The two of us cross the street back home, a few strides behind Sir. My eyes steal another look at Haven’s face, searching for anything to clue me into if she feels like I'm a monster. Or vicious. Hell, dangerous even. Instead, I see a calm face. Her eyes look into mine, and I see they are soft. Understanding. God, I'm beginning to think this girl gets everything about me with minimal effort.
I rush Haven's remaining bags upstairs, while she lingers in the kitchen in need of a refresher, I'm sure. Hell, I could use one too. Approaching the bed, I hear the words reverberate in my head again. He's just like you. Ugh. I try to put the words out of my mind as I drop off this merchandise next to the rest. Unfortunately for me, the minute I come rounding out of our bedroom, Sir is on my tail.
“Why don't you run to the store, Clint? Grab us some more propane for the tank?”
I gesture toward Haven. We haven't spent much time just the two of us, and now that we're finally home and can take a minute, that's all I want. “I–”
“She'll be fine.” He continues on his path of destruction, straight for the kitchen, once again showing just how much he doesn't care about anyone else.
Following, I open my mouth to argue, prepared to go to battle when Haven shakes her head. Her eyebrows rise, and she offers me the gentlest smile. I feel a little relief.
Demanding for the final time, Sir states, “Go.”
His voice causes my temple to throb again. Like an obedient solider, I respond, “Yes, Sir.”
With that said, I grab the tank, the keys to my black 2014 Charger and head out the front door. Once in the car, I toss it out of park and peel off down the road, taking my frustration out on my gears. I hate being so submissive to him. What gives him the right to think he knows better about her than I do? And why does he think I need time to cool off, which is what this bullshit grocery run is. I hit Howard in the head a bit, so what? It's not like he had to go to the hospital. He should count his blessings. I should be home with Haven right now, arms around her, watching her gleefully rip off price tag after price tag for the first time in only God knows how long she has something new that belongs to her. Reminding me that women can get expensive. Reminding me I'm thankful I don't have rent to pay so I can spoil her like Mindy did. I should be at home thinking about what kind of place to move us into when I get back from deployment. That's what I should be doing, not inching through traffic trying to reach the grocery store.
My cell phone vibrates in my pocket. Hoping it's Haven, I slide it out of my pocket, key in the password, and reveal a text from an unknown number.
512-555-8687: Hey, it's me, Amber. I got your number through a friend. Any interest in hanging out tonight?
I blank out for a second. Who's Amber? I stare at the number again, wracking my brain for that name and finding nothing. For some reason, I can't picture this girl's face or any other girl's for that matter. All I can see is Haven's smile, her dark-brown eyes glowing at me, her hair shaping her face, her curves calling my name to touch, to be careful with. God, when I get the chance, I'll be more than careful.
Temporarily soothed by the idea of exploring Haven sexually, I delete the message and toss the phone in the cup holder, not giving the idea of any other female another thought. As far as I'm concerned, she's the only one who matters now.
It feels like, the minute I put my phone down, it buzzes again. Bothered since it's more than likely whoever this Amber chick is, I reach for it, prepared to delete the message when I finally get it. For once, I couldn't be more thankful to be wrong. The message is from my angel and is as sweet and simple as she is. My head hits the back of my gray leather seat as I continue to stare at it, momentarily satisfied.
Haven: Alpha
Standing in one of the three checkout lines they have open, I find myself replaying the eventful afternoon in my head, in particular the incident that got me banished from the house. It was quick. One blink I was here; the next I was gone.
Glove snickers at his own comment. It's almost pathetic the way he's the only one who finds himself that entertaining. Bothered by the fact he thinks no one is listening, he lightly slugs Lordy in the shoulder, “That was funny, right?”
Lordy pulls himself out of the depths of his thoughts. It's like he's forgotten where he is. That we're sitting in a bar, a very noisy bar. A very crowded one where it should be impossible to forget the present. His eyes look distant, his jaw locked. Lines of frustration throb on his forehead. I've seen him get like this once or twice before.
He prepares to answer when a voice chimes in—one we all hate. “Hey, Lordy, saw that picture you were gawking at earlier. That your girl or your sister?” Foster and his buddies are headed toward the bar.
Foster can't resist picking a fight. I hate soldiers who act that way. We have enough to fight without this uncalled-for bullshit.
While his buddies hover by our table, cackling it up like the jackals they are, Foster leans down closer to Lordy's face, right by his ear, and says loud enough for us to all hear, “But since you're from the South, they're probably one and the same, huh?”
Lordy reacts before either of us are able to stop him. With a quick draw of his hand, he bangs Foster's face against the edge of the table. Foster bounces off the edge and soars backwards.
As his buddies prepare for a battle, Glove and I rise to our feet, more than ready to throw punches in Lordy’s defense. Acting as a border between Foster and Lordy, I hold out a hand of caution, palm up, while I shoot Lordy a quick glance.
His face doesn't look as dead as it did a minute ago. Now there's light back in his eyes, a small twinge of panic on his face, as he looks down at Foster, who is struggling to get on his feet.
“Next!” The petite cashier calls out to me, snapping me out of my thoughts. Maybe making Howard bleed wasn't the best idea, but I'm starting to wonder if, when it comes to females we care about, that's just how some of us men get.
Thankfully, the grocery store isn't as busy as I'm sure Sir was hoping. The entire trip takes a little less than forty-five minutes. Maybe I can still steal a moment with Haven while Sir is getting the grill going, though with my luck, he's going to force me to do that too in an another attempt to create space between Haven and me.
After I close the front door, the sound of Sir’s voice alerts me to proceed with caution. His tone surprises me. Stops me. Freezes me against the door. It sounds melancholy. Pensive.
“It's OK. You can call me Whiskey. Everyone else does.”
“OK . . . Whiskey. I'm sorry I interrupted. Please, what were you going to say?”
“I was trained, Haven. Disciplined to obey orders. Keep calm in every situation. Being levelheaded, even tempered is the difference between life and death as a soldier. And I always was, except when it came to her.”
Mom. The fact he's talking to Haven about her of all people gets my heart racing. He's rarely mentioned her to me, but now he'll talk to Haven about her as if it's no big deal. Why? What's his angle? What's the point?
“There was something about the idea of harm to her that sent my sanity out the window. Nothing could ever explain it. I went through years of training, the kind that breaks a man’s natural reactions. But when it came to her, I don't know. It was basic. I wanted to protect her.”
My head balances against the door softly. His words ring in my ear. I know what you're going through. No! I can't listen to this. I shouldn't. But, I can't force myself to move.
“I've seen the same blanket of instinct on Clint's face. I saw it when I walked in on him watching you sleep yesterday. I saw it when he escorted you through the party. I saw it today when he planted Howard's face against the car.”
My face twitches into a smile at his description. Maybe I don’t do everything wrong after all.
“He'd give up his life for you.” I would. “And that scares the hell out of me.”
In a very soft tone, Haven finally speaks up, “Me too.”
That makes three of us.
“Mr.
. . . Whiskey, I don't know what I'm feeling. It's all overwhelming.” God, I'm overwhelming her. That's not my intent. Damn it. Am I coming on too strong? Of course I am. But, I can't help it. “Part of me is scared, not just of him but his feelings. He comes on so strong and so fast. It's terrifying.” I bounce my head against the door—hard enough for a lesson for me but soft enough so they can’t hear. “I want to be normal, to be desired and loved. Part of me wants to be that girl that Clint wants me to be. I just . . . I just don't know right now.”
My free hand rubs the side of my head. I never wanted to feel like I was overpowering her. I never intended to tear her in half like this, but what could I expect? Given the situation. Given my actions. Of course she's feeling this way. She just needs time. I can give her time, at least 84 more days for a start.
82 Days Till Deployment
I roll over and extend my arm across her waist, pulling her into me. She slips beside me the way a key does into a lock, as easily as the air that fills my lungs. Feeling her faint scent of vanilla tingle my senses and wake up all parts of me, I raise up onto my side. Leaning over her, I place my lips to her neck and kiss softly, afraid to wake her but anxious to.
Her reaction is incredible. She lets out a soft moan of my name, “Clint.”
Excited, I drag my lips up to her ear to continue to hear the sound of her moaning. With each kiss, she moans a little louder, and I grow more excited. How the hell is she doing that?
“Clint, baby, that's how we got in this predicament.” She giggles and glances over her shoulder at me.
Not being able to stop my lips from caressing her, I continue and ask between kisses, “What predicament?”
At that moment, she rolls over onto her back, her dark, loving eyes bright and inviting. I lean down to kiss her on her lips, while my hand goes to slide across her stomach.
“The one you're touching.”
My face looks down sharply to a small but obvious bump. “You're pregnant?”
She giggles at my reaction and strokes my face, “Really, every morning?”
She's pregnant?! We haven't even had sex yet! How did she, uh, we . . . .this . . . What the hell is going on? I stare at her body, which is gorgeous. There are very faint scars that I can barely see, her skin has a lively glow, and her body is at least two sizes bigger than when I first rescued her. How?
“You would think the luster of me being pregnant would wear off on you by the fourth time, but–”
“Fourth time?” I exclaim, sitting up. At that point, I see two framed photos on her side of the bed. One is a picture of her in a beautiful, white wedding dress with me in my dress blues snuggled up beside her. Our wedding? The one beside it is three children climbing all over her, with her laughing, all of them beautiful, all of them relatively young, all of them boys. Our children?
Concerned, she sits up a bit, the sheet revealing her slinky, white sleepwear. “Are you feeling OK?”
I look down at my hands, spotting a white gold band on my left ring finger. Holy shit! I'm married! I'm fucking married! And I have kids! Holy hell, I have kids. . . . I have got to be dreaming. I mean, I must be dreaming. Oh. Wait. I must be dreaming. I must be dreaming! I have a wife and a family, all the things I swore I would never have, not only because I wouldn't live that long but because I couldn't imagine any female I would want to spend that much time in my life with.
I nod. My hand strokes her bump again, a knot growing in my throat. What do I do for a living? Surely, I'm not putting my own family through what Sir put us through. Long months away from them. Missing the important things like the first time they walk or their baseball games. My body moves again, and the metal around my neck clinks, shattering the hope that I would be different than him. But I need to be different than him.
“Still hoping it's a girl, huh?” The words cause my grim face to break into a smile. She's glowing, not just pregnancy glowing but a ball of live energy buzzing before me. Because of me. Because of what we've made together. Because of the endlessly growing family we're raising. I nod at the question.
“Good , because I don't think I can raise four boys while you're away. It's hard enough with three.”
Suddenly, very defensive, I snap, “Are they misbehaving? Are they troublemakers? Are they–”
She giggles and places a hand to my bare chest, lightly grazing my tags, “Aw, come on, Clint. You know how your boys are.”
I don't. I guess I should since this is my dream, but I don't. I should know their names and favorite sports. I should know their ages and what they look like when they're excited. I should know what they're allergic to, what they look like when they cry, how peaceful they are when they sleep, but I don't. I don't know anything. In fact, it feels more like I stepped into someone else's dream and am just playing out the role. But who else would dream this for me? Why am I dreaming this for me? Why am I dreaming?
Her mouth tilts up and kisses mine rather aggressively, yanking me away from the pattern I was spiraling into. It's hot. Excited. An obvious hunger stirring inside her that only I can feed. That she wants only me to feed. She pulls away and raises her eyebrows at me, temptation sparkling around her face. “Boys are still asleep.”
I lean down to kiss her again when her stomach tosses a hard kick. My child is kicking. My fourth offspring is kicking, its life rolling around inside her. Our life. In disbelief, I smile at the feeling. Is this what I'm keeping buried in the Pandora's box of my head?
“Are you OK?” she says so softly I almost can't hear her. I nod, but she repeats, and this time, her lips aren't moving, “Are you OK?”
I violently jerk myself awake to see Haven on the edge of the couch, stroking my leg softly. My head swivels quickly, and I observe that I am at home.
“Are you OK?” She cringes like she did something wrong.
“Yeah, I'm fine. Why?”
“I got up to pee and was lying back down when I accidentally nailed you pretty hard in the stomach with my knee,” she says, concerned, terrified her fragile figure could cause me harm. She clutches the edge of the couch.
“Yeah, I'm fine.”
She looks relieved. “Were you dreaming?”
Protective, after all it is the first one I've had in what feels like a lifetime, I answer, “I was.”
“Thought so. You were moaning out loud.”
“What? I was–”
“Nothing too graphic,” she quickly calms me down and giggles. I love that sound. I could listen to that sound for a lifetime. “Just happy little sighs. Good dream?”
“It was.”
She tilts her face at me like she's reading exactly what it is I don't want read. “Do you not dream very often?”
I sit up beside her, my arms resting on my legs, “No.” My mouth stumbles for a second, unsure if I should share this information, but for some reason, not being able to stop, I explain, “I haven't dreamed in a while.”
“Are we talking a few days or a few months?”
“Years.”
“Years?” her voice croaks out. “Are you serious?” I nod, embarrassed until I see a look of remorse in her eyes.
“It's OK. It's not quite a medical disorder. They thought it might be, but all the tests came back fine. They can't explain it. They just assume I dream and don't remember anything from them. The docs on base say it's a blessing. Won't have battle scars replaying in my subconscious.” My words seem to ease the regret of her asking. “Less likely to have any posttraumatic stress.”
“That's a good thing, though, right? With all the things you've seen.”
“In ways. Yes.”
“I would hate if you had nightmares the way I do.” The quiet reminder that her past is still eating at her tenses my body up once more.
Sensing the effect of her words, she shifts closer to me, the scent of vanilla the same as it was in my dreams. My crotch recognizes the smell as well, like it's a secret trigger to help it rise.
“So, what were you dreaming about?”
My eyes lift up and fall into hers. They're wide in anticipation, hoping that I'll jump in and share my secrets.
“You.”
Her face lights up. I'm not sure if she knows it immediately, but as soon as she realizes it, she looks away. She's blushing, and it is the most beautiful sight. As soon as she's gained her composure, she leans back against the couch, tucks her legs beside her, her knees landing right on the edge of my thigh, and asks, “What about me?”
Do I tell her? Do I tell some girl I just met a couple days ago that I was dreaming of a future with her? Marriage? Children? A normal girl would run screaming. This isn't a normal girl, though. Nothing about this situation is normal. Not her, not me, not how we came together. The only aim for normality we have is to figure it out together.
The doorbell rings, and in a way, I'm thankful I don't have to make that decision right now. If I'm fortunate, she'll forget about it, and I can keep this dream my own dirty little secret.
I slide from underneath her legs and pop up and over to the door, not surprised when I see Lexi Striker through our peephole, our own little slice of education perfection married to the good doctor himself. From her pristine, pressed, black suit and the way her jet-black bobbed hair is pinned away from her porcelain skin, I gather she's done at the university for the day. Fall semester, she teaches early classes; spring semester she teaches afternoon classes. She claims it keeps her balanced.
Opening the door, I wipe the smitten look off my face, unsure that I'm ready for the world to see it, unsure they would even know what to do with it. “I assume you're here for a ‘lesson’ with Haven.” Although the team supplied the new Haven’s identity with a diploma, Lexi has taken it upon herself to give the real Haven the education she needs—and seems to crave. She's attempting to do it in a way so that Haven doesn't feel much pressure or like she's an uneducated child who still needs to be taught. Just another step on her road to normal, I hope.
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