TICK TOCK (EOD (Explosive Ordnance Disposal) Book 1)

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  Finally, she was all cried out, her body becoming weak and limp.

  I knew what she was going through—I’d been there and I still struggled with it all. The technical term was survivors’ guilt.

  Larson had been killed in front of her, and Clay was missing a leg. Other civilians had been injured by flying glass that day, and a police officer had been blinded in one eye. I knew what that felt like. A lot more people had been scared shitless and would be having years of bad dreams and therapy after seeing the detonator function, of seeing Clay being torn apart.

  You don’t get over it—that’s not possible. You have to find a way to go on. The ones that don’t are the guys who end up in their garages with a hose attached to the car exhaust.

  Smith told me that Amira was seeing a shrink. I’d been offered the same help and had even tried it once; but for me, going over it again and again had never done me any favours. In fact, I’d say it made things worse. But that was me. I knew talking about it could help other people. I was wired differently.

  So I held her, because sometimes human touch is the only reality left to cling to, and I’d wanted to do this for so long. Holding her calmed something inside myself, something ugly and fierce that had been screaming for blood.

  Finally, she stopped crying and started to pull away from me. She looked down at my chest and grimaced. I saw that she’d left a damp patch on my t-shirt.

  “Well, that was embarrassing,” she said with a shaky voice as she wiped her eyes.

  “Yeah, I didn’t know where to look,” said Clay cheerfully.

  I mouthed fuck off while Amira’s back was turned. Clay ignored it, smiling at me with a cheesy grin.

  I’d sat with the bastard for hours every day since we’d all been brought to this hospital. And I knew that he was full of shit. He was putting on a great show for Amira but the guy was struggling. He didn’t know what life as an amputee would mean for him. He didn’t think he’d be getting much help from his family, and he was scared but trying not to show it. I didn’t blame him. But I didn’t know how to help him either. I couldn’t help him or Amira—I couldn’t even help myself.

  “I didn’t mean to cry all over you,” she said, wiping her nose on a tissue.

  “Aw, don’t apologize,” said Clay. “He loves being your knight in shining armour. Assuming all the salt water hasn’t rusted him.”

  “What part of ‘fuck off’ don’t you understand?” I groused, but he just grinned harder.

  “We’re Team Dare! We laugh in the face of danger. Then we eat a pint of ice cream and cry over Call of the Wild.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “Just saying that we’ve bonded over life experiences,” he said more seriously. “So Amira cried all over you—we’ve known worse.”

  His words were sincere. Unfortunately, they made sense, too. Not that I’d tell him that.

  “I love you, Clay,” said Amira. “Even when you’re being an asshole.”

  I fought off a surge of jealously while he laughed loudly.

  “Girl, I just can’t get used to you swearing. And having hair. It’s freaking me out.”

  She smiled shyly, her hand flying to her scarred cheek.

  “It’s strange,” she admitted. “I’ve rejected the idea of being veiled my whole life, but there was a sort of freedom with it, too. Standing out, but being anonymous, as well. It’s hard to explain.” She shook her head. “It did feel hot, though. But I got used to it.”

  “Would you wear it again?” I asked, surprised by her words.

  “Not a burqa, no. It’s too hard to see or hear. Besides, that was part of my undercover role—I’d never worn anything like it before. My sister, Zada, started wearing a hijab when she was fifteen. She says it’s important to her—part of her identity. I never really understood, but I kind of do now.” She sighed. “But I hate it, too. I hate that those people took everything good about Islam and twisted it out of all recognition and made it into something evil.” She looked up. “But what’s scarier, they really believed that they were doing the right thing, the necessary thing.” She shuddered. “But I couldn’t do it again. I couldn’t go undercover. I’m not a very good agent.”

  She shook her head tiredly.

  “Yeah,” said Clay seriously. “It changes you. Not always in bad ways, but not always in good ways either.”

  We all glanced down at the space where his leg should be.

  I sat there and listened to them as they talked about their time with the terror cell, and I felt again the distance between us. They’d shared something that I hadn’t, couldn’t—and I was on the outside again.

  But later on, the talk turned to what it meant to be different from civilians, and I glanced at Amira—we were all combat vets now.

  “How much longer are you going to be in town for, bro?” Clay asked me casually.

  “Five days, then I ship out.”

  His face fell, and Amira stared at the floor. Both reactions made me feel like shit. But did it mean that she’d miss me after all?

  “Smith could get the doc to tell your C.O. that you’re still not fit,” said Clay hopefully, gesturing to my hand. “He knows how to pull strings. Hell, he’s got a PhD in being a manipulative bastard.”

  I glanced down at my hand, studying the raw ridge of pink skin. The scar had healed pretty well and I didn’t seem to have lost any fine motor skills. That was good, because a bomb disposal officer with shaky hands was as useful as a one-legged man in an arse-kicking competition. Shit. Sorry, Clay.

  Then Amira spoke.

  “The doctor says I can go home soon, too.”

  We all fell silent, and it felt like another nail in the coffin of a relationship that we’d never really had.

  If I stayed, what would be the point? Amira was going back to her home in California soon, and Clay was being shipped out to a veteran’s hospital near his family in Ohio, whether he wanted that or not. Chances were, he’d be invalided out of the service, too.

  “Nah, that’s okay. But I’ll hang here until my flight.” I pointed at Clay. “Make sure this turnip makes it back to the boondocks.”

  “Is that a cultural slur?” asked Clay, arching one eyebrow.

  “Nah, buddy. I’m mixed race—English and Scottish.”

  He laughed, then his expression sobered.

  “I’m going to miss the heck out of you guys. Friends to the end.”

  Amira smiled sadly as she glanced at me.

  “Yes, friends.”

  SMITH RETURNED TO talk with Clay about his rehab programme, and I walked Amira back to her room so she could pack up her things.

  I definitely wasn’t expecting the conversation that hit me right between the eyes as she shoved clothes into a small carry-on bag.

  “I want to ask you something, as my friend. It’s important … but I don’t know how to say it…”

  “You can ask me anything, Amira. If I can do it, I will.”

  “I was going to leave it longer because … well, anyway. I guess we’ve run out of time.”

  She still wasn’t looking at me, so I had no clue where this conversation was going.

  “Amira, name it.”

  “You might change your mind … and this isn’t easy for me.”

  Without knowing what she wanted, I didn’t know how to react.

  “Just ask me.”

  She took a deep breath and I noticed that her hands were shaking.

  “Will you sleep with me?”

  “What?”

  I swallowed several times, staring at her in shock. It was what I wanted, what I’d been dreaming of, but the timing was all wrong.

  “Amira…”

  “I want you to sleep with me, James.”

  “Are you serious? You can’t be serious! After what those bast— after everything that happened!”

  “Okay, I get it,” she said softly, turning away.

  I was so confused, my brain felt like it would melt.


  “Get what? What is there to get? Jeez, Amira!”

  Her eyes filled with tears and her voice shook.

  “I understand. I get it. I’m ugly!”

  I heard the words but they didn’t compute. I stared at the back of her head as she sat heavily on the bed, her shoulders shaking.

  “What? No, you’re not,” I said, my voice as raw as my emotions. “You’re so fucking brave and beautiful. I’m half in love with you and … you’re amazing.”

  I cringed at my appalling choice of words.

  She gave a choking laugh.

  “Half in love? What does that mean? Are you in love with my pretty half?”

  I swallowed and ran my hands over my head, absently noting that it was time to shave it again.

  “No. I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’ve never felt this way before so I don’t know what it means. But the thought of you going back to … I don’t even know where you’re from!”

  She still wasn’t looking at me.

  “Chula Vista,” she said quietly. “It’s a city in southern California—seven miles from San Diego and seven miles from the Mexican border.”

  I slumped in the chair at the side of the bed and dropped my head into my hands.

  “I wish you didn’t live there. I wish I didn’t live where I live. I hate that you’ll be 6,000 miles away from me.” I heaved in a breath. “And don’t talk shit saying you’re ugly.”

  I think my words shocked her because she turned around and pointed at her scar.

  “This isn’t ugly?” she sneered. “I’ve seen the way people stare at me, even here in the hospital. I’ve seen the pity in their eyes.”

  “You haven’t seen me look at you like that.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “No,” she said softly. “I haven’t. Why is that?”

  My answer was simple.

  “I don’t see it. Amira, I met you when you were wearing a niqab and I had no idea what you looked like. All I could see was your eyes. I like your eyes. That sounds stupid. But they haunted me. I saw them in my dreams. I’m telling the truth—I don’t see your scar.”

  I moved to stand in front of her as I gently traced my finger down the puckered, red line.

  “But I’m looking now. And I see an incredibly brave woman who was willing to give her life for her country, who nearly did. You’ll always be beautiful to me.”

  She threw me a haughty look then turned her back.

  “If I’m so beautiful, then why don’t you want to sleep with me?”

  He words were harsh and grating.

  “I never said I didn’t want to sleep with you.”

  “Don’t lie, James!” she said fiercely.

  “I’m not lying!”

  “‘You can’t be serious!’ Those were your exact words!”

  I tried to hold her hand but she pulled free.

  “Yeah, I said that, but it doesn’t mean I don’t want to—it means I feel sick at the thought of hurting you!” My voice was so loud, I was almost shouting with frustration. “Damn it, Amira! Look at me!”

  She turned around slowly, her chest rising and falling quickly, and I didn’t know if it was from anger or because she was going to cry again. I didn’t want either.

  “Then stay with me tonight,” she whispered. “Smith has reserved a room at the same hotel as my parents. Stay with me.”

  I grimaced.

  “With your parents breathing down my neck?”

  She stared at me defiantly.

  “Yes.”

  “And they’ll be okay with that?”

  “No.”

  I shook my head.

  “Great.”

  “Please,” she said quietly. “Please. I don’t want my last memory of … of being … I don’t want my last memory to be of them. I want … no, I need to overwrite it with something good. I need to do this, and I want to do it with a friend. I need to reclaim my body. Please, James, I need this. I need you.”

  Amira

  I WAS NERVOUS as hell. I’d insisted on this, forced him into a corner, until he’d given in. And now I was sitting in an anonymous hotel room, with my parents and sister down the hall, waiting for James to knock on my door.

  I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and felt the burn of tears behind my eyes again as I stared at my scar. It was ugly. I was ugly. The bruises had faded from my body, and everything on the inside was healed—no lasting damage, the doctor said. But what the hell did he know?

  And it was madness to offer my body to a man, even James. I cared for him, maybe even loved him a little if I was honest. Talking to Clay had forced me to see that James had feelings for me, real ones, and in a way, that made this all the more confusing.

  If I’d had more time, I wouldn’t be doing this now, tonight, but we were both leaving, travelling in different directions and the chances were I wouldn’t see him again.

  Even so, I was literally shaking with nerves and ready to vomit. And yet still I didn’t want to change my mind either. Ideally, I’d have had longer to make this choice, but I knew in my head and my heart that I needed this with James to help me heal, to erase the horror of the men who’d raped me, to prove to myself that I was stronger, that I wasn’t broken. Dented, yes; damaged, definitely; broken … I wasn’t going to let them win.

  There was a knock on my door, soft and tentative.

  I stood up, suddenly wishing I had something else to wear, not a pair of Zada’s pajamas with candy pink stripes.

  “Who is it?” I called out, peering through the spyhole, choking on the words as my mouth dried.

  “James.”

  I slid the chain from the door, turned the lock and opened the door. He was standing there, his hands shoved in the pockets of a worn pair of jeans, a dark grey t-shirt clinging to his chest.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.” He paused. “Do you still want me to come in or…?”

  “Oh, sorry, yes!” I rambled. “Come in.”

  I opened the door wider and he stepped inside, hesitating near the threshold.

  “Is this okay?”

  I swallowed.

  “I’m really nervous,” I admitted. “Last time we … well, I was too scared to care.”

  His face fell.

  “Ugh! I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just really nervous. Different nerves.”

  He stayed rooted to the spot.

  “We don’t have to do this, Amira. You don’t have to do anything.”

  I tugged my hair back in frustration.

  “I do! I just don’t know if I can!”

  He rocked on his heels, then nodded at the TV on the wall.

  “Want to watch something?”

  I blinked.

  “Like what?”

  “Anything.”

  “Oh, right. Okay, why not. Um, sit … anywhere.”

  There was a hard, upright chair by the wall tucked under a small desk. He pulled it out and sat on the edge, rubbing his hands on his thighs.

  “Is that comfortable?” I asked.

  “Uh, not really,” he said with a low chuckle.

  I flipped on the TV then stared at the bed between us. It seemed enormous, looming even larger in my imagination. My mind went into freefall and I started to shake.

  “Oh shit!”

  I heard James’ voice as if from a long way away, and then someone was holding me, and I tried to fight them off, tried to get away, but those arms held me tightly.

  The scream was lost in my throat, but then I heard his voice, soft and pleading.

  “Amira, baby, don’t cry. It’s going to be okay. God, please don’t cry!”

  He held me, his strong arms wrapping around me, letting the panic leak away, until I was spent and lethargic.

  He carried me to the bed, letting my body rest against his chest, and we lay there, his warmth and strength soothing me.

  All the anxiety bubbled under but didn’t erupt again. I felt almost safe. Safer.

  And I was tired of being
scared, tired of feeling broken, tired of being defeated. So tired.

  I WOKE SUDDENLY, my body jerking awake. I couldn’t remember what I’d been dreaming about, but I was left with an oppressive air, an uneasy mind.

  The curtains were open, casting the room in a soft neon glow. And I wasn’t alone.

  With a shock of recognition, I saw that James was awake and watching me, always watching me.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice worried.

  He was stretched out on the bed with his arm around me, my legs tangled with his. He was still wearing his sneakers, and I knew that he hadn’t moved since he’d carried me to bed hours earlier.

  “I’m … I don’t know what I am,” I sighed wearily, and I tapped my head. “Too many thoughts.”

  His lips tilted upwards, but it wasn’t a full smile. His expression was solemn.

  “Yeah, I know what that’s like.”

  I studied him carefully, the sadness dimming his beautiful eyes.

  “Why are you here, James?”

  He swallowed.

  “Because you asked me and … because I couldn’t stay away.”

  On impulse, I kissed him.

  For half a second, there was no response and I knew that I’d taken him by surprise, but then his hands reached around me carefully, and I felt the soft, warm press of his lips on mine.

  He started at one side, just a gentle pressure against the corner of my mouth, light, teasing kisses along the seam until he reached the other corner, always gentle.

  He paused, then leaned up on one elbow, pushing my hair out of my eyes and tucking it behind my ear.

  I held my breath as he caressed my damaged cheek.

  “You’re beautiful,” he whispered.

  I jerked away, leaving his hand suspended in the air.

  “Don’t!” I hissed.

  His hand fell to the sheets.

  “I have limited vision in my right eye,” he said. “Limited mobility in my right thumb, and I have six teeth that are implants—all from blast injuries.”

  “I didn’t know,” I whispered, but he continued talking.

  “I have multiple scars on my right arm and a new scar on my left hand.” He stared right at me. “Does any of that matter to you?”