All for You

by Jessica Scott

  “You don’t really want to know.” He twisted the cup in his hand. “I’ve got to head back across post before Captain Marshall crushes my nuts.”

  She offered him a sympathetic smile. “Yeah. We wouldn’t want him to hurt those.”

  She slapped her hand over her mouth again, her face flaming hot. Reza laughed quietly, the lines around his lips softening. “You going to be all right?”

  She nodded, sobering at the reminder of the day’s horror. “Yes. I’d just as soon you leave before I have any more of my boot for lunch.”

  He lifted his hand and for a moment, she thought he was going to slide those rough fingers over her face. Instead he rested his palm on her shoulder. The solid warmth steadied her. “Make sure you take some time for you today. This may hit you…later.”

  She smiled thinly. “I thought I was the counselor here,” she said weakly. “Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?”

  He grunted and lowered his hand, saying nothing, silence in the middle of chaos.

  Chapter Thirteen

  An hour later, Reza parked his truck in the first sergeant’s parking spot, and tried to figure out how to give his statement to the commander without wanting to punch him in the head.

  Sloban was dead because of Captain Marshall, and that Reza could not forgive. Maybe Marshall hadn’t pulled the trigger himself but he was responsible nonetheless. Sloban had been through some bad shit downrange. Very bad shit. The kind of bad shit that people wrote books about. The kind of shit that ended up in the Army’s Lessons-Learned database that no one paid attention to. But it was also the kind of bad shit that the Army liked to pretend didn’t really fuck people up in the head as much as it really did.

  Because hell, every soldier should be able to see their buddy get their legs blown off and come home just fine, right? Add in that Sloban’s wife had run off with his brother—how was that for family loyalty—and Marshall’s relentless push to throw Sloban out of the army for misconduct—and the kid had finally just snapped.

  It wasn’t going to be easy facing his commander. Reza reached into the glove box for the flask. He wasn’t so stupid as to risk getting an open container violation riding around on post with a vodka bottle in his truck. Then again, the rent-a-cops that checked their vehicles at the gate weren’t the most astute individuals. They saw what they wanted to see. Unless they happened to have a military working dog at the gate who was trained to sniff out alcohol. But that hadn’t happened to date so Reza wasn’t overly concerned about it.

  He sat in his truck and tossed back a shot of vodka straight up, trying to figure out how he was going to keep his temper in check, and felt like a fucking failure for tossing back another one. Marshall was probably having kittens because Reza had deliberately taken his time getting back to the company ops office.

  Goddamn it. He’d finally broken. He’d been sober for months. All that hard work was fucking gone.

  Just like Sloban.

  He rubbed at his eyes with his thumb and his forefinger, then rested his elbow on the door, hoping he didn’t have to see the sergeant major before today was over. Giles would know in a heartbeat that Reza had been drinking and somehow, Reza figured it was safe to assume the old man wouldn’t stick his neck out to save Reza’s ass one more time. He wasn’t getting hammered. He just needed a little bit to take the edge off. He was fine.

  Today was an exception if he’d ever seen one.

  He’d get through the rest of the night then he’d sober up for tomorrow. He’d get back on track then.

  Tonight? Tonight he needed the help.

  His cell phone vibrated in his shoulder pocket. “So much for a moment of peace,” he mumbled. Frowning, he saw a text from Captain Claire Montoya. Are you okay?

  He smiled faintly. Trust the mother hen to check up on him. I’m fine. Shit day at work.

  His phone vibrated again. Don’t lie to me. I heard about the shooting.

  I’m fine. Gotta go brief Captain Asshole about it.

  He supposed he should be glad that someone gave a shit about him enough to check up on him and in reality, he was. But there were things about him that Claire would never understand and that he’d never tell her. Personal angst and childhood trauma and blah blah bad memories blah.

  He took another pull from the vodka to steel his nerves then slipped the flask beneath the driver’s seat.

  The company operations was a madhouse. He pushed through the back door and came into absolute chaos. The company supply clerk was red-faced and pink-nosed. She’d been crying. Damn it, he wasn’t ready to deal with other people’s grief. Her eyes widened when he walked in and he glanced down.

  Fuck. He still had blood on his uniform. That was not going to go over very well. Nothing said “triggering flashbacks” like walking around in a bloodstained uniform. Jesus, he was going to be the reason fifteen dudes lined up at the R&R Center for counseling after this.

  He wondered if Captain Marshall had called the chaplain. You know, for people with legitimate grief issues. Or as Marshall liked to call them, candy pants, crybaby sissies.

  The full weight of his own hypocrisy nailed him dead center. He’d said the same thing about Wisniak the other day.

  He was cut from the same cloth as Marshall, apparently.

  Guilt rose up to choke him.

  “I don’t suppose that Captain Marshall would understand if I headed home to change first?” he asked the supply sergeant.

  Pressing her lips together, she shook her head. “He’s pretty pissed right now, Sarn’t Ike.”

  Reza sighed. “Figured as much.” Bracing for the reaction of his troopers and hating himself for not changing first, he walked through the company ops.

  Silence fell over the ops personnel as soon as he pushed through the door that separated company supply from the main office. Foster was there, looking grim and harried, undoubtedly from Marshall’s demands.

  “What the hell is taking Sarn’t Iaconelli so long to get here from R&R?” Marshall’s voice carried over the silence then faded as he realized he was the only one talking. It was another moment before he came out of the tiny closet that doubled as his office.

  Marshall was six feet tall and believed himself to be bulletproof. His dirty blond hair was cut into a military high and tight and Reza was convinced that Teague was not far off the mark about his potty training happening at the end of a gun. Patience was not in the man’s vocabulary, as witnessed by his excessive use of the word “now.” And while Reza had him by about three inches and twenty pounds, Marshall was convinced he could go toe to toe with Reza.

  “Sorry I took so long. Was busy trying to get the blood out of my uniform.”

  Marshall’s gaze drifted down Reza’s body and back up. He fought the urge to cross his arms over his torso. Somehow, Reza didn’t think Marshall would appreciate his attempt at sarcasm, such as it was. “I need the rest of the information for an update to the initial Serious Incident Report.”

  “I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

  Reza was reasonably certain he saw smoke coming out of Marshall’s ears but he said nothing else. Instead he walked into the first sergeant’s office and slipped his ID card into the computer to log on. He clenched his fists as he waited for the computer to load, refusing to acknowledge the slight trembling in his hands.

  He was fine. He’d been through worse shit than this. He just wanted to give Marshall the information he needed so he could go burn the blood-covered uniform and then get back to work.

  A quiet rap on the door drew his attention from the blue computer screen. “What’s up, Foster?”

  “Just wanted to give you an update. I called the chaplain already and he’s on his way down here as soon as he gets done with the battalion commander. And we’ve already pulled Sloban’s emergency data sheets for the brigade casualty affairs officer.”

  Reza studied Foster closely, looking for any cracks in the man’s cool demeanor. His behavior was typical. Stay busy after something ba
d happened. Busy was easy. Busy meant not having to think about whatever bad thing had happened that day.

  Busy kept your mind from drifting into dark, uncharted territory. But Foster showed no signs that he was doing anything other than his job. Then again, he’d never really gotten along with Sloban.

  “Thanks Foster. That’s two things off my list of shit to do.”

  “Yeah, well, I only did it to keep Marshall from stepping on your neck. He’s freaking out about Sloban. The man does not handle pressure well.”

  Reza entered his password on the computer then glanced back up at Foster. “None of us should be taking this well,” he said quietly. “Thanks for keeping your cool. I’ll take it from here.”

  Foster looked like he was about to say something but then snapped his mouth closed. After a moment more, he said, “You probably need to change your clothes, Sarn’t Ike. Especially if you’re going to stick around today.”

  He glanced down at his ruined uniform. “Yeah.”

  There was really nothing else to say.

  * * *

  The sun was still shining brightly through the office windows when Emily’s hands started shaking. The duty day had long ago ended and now the silence hung on, echoing down the empty hallways.

  She sank into her cheap leather chair, following techniques she’d long ago started preaching to her clients. Breathing deeply through her nose, she didn’t fight the feeling. Rather, she let it take her. Let it fill her up and expand beyond her body. Her breath penetrated the panic, pushing away the lingering fear.

  She folded her hands together in her lap and simply was.

  Her fingers shook as the grief and the fear and the relentless memory replayed over and over and over.

  She breathed deeply. Inhaled slowly, letting air fill her lungs. Praying for a calm that escaped her.

  Reza. She wanted Reza. She wanted to check on him. To see how he was holding up.

  To feel his arms around her. To lean on him. Just a little bit.

  She had the sneaking suspicion that he’d been leaned on too much for too long. There was a reason he no longer drank. That much she was sure of.

  And she wanted him. Wanted to be with him when the grief tore through her. Wanted to be there so he wouldn’t be alone. She closed her eyes and felt his big rough hands push her down once more, digging into her flesh, but when she tipped her chin to look into his ebony depths, the soft black emptiness looking back at her offered calm. Her breathing slowed as she gave herself over to the comfort of her fantasy.

  Here was a man who didn’t ask for permission before he took. Who dominated simply by being in the room. She wanted to rest there in the shadow of his body. Wanted to feel the heat from his flesh penetrating hers.

  She felt his hands on her hips again. Felt the gentle kiss of air as he stepped directly into the line of fire from Sloban’s weapon.

  Her heart tightened at the mere thought of the weapon. Her lungs refused to cooperate. She tried to release the sensation, tried to let go of the stifling pain but nothing worked.

  She closed her eyes, trying to think of what Reza would do. She rubbed her hands over her face. He probably didn’t have panic attacks. He’d handled the entire thing with little more than a shot of whatever had been in that coffee cup.

  And that’s what worried her. The alcohol in that cup had been strong, stronger than anything she was used to. And as long as she’d known him, he’d been avoiding alcohol.

  His hands hadn’t trembled. His voice hadn’t wavered. He’d been stoic and steady and calm. And he’d made her laugh during a time when, well, laughing didn’t really seem the thing to do. Psychologically, she realized that dark humor was a way to cope with a tragic situation. In reality, it felt both good and wrong all at once. It was a feeling she knew well, one she’d struggled to avoid in her life since joining the Army, getting as far away from the bad decisions as she could. But some habits were harder than others to break.

  She glanced at her cell phone then flipped open a file on her desk. There in bold red ink was Reza’s phone number.

  She could call him. She could pick up the phone and see how he was doing. It wouldn’t make her look desperate, right? Or like she was trolling for a hot and sweaty release in the Texas heat?

  She’d just been through a crappy situation with him. It would be a completely innocuous phone call.

  So if it was so innocent, why did she hesitate?

  Sighing quietly, she threaded her fingers together, forcing herself to be still and think before she picked up the phone.

  Somehow she’d come to depend on him in the short time she’d known him. He’d become somewhat of her Guide to Life in the Military, at least life outside the protected walls of her clinic. She’d wanted to escape the Ivory Tower she’d grown up in but instead, she’d merely traded one for another.

  The clinic was just as sheltered as her home had been. She clenched the pen in her hands, flicking the cap on and off. She was not going to let others rule her life. If she wanted to call Reza, damn it, she was going to call Reza.

  Except she didn’t pick up the phone. She wondered if it would be better to simply go to his place. She could find his address easily enough. It would be a violation of her ethics but still. A few strokes on her keyboard and she could know everything about him.

  But right then? She just wanted to know where he lived.

  Because she was a coward who couldn’t pick up the phone.

  There was no guarantee this would end up the way she wanted it to. There were no promises that he would even answer the phone, let alone open his door to her. Wouldn’t it be better to simply let him go? Let him fade into a really great memory? Except she was tired of letting others make her decisions for her. Tired of hearing her mother’s voice in her head every time she colored outside the lines, threatening to disown her if she didn’t return home.

  She could spend the rest of her life wondering what if. Because she was really good at what if-ing a situation to death. She glanced at her cell phone. At the computer where she could easily look up his address.

  Or she could make her own decision for once and ask for what she needed from a big sergeant with strong hands and a good heart.

  She dropped the pen onto her desk.

  Unclenched her fingers.

  And made her choice.

  * * *

  Reza walked into his house long after the sun had already set. His mouth was dry, his nerves shot to hell. His hand shook as he reached into the fridge and pulled out a can of Steel Reserve. He’d gotten through the day with the rest of the pint that morning. A second pint of vodka in his Red Bull at lunch.

  He was comfortably numb but not nearly drunk enough.

  He wanted to pass out. To fall into sleep and wake up some time tomorrow and find out that the miserable shit day had all been just a bad dream.

  But the day had been slowly closing in on him as he’d finished up the endless reports and phone calls. Slowly the pressure had started crushing the air from his lungs and chasing any daylight from his soul. He sank into the ten-year-old couch that he’d been carting around since he was a private at Fort Stewart and kicked his feet up on the beat-up coffee table.

  He’d stopped by the shoppette on his way home. Bought another six-pack of Steel Reserve that was now sitting in his fridge and planned to crawl into the bag. There was a bottle of vodka cooling in the freezer.

  Sobriety was overrated for days like this.

  He breathed in deeply as he took a long pull from the can, trying to chase the smell of burning blood from his nose. The scent of malt liquor burned the insides of his sinuses but did nothing to chase away the other smell.

  Killing half the can, he closed his eyes, feeling the slow numbness he’d craved all day slowly seeping through his veins. He should have gone to the bar tonight. A bunch of the guys were getting together to commiserate but tonight, Reza couldn’t summon the energy.

  The wretched miasma of the day wrapped around him
, pulling him down into the comforting embrace of the malt liquor.

  He rubbed his eyes roughly with his thumb and his forefinger. They burned. Sloban was a fucked-up kid but he’d promised Reza he’d been holding it together.

  Jesus, would it ever end?

  Reza tried to swallow the lump that rose in his throat. It took a lot to wash it down. He sat up, resting his elbows on his knees, rubbing his face just to have something to do with his free hand.

  The alcohol burned a path down his esophagus but it did nothing to dull the pain burning around his heart, threatening to crush him. He slugged back the rest of the malt liquor. It tasted faintly of rubbing alcohol. It wasn’t that far removed.

  He tossed the can in the trash and went for another in the fridge. The sergeant major could kiss his ass. He was crawling into a bottle tonight and he wasn’t coming out until he was certain he wasn’t going to shatter every time he thought Sloban’s name.

  He was halfway through the third can when his skin finally began to tingle. He glanced down. There was still blood on his uniform. Memories started circling.

  Sarn’t Ike! Oh fuck Sarn’t Ike, it hurts.

  Bush had died in Reza’s arms because they’d been unable to secure a MEDEVAC site. And Reza, being a fucking failure of a human being, had never written to Bush’s wife and told her that he’d loved her like he’d promised.

  Well shit, this isn’t how I planned it. Cooper was bleeding bad. The road outside Baghdad Airport was red with rust-colored blood and spent ammo.

  Don’t say that, Coop. Reza kept pressure on the wound. Someone shouted for a medic.

  It’ll be all right, Sarn’t Ike. Get everyone else home, okay?

  Coop. Jesus, Coop, look at me. Don’t…

  Coop had been a smart-ass to the very end. Reza tossed back the rest of the can and finally felt the buzz of alcohol starting to cloud his brain. But the pain in his chest didn’t stop. Didn’t ease back. He needed it to fucking stop.