Havoc (5 page)

Plopping my butt on the arm of the couch, I
continue to stare. I swear it looks like I'm staring at an actual
peace of heaven on Earth. Underneath the layers of dirt I'm going
to wipe away and the scars that will heal is uniquely classic
beauty. The kind of beauty that make up promises and doesn't
deliver. It's timeless. The kind that strips the air from your
lungs. The sort of raw allure that men in bars fight for, go to war
over, that they die for. I’d die for her. Wait—what? I run my hands
down my face. Get a fucking grip, Grim. You're a Marine. Act like
it. Treat her the way you would any other job. Get her cleaned up,
stay with her until she's conscious, then when she is, make further
decisions.

I grab a bowl of warm water and a yellow
washcloth and settle down on the floor beside her. I wrap a blanket
around the lower half of her body in fear she might be too cold.
While Texas isn't known for having a real fall season, we are this
year, and this morning was a bit cool. Carefully, I wipe away some
of the more caked-on dirt from her face before gently dabbing the
towel across her forehead. Unexpectedly, her eyes shoot open, and
the look on her face dubs me as an enemy. I fight the urge to feel
disappointed. With whatever she's been through, I can't blame her.
Her beautiful brown eyes are striking. They're so dark; they could
be confused with black easily, but that's what draws you in. Then
once you're there, to look anywhere else feels like betrayal.
Crap.

Be gentle in voice as you have been in touch,
I tell myself. I stop the wiping and ask, “Do you speak
English?”

The mixed color of her mocha skin forces me
to ask. Texas is home to illegal immigrants, which I have no
problem with. It's not my job to deal with those particular foreign
affairs. I just need to know if she is one of them. Not that I
would feel any less compelled to help her. It would just create a
conversational barrier.

She nods. It would be easier to believe her
if she would have said something, but she doesn't. I offer a soft
smile, the motion harder than I recall. The angel stares back,
saying nothing, moving nothing, possibly thinking nothing. I want
her to know she's safe, that I've got her. Her face burrows down.
Did my smile scare her?

“Name's Clint.” Did I really just tell her my
name? It seeped out of me before I could stop it. No one calls me
Clint. I don't introduce myself that way. I can't. Clint was some
kid who thought he'd grow up to play professional baseball or
become a philosophy professor. Clint was a ten-year-old boy with a
future, with dreams, with hope and two parents. Clint died years
ago. Slugger tried to die with him, but Mindy's will was stronger
than I imagined. What's wrong with me? My head nods at her,
“Yours?”

She shakes her head. Rejection. Wow.

“Then how do I know you speak English?”
Nothing. Think smarter, Grim. “And what would you do if I were to
just pick up the phone right now and call the police? Have them
arrest you for trespassing?”

“I'd run.”

Pleased, my faint smile tries to join the
conversation, “Ah. So you do speak English.”

She glares harshly, not taking too well to
being tricked into giving information. Her fault. She left me no
choice. Now I'm back in enemy territory. Damn it. “I'm sorry. I
just needed to know if you could talk. I'm not trying to harm you.
I swear. I went outside for my morning jog and found you passed out
on my lawn. No purse. No ID. Barely breathing. I brought you in and
have been trying to nurse you ever since. Rescuing people I can do.
Making them whole again is not my specialty.” What's with all this
honesty coming out of me? She doesn't need to know I can't make her
whole again. Damn it, Grim. Get it together. Offer her more peace
of mind. “I'm a Marine.”

The word I usually use to bring women to
their knees actually does what I always imagined it might
someday—provide security. A brief look of relief crosses her face.
Well, I'll be damned. If that isn't the most incredible look I've
ever seen flicker in another human's eyes then–

A knock at the front door startles my
thoughts and, worse, shrinks this fragile, nameless angel back into
the very shell I was working on getting her out of. Damn it. My
eyes search over her, observing so many signals she's leaking off
that I feel a twinge in my chest again—a sharp pain. Whatever it is
she left behind, she's afraid it's at the door. She's afraid I
can't protect her, that I can't save her. I stand and check my
pocket for the KA-BAR that I never go anywhere without. Of course I
can save her. I can do as much damage with the knife in my pocket
as I can with a sniper rifle.

Quickly, I tiptoe over to the door and check
the peephole. Oh boy, this is gonna be bad. I put on a polite I’m
kinda busy smile as I open the door, “Good morning, Mrs.
Callaghan.”

“It's barely morning, Slugger,” she snips,
her voice upset that the front door was locked, I'm sure.

I don't usually lock it because, frankly, we
live in that kind of neighborhood. However, considering my new
guest and the trauma she's been through, I should start making a
change. Wait. Why? I mean, she's not gonna stay here. There's no
way she's gonna stay here. But, there's no way she's gonna stay
anywhere else. Of course she's gonna stay here.

Mrs. Callaghan hushes the battle inside my
head. “And by the way you're dressed, I get a sense that you aren't
even aware the sun is up. In fact–” Her voice cuts out at the sight
of the angel on my couch. Her face slowly swivels to me, and
suddenly, I feel like the kid in the back of the class caught
talking in a no-talking zone. “Clint Thomas Walker! You've been
home for all of three days, and you've already brought a bar babe
home! You Marines and your disregard for things other than
yourself. You know you're not supposed to bring them here! What's
your father going to say? And–”

“Mrs. Callaghan,” I shut her up as quickly as
possible. I move my body closer to the girl, not wanting to smother
her space but feeling a need to be closer to her. Now, with me in
between, hopefully Mindy will drop it and not bombard the girl with
too many questions. “She is not a random bar babe.”

“Then who is she?” The question feels loaded.
I don't have a simple answer. Even the complicated one is still too
jumbled for me to make sense of. My head tilts to the side, and she
can see the confusion in my face. She calms down, “Well, is your
non-beer bimbo hungry?” She offers a bakery box that, until now,
was forgotten in her hands.

The angel merely shakes her head. I know
she's lying. She has the look of a starving man on Thanksgiving
Day. Taking the container that appears to be holding crepes
hostage, I sigh, “Look, Mrs. Callaghan–”

“You know I hate it when you call me
that.”

“Sorry, Mindy. Forgive my friend for being so
quiet. She traveled a long way to get here and just got in early
this morning. She really needs to get adjusted, so if you'll excuse
us . . .” I turn Mindy’s small frame around. I need her out of the
house before she makes this situation more uncomfortable or, worse,
picks up on my lie and alerts Sir before I get the chance to.

“Well, I hope she is more talkative for
dinner tonight.” Dinner. Shit. That is tonight. I can't take her to
that, even if Mindy is expecting her to be there. Maybe I'll just
leave her here. I can't leave her here alone. That's too far away
from me, from my watch. I don't want to dangle her in front of all
those people either to poke and prod like a science experiment. But
I want her near, need her near. “Pleasure to meet you.” Mindy waves
over her shoulder. “See you tonight.”

I lock the door behind her, relocate my body
to the barstool closest to the couch, and let out a deep breath.
Should I sit closer to her? Am I too far? I feel like I'm too far.
Another frustrated, deep breath escapes me. What is wrong with me?
How can I feel this strongly about her? How can I feel so
conflicted about choices this simple?

“You know that people often say more with
their reactions than they ever do with words?” My finger touches
the napkin under the crepes.

I know she's starving, starving to death in
fact. God, I hope she lets me provide her with food, among other
things. For the time being, I'll start with food.

“For instance, I know you are a runaway by
the way your body froze at the sound of the knock on the door. I
can tell you were held captive by the marks on your ankles and
wrists. The marks on your legs imply he was abusive as well.” The
words spew out of me in a gentle tone, one I didn't know I was
capable of using aside from with Mindy. By all the facial responses
I’ve observed, I seem to be right, but better, they seem to show
that her guard is weakening. “You don't eat very often, and when
you do, not very much. Your eyes, skin, and hair are extremely dry,
the kind that comes from malnutrition. Also, your left hand
twitched at the box when Mindy displayed it and again when my
finger touched the napkin. You're starving. Borderline starvation
is going to be my final guess.”

Her eyes shut, and I walk over with the
crepes. Sitting on the edge of the couch beside her, I place my
hand softly on her thigh. Her eyes fight the urge to open and lose.
Those gorgeous, dark swirls of heaven are exposed to me once more.
I feel an unexplainable relief.

“I know it's hard for you to imagine anyone
not wanting to harm you, but I brought you into my home, I nursed
you back to life, shooed away the very nosy, albeit caring
neighbor, and have every intention of protecting you from any
danger that comes in your direction. Please, I'm asking you,
through the pain, too . . . Please, I beg you to please trust
me.”

Wow. So that's what sheer honesty sounds
like. The words that Glove would easily use as lines to seduce
women into his bed are ones I actually mean. For the first time in
a long time, I offer up honest words from myself. Feelings.
Feelings about another human being. I'm not even sure I can feel,
but I do know everything I just said is true. Nothing will ever
hurt this girl again.

She doesn't budge. I'm not even sure if she's
thought about it. I need her. I can't reason with myself about it,
about her, but I need something about her. I need her to trust me,
right here. Right now. I wanna give her back so much that was taken
from her. That's the mission. I gently move the hair out of her
eyes, seeing a few old bruises. She's mine. I may never know her
name. I may never touch her in the ways that I have to stop myself
from thinking about. Hell, I may never get another moment to be
alone, lost in her essence like this, no matter how much I feel I
need to. But, I do know something about her. She needs me. She
needs me to be at peace within herself. Without hesitation, I take
off my tags and lay them softly around her neck. With a soft
whisper, more desperate than before, I repeat, “Please trust
me.”

The most miraculous thing happens. Her jaw
trembles, her body seems to cave into whatever emotions she was
fighting, and she throws herself violently at me. My arms stretch
out and hold her tight. The sound of crying leaks out of her, and I
feel my heart cringe again, the sound being one I never want to be
responsible for making her create. I grip tighter and shut my eyes,
wishing I knew the words to make this all right. To make her pain
stop. To make her heart ache less. My own body tries to stay strong
in her hour of weakness, though it feels impossible. I stroke her
back gently with my thumb.

The whimpers stop for a brief moment, and I
hear a soft voice, one that freezes me for a moment because it
reminds me of one I haven't heard in years. “Haven . . . my name is
Haven.”

Moments later, she’s asleep. Breathing. All
she is doing is breathing. It's the most gorgeous thing I've ever
seen. Her chest rises and falls. It's the most magical thing,
creates life and releases it. I shouldn't be this mesmerized by the
action, but the way she does it feels so delicate. Tender.

The sunlight is finally fading into evening
yet still keeping an angelic presence around her. Around this slice
of a miracle. Around Haven. God, her name is Haven. Perfect.
Absolutely perfect.

My finger gently touches the edge of her
chin. I know I need to go shower. At this point, I can feel the
sweat caked on me beside her tears, an unpleasant mixture on my
skin. She cried so hard and long that she passed out, put herself
to rest. That was hours ago. I haven't moved out of sight since
that moment. The furthest I went was to pee. All I've done is watch
her, monitor her, and get lost in trails of thoughts about her,
about us. About a lifetime together. I know all that is
unreasonable, but I couldn't care less. I give her arm a soft
stroke, not wanting to wake her. Ten minutes is all I need to
shower, but even that seems like too much to ask of me. The risk of
leaving her alone for those minor moments isn't one I can face
right now—maybe tonight, while she's sleeping, but not right now. I
just . . . can't.

Her head moves, dark brown hair falling into
her face as she lets out a sigh. I brush it out of the way as I
stare on in confusion. There's this war raging on inside of me and
not just about taking a shower and leaving her for a brief moment.
It's greater than that. It's like whatever I thought was dead
inside of me is stirring, coming awake at various times in rapid
force, but the legend of myself as a machine, emotionally
nonexistent, is fading. What's happening to me? I'm not supposed to
get emotionally involved, let alone invested, in anything,
definitely not another human being, yet every time I look at this
girl, that's all I can see. That's all I want. Her safety. Her
warmth. Her care. If I'm lucky enough, her love.

I adjust her blanket, finding another excuse
to touch her. You know, I pride myself in being emotionless, yet
within a couple of hours, I'm feeling every emotion known to man.
All of this attacking my mental state at once is overwhelming.
These feelings hurt. They're rough. They make my chest physically
ache. For the first couple of minutes, I thought I was having a
heart attack, just waiting for my arm to tingle and go numb so I
could call 9-1-1. My head aches in comparison to my chest, yet with
just one look at her, it seems worth it. Pain seems to cease. Does
that make any sense? No. Can I explain it? No. Can I stop it? No.
The question I should really ask is, do I want to?