My Heart For Yours

by James, Ella

  It’s normal that I sometimes have sad days, a kinder me insists.

  I sigh loudly enough to drown out all my inner monologue and hike at a punishing pace until I reach the clearing midway up the giant hill. The peak of the foothill is maybe another 300 yards past my workout clearing, but my property doesn’t go that far up. Instead it expands southwest for 300 acres, bumping into the Smoky Mountain National Park on the south and west sides, up against my own backyard on the north side, and running about 100 yards from Blue Moon Road on the east side.

  Shit. I didn’t check the tracking app before I left the house. I look down at my phone, even though I know I don’t have service here. Without the cell phone signal booster in my house, I wouldn’t have more than a bar there either.

  I tell myself the bears will be okay, remind myself I haven’t seen anything weird on the cameras since last time, and even then, it could have been a random hunter. Theoretically, at least.

  I start stretching in the gauzy gray of early dawn.

  I’m midway through my workout, sparring an invisible partner, when I see a dark blot on the web of trees in front of me. Man-sized. Moving. My pulse screeches to a halt, then tumbles into wild staccato. For a sickly long second, my head buzzes and I feel like prey. Then my self-defense training kicks in.

  I draw a slow, purposeful breath into my lungs and force my fear-numb limbs to keep on moving through the motions of my workout. My eyes size up the shadow and a bolt of fear shoots through me.

  God, he’s big. Like Sasquatch big. And shit, still moving toward me. My fear is cold, could freeze me. I refuse to let it. I modify my form, and like a figure skater or a gymnast performing an advanced routine, I work myself into a sparring sequence, each move chosen specifically for its ability to lead into a kick.

  I’m whirling so fast I lose track of him for split seconds at a time, but I’ve always been good at tracking moving targets, so even brief glimpses of him tell me he’s still moving my way. Fuck. My body flushes, head to toe.

  I’m going to have to nail him and run!

  When there are maybe eight feet between us, I pause for half a second, double-checking my left ankle before I jump into a modified roundhouse kick.

  He’s tall, and I’m not as limber as I once was due to the surgerized ankle, but I can still jump pretty high. High enough so my right foot makes a hook over his head, catching him just over his left ear.

  It’s not until he staggers back, his face twisted, his big hand clawing at the air beside his face, that I notice his hair.

  Dark, curly hair; a nice jawline. My heart stutters as I note the dark, thick brows, the luscious lips…

  He mutters, “Fuck,” and heat pours through me.

  My new neighbor.

  Holy shit.

  SIX

  Gwenna

  His fingers sink into his hair, and blood spills down his forehead.

  His face is screwed into a wince. His eyelids seem to quiver in the bluish light, like someone squinting in the bright sun. As I watch, he pulls them slowly open.

  He looks zoned. His hand moves in his hair, and another rivulet spills down his temple, dripping down onto his cheek.

  Oh. My. God.

  “I am so sorry!” My mouth reacts before the rest of me is ready to, so there’s this strange half-second where we both seem frozen. I’m too scared to step forward and touch him, and he’s not moving my way either.

  After just the briefest glance at me, he looks down at his chest, pulls his hand out of his hair, and starts unbuttoning his shirt. A camo shirt. The buttons must be the snap type, because he yanks one side of the shirt, and it gapes open. But it’s hung up on…a gun strap?

  There’s a gun strap slung diagonally across his chest.

  He was hunting.

  Jesus, Gwen.

  I feel slightly nauseated as I watch him lift the strap over his head. Another drop of blood lands on his cheek.

  I step forward, arms out, my sweaty, shaking hands turned palms-up. “Can I help?”

  His face, still slightly tight, morphs as his lips curve and his stark cheeks round a little. Blue-gray eyes find mine. His smile—or smirk—makes me feel weaker than I do already.

  And then he laughs, a low, rough chuckle. “I don’t think so, Splinter.”

  Holy hell, his voice is dark: an earthy rumble I feel like a push to the center of my chest. I inhale to get my balance, but I can’t stop the goose-bumps on my skin or the pleasant echo I feel low in my belly.

  I watch, dumbstruck, as he pulls his right arm from its shirtsleeve, slings the gun strap over his shoulder, and slips free of the shirt, revealing the vast, tatted expanse of the most chiseled slab of muscle I have ever seen in all my life.

  Just the sight of that…perfection makes me pulse between my legs. Somewhere, I’m aware that he’s balled up his shirt and he is pressing it against his head, but my brain is broken.

  My gaze caresses his pecs and shoulders, round and sculpted. Strong. That raised arm is a fucking gun—the bicep is like a rock. A boulder. Stop it, Gwen. But I just…can’t. My hungry gaze slides down his chest: the curve of heavy pecs, the deep groove at the center of his eight-pack. God, his hips. I blink. My eyes jump from his chiseled hips to his happy trail, then back to his hips. They’re hewn in marble. Lord. They make that “V”…

  I’m lit up like a light bulb when I feel his gaze on my face.

  Shit!

  I lift my eyes to his, my cheeks burning with shame, and find a tiny, amused smile. I hold my breath for a half a heartbeat, waiting for the little not-quite-smile to turn into a smirk, but he just stands there, looking like a wounded Mr. Autumn pinup, still impeding my breathing.

  “Splinter?” I blink and square my shoulders in hopes of steadying myself.

  The corners of his lips twitch. “Yeah.”

  “The one from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.”

  He nods.

  I smile.

  Maybe he’s not an asshole.

  Shut up, Gwen. Who cares?

  His hand, holding the wadded shirt, clenches—and I feel ill with embarrassment and guilt.

  “Are you okay? I’m so sorry, again.” I step a little closer, one hand out, because I want to help but don’t know how. “I saw you and I thought…I thought I saw someone on my cameras the other day, so when I saw you I freaked. Is your head okay?”

  I have to look up to see his face. He’s so tall. I feel small and nervous, like a peasant in the presence of a king. It’s a new feeling for me, so foreign that when he speaks again, the feeling plus my throat-throbbing reaction to his rumbly voice make it hard for me to focus.

  “I had a scar,” he says quietly. “I think it split open.”

  His face relaxes just a little as he takes a deep breath, but the echo of a wince still clings to his features. I can see the careful, achy squint of his eyes.

  “Can I look?”

  “It’s okay.” The words—and all the other ones I’ve heard from him—have an honest sort of quality, as if he’s speaking in a voice that’s rough because his throat is tight with big emotion. As if he cares about me in some way, though of course he doesn’t.

  You’re ridiculous.

  I swallow hard and stand up straighter. “I am so, so sorry,” I say in my best just-a-normal-friendly-and-concerned-neighbor tone.

  Then I blink a few times, to dispel the feeling that my eyes are stuck to his like magnets.

  “Come to my house,” I hear myself tell him. My voice sounds shaky, so I swallow. “Let me look at it. I’ll drive you if you need to go somewhere.”

  I’m pleased; my voice sounds clear and normal. Just an ordinary neighbor. So I’m surprised when his face shutters, his mouth tightens, and he shakes his head: no.

  “Thanks—but I’ll be okay.”

  His voice sounds rough and tired, and that’s the last thought I have before he turns and takes a stride away from me, back toward the Haywood land. His land. My eyes, again, get hung up on his body:
the broad, strong shoulders and that carved-from-marble back, inked with emblems I can’t make out, flexing, tossing shadows as he moves.

  Wait!

  As if he hears the thought, he turns. “Gwenna?” The word, my name, shoots through me like an arrow.

  “Yeah?” I whisper.

  His eyes narrow into troubled slits. “Be careful out here.”

  Unlike his other words, these parting ones seem heated—almost harsh. I don’t ponder their meaning until he’s disappeared into the trees, and I realize I haven’t moved at all.

  Shame clots in my chest, thick and aching.

  I want more.

  I’ve missed this. God—this feeling.

  I should have dragged him with me. I should have followed him to his place. Why’d I let him go?

  I’m swamped by hunger—sharp, familiar. Wolf’s teeth on my own heart. Want.

  I psych myself out, taking breaths so big they start to feel like not enough. I scrub my face with my hands and I look up at the pale blue sky through a web of craggy limbs.

  He doesn’t need you. You’re the problem.

  Check on him. You can. You should.

  * * *

  Barrett

  I make it almost to the house before the chaos in my head and the echo in my body take me down.

  I feel the dirt under my knees. I press the shirt against my head.

  “You think you can walk, man?”

  Is that Breck? I can’t see…

  “Bear, get up, we’ve gotta go!”

  The frenzied du-du-du-du-du of small arms fire is everywhere. Low shouting. The pop of metal on metal. I hear something snapping. Something…roaring. Rounds and more rounds. I’m not sure where I am, but it’s fucking hot. Not just ‘happening’ hot. Hot hot, too.

  I start to cough. My throat and nostrils sting. Someone is pulling on me. I can’t open my eyes. They’re clamped shut…with something sticky.

  “C’mon, bro—or I’ll have to carry your big ass!”

  That is Breck. I lift my left arm and try to wipe my eyes but—

  “Fuck!” I sag back to the ground, gasping. Something’s in my shoulder. My arm… “FUCK!”

  I feel his hand rub over my eyes, hear him firing. I can smell smoke…really strong.

  “My eyes,” I rasp.

  “Fuck your giant, heavy ass…” But Breck gets me up. Everything is smeared and there are bright flames. Lots of smoke. Despite its thickness, I feel my head clearing.

  I try to reach for my eyes once more, too addled to remember— “Aughh!”

  “Fuck, you’ve got some shrapnel, man. Don’t move your arm! Let’s go!” I hear gunfire again and feel Breck’s arm and realize that I’m walking. He’s got me between him and one of the alley’s sides, and he’s covering for both of us.

  That won’t fucking do.

  I spit into my right hand, smear it over my eyes, lift my SR25 to my right shoulder, and start firing rightie, since I can’t seem to use my left arm. I try to keep up with Breck, who’s jogging slow for me. My shoulder hurts like fuck with every step. My head aches, too. I don’t know where we are, but that’s a problem I don’t have time for yet, so I just follow Breck. I’ve got a fuck ton of ammo on me still, so I spray the fucking alley, aiming upward at the windows.

  “We got a ride?” I shout.

  “Half a block,” Breck says. “Hey, man… Stop firing for a second. I think that’s— No. Okay. Fuck.” I hear Breck fire, feel it bump the air against the alley wall beside me. I can’t fucking see. My left eye…

  We work onward down the alley. The one I fell into from my spot above Maliha’s store—

  Don’t. I can’t think about that shit. Still, my brain dredges up the image of her crumpled form.

  “Making it?” Breck pants.

  I realize then that I’m groaning. I can’t work the SR25 without my left arm helping prop it up. Every movement causes what’s in my shoulder to slice deeper.

  I can feel my body shaking.

  “Okay—all clear, I think.” Breck turns to me, framed by the dark alley. “C’mon and run with me. Let’s go.” Everything’s gone blurry but I sort of see him. Maybe not, because I trip then. Breck drags me up. I hear the rat-tat-tat of a semiautomatic, hear Breck curse, then fire. My stomach hurts. You can’t pass out.

  I swallow. Move. Don’t be a fucking pussy.

  “You’re gold, man. We’re almost there.” I hear bullets zing around us. “Fuck!” Breck’s body bumping mine; the wall behind me. I can’t lift my gun. Fear makes my heart beat so hard.

  I hear a groan and then I’m down. The world is tilting. I can’t see a fucking thing. Breck grabs my shoulders. I curse as his upper back bumps under my pecs; I feel him lift me up, my torso over his shoulder, my legs dragging behind. Every step he takes is murder on the shoulder and…my head. It’s hurt…bad. I feel like I’m going to throw up.

  I feel him stop. I hear my teammates’ voices. Then I’m being lifted up the ramp, into the Bradley’s belly. I feel hands on me. I fall against one of the seats.

  Voices…shouting. The Bradley rocks, and for a second, I go deaf. Where is Breck?

  Hands are pushing me. My shoulder! I try to sit up but I’m dizzy.

  And then I hear Breck groaning. Screaming. That sound gets me in the fucking gut. I’m up, turning toward the sound as someone hoists him into the Bradley and he plows into me, clutching at me as he pants and groans. Other groaning, shouting men scramble in behind him. I can only see Breck’s face…

  The way one eyelid bubbles, sizzling with phosphorus…but he tries to keep his eyes open. The sound of a tooth cracking. Because he’s clenched his jaw so hard one of his molars broke. The hard, deep breaths that turn into low moans. He never lets himself break down, even as the chemicals from the Willie Pete round eat through him. My last memory of Breck is his eyes squinted with pain, his round cheeks drawn up, almost like a smile—except it is a grimace. And the sounds. My best friend’s awful whimpers, then my name.

  “Bear?” I can see his fingers fumble at the wrist of my long-sleeved FORTREX combat shirt.

  “Don’t…don’t dream about me. Okay?”

  His brows are knitted low over his eyes.

  “Don’t be a quitter, motherfucker!”

  “Tell…my mom…”

  I lean down, fumbling at his shoulders, trying to pick him up. I can see him going and I want to have him up against me so he doesn’t feel alone the way I do at night when I’m crying in the snow or watching the Iraqi boy bleed out in the dirt.

  Sometime later, tubes…machines. I think my eyes are opening and closing. I’m aware I’m shaking. In the ICU at Landstuhl with my head sliced open and pieced back together.

  Breck is gone.

  “Don’t…don’t dream about me. Okay?”

  The dirt comes into focus—dark, moist dirt; not desert sand—along with my bent knees. I realize I’m kneeling on the ground—the cold ground—and I look around.

  How long was I here?

  Something stings, and I remember: my head. Gwenna White.

  Gwenna kicked me in the head. I didn’t block her.

  I stand up, cold and shaky, tracking everything a half-second too slow. My body feels stiff and achy as I head toward the basement door, the one punched into the stone foundation, that leads into a wine cellar.

  I manage to get it open, even as dark dots swim in my eyes.

  “Let me look at it. I’ll drive you if you need to go somewhere.”

  I climb the stairs, telling myself I’m okay. While I’m climbing, I forget to inhale through my mouth. The smell of blood makes my gut clench. Pain moves through me in tight waves.

  “Don’t…don’t dream about me. Okay?”

  Fuck, I hate it when I hear things over and over.

  I have to climb up the other flight of stairs to my room, where I’ve got my shit. A first aid kit. I take it to the bathroom and open the box. Maybe I lick my lip. I don’t know, but I get blood on my tongue and start t
o shake again.

  I shut my right eye—my only working eye—so I can’t see, and bring my mostly numb left hand up to my face. I need to use the Dermabond I have to glue the wound shut.

  “Let me look at it. I’ll drive you if you need to go somewhere.”

  This shit with her is fucked up. So fucked up. I put my right hand on the partial wall that separates the toilet from the sinks and shut my eyes.

  “My name is John, and I’m from Breckenridge. I heard you’re Bear from California. You like vodka? Cause I’ve got some good shit…”

  I wrap my arm around the wall and feel the hard, cool plane of it pressed against my ribs and hip.

  I grit my teeth. I’m tired of this shit. Fucking tired.

  I take a few slow breaths and lean on the countertop. As I wash my hands, I start reciting the “Pledge of Allegiance.” Better than counting, and doesn’t make me think of Breck or the team the way “The Lord’s Prayer” does.

  I find a few small mirrors in a drawer filled with women’s makeup and try to get a look at my head. I can’t see the wound. It’s probably been at least an hour since it happened, and I’m still on my feet, so I figure she didn’t give me another epidural hematoma.

  I pull out a little stool that slides under the counter. The movement makes my head throb.

  “Tell…my mom…”

  I can hear Breck’s mother sobbing as I try once, twice, three times to get my unsteady fingers to rip open the wrapping on a hospital-grade saline syringe. I start to sweat. My throat feels tight and full.

  I have the urge to go to the window and look down at Gwenna’s house.

  Up close like that… Seeing her…

  I rub my forehead.

  I’m losing my shit. Going out there like that, near where she was. Then she saw me and I had to go to her. That or leave her thinking someone’s watching her.

  Someone is watching.

  I shoot some saline into the wound and try to keep my breathing steady while I look for a wash cloth to get the blood off my face and neck.

  That’s when the doorbell rings. And rings. And rings and rings and rings.

  I put my head in my hands.

  “You can’t let her in,” I whisper.