by Jack Wilder
Stone let him take the money. “So, if any of her brothers comes looking, you haven’t seen us, huh?”
“You need doctor, yeah?” The clerk’s eyes focused on Stone’s blood-soaked shirt.
“No. I just…fell. I’m fine.”
“Sure, okay, man.” The clerk clearly knew exactly how Stone had gotten hurt, but he said nothing.
“I’m feeling kinda sick, you know?” Stone said. “So, if you happened to know where to get some antibiotics, there’d be another one of those in it for you.” He tapped the $100 bill with his forefinger, which was crusted with blood he hadn’t managed to clean off.
“I might. Not cheap, but I get it.” He glanced at Wren, his expression openly curious, if not lustful.
She blushed under his scrutiny and giggled, pressing closer to Stone and nuzzling his neck. Stone had to force himself to stay calm, to play the part. It was difficult, though, with Wren’s mouth against his throat, her shy laugh in his ear, her arms around his neck. It was a game, an act, though it felt like anything but.
It was purely to convince the clerk, then, that he pressed a kiss to her cheek, and then her lips. It wasn’t that he wanted to kiss her, obviously. He just had to play the part. That’s all. Yet he couldn’t catch his breath as he tasted her mouth, felt her warmth, her tongue touching his upper lip. She was responding, giving in, playing the part back.
Only, the kiss went on longer than it needed to, and when they broke apart, Wren’s flushed face and widened eyes didn’t look faked. Nor did her surprise, or her raw desire.
“I tink you need room for dat, huh?” The clerk handed them the envelope with two key-cards, the room number written in marker across the front. “Number two-two-tree.”
Stone took the envelope with the keycard and tugged Wren to elevator. She clung to him, but now it wasn’t merely for support. There was another element to way she held on to him. It was closer, somehow. More intimate. Her palms were flat on his chest and her eyes were locked on his face. Her full breasts were pressed against him, showing him tantalizing glimpses of her tan skin.
The elevator opened, and a young Caucasian couple stumbled out, laughing uproariously, holding on to each other, reeking of alcohol. The man had dreadlocks held back by a white bandana, and he wore khaki capri pants, flip flops, and a tie-dyed Grateful Dead shirt. The girl was dressed similarly.
“Dude, you’re like, bleeding, man,” the dreadlocked drunk said. “You okay, dude?”
Stone growled. “Dude, I’m, like, fine. Mind your own, like, fucking business.”
The guy held up his hands. “Sure thing man. Whatever. I was just thinking, I’ve got some vikes in my room. Thought you might want one, you know?”
“Vicodin?”
He nodded. “Yeah, man. They ain’t, like, legal or whatever, but they’re the real deal.”
Stone fished out a $50. “I could use one.”
The couple lurched back onto the elevator, and Stone and Wren followed them to their fourth-floor room, which stank of pot and cigarettes. Empty bottles of vodka were scattered everywhere, and Stone saw an ashtray full of joint roaches. Dreadlocks picked up a small cellophane packet with four large white pills stamped with the word “Vicodin”.
“Here, man. The fifty should cover it.” He took the bill and handed Stone the baggie. “Anybody asks, you didn’t get that shit from me.”
“And you never saw us,” Stone said.
“Saw who?” Dreadlocks answered.
Stone just nodded, prodding Wren out of the room and toward the elevator. As the door left, he heard the girl ask her boyfriend, “Are you sure he wasn’t a cop? He kind of looked like a cop. And that looked like a gunshot wound.”
“I don’t know, man. He might’ve been. But he didn’t arrest us, did he?” A thoughtful pause. “Besides, we’re in the fucking Philippines, aren’t we? I don’t think an American cop can arrest us here. Juris-duty, or something.”
“You mean jurisdiction, you moron.”
Stone shook his head and led Wren back to the elevator. A thought struck him, and he dug into his pants pocket, withdrawing Wren’s cross. He dangled it in front of her by the chain. “I thought you might want this back.”
Wren took it in a trembling palm. “Oh my god, Stone. Thank you.” She pressed the cross to her lips. “This was an adoption gift from my parents.”
Stone hugged her briefly as the elevator doors whooshed open. As soon as they found their room, Wren dropped the backpack onto the floor and fell onto the bed, then winced.
“God, a real bed. Thank you, Jesus.” She pressed a hand to her ribs, taking a deep breath and shifting her torso.
Stone watched her sprawl, watched her breathing slow and become even, and then she was asleep. He watched her for a few minutes more, and then snatched the backpack up and moved into the bathroom. He lowered himself onto the closed toilet seat and then, holding his breath, peeled his shirt away from the wound, expelling his pent-up breath in an explosive hiss as the clotted, drying blood snatched at his skin and at the open wound.
Before he did anything else, Stone needed to be clean. He turned the shower on, washed down one of the Vicodin while he waited for the water to get hot, and then stripped out of his shorts and stepped in. The water scoured his skin and the torn flesh, but the heat felt good, relaxing his exhausted muscles. He stood under the spray for a moment, and then washed up and got out, wrapping a towel around his waist.
Taking a seat on the toilet, he grabbed the closest towel and pressed beneath the wound. He took an unopened bottle of water, and, using the tip of the knife, worked a small hole into the bottom of the bottle. The spray from the shower had set the wound bleeding again, so Stone held the towel beneath the entrance wound, and then, tilting his body back as far as he could, squeezed the bottle so water squirted in a thin, high-pressure stream into the bullet hole. His breath expelled in a gasping moan, but he gritted his teeth and squirted more water in, catching the excess as it sluiced away, pink with blood. He soaked through one towel, tossed it into the tub, and grabbed another, pouring water into the wound until the bottle was gone. Then he fished the small bottle of antiseptic spray from the backpack, opened it, and sprayed the entrance hole.
The next part was trickier. He had to do the same to the exit hole, which he couldn’t really reach on his own. He debated trying, but knew it would ineffective. Pressing the towel to the opening, he shook Wren awake.
She moaned, murmured, and then finally cracked her eyes open.
“Sorry, babe, but I need your help.”
Wren sat up and blinked, shivered. Her forehead was dotted with sweat, and she scratched at her skin, then caught herself and stopped. “Help with what?”
Stone crossed the room to resume his seat on the toilet, this time facing the tub to give her access to the exit hole. “Squirt some water into the hole for me.”
Wren knelt behind him in the small bathroom, taking the red-soaked towel from him. She handed him one of the unopened bottles of water, and he poked a hole into it, then handed the bottle back to her.
“Will it hurt?” she asked.
“I’ve got a bullet hole in my side,” Stone said. “Everything about it hurts. I’ll be fine.”
Wren cupped the towel against his back and poured the water onto the hole. Stone suppressed the hiss of pain, grinding his teeth until they hurt.
After she’d used the entire bottle, he nodded. “Good,” he said. “Now spray the antiseptic on it. A lot, from an inch or two away.” She sprayed it liberally, and he couldn’t stop a groan from escaping. “Good. Okay, now open the tampon for me.”
She did so, and Stone slid it into the hole, grimacing and growling as the cotton scraped the raw edges of open flesh. The string hung down his side, and he ripped a piece of the medical tape and fastened the string to his skin so he could pull the tampon free later. Wren had bought a roll of gauze, so he wrapped that tightly around his body, covering the wound and applying a bit of pressure. He taped the
ends to his skin and then sank back against the cold porcelain, trying to even out his ragged breathing.
It would have to do for now. He was lightheaded and weak, which meant he’d lost a lot of blood.
“What now?” Wren asked.
“Now we hope I don’t pick up an infection. If that clerk can find some antibiotics, I’d be happier, but if not, we’ll just have to pray.”
Stone uncapped the bottle he’d already opened and drank from it. He finished the liter and then forced himself to his feet. He was dizzy, exhausted, hungry, and tense. He checked the latch on the door, then slid the chain into place, and propped a chair under the handle. Finally, he couldn’t stay upright any longer.
“One of us should really keep watch, but I don’t think either of us is capable. I’m dead on my feet.” He sank gingerly onto the bed. “You should take a shower before you fall back asleep.”
Wren nodded and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. After a moment, the shower turned on and Stone was left to picture her naked and wet beneath the water. Twenty minutes later, she emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a towel. She rounded the bed and lay down on the edge, stiff and seeming unsure. Stone wrestled with himself briefly, and then gave in.
“Get over here, babe.”
“What?” Wren’s eyes were wide.
Stone extended his arm and crooked his finger at her. “Come over here. Closer, so I can hold you.” Wren wriggled over until her head was on his chest. He curled his arm around her, holding her waist and trying not to let his hand wander lower. “Better?”
Wren nodded, and within moments was asleep. Stone wasn’t far behind, despite the fact that they were both wearing nothing but towels.
* * *
An unknowable time later, Stone woke up with Wren curled against his uninjured side. She was tensed, even pressed against him. He knew by her breathing that she was awake.
“Stone?” She rolled away slightly, clutching the towel in place. She searched his eyes. “In the lobby…was that just…I mean—did you—?”
“I don’t know, Wren. Honestly I don’t. I don’t know what it means.”
“Did you…feel anything?” Her voice was small and hesitant.
“Of course I did,” he said. “How could I kiss you and not feel anything?”
She shrugged, and the towel slipped slightly, drawing Stone’s attention to her cleavage. He forced his gaze to her eyes when she spoke. “I don’t know. It’s so hard to tell with you. You don’t ever seem to show emotions. You don’t show pain, or fear, or happiness, or anything. You’re just this wall of…stone.”
Stone laughed. “How do you think I got the nickname ‘Stone’ in the first place?”
Wren’s face scrunched. “Nickname? Stone’s not your real name?”
He shook his head. “Nope. I got it after my first combat mission.”
“Why?”
“Well, like you said, I don’t really…show much. I never have. And then during combat I was just stone-cold calm the whole time, and my L-T made some kind of casual remark, like, ‘you’re made of stone or something, Pressfield,’ and the nickname Stone just stuck.”
“So they gave the nickname to you for being unemotional?”
Stone wobbled his head side to side in a ‘not really but sort of’ gesture. “It’s a little more complicated than that.”
“What do you mean?”
Stone sighed. “It’s another one of those things I don’t like to talk about.”
“I watched you kill men today, Stone. I think I can handle some old story.”
“It’s not just because I’m stone-cold emotionally; it’s because I seemed like a stone-cold killer. That first combat mission, it went off the rails. Went bad. Old intel, the bad guys had more backup than we’d anticipated. One of them got the drop on L-T, and I was out of ammo. Rookie mistake, you know? Shooting too much, waiting till empty to reload. Supposed to reload when you’ve got a few rounds left, and you never just throw the clip away like in the movies. You save it. Reuse it. Anyway, a tango got the drop on L-T, and I was out of ammo. For some stupid reason, I went for my KA-BAR instead of my sidearm—”
“Kay-bar? What’s that?”
“Combat knife. I should have shot the fucker, but I stabbed him instead. Of course, unless you know exactly what you’re doing and where to stab and all that, you never get a guy on the first try with a knife. It’s surprisingly hard to kill a man with a knife. That’s why you always hear about someone being stabbed like twenty or thirty times. The human body can withstand a shitload of damage as long as it doesn’t stop the heart immediately, or the brain. So I got the guy, but he had a gun and I had my knife, and L-T was down, wounded, so I just laid into him again. Not thinking, just doing.” Stone flexed his hand, remembering the feel of the knife in his hand and the warmth of blood on his hands for the first time. “Shooting someone from far away, that’s one thing. Even from thirty feet away with a pistol. It still takes it out of you, hits you hard the first few times you do it. But to kill someone up close and personal like that? With your hands? You watch the light go out of his eyes. You watch him turn into a dead husk right in front of you. Watch him bleed out, knowing you did that to him. And because I don’t show much emotion, and never have, it seemed to everyone else that I just did it easy as you please, no guilt, no remorse.”
“Did you? Feel that stuff?” Wren asked, sounding shaken.
“Shit yeah. Of course. I wanted to puke afterward. I couldn’t sleep for weeks, seeing his face every time I closed my eyes. That mission, those first kills? I’ll never forget them. Not for as long as I live. I don’t really remember most of the others, but you never forget the first man you kill.”
Wren didn’t answer for a long time. When she did, it was in a tiny whisper. “Have you killed a lot of people?”
Stone just nodded. “Too many.”
“And today. You killed people today. For me.”
He pulled her against him. “Yeah. And there will probably be more before we’re safe.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t plan on talking about this.”
“It’s inevitable. You’ve seen some awful shit. Experienced hell.” He touched her cheek with the knuckle of his forefinger. “At least you’re with me, now. Safe. And you weren’t raped.”
“I saw it, though. I saw…girls. A lot of them. Being…used. And that was almost me. If you hadn’t—”
“But I did. I’ve got you.”
Wren burrowed against him, relaxing into him, slipping a hand across his chest and holding him. “Thank you, Stone. Thank you, so much.”
Stone felt his heart constrict and expand. She sounded so vulnerable. Felt so right, in his arms like this. “Of course, babe.”
“What’s your real name?”
Stone sighed. “I was born George Alexander Pressfield the third. My grandfather was the captain of an aircraft carrier in World War II, and my father commanded a PT boat during Vietnam. My great-grandfather was in the Navy too. So that makes me a fourth-generation Navy brat.”
“George? Really?” Wren sounded amused.
He pulled back and glared down at her. “Is that funny to you? Is it funny that I’m George the third?”
She nodded, laughing now. “Yes! It is funny, actually. George. Little Georgie.”
Stone growled. “That’s why I go by Stone. I was never so glad for a nickname in all my life.”
“Maybe I’ll call you George from now on,” Wren suggested.
“You better not.”
“Sensitive much?”
“I hate that name. I’ve always hated that name. Even in elementary school, I would introduce myself as Alex. I actually went by Alex until I got the nickname Stone.” He laughed. “I refused to answer to anyone unless they called me Alex. I got detention almost every day for the first half of third grade because my teacher refused to call me anything but George. Eventually we compromised on ‘Mr. Pressfield.’”
Wren shifted against
him, and now the humor was gone from her eyes. In its place something else, something hot and desperate and alluring. “So you won’t answer if I call you Georgie? Even if we’re alone?”
Stone shook his head. “Nope.”
She moved even closer, and now she was pressed against him, almost lying on top of him. Her legs were warm against his. “I like Georgie. It’s cute.”
“I’m a Navy SEAL. I don’t do cute.”
“Am I cute?”
Stone sighed. “Wren, are you sure this is—”
“You kissed me in the lobby,” Wren cut in. “You can’t pretend it didn’t mean something to you. It did for me. And I saw your eyes. I’m learning to read you, you know.”
“Wren—”
“You said you don’t do cute. Well, what about me?”
“You’re not cute,” Stone growled. “You’re beautiful. So much more than beautiful. You’re strong. You’re tough. You’re sweet. And you’re sexy.”
Wren’s face split into a smile, but it quickly faded into seriousness. “Will you kiss me again? Please?”
Stone closed his eyes briefly. “I’m not sure this is the best time or place.”
“I’m not asking for anything else. Just a kiss.”
“There’s no such thing as ‘just a kiss.’”
“Sure there is.”
“Not with me, there’s not.” He had to look away from her, away from her desire-hot eyes. “You’ve been through hell. We’re both hurt and filthy. And now all of a sudden we’re gonna kiss?”
“This isn’t sudden, Stone. I’ve wanted you to kiss me…for so long. For like—since the first time I met you. Every time we played guitar, I would have to make myself focus on the music instead of kissing you.”
Stone exhaled noisily. “But you’ve seen what I do. What I am. And you’re so sweet, so kind. So innocent.”
She pushed away from him angrily. “I’m not innocent. I’m not a virgin. And with everything I’ve been through over the last few days, I’m even less innocent. I know what I want. I want you. I’ve always wanted you. And you know it, too. We talked about this before we left for Manila.”
Stone scrubbed his face. “Dammit. I don’t even know…I don’t know what to say.”