by Cd Hussey
"You need any help?"
"I think I have it," I say as I attempt to shrug out of the vest. It's more awkward than I anticipate and I don't get it the first time.
He reaches over and grabs the edge of the vest, effortlessly lifting it over my head.
"Thanks." I try to keep the irritation out of my voice. I'm not annoyed he helped me. I'm annoyed I'm a helpless weakling. Strength and fitness used to be one of my assets.
"They are heavy," he repeats, tossing the vest and helmet into the back of the SUV and then turning his attention to Conrad also struggling to get out of the vest.
Obviously they aren't heavy for Trey.
He glances over his shoulder. "D, you want to take Ms. Ellis to her room?"
"Sure thing."
He leads me across the lush courtyard, along gravel sidewalks lined with blooming rosebushes and flowering bushes. Past Guinea hens searching for insects between blades of grass, until we arrive at a solid white door labeled "B9". He unlocks it and pushes it open, handing me the key.
"Take a load off," he says. "Tomorrow morning at oh-eight-hundred we'll reconvene for a security debriefing in that building." He points to one of two large square buildings across the grass lawn from my new home. "In the conference room. You can't miss it."
"Thanks."
"If you need anything in the meantime, security is in that building." He moves his index finger to a smaller building set away from the cluster.
I step through the open door. Being alone is calling me. "Thanks again."
"And if you're hungry, cafeteria is there. Dinner's at eighteen-hundred, but you can grab chow any time you want."
I nod. I have no idea where he pointed. I assume it's one of the big square buildings. I'm sure I'll figure it out. It's not like I'll get lost. Besides, my appetite has been pathetic for months. Strong and fit has turned into skinny and shapeless.
"So you have everything you need?"
Either he's being very polite or I'm the first woman outside of a burka he's seen in months. I take another step into the room. Again, I'm reminded of a cheap hotel. There's a bed with an awful, thin comforter, a desk, a dresser, I see the door to the bathroom, but that's about it. All that's missing are a couple bad paintings on the plain, white walls.
"I do." I turn to face him, my hand on the door. "Again, thank you so much."
"Anytime—"
I shut the door on his sentence.
Once the silence of my empty room greets me, the realty of my situation finally body-checks me. In an attempt to escape my problems I've run away…to Afghanistan. I'm trapped behind thick walls behind chain-link fences behind guards with machine guns in a three-acre prison.
Falling onto the bed, I succumb to tears held back for days. If I can just get through the next six months I'm sure everything will be okay. Just six measly months…
~
I wake up the next morning with swollen, puffy, bloodshot eyes. I look like someone socked me a good one…or two. The bathroom sink sputters when I open the faucet and then trickles out in a meager stream. The tepid water does little to hide my puffiness, so I dab on some concealer, comb mascara over my eyelashes (like that will somehow disguise the red), and brush my hair so it's as much in my face as the style allows. Thank you overgrown side swept bangs.
When I step into the conference room, I keep my gaze directed at the floor. And then busy myself arranging my organizer when I sit. From the corner of my eye I catch a glimpse of Trey hooking a laptop up to the projector and two other men that must be members of the security team—judging by how big and beefy they are. Trey's gaze flicks toward me and I suddenly find my notepad very interesting.
Conrad sits beside me. Out of habit I glance at him and then wish I hadn't. "I take it you found the rock slab they call a mattress here as uncomfortable as me," he says. "I barely slept."
"Oh. Yeah. Completely uncomfortable." Actually, I hadn't noticed. But it's a great excuse for why I look so haggard. I silently thank Conrad for the idea.
The projector flickers on and the overhead lights dim. An aerial photo of our compound jumps onto the pull-down screen at the front of the room. Trey begins to narrate behind me, describing security protocol, guard towers, rotation duty, political climate of the land outside the compound walls (Indian Territory as it's called), even the basic compound schedule.
Even though I only hear about half of what he says, I focus on the images with unwavering intensity. The half I do hear is only partially absorbed. I know it's important, but at the moment I can't think about any of it. It's too much. I trust Trey and Double D and the rest of the security team. I just want to get to work and not worry about little things like I.E.D.s and how much blood you have to lose before you're really in trouble.
After the debriefing, we're escorted to the office by one of the security guys Trey introduced, Two Bit or something. It's open-air office space. No cubicles, just a bunch of desks arranged around the perimeter of the room. A conference tables sits in the center. There are no windows.
I see my name on the nameplate on an empty desk in the corner. It isn't a permanent, engraved nameplate, but a piece of paper slipped into a plastic sleeve. For some reason that makes me feel better. The nameplate is temporary and so is this assignment.
Two Bit introduces us to the project manager, John Smith, and then leaves. John is an average looking, overweight, balding, fifty-year-old man with glasses. He's wearing a faded polo shirt with a stain on it and khakis that have seen better days. Business casual would be a loose interpretation. Which is fine by me since I only brought one pair of pumps. At one time I wouldn't have dreamed of wearing the same shoes five days in a row, but lately I've been throwing my dry-clean only designer clothes into the washing machine.
After a brief introduction to the rest of the office, where I awkwardly wave, I'm escorted to my desk and then thankfully left alone to organize my workstation and sift through the hundreds of unopened emails sitting in my inbox.
I work through lunch, and pretty much stay glued to my desk chair until my stomach finally demands I put something in it. It's a little after six p.m. and the cafeteria is bustling with people, their voices all mish-mash into a din of indistinguishable noise.
Without looking at the tags, I scoop some food onto my plate from one of dozens of warming trays and seek out an empty space on one of the long, plastic tables. The scene reminds me of high school: the IT guys huddle together at the end of one table, the drafters, the engineers, and of course, the security team. I make the mistake of looking their direction once, but when my gaze unexpectedly meets Trey's, I decide to avoid that side of the room for the duration of my meal.
Unlike the sixteen-year-old oozing insecurity beneath my mature exterior, I'm happy to be the loner chick that sits alone.
Unfortunately, Conrad feels the need to join me.
"What a day," he says.
"Yeah it was exhausting. I can't wait to get back to my room and veg out with a movie." Hint, hint. I'd like to be alone.
He doesn't pick up on it. "I guess they've got a great movie room here. Any movie you want. It's next to the rec room."
He rambles on while I eat my meal. I mostly ignore him, muttering the appropriate "mmm-hmm" and "oh yeah?" when necessary, but really, I don't absorb much.
I'm finishing up the last of my meal when he says something that piques my interest. I set down my fork and look at him. It's the first time I've looked at him since he sat down.
"You what?" I ask.
"I hope they have the same amenities at Site J."
"Why?"
"I'm scheduled to relieve the project manager. I leave tomorrow."
Site J is a remote, classified location. I'm vaguely familiar with it only because I'll be working on the project, but I don't know where it is and I don't know exactly what it is. As a civil engineer, I deal with prepping land and underground utilities. What they put on said land after I finish with it could be a warehouse for the slaughte
r of kittens for all I know.
"Wow." The idea of leaving the safety of a confined compound and going into Indian Territory, as Trey described it, freaks me out. "And you're okay with that?"
"Of course." His pale face scrunches up in a condescending expression. "As long as they pay me enough. I'm not here to absorb the local culture, that's for sure," he adds with a chuckle.
Coming here pretty much doubled my salary. But the money means very little to me. Escaping my past is much more valuable.
And I'd love to absorb the local culture—if there wasn't a strong possibility of a beheading by hostiles.
I scoop up my plate. "Well, you're a bigger man than I am." Conrad looks confused as I rise. He either doesn't comprehend my joke, he doesn't realize I'm joking, or he doesn't find it amusing. Maybe all three. I don't care.
"Good luck." I've had about all the socializing I care to handle and after dumping my dirty dishes in the bus tub, make a bee-line for the exit. I have every intention of heading straight for my room. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.
I'm stopped by the largest speed bump around. Double D stands between me and the door. "A group of us are heading to the pool to soak up a little summer fun if you'd like to join."
Jesus, a pool party?
"Thanks, but I'm still a little jetlagged…" Actually, the three days I spent in Dubai in a posh hotel room more than took care of the jetlag.
"Well if you change your mind, the pool's by the basketball court."
"Maybe another time."
Or never. Whichever comes first.
He doesn't press and my path to freedom opens up. For some reason I decide to do something completely stupid. I turn around.
And once again runs right into Trey's dark gaze. It's from across the room, but it's still intense.
Oh holy hell.
I can't get to my room quickly enough. Nor can I help but wonder if Trey will be at this pool party. Not that I'm going to go—I don't even have a swimsuit.
That night, on the most ridiculous whim, I order one off the Internet. Even if I never use it here, I'm sure I'll take vacation someday.
CHAPTER THREE
Compound life, it appears, is a lot like summer camp life. At least, a lot like the camp I went to as a kid. Wake up, go to breakfast, work a few hours, eat lunch, work a few more hours, an hour break, dinner, whatever activities you choose to fill your evening, go to bed. Repeat. Six days a week. We have Fridays off.
The activities even remind me of camp. Besides the swimming pool, basketball and volleyball courts, and rec room with billiards and darts, there are a couple horses, movie nights, and a gym.
Except for meals and work, I pretty much stick to my room, and more often than not I eat in my room too. Once Conrad gets shipped off to Site J, I'm truly able to keep to myself. I must be exuding a "leave me alone" vibe because everyone does.
Except Double D. I'm able to avoid him for the most part. He's easy to see coming, and whenever I catch sight of him heading my way, I literally find another path to take, or another task to occupy me. The one time I get cornered, I use continued jetlag as an excuse why I can't join the activity—a game of volleyball this time.
Work is tedious but easy to disappear into. Submittals and drawing reviews… I'm working on a couple projects: the demolition of buildings for a power substation, and grading for Site J. I still don't know if the work is for the military, the locals, all or none of the above, and quite frankly, I don't care. Seven months ago I might have had a strong political opinion on the matter, but now I'm just trying to survive, not destroy my career, and forget my past at the same time.
I'm not succeeding. At least not with the last bit.
After two weeks of hibernating, I decide sitting in my room all night watching videos on my hard drive isn't cutting it. And wallowing in my own self-pity—apparently, my bland, box of a room is the perfect breeding ground for self-pity—definitely isn't cutting it. If I don't do something, I'm going to slide head first into a steaming pile of depression.
Exercise used to be a hobby for me; I hit the gym on a daily basis. Sure, there was vanity involved, but working out made me feel good. I was strong. I was fit. Now I'm just pathetic.
I suppose that's one thing I can rectify. And an easy way to get out of this box of a room.
Changing into workout clothes, I head for the gym. It's pretty late so I figure I'll have the place to myself. I couldn't be more wrong. At least half the security team is pounding away at the free weights. The room smells like testosterone and sweat, though I'm not sure there's actually a difference between the smells.
I try not to look at the men as I climb onto one of the ellipticals and power on my tablet.
With all the male grunting, I wish I'd brought earphones too. Even with heavy metal screaming in the background, tuning them out is impossible. I try to avoid looking anywhere but my reader, but I find my eyes drifting toward the free weights on the opposite site of the room. The first few times I force them back down, to focus on the letters etched into the glowing screen. Finally, I give up resisting. A quick peek. That's all I'll take.
I wish I hadn't. Trey is bench-pressing what equates to a car. Double D stands behind him chanting a series of, "C'mon. You got this. Just one more. C'mon, c'mon!" Trey powers though five or six reps, the muscles in his arms bulging and contorting with pure power. On the last push, he lets out a very sexual, very erotic sounding grunt before dropping the bar onto the hangers.
Double D glances my way and I quickly return my attention to my book. My face feels hot and I know I'm blushing.
I'm not usually such a sucker for brawn and muscle, but I feel a familiar yet foreign heat settle between my legs. It's been so long since I've felt any kind of sexual desire it's a weird sensation.
I guess it's a good sign since I'm trying to move on and all, but it still makes me uncomfortable as I try to ignore the bucket of sex across the room.
I focus more intensely on my tablet. The words are a blur of black scribbles, but I pretend anyway. Double D suddenly steps into my view.
I jerk in surprise and he grins. "Good book?"
"Um, yeah. It's great." I hope he doesn't ask what I'm reading because right now, I'm not sure I know. Given I lean toward romance or books with vampires and witches in them, I am certain it isn't something I want to share.
I glance around his bulky frame. Trey is chatting with one of the other men, his broad back to me. Good, he isn't paying me any attention.
"We're going to have some drinks later," D says. "If you're up for it, or course. And not still suffering from extended jetlag." The last statement seems a little accusatory.
"Drinks? Like milk and Kool-Aid?"
"Only if there's booze in it."
"I didn't realize you could drink here."
"As long as you aren't Muslim."
"Haven't yet converted."
I finally found the courage, desire, whatever, to even venture into the world of the living, I'm not sure I'm up for full-blown socialization. I can't keep blowing him off. And the prospect does sound better than the pity party that's been rocking my room lately.
"Yeah, so you know where the rec room is, right?"
It's adjacent to the room we're in, so of course I know. I nod.
"We're planning on shooting some pool and getting a couple local jugs."
I have no idea what "a local jug" means. I smile. "Thanks, I'll keep it in mind."
"As opposed to…?"
I grimace.
"That's what I thought." He grins. "Well, if you decide you're not too tired or have something better going on, you know where to find us." He taps the front of my elliptical before rejoining the Pride.
I'm only halfway through my workout but decide to wrap it up anyway. I don't rush things though; the last thing I want is for the lions to think I'm uncomfortable. Which I am, of course, but they don't need to know that.
They're all gathered around in a huddle and talking quietly,
planning the fourth quarter comeback no doubt. Double D's voice floats over. I can't quite make out what he's saying, but I recognize his drawl. My gaze still cast toward my book, I sneak another peek, twisting my eyes as far as they'll go without having to turn my head. My eye muscles strain in protest. Trey is staring directly at me.
Oh look. I finished my workout.
I don't even shut down the machine. I step off, do some half-ass stretches, grab my towel and water and still powered-on tablet, and jet from the room.
Even though I don't have a drop of sweat on me, the first thing I do when I return to my room is take a shower. I feel overheated and overexposed. A shower is what I need to cleanse my body and my mind. I have a brief, fleeting inclination to grab the vibrator still stashed in my suitcase. It's shocking since I haven't given that type of pleasure an ounce of my energy in months. Just as quickly as the desire hits me it vanishes.
The water sputters out with minimal pressure, like it has since I arrived. There's barely enough to rinse the conditioner from my hair, which is thankfully as short as it is. Any longer and I'd be here all night.
I blow-dry my hair like I have somewhere to go and not just a date with a crappy movie I've probably already seen. I really don't know why I'm bothering. Am I actually going to snap out of my funk long enough to join D and the others for drinks?
Right, and I might grow wings, too.
But I only get about thirty minutes into said crappy movie before I can't take anymore. I hate the woman I've become. Meek, shy, insecure, reclusive… I am none of those things. Or I didn't used to be. Why did I travel halfway around the world if I'm just going to mope in my room and wallow in the past? A change of scenery doesn't constitute real change. I've got to move on. I know that. It might have been an impossible task in Lawrence, where everything was a reminder of my life with Jim, but nothing here reminds me of him. Certainly not Trey or Double D or any of the other security guys or the engineers or the staff.