Yesterday.”

“Look good.”

“I look sweaty.”

“Some of my fondest memories of you are just
that way.”

Not in the mood for her and her manipulation
games, I get to the point, “Did you need something?”

“Actually.” Her body slides closer to me, her
designer perfume overwhelming. Did she bathe in it? Damn. “There's
a concert here in a like a week. Wanna go with me?”

No. Hell no. I would rather suffer in peace.
“Uh . . .”

“Come on, Clint. You said we could be
friends, yet every time I try to hang out with you, you give me the
brush-off. I said I was sorry things ended the way they did and for
what happened. We have to move past all that.”

“I already have.” The words are true. I let
it go right after, but that doesn't mean it never happened. One
evening away from the house and Sir will do me good. Besides, loud
music will drown out her voice. “Yeah, I'll go.”

“Awesome!” Her painted face sports a smirk,
like she's won some sort of prize. She hasn't. Her face turns up
toward the sunlight, revealing the layers she cakes on to look like
a real-life doll. Sad.

“I gotta finish my workout.” My body turns
away to head to the front door.

“See you at dinner tomorrow night,” she
calls, newfound hope in her voice.

Hope. The poison of truth. A lifesaver people
hold onto at the wrong times or wrong situations. Us is not
something that should be associated with hope. Or prayers. Or a
miracle. There is no us. That subject is dead, as dead as it gets.
As dead as the rest of me is.

The alarm sounds. Six a.m. When I'm on leave,
I do my best to stay in a routine from sunup to sun down. Some
days, I imagine that it's probably nice to live carelessly.
Recklessly. Stuffing my face full of stacks of pancakes, watching
reality TV, drinking from noon until the party starts at midnight.
That's a less-productive way to forget that you're human.

I pull myself out of bed, make it neatly,
throw on sweats for my run, brush my teeth, and head out the front
door for a quick five miles. One of the best things about running
is the clarity that accompanies it. The only thing that matters is
pushing myself, staying focused. It reminds me of the field.
Getting the job done. Nothing else matters. None of the bullshit
that was said in the bars, none of the regret for saying or not
saying something in an argument, none of the mistrust that floats
around us all. Nothing but getting that job done. And while I don't
feel many things, that determination to complete the mission feels
remarkable. It’s the best feeling in the entire world. The only
thing sweeter would be death.

As I round the corner toward home, the sun
finally joins me, lighting my cement path. Ahead of me, I notice
something I'm positive was not in my yard before. I always know my
surroundings. It's my job. I slow down to the sight sleeping in our
grass like it's a mattress. Cautiously, I lower to my knees, guard
still up if I have to defend myself. Suddenly, my heart drops
alongside of my knees. This woman is unconscious and, by the
movement of her chest, barely breathing. My hand brushes the hair
out of her mocha-colored face, checking out the harsh cuts and deep
bruises covering what should be flawless skin. I stiffen, feeling
my blood boil. How could someone do this to a woman, let alone . .
. an angel? I know that sounds crazy, but just one look at her, and
I know she had to have fallen from heaven, wings burned off by the
sun. The angelic glow around her fragile body is one my mom used to
tell me about during my bedtime stories—how angels sometimes fell
to Earth to walk across the world, protecting us from unknown
dangers. Each angel different. Unique. But every angel had a glow
like this. A pure energy force around them, one that even those of
the strongest will and hardest heart couldn't fight. I allow my
eyes to roam over her long thin legs, her sharply angled face with
high cheek bones, and her thin lips have appear to have a slight
cut at first glance. Even unconscious she looks more beautiful than
any other woman I've ever seen.

My arms swoop her up and cradle her closer to
my chest, similar to the way I imagine people hold babies. Her head
falls against my heart, and my knees buckle. What the fuck? She's
as light as she looks, lighter even, and my knees buckle? The packs
I have to haul around are easily four times her size, so what are
my knees doing buckling? I swallow the confusion and look down at
the sight. I feel a twinge in my chest. Now what the fuck is
that?

In the house, after placing her down on the
couch, I try to shake away whatever is trying to attack my body
from the inside. Maybe I'm trying to fight away a cold. I back off
and examine the abusive marks on her fragile frame, searching for
evidence that maybe I'm wrong, that she's not an angel. Maybe a
lost junkie. A sorority girl with a bad partying habit. However,
her body says no such thing. Malnourished, yes. Addiction, no. This
. . . creature has bumps and bruises she couldn't have given to
herself. The way some of the bruises are angled up and some down,
it looks like she was held down. From the sight, it was by a thick
strap. Mental patient? Her body shifts around slightly, the
sunlight glowing around her once more. Angels aren't real, dumb
ass. They're just stories, kid stuff my mom would tell me to remind
me there's still good in this awful world. And yet, I have this
feeling inside me I just can't shake. Feelings? What? I must be
getting sick.