“Just don’t talk about your mission. Don’t talk about what happened. If anyone asks, either say nothing or say you were there peacekeeping and leave it at that. Don’t even tell them what most of them already think they know, about Gizenga.”
“Fine,” I said.
Anders turned and started towards the door.
“Anders,” I said, stopping him.
“Yeah?”
“You really don’t know what Meraux found?” I had to ask, even though I already knew what he was going to say. It was something that I knew would eat away at me more and more, every time I thought about that camp. And I had a feeling that there wouldn’t be too many days that would go by where I diddn’t think about that camp.
“I really don’t know. And if I’m going to be honest with you, I really don’t want to know. I already wish I knew less than I do. Try to feel the same way.” It would have been easy to feel that way if I didn’t have five years of my life invested in it. “Oh, and one last thing…” He paused.
“What?”
He looked down at his feet and dug his hands into his pockets. “Kyla Rose—stay away from her.”
“Kyla Rose? Why?”
“The sooner this whole thing is old news, the better for all of us. Nintipi loves Sergeant Samuel Patrick. The last thing we need is for this to become some tabloid catastrophe.”
He stared at me while I tried to read between his lines. What did Kyla have to do with a potential tabloid catastrophe? Why would the public care if I saw her? Most of Nintipi knew Kyla and I were friends before any of this military conspiracy bullshit started. And what did any of that have to do with Sammy Boy?
It hit me suddenly. Fuck.
Everyone knew Kyla and I fucked. That’s what Anders was telling me. That explains the stink-eye at the airstrip.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The doctor told me not to go into to work for a few weeks while my wrist healed. He said I had a hairline fracture and wrapped a tight bandage around it.
When I called my manager at the bar, he made sure I knew it was all my fault and that I was in no place to make a claim with the Worker’s Compensation Board. Apparently, because I knew Greg personally, that made me fully responsible. When I tried to defend myself, he threatened to have me fired. “I could have you fined for knowingly over-serving a customer.” I didn’t argue any more after that.
Liam didn’t take the news well. He accused me of making the conversation with my boss up. He stormed out of the house, and then came back a few hours later to apologize. Again, “stress” was the big excuse. He reminded me that he still hadn’t gotten around to fixing the washer.
So I spent the next day watching internet videos explaining how to fix a broken washer. It took the better part of the day, and it wasn’t easy with my bandaged wrist, but I fixed the washer. Unfortunately, I ruined a good shirt in the process. Who knew there was so much grease inside a washing machine?
I gave it a good polish too, making sure it was all pretty for Liam’s return from work. He stopped and stared at me when he walked in the door. His lips parted and he raised an eyebrow. As he stared at me, I realized I hadn’t changed my shirt and was still covered in brownish-black grease.
“What the hell happened?” he asked.
“I fixed the washer.” I smiled, pointing towards the sparkling unit.
He couldn’t take his eyes off my grease-stained body. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“And it works?” he asked, as if I was wearing a shirt that I’d attempted to wash.
“Yeah. I did a whole load of your work clothes already.”
His look of confusion changed into wide-eyed fear.
I laughed. “They’re fine, Liam.”
“Wow. That’s—That’s incredible. Thanks, babe.” He walked up to me. I puckered for a kiss, but he planted a quick one on my forehead instead and then walked past me. The closest he came to admiring my handiwork was when he put his keys, cellphone, and wallet down on top of the newly-fixed appliance. It wasn’t exactly the jump for joy that I’d hoped for.
“Maybe I’ll start fixing washers for a living,” I said.
“Maybe you should,” he said, not looking back at me. He grabbed a beer from the fridge.
“You’re home late,” I said, still beaming in my sense of accomplishment.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He turned and looked at me with a scowl.
“What? Nothing. I was just pointing it out.” Had I said something I shouldn’t have? Did he think I was accusing him of doing something he shouldn’t have?
“No, no. What did you mean? You think I’m cheating on you now or something?”
My heart sank into my gut. “No—I wasn’t saying that. I was just pointing it out.”
“Well you pointed it out for a reason.” The volume of his voice was escalating quickly.
“Really, Liam. I don’t think you’re doing anything. I mean—I think you’re working. That’s it. I was just pointing—”
“—That’s right. I was working overtime to pick up the slack. Someone needs to pay the bills.”
He took a long swig from his beer. The way Liam’s fist clenched the beer was chillingly similar to the way Greg downed his drink at the bar. I was worried the bottle would shatter in his hand at any moment.
I took an instinctive step back, towards the sparkling washing machine, and remained silent. This was the third day in a row that he’d been acting like this. It seemed like it was getting easier and easier to set him off, and every day he seemed angrier and angrier.
I jumped as he slammed the drink down on the counter. He closed his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly through clenched teeth. “I’m just—just really stressed out.” It was the same excuse, three days in a row now.
“Is there some way I can help?”
He shook his head and took a deep breath. “No.”
I needed to figure out a way to distract him from the world—for more than just ten minutes. When we first started dating, we would order pizza from Nero’s Pizza and we would sneak onto the golf course to watch the stars. That was one of my favourite memories with Liam. The last time we’d done that was… years before. Nero’s Pizza was dirt-cheap, and sneaking on the golf course was free. “I know what to do,” I said.
I reached for his cellphone. He had the number of Nero’s Pizza in his contacts. But I couldn’t get to it; he’d put a password on his phone. A password? There wasn’t a password there a week before, when I’d borrowed his phone while mine was charging.
“Don’t touch that!” he snapped, springing forward and snatching the phone from my hand.
“Why do you have a password?” I asked. I instantly regretted asking, knowing it was enough to set him off.
“Jesus, Kyla. I’ve been working fifteen hours a day for the past month now…” He stopped himself and recomposed. “I’m going out.” He picked up his wallet and started towards the door.
“Where are you going?”
“Out.” I jumped when he slammed the door behind him as he left. Even though I didn’t do anything wrong, I couldn’t help but feel like I’d screwed up, like I’d let him down. Maybe he was right—maybe I was being too nosy. Maybe I was holding him back.
I spent the rest of that night cleaning the house, stopping only briefly to eat the dinner I’d made for us, putting Liam’s half in a container for him to eat later. I cleaned every square-inch of the house, ran six loads of well-overdue laundry, and even changed out the dead light bulbs; not with new ones, but with ones I figured we needed less, like the back porch light. In the winter, we didn’t even use the back porch. The light bulb was better off in the closet that we used on a daily basis.
It was midnight when I finished cleaning, and Liam was still out, so I went to bed. Of course the thought was on the back of my mind, that he might be out cheating on me. But I forced myself to dismiss the thought. For the past three years, Liam’s eyes would light up when he saw me. I’d never even se
en his eyes wander over to another girl. I knew he would never cheat on me, but why the password on his phone? Why did it seem like he was avoiding me? What could he be hiding?
It was late when Liam finally came in. I could tell that he’d been to the bar because of the strong smell of whiskey on his breath as he lay down in the bed next to me. I kept my eyes closed, still half-asleep, still half in my dreams.
I’d been having a strange dream. It was less of a dream and more of a memory—a vivid memory from five years before, the day before Sammy and Hunter shipped out for the Congo. I was wandering the party, looking for Sammy. I asked everyone where was, but no one knew.
I thought for sure he would be with Hunter, who was in the backyard, upside down, mid-way through a keg-stand. Sammy wasn’t with him, so I kept on looking.
Finally, I found Sammy upstairs. He was in one of the bedrooms, with another girl. When I walked in, they were well underway. He had her ankles in his hands and her legs spread wide while he drilled her. Sammy didn’t see me, probably too drunk and too preoccupied with the girl he was screwing.
My heart broke, though I’d suspected for a long time that Sammy had been screwing other girls behind my back. He would always come home late, smelling like liquor and cheap perfume. His excuse was always the same: “we had a few drinks at the rippers after work.” But when I spoke with the other wives, the wives of his coworkers, they all said their husbands were home right after work. When I told my mom about it, she told me to let him go, that a cheater is always a cheater. People don’t change. I ignored her advice, and tried to be happy pretending to be ignorant to Sammy’s cheating.
But seeing it with my own eyes hurt. Then, I saw the girl’s face… My God, she couldn’t have been older than sixteen, and she appeared to be passed out. I felt sick. My knees became weak and I nearly fell to the floor. I wanted to scream, to tell him to stop, but I didn’t want Sammy to know that I saw. I didn’t want to know what would happen if he knew I saw.
I closed the door and returned to the party downstairs, found an empty room, and started to cry. Then, my dream ended as Liam brushed my hair off of my forehead.
“Babe,” he said gently.
I opened my eyes. He was smiling.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Huh? Yeah,” I said, on the verge of falling back asleep.
“You’re crying.” He wiped my cheek with the edge of his finger.
“I am?” I reached up and felt my face. I was.
“I’m sorry about before. I know I’ve been an ass lately.” He smiled.
“Things will get better,” I said. I closed my eyes, drifting back to sleep. Before I fell asleep completely, Liam kissed me on the lips. It wasn’t one of those half-assed pecks like before. It was a real, deep kiss. I could taste a tinge of whiskey on his lips. I snuggled in towards his warm body and his arms wrapped around me.
“I know,” he said. We kissed again.
Lips still locked with Liam’s, I found myself drifting back into my dream. I was sitting on the edge of the bed when the door opened. I pushed back my tears. It was Hunter and he was looking for Sammy.
I lied and told him I didn’t know where Sammy was. I tried to force a smile, but I could tell he knew I’d been crying. He sat down next to me and put his arm around me, told me everything would be okay. I knew he was wrong, but it was nice to hear. In that moment, more than anything, I needed someone to lie to me, and tell me everything was sparkles and rainbows. It was nice to have someone there for me, even if it was Hunter, the guy competing for Womanizing World Champion, 2008.
One thing led to another…
Liam’s took my panties and slid them down past my knees. At some point, he’d rolled over me. At some point, one of his hands had found its way up my shirt, onto my breast. I could feel his hard cock throbbing against my leg; at some point it must have sprung free.
I reached up and ran my fingers along the stubble on his cheeks. My body was weak, still somewhere between asleep and awake. Liam pinned my arms to my sides.
Hunter did the same thing back at that going-away party, pinning both of my arms down at either end of the bed as he sunk down and locked his lips against my neck. The tip of his cock pressed up against my pussy, nestling itself in between my moist lips. I could feel it throbbing, rubbing and massaging my clit as he prepared for entry. My God, he was so big.
His face drifted back up to mine and we kissed again. Then, he pushed inside me. My toes curled. Penetration alone was enough to bring me to the verge of cumming. But it wasn’t enough for him. He reached down and began to massage my clit. He started to ram his dick into me. No build-up—straight from zero to Prime Time. I was quickly falling into ecstasy.
Liam grunted, pulling me back into reality. His face and body were dark, concealed in the room’s shadows, though I could see the silhouette of his bulging muscles and throbbing veins, and the moonlit glisten along his sweaty arms and back. I tried to hold onto his arms, but he was too slick, too firm. His cock became impossibly harder inside of my body and his breathing deepened. On his breath, I could smell whiskey.
Just like I could on Hunter’s breath, the night before he left town, as he held me down and rammed me full-force with his big cock. I squirted all over his dick, but I don’t think he noticed. Every part of him was focussed on slamming me as hard and fast as he could.
“Fuck, I’m going to come,” I heard myself say.
His hand released from my wrist and drifted up to my throat, clamping down, pinning me still. A quiver ran through my body. I could see stars, though I’m not sure if it was to do with lack of air or me coming on his dick. His grunting loudened. I didn’t want it to end; I wanted more. More.
My legs reached up, wrapping around his warm, rigid body. I pulled myself in tight, getting as much of him inside of me as I could.
“Your pussy feels so fucking good,” Hunter muttered.
“Fuck me harder.”
He did. The bed rattled with every thrust, probably on the verge of falling into pieces.
“Harder,” I heard myself demand again.
His grunts became screams. I tried to squirm but his grip on my throat had become too tight. I came again. My vision became a haze and my pussy squeezed him tightly. A few more thrusts, and he came too.
“Oh, fuck,” he groaned, his warm come filling up my body.
“Oh, Hunter,” I said, running my hand down the ridges of his muscular back.
Suddenly, he became still. “What?” he said.
I wasn’t dreaming. Hunter wasn’t on top of me. Liam was on top of me. I couldn’t see his face in the dark room, but I could feel his betrayed expression.
“W—What?” was the only thing I was able to say after a few moments of silence and stuttering.
He said nothing. He stood up, slipped his pants back up, and left the room. Then, I could hear the front door slam.
A dull, clenching pain throbbed in my chest, where my heart was supposed to be. I’d re-earned my title of the Witch of Nintipi. I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t. I didn’t deserve to cry.
CHAPTER NINE
It wasn’t hard to find Kyla’s home address. All I had to do was go into her bar and ask the bartender that was working. He gave me a weird, hesitant sort of look, but he went into the back room and came out with the address written on a little piece of paper. “She lives here,” he said as he handed it to me, still with that slanted look—as if he recognized me but couldn’t place me.
As I was half out the door, he put it together. “Wait,” he said. I turned around. “Aren’t you that soldier—the one from the Congo?” he asked.
I thought for a moment, remembering what Anders told me, about keeping my mouth shut. I shrugged and shook my head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah—I saw you on the news. Sergeant Sykes,” he said.
“Nah, man. You’ve got me mixed up with someone else.” I turned and left.
I didn’t like my cele
brity status, even though I knew it would only last a few days—a few weeks at most. I was never one for attention. Attention was Greg’s thing. The only attention I’d ever wanted was female attention, and even then, if it had nothing to do with sex, I wasn’t interested. It was too bad Greg wasn’t able to enjoy this. Hell, he could have been the one to do all these stupid press conferences. He would have loved them. The reporters would have loved him and believed every word he said.
It wasn’t like that for me. Everything I said raised eyebrows. Everybody looked at me as if I’d let them down, as if I was just another half-brained soldier, trying to make the world feel bad about me. I made the mistake of perusing the internet, where there were thousands of comments calling me a liar, a fraud, and a criminal. They said I should be ashamed of myself. One article I read went so far as to suggest that I was responsible for the death of Sammy Boy, “Just listen to the way he talks in his interviews. He probably got those boys killed. They should lock the bastard up,” the reporter said. If I could’ve had five minutes with that reporter, I would have been locked up.
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