Beneath the Sheets

by Shandi Boyes

  “Daddy, help me,” Joel squeals between giggles. “Save me from the girl germs!”

  I throw back my head and laugh. I don’t want to be saved by Ava’s girl germs. I want to be smothered in them.

  “Is he asleep?”

  I nod. “Yeah, he was asleep before his head hit the pillow.”

  Ava laughs. I wasn’t joking. The poor little guy was exhausted. After Joel and I ganged up on Ava, tickling her into submission, we went into the kitchen to prepare pancakes for dinner. Joel’s excitement was beaming out of him the entire time. As was mine. After a good dose of sugar, Joel was literally bouncing off the walls. We played a few more rounds of the airplane, then Ava gave him a bath. He didn’t stop yawning the entire time Ava was dressing him in his air fighter pajamas. Only after promising to take him to the park tomorrow did he agree to go to bed. I’m not going to lie, I was as smitten as the President on Inauguration Day when Joel asked me to read him a bedtime story and tuck him into bed. We never got to read a story… maybe next time?

  “Did you want a wine?” Ava offers, pacing to the kitchen.

  My face screws up.

  Ava chuckles softly. “Beer?” She arches a brow, noticing my expression.

  I nod before plopping onto the rock-hard coach. My shoulder is screaming in pain. Not a faint scream, an Alex Koehler from Chelsea Grin scream at the start of the song “Sonnet of the Wretched” scream.

  I’m still rubbing the knot out of my shoulder when Ava paces into the living room with a refilled wine glass and a bottle of beer. I lower my hand when I notice the direction of her gaze.

  “What’s the deal with your shoulder?” She hands me the beer before filling the spare seat next to me. “I’ve noticed you rubbing it a few times tonight.”

  I take a swig of my beer before angling my torso to face her. If I want any chance of regaining the trust I lost when I vanished, I need to be honest with her. About everything.

  “I got shot.”

  Her wine traps in her throat. She wheezes and coughs, spraying the coffee table and my shirt with red wine splatters as she fights to keep her lungs full of oxygen and not wine.

  “You alright?”

  I set my beer on the coffee table so I can pat her back. It takes her a few moments to recover from her coughing fit before she lifts her tear-glistening eyes to mine. I can’t tell if her eyes are welled with tears from her coughing attack or because I was shot.

  “Shot? Like shot with a gun shot?”

  I nod.

  “By whom? Why?” Her words come out in a hurry as a panicked mask slips over her face.

  “The girl I was protecting was kidnapped. Her kidnapper didn’t appreciate my presence,” I report, shrugging my shoulders, acting like it’s no big deal. I'll do or say anything to remove the cloud of concern plaguing her beautiful eyes.

  Ava stares at me, her eyes widening more with every second that goes by.

  After a beat, she mumbles, “And here I was thinking root canals and extractions were exciting.”

  I laugh. Only Ava would find the lightheartedness in a somber conversation. I shouldn’t be surprised, though. Ava doesn’t have a judgmental bone in her body. She has never judged me. Not once. Not even if she was bursting at the seams to know something, she wouldn’t ask, preferring only to be divulged information when the informant felt comfortable sharing it. She doesn’t understand the meaning of the word “strong-armed.”

  Setting her wineglass on the counter, Ava props her legs under her bottom and swivels to face me. “Can I see where you were shot?”

  When I nod, she licks her lips, leans forward, and gently pulls down the neckline of my shirt. I grab the back of my shirt and yank it over my head. Ava’s eyes enlarge as her throat works hard to swallow, somewhat surprised by my impromptu strip.

  “I was shot in the chest, but the bullet exited my shoulder,” I explain, peering into her eyes. “You won’t see the wound properly with my shirt on.”

  I manage to catch my eye roll halfway. I sound like a slack-jawed idiot. It is nearly as good as the fake yawn maneuver I regularly used on her when we were watching re-runs of Friends.

  Ava gasps when her eyes drift over my chest, assessing the wound from a safe distance. The thrum of her pulse thuds through my hand when I clasp her hand in mine and run two of her fingers over the wound site. She inhales a sharp breath when her fingers glide over the roughness of the wound and the sharpness of the stitches that still haven’t dissolved. Although it has healed well the past two weeks, the grittiness of the wound will never fully diminish.

  “Did it hurt?”

  I smirk. “Like a bitch.”

  Only one knock has hit me harder: leaving her. My stomach muscles bunch when Ava gently runs her finger over the edge of the wound site before she leans forward and presses her lips on the border of the scar tissue.

  My dick turns to stone when she mutters, “I better kiss it better then,” before placing another kiss on the other side of the wound.

  My heart thrashes against my chest when she lifts her eyes and locks them with mine. Ava’s eyes have always been expressive, and today is no exception. Her eyes are crammed to the brim with desire, and it isn’t a hunger for food. I gather her hand off my chest, kiss the tips of her fingers before jerking my shirt back over my head.

  Ava sinks deeper into the chair as her eyes shift nervously around the room. The look of rejection is darkening her beautiful eyes. I scoot across the loveseat, leaving not an ounce of air between us. Gripping her chin with my hand, I tilt it back, lifting her pessimistic face to me.

  “I want you. I want you more than anything. More than my next breath, but I can’t have you yet.”

  “Why?” she whispers, her shaking words relaying her rejection.

  “Because I need you to know the truth, to ensure you aren’t walking into this relationship blind.”

  She shakes her head, sending tears flinging into the air. “I’m not. My eyes are open. I know you, Hugo.”

  When she fists my long-sleeve shirt, I notice her ring finger is void of the large diamond engagement ring she was wearing earlier.

  Spotting the direction of my gaze, she mutters, “It was a lapse in judgment. A mistake.”

  Any further words about to spill from her mouth stop when I place my index finger against her lips. “We all make mistakes. We can’t change them. We can only learn from them.”

  She drags her bottom lip through her teeth before nodding. Her tear-welled eyes bounce between mine. She does know me. Better than anyone. So I can be assured she will never judge me. She never has.

  I capture both of her hands in mine and peer into her shimmering eyes.

  “I have made plenty of mistakes I'm not proud of. My very first was in Afghanistan.”

  Twenty

  Hugo

  Ava tries to put on a brave front, but I can see her remorse for Gemma dimming the spark in her eyes the longer my story goes, let alone the way her hand rattles as she runs it under her eyes, capturing her tears before they roll down her face.

  “She endured so much, and it still wasn’t enough. It took months for Gemma’s case to make it to court. We thought the main fight was over. Little did we know, the battle had only just begun.”

  My knee bounces up and down, a nervous twitch exposing my agitation. Leticia, the assigned DA leans over and places her hand on top of my knee, moving the twitch from my knee to my jaw.

  “There has to be something you can do?” I say, tilting into her side. “Interject, argue bias, something?”

  Leticia shakes her head. “The accused has the right to be represented by a lawyer of his choice.”

  “Even when it is his father?” I interrupt, disbelief heard in my voice.

  Leticia’s green eyes float from the terrified Gemma getting slammed by the defense attorney in the witness stand to me. “Yes.” Her answer is swift and precise.

  “That’s fucking bullshit. He's treating her as if she's a criminal.” My angry
sneer reverberates off the whitewashed walls.

  Leticia doesn’t respond to my outburst. She can’t. Everything I said was true. Gemma is getting grilled by the defense attorney. The same defense attorney who is the father of her accused. He's absurdly declaring that Gemma is using the courts as a way to clear her guilty conscience. He's proclaiming Gemma initially agreed to the “liaison” with his clients, and only sought medical treatment after her “boyfriend” caught wind of her indiscretion. He’s implying if I failed to aid Gemma that night, no charges would have been filed against his clients because I would have been none the wiser about her activities.

  My eyes drift from the tear-stained face of Gemma to Madden McGee and three of his fellow accused sitting next to him. Madden has his fingers laced together and a callous smirk etched on his face. When a painful sob rumbles from Gemma’s quivering lips as she denies the defense attorney’s blatant lies, he sinks deeper into his chair, seemingly pleased Gemma is rattled. I fist my hands into tight balls, battling the urge to wipe the smug smirk right off his face. The desire turns potent when Madden’s older brother leans over the wooden barrier separating them and pats him on the shoulder, like he's commending him on a job well done, oblivious that his brother is in the middle of a court hearing facing charges of aggravated battery and sexual assault.

  By the time Gemma has finished giving her testimony, she's just as rattled as she was the night in the alley. I stand from my chair and move toward her when she rushes out the swinging doors that separate the well of the court from the seating area. My fast steps stop when she briskly shakes her head, sending tears flying off her ashen cheeks.

  “Just give her a few minutes to calm down, Hugo,” Leticia suggests, enclosing her hand over my shaking one.

  I slump into the hard wooden bench, feeling the most helpless I’ve ever been. I run my trembling hand through my shaggy mane, struggling to maintain enough strength for both Gemma and me. The past few months have been the most draining weeks of my life. Just getting Gemma to agree to press charges was a hard-fought battle. She wanted to pretend it never happened. To sweep it under the rug. It was only when I asked her how she would feel if another woman had to endure what she went through did she finally agree to meet with Leticia, on one condition: no one in our squadron was to be aware of what was happening. I instantly agreed. It wasn’t my news to share anyway.

  “Have you had any luck finding the witness from the alley?” I ask Leticia.

  She shakes her head. “No, but the Air Force isn’t exactly forthcoming when I request personnel records for every enlistee called Brody. Are you sure he was in the Air Force?”

  I nod. “I’m certain he's in the Air Force. I have a knack for remembering faces. He isn’t in my section, but I’ve seen him around base.”

  Leticia smiles a tight smirk. “Hopefully he will grow a conscience and come forward.”

  He never did…...

  “The defense attorney was a real snake, conniving and low-handed. The moment I met him, I was on guard.” I peer at Ava, who is watching me with compassion in her eyes. “I had a reason to be wary. He was a deadly snake hidden in the long grass. Not only did the jury believe him and his clients’ side of the story, he twisted everything Gemma said on the stand.”

  I swallow a brick in my throat. “Eight weeks after Madden McGee was cleared of all charges, I was arrested.”

  Ava’s brows scrunch as her eyes dart between mine.

  “For the sexual assault of Gemma.”

  She sucks in a quick, sharp breath. “What? How? You saved her. Protected her. That doesn’t make any sense.” She scoots across the couch and encloses her hand over my shaking one. “What happened?”

  Her eyes are void of the judgment I expected to see when I shared my story.

  “I was on my way to….”

  “Keep walking, Hugo, he isn’t worth the effort.”

  Tyrell wraps his arm around my shoulders and guides me down the hallway, past the snickering face of Madden McGee. We only arrived back on base earlier this week, preparing to re-deploy to Afghanistan. I just finished a grueling workout in the gym and could hear the showers beckoning me all the way from the fitness center. The instant I spotted Madden, any thoughts on enjoying the remainder of my rec time disappeared. It is the first time I’ve seen Madden in person since a jury of our peers found him and his three co-accused not guilty of sexually assaulting Gemma. I assumed even with the jury handing over the verdict of not guilty that some type of reprimand would still be given to Madden by our superiors in the Air Force. Nothing happened.

  Gemma’s entire life was upended in an instant. She was left unemployed and on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Madden didn’t suffer the slightest. He took an extended period of absence for “personal” reasons before returning to his original rank of Captain. Pictures of him riding a jet ski in the Caribbean have been circulating the dining facility most of the day, spurring on my agitation. He was vacationing in paradise while Gemma was living in a hell.

  My long strides down the corridor falter when Madden snickers, “If he’d been giving it to her right, she wouldn’t have been looking elsewhere.”

  I hardly hear the roaring laughter of the group surrounding Madden over my pulse shrilling in my ears when I pivot on my heels and charge for him. When he notices me approaching, the veins in his neck thrum, and his eyes widen. My fist lands on his right cheek before lowering to his stomach. I don’t know how many punches I inflict before Tyrell pulls me away, but my punishment was severe enough for Madden to be sporting a black eye and split lip as he gave his statement to the Air Force Police, requesting for them to press battery charges against me.

  I sit in a holding cell at Security Forces compound of our base for nearly sixteen hours before being ushered into a cold, sterile interrogation room. I’m surprised when I shuffle into the room, dragging a pair of metal shackles behind me, to discover Madden’s father standing in the corner of the room talking to a JAG officer. Since when did a civilian have any input in a case involving an Airman?

  After removing the shackles from my hands and ankles, the JAG officer, whose name badge states “Christopher,” gestures for me to sit in a wooden chair pulled up close to a steel table.

  Christopher pulls out the chair across from me and takes a seat, his eyes arrested on a document in his hand. “These types of cases are generally hard to prove. With the whole She Said-He Said notion coming into play, it falls to the jury’s mood for how the verdict will swing.”

  My heart rate kicks up, but I continue with my fifth amendment right, remaining quiet. I’ve already decided to plead guilty to the charges of battery against Madden, but I’m not going to disclose that to the DA, deciding it is in my best interests to wait it out for a plea.

  When I take a seat, Christopher’s eyes lift from a manila folder to me. “But in your case, it’s a slam dunk. I can’t lose,” he states, his voice smeared with cockiness.

  I give him an arrogant wink. Madden’s blood on my knuckles is pretty incriminatory.

  “So, instead of wasting our time dragging this through court, we’re going to be kind and offer you a plea deal.”

  My lips twitch, fighting to suppress the smile trying to cross my face. I knew they wouldn’t have brought me in here without a having a pre-drawn plea agreement.

  “If you sign this statement, admitting to all charges, you'll avoid doing jail time and tainting your honorable family name with mud.”

  My brows furrow. My mother would be proud I defended Gemma, not dishonored. The confusion on my face amplifies when Christopher slides a pre-typed statement across the table for me to sign. His abrupt movement causes the ballpoint pen to roll off the name on top of the Alford doctrine.

  “Why do you have Gemma’s name written in the victim field?” I query, my words as uneasy as the swirling of my stomach.

  Christopher smirks. “The victim’s name is generally placed in the victim section.” The pompousness in his tone fuels my anno
yance.

  “Gemma is not my victim. I didn’t hurt her; I protected her,” I retort.

  Christopher’s eyes turn to Madden’s father in the corner of the room. The shrewd look that crosses Mr. McGee’s face is only there for the tiniest second, but I didn’t miss it. It was cunning and judicious.

  The churning of my stomach ramps up when my eyes return to the document and I speed-read the charges against me.

  “I want a lawyer,” I request, my eyes floating from the document accusing me of the sexual assault and battery of Gemma back to Christopher. “I’m not speaking another word until I have a lawyer present.”

  Madden’s father pushes off the wall, reaching the edge of the table in three lengthy strides. “Even the best lawyer in the state won’t help you.” His tone is a deep rumble that bounces off the stark white walls and bellows into my ears. “They have your DNA and skin fibers in Gemma’s rape kit. Your blood was even discovered under her fingernails.”

  “Because I protected her!” I standing from my chair, toppling it over. “You’re not pinning your son’s crime on me because I taught him a lesson. Maybe if you’d spent more time with him as a child instead of hobnobbing with golf buddies, he would have learned the difference between right and wrong, but I guess lining your expensive threads with money was more important than raising your son with morals.”

  Before I have the chance to react, Mr. McGee grabs my shirt to pull me to within an inch of his face. I stare into the eyes of a snake with my nostrils flaring. My body shudders with fury, but I don’t back down. He raised a monster, and I’m not scared to tell him of that.

  “Your son is a rapist,” I sneer, staring into his bleak, desolate eyes. “And a fucking coward.”