by Cole Gibsen
“What?”
“Your earlier question,” he answers, keeping his eyes on the lake. “Why fishing? War takes so much of your humanity away. I forget sometimes, what it means to be human. Fishing reminds me.” He meets my eyes. “You remind me, too.”
Never in my life have I had a man emotionally expose himself in this way. Never have I wanted one to. Until now. Reece’s words work their way through my skin and tattoo themselves on my heart. And I’m glad, because I want to keep them with me forever, in a place no one can get to.
Reece’s bobber twitches, and he straightens. When nothing more happens, his shoulders relax. “I want to know more about you. Why all the tattoos?”
I glance at the artwork decorating both arms and smile. “My brother did them. He’s an amazing artist who owns his own studio. Of course he didn’t want to do it, because I’m his baby sister who needs coddling. But when I turned eighteen, I threatened to go get my ink done at a crappy place, so he agreed.”
I run my finger down the images woven together in swirls of color. “Each image represents something special to me.” I pull down the collar of my shirt, exposing the police badge over my heart. “This one is for Daddy.” I tap the star on my left wrist. “This one is, too. He always called me his little star.” I twist to show him the cupcake on my right bicep. “This is for Grandma. Cupcakes were the first things she taught me to bake.”
“They’re amazing,” he says.
I shake my head. “Grandma gets the credit. I just follow her recipes.”
“That’s crap,” he says. “Baking is more than following recipes. It requires talent. Take my sister for example. She can’t boil an egg to save her life. I, on the other hand, can make a beef wellington that will melt in your mouth.”
“You can cook?”
He shrugs. “Just another of my many skills.”
I chuckle, and he smiles in return.
“Seriously, though, you have real talent. You should do something with it.”
I roll my eyes. “Like what?”
“I don’t know.” He’s silent for a moment as he adjusts his fishing line. “That coffee shop you work for? Their Danishes and coffee cake suck. What if you made them instead?”
I make a face. “I don’t know. My boss gets that stuff at the local warehouse store, and she’s pretty set in her ways.”
“If she tastes your food, there’s no way she won’t change her mind. People will be breaking down the doors for it.”
“Shut up.” Smiling, I bump his shoulder with mine.
“Is it something you enjoy doing?” he asks.
“I love it,” I answer, surprising myself with how quickly the answer falls off my tongue.
“Then it’s worth pursuing.”
“Huh. Maybe.” I say this even as my mind races with excitement. Still, I know better than to get my hopes up. What if Reece is exaggerating how good my baked goods are? What if everyone else hates them? Am I really ready to face that type of failure?
He places his hand on my wrist, and I realize I’ve been strumming my fingers on my knee. He gives me a reassuring squeeze. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
I make a face. “How do you know?”
“Oh, I don’t.” He stretches his arms over his head. “But at least we have each other.”
“And what are we exactly?” I ask, smirking.
“Together.” He leans over to kiss the top of my head. A flurry of butterflies swirls inside my stomach. “That’s good enough, right?”
I rest my head on his shoulder. “Yup,” I agree. “That’s good enough.”
Chapter Twenty
Reece
“Selfie!” Em squeals, shoving her phone into my hand before hooking her arm around my neck. With her other hand, she holds up the bluegill she reeled in.
I try not to laugh as I position her phone. I can’t remember when I smiled so much. Something about her giggle makes me forget myself, every time. “Are you sure you want to take a picture of that pathetic minnow? It’s embarrassing.”
“It’s my first fish,” she answers, jabbing me in the chest with her index finger. “I’m documenting this historic occasion before I release him. It’s a shame I didn’t bring a barbell with me. Then we could be twins.” She points to the piercing above her lip. “He’d be the most bad ass blue gill ever.”
After I snap the photo, Em hands me her pole and snatches her phone. “Oh yeah,” she says, scrolling through the photos. “That’s definitely a keeper. You want me to send it to you?”
“Absolutely.”
Smiling, she types furiously. A moment later my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Grinning, she says, “I’m going to send it to Ash, too. I want her to know I’ve found my true calling. Master of the Barbie pole.” She pauses, tilting her head. “That would be a really fucked up strip club.” Before I can respond, she resumes typing. “You care if I post it on Instagram?”
I hesitate a fraction of a second before answering. “No.”
Emily must have sensed my reluctance because her smile wilts. “It’s not a big deal. I don’t have to or anything.”
Damn it, Reece. Way to go and screw things up again.
“It’s not what you think,” I tell her.
She turns away. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”
I grab her wrists before she shuts me out entirely. “Listen, I’m still stuck in military mode. And before…before everything went to shit, we weren’t allowed to post anything about ourselves online. But that’s different now. I’m out, even though I don’t think I’ll ever feel entirely free.”
Her face slowly softens. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”
I draw her closer to me. “You have nothing to be sorry for. These are my demons. My war.”
I watch her struggle for words, chewing them thoroughly before asking, “What did you do exactly?”
This is the point I usually turn away or say I’m not ready to talk about it. But not this time. I owe Em at least this. “I was in One Sixtieth SOAR. Otherwise known as a Night Stalker.”
“Whoa,” she whispers. “That sounds intense.”
“Death waits in the dark,” I mutter, staring out at the water.
“What?”
I shake my head. “Nothing. Just our motto.”
Her eyes widen with horror. “You had to kill people?”
I can’t help it, I laugh. “Em, it’s war.”
“But what I mean is you, yourself, killed people.”
This time I don’t laugh. “Em, it’s war.”
“Jesus,” she mutters. “No wonder you’re fucked up.”
I nod as I unhook her fish and place it back in the water. It kicks its tail in indignation before swimming away. “Killing the enemy doesn’t fuck you up as much as watching them kill your brothers.”
She waits, not saying a word, not asking or pressing forward. The bullet around my neck grows heavy, as if encouraging me to go on. Maybe it’s finally time to do just that.
“Chad.”
She blinks.
“He loved motorcycles, the Razorbacks, and he wouldn’t shut up about going to school to become a veterinarian. He had a fiancée back home in Mississippi. Sherill, or Sherry, or something. They were going to have a summer wedding. She wanted him to wear a pink tie and cummerbund.” I chuckle, remember Chad’s disgust at this.
Emily presses a hand to her mouth, horror filling her eyes.
“Our Little Bird was shot down. I don’t know how long I was unconscious. When I came to, there was so much blood. My knee was destroyed—I couldn’t walk. Until I heard Chad scream. I practically dragged myself the entire way. In the end, it didn’t matter. I was too late.”
The words I’ve been so afraid to speak for so long come to life before me. Suddenly I’m back in the hellish wasteland of the desert. The smoke and gasoline from the flame-engulfed helicopter burns my nostrils. Jason—we called him Cheetah, because he was some big track star back
home—hangs out the busted windshield. He doesn’t move as the flames eat away his flesh.
For a moment, horror paralyzes me. Then I hear the scream, and I’m propelled forward, through the smoke, through the pain, through the blood.
Gun in hands, I crawl on my belly until I crest the hill. He’s on his knees. The enemy has his filthy fingers curled in Chad’s hair, pulling his head back. With his other hand he brings a large blade to Chad’s neck.
One heartbeat.
Not enough time to scream. Aim. Or pull a trigger.
But enough time to die.
The enemy slices the knife across Chad’s neck.
My pulse thunders inside my head, drowning out all sound. I don’t remember screaming, but I must have, because the enemy releases Chad’s head and pulls a gun, aiming it at me. Even though my gun is in my hands, my blood-soaked fingers fumble on the trigger.
Even from a distance, I can see the rise in the enemy’s chest, a sure sign he’s preparing to fire.
This is it. The moment I’ve waited for. I would rather die than quit. The Night Stalker motto plays through my head. But they’re not just words. I would rather die than quit. It’s the truth in my blood, reaffirmed with each beat of my heart.
The end. My end.
With as much energy as I can muster, I position my gun on the dune and take aim. If I’m going to die, I’m going to die fighting.
But Chad has other ideas. Even with the gap in his throat and a steady ribbon of blood pouring down his neck, he rears his head back, smashing the enemy’s groin. The enemy cries out, doubling over.
Chad’s garbled cry is thick with blood.
The enemy, still on the ground, places the barrel of his gun to Chad’s temple.
My finger moves, instinct and years of training guiding it. I pull the trigger twice.
Several shots ring out, nearly simultaneously. I don’t know whose was first, mine or the enemy’s. Sand spurts from the ground where the enemy’s bullets land. I don’t wait to see if mine hit or not.
Chad is gone. Jason is gone. The others I’m sure are gone, too. They’ve all left me alone in this desert hell. If the enemy is still alive, at least he can reunite me with the others.
Dragging myself to my feet, I run. The pain in my leg is so intense my vision goes fuzzy around the edges. I’m seconds from passing out, so I push myself harder, faster.
When I get to Chad, the smell of blood is so thick it stings my nostrils. His uniform is soaked with it, making it appear black in the twilight.
“You goddamned asshole,” I scream, grabbing the front of his shirt with my fists and shaking him. Blood still runs from the wound in his neck and temple. His helmet rolls off his head. Bits of bone, brain, and other things are splattered inside. Along with something shiny. A bullet. I grab it without thinking.
“You mother fucker,” I yell. He’s gone, but maybe there’s a part of him still lingering nearby, a part that can still hear me.
“This was my fucking bullet.” I pull his body up only to slam it back to the sand. Over and over. “My bullet and you stole it from me.”
The enemy is slumped beside him. It’s obvious he’s gone, too. But there’s no way I’m going to let him travel into the unknown with Chad. Screaming, I fire into what’s left of his skull, over and over, spraying chunks and bits all over the sand. Maybe if I shoot him enough, I can make him disappear entirely. Too bad I run out of ammo before I can find out.
Chest still heaving, and unconsciousness wrapping around me like a warm blanket, I slump to the ground beside the empty corpses. My eyelids grow heavy. I know if I let them fall, I won’t be able to open them again.
Part of me hopes I never do.
When I open my eyes again, the twilight has given way to the soft pink and orange lines of morning. The smell of blood fades, as does the pain in my legs. Slowly, I come to realize I’m not in the desert but sitting on a log beside a lake.
My fingers ache, and I realize my hold on the fishing rod is vise-tight. Thread by thread my muscles unwind, until I slump against the log.
Gone. The desert. The blood. Chad. It’s all gone.
“Reece?”
I jerk back, startled to find I’m not alone. I’m always alone. Except now. Emily sits beside me, an emotionless mask on her face. How much did I tell her before the desert stole me back?
“The bullet.” She reaches out tentatively and touches the cold metal beneath my shirt. I flinch. “That’s your bullet, isn’t it?”
Shit. I said too much. I turn, staring out at the lake, letting the silence be my answer.
Her fingers slide down my shirt before dropping to her side. An ache fills me at the lack of her touch, and I fight to keep from reaching out to her.
“I can give you what you need,” she says. “Time, space, comfort, silence. Whatever you need.”
“Doesn’t matter what you can give me, Em. That’s the problem. You’ll give, and you’ll give, and you’ll give till you can’t give anymore. And it won’t be enough. I’m broken. Haunted by nightmares when I’m asleep and awake. I have nothing to give you in return.”
“That’s bullshit.” She scoots closer to me.
Without thinking, I bring my arm around her shoulders and pull her close. Immediately the shadow of the ever-encroaching desert recedes. It’s as if Emily is an anchor, somehow tethering me to this reality. “Really? What can I give you?”
She looks thoughtful. “Whatever it is, I think you already have.”
I tilt my head. “Care to explain?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know that I can. It’s more a feeling. You make me feel better about myself. That I’m more than a loser party girl.”
I take her chin in my hand, forcing her to look at me. “You are not a loser. You are amazing.”
She laughs. “See? That’s what I’m talking about.”
“Em, I’m serious. Not knowing what you want out of life doesn’t make you a bad person. I think you’ll figure things out at the right time.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Sometimes that’s enough.”
“What?”
“Hope.” I drop my hand, releasing her.
“Do you have hope?” she asks.
“I do now.” I set my rod aside, lean forward, and kiss her. We’ve kissed before, but this time, it’s different. Every kiss with Emily has tasted of hunger. This one aches, hard, fast, and desperate. I realize, as she’s nestled in my arms, she’s the first good thing that’s happened to me since the desert. And if I’m not careful, she could slip away like every other good thing in my life has.
At the thought, I pull her tighter, hoping to keep her from fading out of my grip.
As if she can read my mind, she pulls back with a gasp. “Reece. I’m here. Don’t worry. I’m here.”
I rest my forehead against hers, needing proof. Needing her heat, her touch, her breath. She’s here. Yes.
But for how long?
Chapter Twenty-One
Emily
Never in a million years would I have imagined myself in a relationship, let alone loving it.
It’s been over a month since Reece and I surrendered to whatever the hell this is between us. We’ve never tried to define or label whatever it is. Maybe that’s for the best. It’s this burrito of good, comfort, and reliability all wrapped up in a steamy tortilla of hot bedroom action.
What’s an even bigger surprise is how much I’m loving it. Me, the girl who never wanted to be tied down, is now craving all the little relationship moments I’ve been scared of for so long.
I love seeing him at the coffee shop every morning. I’ll hand him his Americano (extra hot, like him), which will already be made and waiting. He’ll give me a kiss, and I’ll adjust his crooked tie before he darts out the door on his way to school.
I love having dinner together nearly every weeknight. And, if he doesn’t have too many papers to grade, I know we’ll end up tangled in the sheets afterward. And if, for
whatever reason, we can’t get together, I know I’ll get a phone call or a text from him, telling me he’s missing me and wishing me goodnight.
Last Saturday we saw a movie with Ash and Lane. My brother, for the first time ever, didn’t threaten to kill the guy I was with. They even bonded over cars or motorcycles or some shit. I’m not exactly sure, as the conversation was too boring to follow.
I like the coffee mixed with morning kisses. I like the weekend bike rides down country roads, and I like having him on my couch, right this second, with his shoes kicked off and a stack of papers on his lap. His forehead is creased in lines of concentration. I quickly snap a picture of him, before tucking my phone in my pocket and resuming my cookie icing.
When I’m finished, I cup a still warm cookie in my hand, walk it over to him, and wave it in front of his nose.
He groans, dropping the tests on his lap, along with his red pen. “No, Em, not again.” He pushes the cookie away.
I stick out my bottom lip in a pout. “I thought you loved my sugar cookies.”
“I do.” He pulls off his glasses. “That’s the problem. I’ve gained nearly fifteen pounds, thanks to you. I can’t do it anymore. We need real food.”
“Cookies are real food.”
He snorts. “You know what I mean. Let’s go out.”
I roll my eyes as I bite into the cookie. “You don’t like to go out.”
“I’m having a good day today,” he argues. “I can handle it. Especially if we go somewhere quiet.” He arches a delicious eyebrow. “Dimly lit.”
“Ooh, okay.” I plop down onto his lap, not caring about the tests beneath me. “What about that Asian fusion place on the west end?”
His smile withers. “What about someplace else?”
“What gives? You love Asian food. That place has amazing sushi.”
“I know.” He eases the tests out from under me and stacks them neatly.
“And so now we hate restaurants with good food? Why?”
He sighs. “What gives is my parents also love that place. If we go there, we might run into them, and that’s a chance I don’t want to take.”
“Why are you scared of your parents? After everything you faced in the desert?”