Stricken Resolve (19 page)

Keeping their eyes dismissive as they take in
my size and attitude. I’m not in the mood to be messed with. Not
after my insides have been hollowed after my sad display of
self-control this morning lying in bed.

“Mr. James, we are here for an evaluation,”
the breathy woman states.

Am I sensing nervousness, excitement,
attraction, or perhaps a mixture of the three?

Watching the carotid in her neck pulsate
above normal, a hundred and eight, no, ten beats per minute, and
the flush of her cheeks tells me she’s not only nervous but
attracted to somebody in this room.

“Ma’am, I’m not at liberty to discuss
anything unless given strict orders from my superiors and I won’t
divulge you of any information unless
I
deem it necessary.
No offense, it’s just protocol,” I explain, evenly.

“We knew you’d say that,” The man with a weak
voice pipes in.

Did they send these two in on purpose so I
wouldn’t feel threatened? If that’s the case, they are correct, I
feel no sense of threat. Even though the man is carrying two
pistols.

Sliding me over an envelope, I open it and
read the seal of—oh you have to be kidding me— Brewer? Seriously?
I’m supposed to take orders from my ol’ buddy?

I chuckle, shaking my head. Of course he’d be
the one to relay these orders.

Following the text, it states I have been
displaying too much hostility, aggression, inability to follow
orders and broodiness.

Shaking my head again, I snort a sardonic
laugh. Yep, my good ol’ buddy has to add broodiness, which makes no
sense and could never be consider a reason for evaluation. Chalk it
up to him to make this seem funnier than it already is.

“Ok, I’ll concede, lay it on me doc,” I tease
and give her a slight smile. I know I’m making her nervous. I make
most people uncomfortable. She didn’t ask to have me here and I’m
not going to be rude. It’s not who I am, unless provoked.

A deep rouge covers her face and she looks
down at her notes, anxiously picking her nails. The artery in her
neck pounding.

“Would it make you more comfortable to ask me
through the glass?”

She looks up and I nod toward the mirror.

“I promise I don’t bite. I don’t want to
scare you,” I reassure her and give her another smile to make sure
she realizes I might be scary looking but looks can be deceiving.
Well not exactly. But I’m not going to harm her.

A sigh of relief and a loud gust of air is
released and she finally smiles at me. She’s a pretty lady.
Definitely not used to dealing with men like me.

“Ok, sorry, my boss is usually the one who
does this and she’s out of the office on maternity leave. You’re my
second case this week and the first one wasn’t, well...” she
blushes again.

“Scary?” I finish her sentence.

“Yeah… I mean no… I mean…oh, I’m so sorry
James. I just mean your record isn’t colored with rainbows, it’s
soaked in blood and I wasn’t sure what I’d run into.”

“Is that why rent-a-cop is here with you?” I
look to suit man and he crinkles his nose and opens his mouth like
he wants to say something, but wisely closes it again and leans
back, crossing his puny arms.

“He’s standard with these types of cases, I
guess,” she shrugs, apparently not knowing the actual rules.

I nod and gesture my hand for her to continue
with her job. I have a dinner to attend to and I can’t show up
looking like I do now.

“I’m going to ask you a series of questions
and I need you to tell me the first thing that comes to mind.”

I nod again.

“Your name is?”

“Calvin James.”

“Your occupation?”

“More than one.”

She chuckles a little and writes down my
answer.

“Favorite color?”

“Green or blue.”

“Where do you live?”

“In the arms of
my
woman.” Crap, — did
I just say that?

She smiles wide and writes down my response.
If Brewer reads this, I will be mocked for sure.

“Why are you here?”

“As in? Figuratively, why are we all
here
? Or as in why am
I
in DC?”

“DC.”

“To do a government job I signed up for a
long time ago.” Vague, yes. But I can’t be completely honest. My
‘job’ is classified.

“Do you want to do this job?”

“No,” I blurt.

“And why don’t you want to do this job, Mr.
James?” Her voice becomes harder all of a sudden….Interesting.

“I have better things to do with my time.”
Vague, again. But it’s still giving her what she asks for. An
answer.

“What specifically do you have to do that is
more important than providing for your country?”

“I’ve sacrificed hundreds of times for my
country, ma’am. Paying them in lives to keep us safe. Painting my
files red with blood, as you just expressed but a moment ago.
Now
, there are three things in this life that are more
important.” I’m getting agitated, I can feel my palms begin to
sweat and my jaw lock. Not a good sign. Calm down, Calvin James.
This lady isn’t asking for you to blow up at her. She is just doing
her job. Calm down man!

I take in a calming breath and close my eyes
for a moment to relax my escalating frustration. What is wrong with
me? Maybe I do need to seek professional help.

“What are those three things?” Her voice is
so small and eyes are so big, I look down to realize my hands are
gripping the chair frame so tightly my knuckles are pure white.
Dang it, I
am
losing it.

“Doc I think I might be losing my mind,” I
admit, unable to pry my own hands from the chair. I’m ashamed, so
ashamed. Dropping my chin to my chest, I brood. Just like Brewer
indicated in that silly document.

“It’s Emily, isn’t it?”

How did she know about her?

“Yes, but…”

“How did I know about her?” She cuts me off
before I can finish my question.

I slowly nod. Feeling like more of a failure
by the minute.

“I read your file. It indicated you were
extracted from civilian living conditions in Malibu California
three weeks ago. It also stated you were living with your fiancé,
name Bronwyn comma Emily. It also explained she birthed a set of
twins a few days prior to your extraction.” Leaning in forward, she
waves me closer and I comply.

“It’s okay to be sad, James. You shouldn’t be
happy about leaving your family. I think Brewer’s trying to help
you out by calling me in. So I can inform them of your mental
instability,” she whispers and pulling back, she winks at me and I
instantly get it. Ah….
My mental instability
. I do have it
but not like he’s indicated. Apparently Brewer wants me to get
discharged. I get it. Now it all makes sense. It’s nice to have a
good friend in high places. Now how do I run with this?

“Yes, I’m so angry all of the time, Doctor. I
can’t think straight, I have vivid dreams. I’m frustrated and I
really don’t like the woman I’m forced to live with.”

Part of its true but I’m trying to play it
up. I don’t dislike Gonzales as much anymore. After that drunken
try-to-seduce-me night. I think she’s gotten the hint because no
more advances or even staring at me has occurred since. I’m certain
she is fully comprehended my feelings on the matter. Her plus me
equals a death match, not coitus.

Sitting in this room, trying to fake my
disdain for the first time all day, I'm actually feeling rather
grateful right now to have a friend willing to go out on a limb to
try and get me discharged. Whatever works is fine with me. As long
as I can get back to my Mama Bear before she falls for somebody
else. And by
somebody,
I mean a tall guy with tattoos and
millions of dollars, a girlfriend on the side and a sadistic nature
that makes even me flinch.

As the long three hour evaluation concludes,
I shake both of their hands and wait to be dismissed. Five minutes
later, the door is opened and I’m escorted from the building by
three big men. Downwind of my ‘anger’ issues must have rippled
through the building. I’ve never been escorted from the Pentagon
before. Not in this manner, anyhow.

Sliding into a black SUV that has a hidden
driver in the front, I get dropped off a mile from my new house,
right where I left the car. How did Gonzales get home anyhow? No
way she’d have she stayed behind. I guess I didn’t think to have
asked. She’s a big girl, she can take care of herself.

Ridding my normal clothes for business attire
in the cramped car, I shove my gym bag and my black cargo pants,
black t-shirt, leather jacket and shit kickers in the bag and slide
on some black Dockers, a navy blue dress shirt; tucked in, black
leather belt with small silver buckle and my aviators. All set to
go ‘home.' Home; now, that’s such a relative term.

Parking in the driveway, I get out, leaving
my bag in the back. Entering the front door, my nose is immediately
assaulted with pleasant aromas wafting from the kitchen. Mixed with
the sounds of….?

Is that Bad Company? Yes, yes, it is. It must
be playing on the satellite radio in the living room. Am I the only
one who realizes how ironic it is that this song is playing when we
have our drug dealer neighbor’s wife in the kitchen with my
‘wife.'

Eww, the thought of her being my wife makes
my stomach churn.

“Honey, I’m home,” I call out, loud enough
they can hear me over the eighties rock.

Gonzales—in a stunning red dress, hair up in
a clip, barefoot and a cherry printed apron tied around her
waist—pokes her head out from behind the corner.

“Hello husband,” she winks, and takes a long
gulp of the glass of red wine in her hand. Sweet Jesus, her and
alcohol don’t mix well. It makes her too forthcoming.

“Uh… hi?”

“Come, join us husband,” she drawls huskily
and then produces a childlike giggle, covering her mouth.

Yep, already inebriated. It’s already been a
very long day and it’s going to be an even longer night having to
keep track of that wild one. I thought I was done playing
babysitter when I quit being a bodyguard for Johnathan. Apparently
not.

Following her into the kitchen, I find
three—yes I said it—three empty bottles of wine and a cute misses
Landers dancing behind our island sautéing something in a pan.
Shaking her round bottom rather well to the music.

“Well hello, Wade.” She turns, and smiles at
me, spoon in hand. She is wearing a cute formfitting black dress
along her thick body and long white pearls tied in a knot. Giving
off a classy nineteen twenties aura.

“Hello, Mrs. Landers.” I politely bow and she
laughs.

“Oh my darling Wade, call me Joanna. Or Jo
for short, that’s what all my friends call me.” She winks and turns
back around returning to her busy work.

It really does smell fantastic in here.

Heading over to the island, I plop myself
down on a stool and the song changes into another Bad Company tune.
I don’t want to socialize but the few times I’ve chatted with
Joanna and the even fewer times I’ve met Mike, I’ve sort of grown
to like them. I know they are drug dealers but they’re nice ones.
At least from the outside looking in. And my radar doesn’t go off
when I’m around them. They are friendly, nice, sweet, and somehow
genuine people. Strange, huh?

“How about a beer?” I turn and the swivel
barstool around and find myself with an eye full of big breasts.
Joanna’s breasts.

“Ooopps, sorry those things are always in the
way.” She steps back and I think I actually blush, embarrassed.

“It’s okay Jo, he doesn’t get to see big
knockers very often. Mine aren’t as big as yours are, by a long
shot,” Gonzales chimes in, with another drunken giggle as she takes
point cooking at the stove. There should have been a clause in our
contract stating a two drink max each night. She can’t control her
alcohol. This isn’t the first time or even the fifth time she’s
been drunk since we moved in here. The past few times I’ve just
left or locked myself in my bedroom after that first night. But
tonight I have to play the doting husband. Not my idea of a night
well spent.

And she’s right I don’t get to
see
—
knockers
, as she so eloquently calls them. The
only ones I’ve paid attention to are Emily’s in the past however
many years it’s been. And hers are big. Not as big as Jo’s but more
than my handful. Which is saying something.

Taking the step she took backward forward
again. Her breasts are at eye level and less than eight inches from
touching my nose. Talk about uncomfortable. I don’t want to make
her uneasy but I’m not a fan of a female exhibiting this behavior,
other than my Mama Bear of course.

Touching my shoulder, Jo leans in to whisper
into my ear. But says nothing and…. crap!

Her hand brushes the inside of my thigh and
cups my junk. With quick reflexes, I stand up, pushing the stool
back at the same time and she does nothing but widen her smile. A
naughty glint gleaming in her dark almost black eyes. This evil
woman. I don’t want a throw down with her husband. Some men get
sick with jealousy. I should know, I’m one of them.

A man’s deep chuckle reverberates in my ears
as I have a stare down with my sexual harasser.

“Sweetheart, are you coming on too strong,
again?” Her husband, Mike, slides up beside her with a kiss on the
cheek and a loud crack on the ass, causing her to her yip and bite
her lip. All the while, she continues staring me up and down,
devouring me with her sinful eyes. This is beyond screwed up. Even
compared to the life I’ve led with Stricken.

“Oh you know me too well, honey. You know
he’s so delectable. I could just swallow him up. Look at those
arms.” Licking her lips, she admires my big biceps.

“What I’m looking at isn’t his arms.” I turn
to Mike, to find his gaze resting on my soft bulge in my Dockers.
See, I knew I shouldn’t have changed. Jeans wouldn’t accent my
package. It would hide it. I have some major freaks for
neighbors.