Semper Fi

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “Huh, you think you’re that good?”

  Wrong question.

  I gave her a smile full of promise, then ducked down under the sheets. As I ran my workout-roughened fingers across the soft skin of her inner thighs, her body tensed up. But when I licked up the length of her slit, a ragged groan spilled out of her.

  “Oh, God!” she sighed, her voice muffled by the pillow she’d pulled over her head to stifle her moans.

  “Yes, baby?” I laughed at her.

  I gave her a few more licks and sucks, nipping at her clit in a way that had her almost levitating off of the bed, then replaced my tongue with my fingers. The mattress creaked and groaned loudly, protesting as I slinked over her, resting my weight on my forearms, my dick pressing into the soft flesh of her stomach.

  Soon she was writhing under me and when I sucked her left nipple into my mouth, she fell apart, calling my name loudly. Her body trembled and a deep, pink flush spread across her whole body, leaving her looking heated and satisfied.

  So far, so good.

  “Still embarrassed by the bed?” I teased.

  She didn’t reply, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she gasped in oxygen.

  The mattress creaked again as I slid off to dig out a condom from my toiletry bag.

  “You want to do this, baby?” I suggested, holding it out to her.

  She blinked up at me, still spiraling down from her orgasm. I waited, but she didn’t seem capable of speech, so I took that as a no. I tugged my dick a couple of times, lock and load, kind of like priming a rifle, sending a bullet into the chamber, then rolled the rubber down, making sure it was in place.

  “Roll over, baby, I want you from behind.”

  When she still didn’t move, I leaned down and sucked her swollen nipple until she woke up enough to respond.

  “Give me a minute,” she grumbled.

  Nope. Done waiting.

  I picked her up and tossed her face down on the bed, positioning her peachy ass so the target was in the cross-hairs and I was rimming her tight little butthole. She wiggled beneath me, but didn’t tell me to stop. Definitely something I’d be taking further at some point in the future.

  I lined up and pushed into her pussy slowly, the warm, soft heat, taking my breath away.

  “Fuck, Caro!”

  And then I lost it. Not lost a little, not just slightly out of control, but pounding into her like a fucking maniac, ruthlessly chasing my own release. The bed creaked and groaned, the headboard slamming against the wall, the antique springs my very own cheer team urging me on.

  A second orgasm shot through her, making her pussy clamp around me so tightly I had no choice but to finish with her.

  “Oh fuck!” I stuttered, pulling out of her quickly, gripping hold of the rim of the condom, wondering whether I should tell her that it had split—I didn’t want her freaking the fuck out.

  And then, through the thin wall that separated us from the owner’s mother, I heard the sound of someone clapping, and her thin voice called out, “Bravo! Bravo!”

  “What the fuck?” I gasped.

  Caro started to laugh. “I think … I think we just got a round of applause!”

  “You’re fucking kidding me!”

  She shook her head weakly. “That’s what it sounded like. I guess she was impressed by your performance.”

  Oh yeah! I am the man! I sat up and called out loudly, “Grazie, signora!”

  “Prego!” she replied through the wall.

  I lay back on the bed, my hands behind my head, and a huge-ass grin on my face. Caro rolled onto her side to gaze up at me.

  “Something making you smile, Hunter?”

  “Yeah! I never got a round of applause before.” Although there was that one time the women’s lacrosse team at UCSD gave me a platinum star rating on their facebook page.

  “Maybe she was applauding me,” Caro suggested, her eyebrows raised cockily.

  “Nah, she thinks I’m a stud, I can tell.”

  I peeled off the used condom, hiding the split.

  “Well, it’s a good thing you don’t have performance anxiety; that can put a man off his stride, so they say.”

  Her words evoked a powerful memory, and despite my decision to leave the past in the past, the screwed up 17 year-old that I’d once been, resurfaced.

  “Do you ever think about the first time we were together? You know, when…”

  She interrupted me, saying my name softly, like a prayer or a promise.

  “Sebastian, you don’t have to remind me—it’s not something I’m likely to forget.”

  “Sorry. It’s just … I thought about it a lot at the time and seeing you again this past week … it’s brought it all back.”

  “For me, too.”

  Lost in the memories, I leaned over to run a finger across the satiny skin of her cheek, before laying back again.

  “Do you know how amazing you were that night? You took care of me after my dad had beaten the shit out of me.” I closed my eyes, pushing away the darkness of that memory. “I thought my heart was going to fucking stop when you undressed me and you took your clothes off. And then you touched me and my cock just exploded. I thought you’d laugh at me or something. It was so fucking humiliating.”

  I paused, emotions too strong to control forcing the words out.

  “But you didn’t. You made me feel like a man. I remember every word that you said. You told me it was going to be okay, and I didn’t know how it could be, but somehow you made the world go away, like it was just you and me.”

  She was silent, drifting in her own thoughts.

  “That’s how you make me feel, Caro, like the world just goes away and it’s just you and me. I … I didn’t think I’d ever feel like that again. All those other women, I know it bothers you, but it was just sex. It wasn’t … this.”

  Her voice was soft when she replied.

  “So, there was never anyone special, where it was more than just sex?”

  I needed to be honest with her—no more secrets, no more lies, no more hiding what I felt about her. I was tired of the fear I felt when I was with her—fear that she’d leave me and I’d be alone again.

  “There was one girl, Stacey, that I sort of dated for a while. She was … okay, but I wasn’t interested in anything long-term.”

  “What happened?” Caro asked quietly.

  I shrugged and looked away. She hadn’t meant anything.

  “I heard her telling a girlfriend that she’d got me ‘tamed’.” Stupid bitch—just because I’d been playing nice with her—and only then because she was a friend of Ches’s wife.

  “Oh, I can guess how much you enjoyed hearing that,” Caro said, shaking her head. “What did you do?”

  “I slept with her best friend.”

  The breath caught in her throat and a look of deep disapproval spread across Caro’s face which I didn’t really understand.

  “I see,” she said sharply.

  I shrugged and stared up at the ceiling.

  “You asked me why Ches’s wife didn’t approve of me, and that’s the reason. Stacey was a friend of hers. And before you ask, no, I didn’t sleep with Amy—it was another girl. I would never do that to Ches.”

  Caro took a deep breath.

  “Well, I’m not surprised Amy doesn’t like you after you did that to her friend … and it’s not very reassuring to hear that you’ve shown your dick to half the female population of California—and Paris, or so I’ve heard—but that’s your business. But surely you see that you made things difficult for Ches.”

  What the fuck? How did we go from Stacey to this?

  “How’s that?” I asked, not hiding the irritation in my voice.

  “You put him in the middle, making him choose between his best friend and his wife.”

  “What? How was I making him ‘choose’?”

  “Well, I bet you anything Amy would have said she didn’t want you in t
he house if you were going to treat her friends like that, and Ches would have had to find some way of defending what was, frankly, indefensible behavior.”

  She was accusing me of indefensible behavior? What about the way she’d shrugged me off like a cheap suit ten years ago? What about the way she’d left me to deal with my parents and all the shit that went down? I was 17. Seventeen.

  “You get on your fucking high horse damn quickly, Caro,” I snapped.

  “I’m just saying…” she began.

  “What? What the fuck are you ‘just saying’?” I grit out, unable to stop my voice growing louder with each syllable. “You were a fucking journalist, Caro! You could have found me any time if you’d wanted to. It would have been so easy for you. So easy! I didn’t even know your last name. I was so desperate to find you that I even tried to see that prick of a husband of yours, but he slammed the door in my face and called my CO. I was on fucking punishment duties for weeks after that. But you didn’t give a shit, did you? It’s just lies. You just tell me what you think I want to hear. How can I ever trust you?”

  “Sebastian, I…”

  “I really want to hear this, Caro!” I yelled, my heart pounding and adrenaline shooting through my body as fight or flight warred inside me. “I really want to hear how hard you tried to find me. You knew my fucking father was forcing me to enlist because of you, but you didn’t even bother to make a few fucking phone calls. Three years I waited for you, Caro. Three fucking years, while you were off building your career and having a great life traveling all over the world. So yeah, I fucked some women who deserved it, because I’d already been fucked over once and I wasn’t going to let it happen again.”

  She looked sick, gripping the sheet to her chest like she was afraid of me. Christ! As if I could ever hurt her … the way she’d hurt me.

  “It wasn’t like that, Sebastian. Just listen to me for a moment! Let me explain, I…”

  “Go tell it to the Marines, Caro,” I shouted, fury and ten years of resentment overtaking me, “because I’m not listening.”

  She sat up and reached for her t-shirt. Shit! She was leaving. Again. I fucking knew it! I knew she was lying! She’d lied about it all.

  “Where are you going?” I snarled at her. “Running away again? Yeah, well, it’s what you do best, isn’t it? Run away. Fuck that! I’ll save you the trouble.”

  I leapt out of bed, pulled on my jeans, thrust my bare feet into motorcycle boots, then scooped up my t-shirt and jacket.

  I was shaking with anger, unable to believe that it was happening again. Again!

  I had no idea where I was going when I stormed out of there—just away—before my still-beating heart got ripped out of my chest and tossed into the dirt.

  As I kick-started the bike’s engine, the loud roar echoed the way I wanted to yell, pouring out my fury, refusing to admit that the pain was crushing.

  I tore down the stony track to the highway, too fast for the skittering headlight, bumping and swerving over the rutted tracks, covering my boots and jeans with a layer of thick dust. When I hit the highway, I opened the throttle and let her go, taking the bends too fast, not caring if I was still alive on the other side. Ten miles down the road, the engine began to sputter and I realized the reserve tank was running on fumes. I slowed down when I saw the lights of small town, pulling into the first place I saw that had a parking lot.

  Well, color me fucking ecstatic—the neon sign welcomed me in. I went to stand at the bar, not even looking at the al banco price list, instead just waving to the elderly bartender with the cartoon villain mustache to bring me a bottle of grappa when he admitted that there was no whiskey. Not that I cared—I just wanted to get shitfaced and numb as fast as possible.

  I threw some Euros at him, then dragged the shitty grappa towards me, downing three shots one after the other. The bartender muttered something under his breath, shrugged and walked away.

  Anger and hatred burned inside, and it took all my training not to go find someone to beat the shit out of. To err is human, to forgive divine—and neither of those was Marine Corps policy. Ooh-rah.

  So I drank, hoping numbness would follow. But instead the memories poured through me: the first time I saw her, the first time she smiled at me, the first time I made her laugh, the first time we made love. The way she listened to me like my words had value, the way she smelled after her shower—the scent of her skin after sex. The way she touched me, the words she’d said as the left: Ti amo tanto, sempre e per sempre. The lies.

  Other memories began to swirl through my foggy brain: the day I walked into the recruiter’s office; the first day of boot camp when every other guy there was wondering what the fuck they’d done, and I was relieved to get away from my parents for good; the day of my graduation as a United States Marine when my fucking father had showed up and I’d had to salute the bastard—the look on his face before he walked away; first day in Iraq; the first IED I heard exploding; the first dead body I saw—a child; the first time I shot my rifle for real, 18 years old and piss scared—and the pride when I held it together and fought with my brothers; the day I won my first stripe, Private First Class.

  And it had been good, being part of something again, something that mattered. The Marine Corps was the family I’d never had. And for three years it was home, even though I traveled all over the world. And then I was sure, so sure that Caro would find me. Because after three years, my fucking parents couldn’t touch us—and her ‘crime’ of sleeping with me when I underage was beyond the Statute of Limitations. But she never came. And I hated her. I thought I hated her—I tried.

  I was still trying to hate her but my cock had other ideas, hardening to titanium the first moment I saw her again in that boring-as-fuck hostile environment briefing, and every moment since. I tried to forget how she looked when she saw me, or the way she felt when she came apart under me. So I drank.

  When the bar began to empty at 3AM, the bottle of grappa was less than a quarter full. The bartender approached me slowly, and I gazed at him with bleary eyes while he explained that they were closing.

  His expression changed from wariness to understanding as he watched me stagger towards the exit, pawing at the door to pull it open. When it refused to budge, he gently turned the handle to push it open. Then he patted me on the shoulder and said, “Chè per vendetta mai non sanò piaga.”

  My alcohol soaked brain took a moment to translate: Revenge never healed a wound. If I’d translated more quickly, I’d have told him to fuck off.

  I fumbled for my bike keys, trying to figure out why there were two Honda ST1100s in the parking lot. I tried to swing a leg over the saddle but somehow ended up lying on my back, staring up at the stars. It occurred to me that there was a possibility I was drunk. I had a feeling I was supposed to do something, but I didn’t know what it was. In the distance I could hear the sound of waves rolling up the narrow beach, so I decided to go for a walk with my new best friend who answered to the name of Grappa.

  The two of us made our way down to the beach and sank down onto the sand. I couldn’t understand why the bottle was empty—I thought Grappa was my friend. Guess I was wrong about that bastard, too. I decided to lay down for a short nap—maybe then I’d remember what the fuck I was supposed to be doing.

  When I woke up, some asswipe was shining a light into my face that made my eyes water, and some other shitbag was pounding on my head with a cement block. I sat up cautiously, blinking in the light of a brilliant Spring morning. Fuck, I felt rougher than a docker’s armpit. At the sight of the empty bottle of Grappa, I heaved up my guts, coughing and retching until there was nothing left.

  I felt too ill to care who’d seen me, but kicked some sand over the mess all the same. I wondered what time it was. From the position of the sun, probably between 10:00 and 11:00. I wondered where Caro was—and then the memories of the night before came crashing back. A sick feeling that had nothing to do with the amount of alcohol I’d drunk made my stomach lu
rch. Fuck me, had I really said all that poisonous shit to her?

  I squinted up and down the beach, trying to get my bearings as my pounding head tried to make sense of everything that had happened.

  Then my bladder began to complain, urging me to drain the mainframe before I did anything else. I lurched to my feet and took a long and satisfying piss against the wall of an old fisherman’s hut, watched by a one-eyed dog.

  “Don’t look at me, buddy,” I croaked. “I’m in worse shape than you are.”

  I ran my hands across my scruff and took a tentative sniff at an armpit. Not too rank. Well, that was something.

  I found my bike still intact in the bar’s parking lot then remembered that the tank was nearly empty. Luckily a local gas station had opened, selling fuel at the extortionate sum of €1.73 a liter, or about nine bucks a gallon in good ole US dollars.

  I headed back toward Casa Giovina, wondering what to say to Caro, wondering what she’d say to me. But just before I reached the turnoff, I saw her walking along the highway, my overnight bag slung across one shoulder. Shit! She was already leaving!

  I pulled over, but when she recognized the bike, she put her head down and started walking faster. Annoyed, I jogged up behind her, cursing the movement that made my stomach and head protest in stereo.

  “Caro, wait!”

  But she didn’t, so I grabbed the handles of the bag, forcing her to stop.

  “Caro, I’m sorry.” No response. “Okay?” Still no response. Pissed, I tugged on the handles of the bag again until she had to let go. “Are you going to talk to me?”

  “I think you’ve said enough—for both of us,” she snapped.

  “Fuck, Caro! It was the alcohol talking, that’s all…” I protested.

  “It was more than that and you know it, Sebastian.”

  Her dark eyes flashed with a fury that matched my own.

  “Can’t you take a fucking apology?” I barked.

  “I don’t know,” she hissed. “Can you make one?”

  We stood staring at each other; both hurt, both angry.

  I ran my hand over my hair and frowned at her. “Can we just go somewhere and talk? Or are you going to walk back to Geneva?”