Havoc (9 page)

She smiles as thanks. My heart thumps again,
hard. What the hell is wrong with me? I just had a physical. What
could possibly be wrong with me? Cautiously, I slide an arm around
her waist, sizing up her response before taking further action.
When she doesn't cringe and doesn't try to free herself, I escort
her to an empty couch in the living room, where she sits on the
edge, and I sit beside her, allowing myself to act as a barrier to
the rest of the world, protecting her from looks, scrutiny, and
physical harm.

I watch as her mouth welcomes the bite of
warm-baked bread roll. She releases a slight moan out loud. Holy
hell, I wasn't prepared for that. My body threatens to stiffen to
attention. If you so much as make brief cameo, I'll castrate you.
Any action it thought of taking stops. Good. Glad we're on the same
page. For Christ's sake, the girl is just eating. And even if the
simple motion of her eating is more hypnotizing than anything I've
ever seen, there's no reason my body should feel obligated to
misbehave. I'm a fucking solider. I've got self-control. Haven
notices I'm staring. Sensing she's about to panic that's she's
doing something wrong, I let a slight curve appear on the corner of
my mouth to offer her reassurance. And it does. She returns to
eating a little more carefree. It's cute.

I'm not sure how long she's been eating or
I've been staring, but I know it’s distracting because now Sir is
clearing his throat, demanding our attention. I should have noticed
his arrival. She clouds my senses. She slaves my attention. That's
dangerous.

“Evening,” his greeting is directed at her.
She struggles to get the bread out of her teeth so she can respond
when he holds up a hand, stilling her. “It's quite all right.
Enjoy.”

Sir follows that by leaning his elbow on the
edge of his chair, exposing to us an accessory that he feels he
should always wear for my comings and goings, his own
hello–good-bye accessory, an expensive watch my mother bought for
him on their first wedding anniversary. My eyes wince over his
attire—black dress pants, white button down, and black sport coat—a
look very similar to my own, making our resemblance apparent.
Making my stomach cringe. I want to be nothing like him.

“That's a lovely dress.” His compliment
causes my hand to grip the back of the couch tighter. “Looks
remarkably close to one Clint's mother had. Down to the small slit
at the bottom.”

Watching the process on his face goes about
as well as I could have predicted. How could I have forgotten he
would know the dress better than anyone? Damn it. If my brain could
just slide out of this fog for a few minutes, I would've known
better. I mean, she still would be in the dress, but maybe I could
have done damage control before he saw her in it. Sir starts
reminiscing. All the details gunning for him like a runaway freight
train. When he realizes that it's not similar, but the exact dress,
he shoots a look to me. Alarm. Betrayal. Disgust. Each emotion only
allowed one blink. He doesn't want to have this discussion any more
than I do.

In a barely steady voice, he begins again, “I
spoke to those that needed speaking to, and by morning, you shall
have a new identity.”

“First name Haven,” I quickly clarify.

“She can't keep–”

“First name Haven, Sir.”

His eyes flare at me. I do not recall the
last time we butted heads this much. I don't remember the last time
I cared this much about anything to fight for it. Regardless, she
wants her name. I'll give it to her even if the cost is standing
toe to toe with my commanding officer.

A massive exhale escapes him. He raises his
whiskey glass to his lips and growls, “Noted.” My eyes look down at
Haven, who can sense the tension and is retreating inside herself.
Assuming Sir senses it as well, he continues his conversation,
“Those who will be helping your transition are around the room.
Let's start with Mindy Callaghan.”

“The nosy neighbor lady?” Haven’s description
catches Sir off guard.

I chortle. Her memory works just fine. “Yes.
Her.”

Unsure of what we're talking about, Sir
continues, “This is her home. She's a chef. Lives to cook. Grows
all her own fruits and vegetables, often enough for most of us.
Mindy is married to Doug,” he points, “who was one of the
highest-paid lawyers in Texas for several years before he stepped
out of the game, for the most part.”

Doug is the same height as his wife with her
heels on. He has a slight humped-over back, a graying beard, as
well as frosted tips of gray on his dark brown hair, which swirls
perfectly on top of his head. His skin is pale in comparison to
hers, wrinkled from lack of exercise or possibly from too much
stress he's swallowed in his time.

“Why'd he stop?” Haven blurts out.

“Many of us have secrets here. We look to one
another not only for shelter but redemption, not to live alone with
the demons that tried to consume us but rather to glimmer in the
restoration we have given each other. We’ve become one through the
pain and take a stance to help others the way society avoided
helping us.” Sir raises his glass and tips it toward the
Callaghans, who are positioned next to the fireplace, engaged in
flirty conversation with one another. They tip back, their
attention returning to each other right after the gesture.

I know many of these secrets, but some are
still a mystery to me, including what brought my own parents here.
I've never asked, and Sir has never told. I guess it never really
mattered why we moved here, just that we had.

His brief overview continues with a
nonchalant head tilt. “To the left—the man holding that woman's
hand—his name is Christopher Striker, an ER surgeon. The woman is
his wife, Professor Lexi Lu. The young woman lingering close to the
bar area is Leighyani, their daughter.” My eyes steal a short
glance at Le Le, who is giggling behind a wine glass. “She's a
student at the Dechert Able University downtown. She, Clint, and
Howard are all the same age.”

Haven turns to see the view that I have, the
plate of food she was enjoying now basically empty.

“Leighyani and Howard have no idea what
haunts their parents or what each of us has done for each other.
They only know that, if there's ever danger or they are in trouble,
someone can get them out. Any one of us will get them out. Clint’s
the exception—he’s the only one who knows the truth or some of it
anyway.” Sir’s finger taps the side of his glass, “And now you. I
expect that you will keep the information to yourself.”

The fact that he even considers she can't be
trusted agates me. My legs shift. My fingertips drum the side of
the couch as I try to take deep breaths. I have to remain calm. I
have to stay stable no matter how much I feel Sir is out of line
for thinking she would betray us. God, if I could get my own head
out of my ass for just a minute I wouldn't second guess his need to
be assured she wouldn't let her mouth run away from her. It's
logical. Strategic. Wise. Damn.

After Haven nods, Sir resumes speaking, “Anna
and Felix West are settled at the dining table with their son
Howard. Anna is branch manager at a local bank, a retired hacker
from a government agency. Felix owns quite an amount of land in
Reckonberg and a few of the surrounding cities as well his own
construction company, which happens to put up most of the houses on
the land once he sells it. Howard–”

My tongue flies without thinking, “Who
attends the same university as Le Le, has a heavy drinking problem,
an addiction to throwing his parents’ money away, and a disgusting
tendency to hump anything with a pulse.” Haven's eyebrows rise.
Whether it is in surprise of my description or of the fact this was
the first time I stepped up to say something about someone in the
group is unsure. My strong distaste for the jerk cut through and
escaped. I know better than this. Hell, I have to stop behaving
like this. Sir silently demands an apology with his facial
expression. He’ll get it. But, it won't make what I said any less
factual. “Sorry, Sir.”

“You will learn their faces. You will learn
their names. Most importantly, you will learn their skills and what
they can do for you. They will help create the evidence to support
your new back story. As of today, you are the daughter of an old
Navy friend of mine who passed away. You’re here to explore and
think before you decide on college—or whatever you want to do with
the rest of your life. It's enough to get the ball rolling and keep
questions, especially from Leighyani and Howard, down to a minimum.
I'm sure this has been a bit much for you to process, so I'll give
you some time now. Take a breath. Refresh your plate. When you feel
comfortable, begin to make yourself known.” Sir rises to his feet,
whiskey glass now empty. I know where he is headed. “If you'll
excuse me.”

And when it's just the two of us once more,
Haven's dark-brown eyes relax. Her body language echoes the
sentiment. For what has to be the first time since we've walked
through Mindy's front door, she looks like she might actually
believe she's going to be OK, that she might be able to survive.
This is good. This is a great. We may have a long way to go, we may
have a long uphill journey to push through, but at least now I know
she's got some sort of faith she can do it. And if she's got that,
that's more than enough for me and my heart.

A steady stream of screams flows out of a
pair of hefty lungs, shooting me into a panic, my knife gripped in
my hand, ready to attack an intruder. My eyes quickly adjust to see
no one is in my bedroom but me and Haven, who has gathered herself
close the headboard.

She looks terrified but not of me. It's like
she doesn't realize where she is, and that twinge in my chest
returns. What the fuck is that? Acid reflux? Sitting up with my
arms draped on my gathered knees, I watch her cycle through the
emotions of horror, relief, excitement, resentment, fear, and
confusion. This is the fifth time in three hours she's shot up
screaming like that, drenched in a wicked, cold sweat. Each time, I
alert myself with the same amount of attention, each time prepared
for someone to break in and try to take her away.

I thought sleeping on the floor would help
give her the space she needed to rest. I thought letting her feel
safe by me being on a sleeping bag on the floor would provide a
measure of comfort, yet every time she screams, I feel like I'm
wrong. I hate being wrong. I'm never wrong. I'm never this confused
or conflicted. It's making me feel like I'm waning in my own skin.
Helpless.

There's a light knock on my door. Sir.

Reluctantly, I rise to my feet, pull my black
tank top down, and shuffle over to the door, cracking it open to
see his judgmental face beginning to wear thin.

Not speaking to him, I stand with my entire
body at attention, both hands behind my back.

“Clint, I know she can't help it–”

“No, Sir.”

“But have you considered the option of maybe
giving her something to help her sleep?”

I have. The thought of drugging some poor
girl who only God knows what she's been through just doesn't sit
right. In fact, it makes me want to punch a hole through my door
just to ease the tension of that thought, even if it's just for a
moment.

“I don't think it's a good idea, Sir.”

“And letting that poor girl scream helplessly
is?” His point is valid. “I understand what you think drugging her
might do. Might make the nightmares worse. Could risk the chance of
her falling into a psychotic episode. Allergic reaction. A number
of things. But think, Marine. Something needs to be done.”

My fist clenches, and I resist the urge to
let it go into his jaw for being right. Those possibilities would
mean I'm not protecting her. That I'm not doing my fucking job.
That I can't save her.

“I'll give her one more chance, then I'm
calling Striker, and we're giving her something.”

“Sir–”

“Subject closed. Are we clear?”

I nod and respond the only way I can, “Yes,
Sir.”

He disappears back down the hall, and I shut
the door as quietly as I can.

“Is he mad?” her soft voice chirps.

My heart sinks. The fact she's worried about
the grumpy old bastard instead of herself is sweet and highly
unnecessary.

“Should I go? I should go.”

“No.” My head snaps around to see her shaking
in fear, hands still clutching my white sheets. The way her hair is
tossed around her head, her dark-brown eyes softening from sadness,
my old T-shirt loosely hanging from her yet still giving her
magnificent breasts a glowing shape, is incredible. How someone can
look so fucking sexy such a mess is unreal. I feel a stirring in my
pajama bottoms and will it to calm itself down. Now is not the
time.

“But–”

“Haven,” I approach the bed, careful to keep
my movements slow and precise, not wanting her to think I'm doing
harm. “He's fine. You're . . .fine.” That's a lie. I try again,
“You'll be fine. You're safe here. Do you understand that?”

She nods slowly, and the blanket drops from
her now-relaxed hand, revealing her mocha-colored thighs that look
like a tall drink of caffeinated heaven. Holy hell. I lower my head
down and rub the base of my neck. Get a fucking grip.

“Clint.” My name twirls off her tongue, an
unexplainable treat to my ears.

I instantly look up, “Yeah?”

She seems skittish by the way she pushes her
hair behind her ear and buries her face, almost ashamed, “Will you
lay with me?”

Nervous myself, I clear my throat, trying to
will my voice not to be hoarse. “Is that what you want?”

“Yes, please.”

“Then of course.” I lean down to grab my
pillow only to discover my hand is shaky. What the hell is the
matter with me? I've slept with a female before. Well, I've had sex
with one before, obviously. I've never just spent the night beside
one with her in my arms. Gripping my pillow, I look over at Haven
as she slowly starts scooting her body to one side. This isn't just
any female, though. This is an angel, a grace from God lying in my
bed asking me to be beside her.