The second the door closes, she reaches for the hem of her tank top to peel it off. Before I can say anything to stop her, her pink-cased cell phone begins ringing loudly and obnoxiously with some trendy pop song I tend to skip on the radio. The song sucks.
Leighyani leans around me, swipes it, and lets her eyes cut left and then right. This is one of the many signs that lets me know there's something she's not telling me. “I, uh, have to take this. I'll be right back.”
And as quickly as she came into this room, she's gone. Taking a deep breath, I relax. Having her in the other room gives me time to conjure up the most polite way to tell her it's over without emotionally destroying her forever. Geez, I knew this was a bad idea when we started sleeping together. Gut. Always go with the gut, Grim.
Slowly pacing around the room, I notice a golden condom wrapper peeking from under her bed, barely visible since her red silk sheets are drooping down. Cautious, I approach slowly, very well aware I could be wrong. It could be something else. It's not. It's a Trojan condom wrapper right next to a Houston Texans hat. She hates hats. Says they don't flatter her face or her hair.
Backing away from the bed, I roll my eyes. She's been sleeping with someone else? So all that talk about wanting only me, being faithful, was bullshit—bullshit that, had I not been caught up in the temporary notion that maybe I wasn't as dead inside as I thought, I had somewhat believed. Bullshit that—what the hell is that smell?
I swing around and notice the faint smell of expensive cologne lingering near her bathroom. With the tip of my foot, I push the door open, hands in my pockets. Do not touch a thing, Grim. Everything needs to stay exactly where it is. Observe just like they taught you in the corps. My eyes scan past the scattered makeup, hung-up bras, and hair products to the large, lost white sock, clearly too big to be hers, in the corner by the toilet. Her laundry hamper is doing a poor job of containing her clothes. I notice a pair of boxers rolled up in it, trying to hide under a white sweater.
I hear her footsteps approach, and the door swings open, “Sorry, baby, I–”
“You know, Le Le, I gotta go. I'm supposed to meet a couple of guys from the corps in twenty minutes.”
“Oh.” Her voice sounds almost hurt. And I almost care. “Come on. I'll walk you down.”
I should be thankful she's giving me an out, that none of this will be my fault. She wanted this fucked-up relationship. She wanted to be attached to me. Now she wants to be free. Perfect for me. No more pretending to give a shit. No more having to make a meaningless effort.
The door pops open, revealing to me a shit-eating grin on a face that always manages to make my skin crawl just a little bit, “Clint.”
“Howard.”
“Didn't know you were home.”
“Not surprised.”
Immediately, I notice how tense he is. His hands twitch, and his weight keeps shifting between his feet. He's always been a shifty bastard, but even this is a bit much for him. If I cared, I'd dig deeper, but I hate him almost at the level I hate Sir.
Leighyani leans against the doorframe, hands on her hips, “What's up, Howard?”
“Just need my Texans hat.”
His hat. His sock. His boxers. I freeze. My memory clicks like the clip of a gun snapping into place. His smell. Now Leighyani is his girl. His alone.
Haven gasps.
“After I couldn't avoid her anymore, I told her it would be best if we went back to being friends. No more talk of a future. No more being faithful to me. No more sex between us. She was furious at first, eventually started dating, and I assumed got over me despite her recent revamping of her supposed interest of me. That all happened three years ago. I didn't want her then. I damn sure don't want her now. So, please believe me when I say there's nothing to worry about.”
She offers me a tender smile as the boiling water swishes and pops behind her. My eyes stay glued to hers. The idea of looking anywhere else is not one I'm willing to entertain. I just let out top secret information about who I really am, and she didn't run. She didn't flee. She didn't even flinch at it like it was that abnormal. Maybe she could love me too.
Post a light conversation and a delicious meal of shrimp linguine with zucchini and a sun-dried tomato sauce, fresh garden salad, and homemade bread sticks—all of which I just want to say tasted restaurant worthy—I suggest we sit down on the couch for a little R&R. Without any argument, Haven grabs her latest book, Jane Eyre, throws her legs over mine, and shifts in close. My arm is resting behind her on the back of the couch, but my fingertips lightly touch her silky hair. Wow. It's amazing how fast her body is healing.
A simple click, and the TV pops on, the mindless escape from reality so many crave. It dulls the senses much like drinking, yet without the hangover or extra calories. I prefer bad sitcoms to anything else, but once in a while, I'll watch the news to try to understand what the rest of the country thinks is going on in the world.
“Next on the evening news,” the mustached anchorman starts. His face is aged. His pale skin, coated in makeup, looks like an old man doll. His eyebrows are as thick as the mustache, big and brown, almost bulging out of his slender face.
My eyes wander over to Haven, who is glancing up from her novel to see the report. I let my stare linger down the curves of her face, to her neck, where my tags lie so comfortably, like they've always belonged there. Maybe they always have. Unable to help myself, I let my eyes sink lower to the curves of her boobs, which perk up in her light yellow sweater, illuminating my sexual frustration. A small bulge rises in my pants, and I adjust in my seat. Stop staring at her, Grim. It'll help.
Slowly, her head turns to face me, her eyes falling into mine, both of us sinking into this moment, this moment where all I have to do is slightly lean over and kiss her.
“The victim, who was stabbed in the throat with a pencil, finally passed away this evening.” Unexpectedly, the moment disappears as the anchorman steals the attention I was just claiming.
The TV shows a picture of young male, his pale face smiling, in what appears to be a high school photo. The guy has hazel eyes, a crop of jet-black hair swooshing from a side part, and a clean-shaven look. Looks like nothing special to me, but it obviously means something to Haven.
“According to the latest investigation, it is still yet to be determined if the stabbing was an accident or homicide. The victim's father has still not been located for questioning.”
At those words, Haven throws herself off of me, covers her mouth, and rushes to the downstairs bathroom off the side of living room. The speed is so outrageous that I feel like I've got whiplash.
Like an on switch has been flipped, something inexplicable takes over, much like in the field when my instincts know what to do without guidance. Like I was programmed to take out a target from birth, my body instantly pounces to its feet and rushes to Haven just as she flings her face into the toilet bowl. My hands swipe her hair gently out of the way. I can honestly say this wasn't how I imagined I'd grab her hair for the first time.
With my free hand, I gently caress her back, firmly but slowly. Whatever's escaping her needs to be gone, yet I want her to know I'm here. Strong. Unmovable for her.
The unleashing continues at an unreal rate. My senses are becoming overwhelmed from the smell, the sound, the fact that I can taste the pain of every heave tickling the back of my esophagus. Breathe, Marine. You can do this. You've handled worse, at least body fluid wise. Watching Haven in this kind of pain feels like I've been thrown in the pit of hell to rescue an angel but don't know how.
When her body stops convulsing under me, she lifts herself up and eases her back against my chest. Drained. I reach for the hanging hand towel and softly wipe her lips before patting away the droplets of sweat.
In a delicate whisper, I offer, “How about we head to bed?”
Haven looks up at me, her eyes filled to the brim with tears. Tactfully, I stow the towel and stare down at her, not willing to force her anywhere until she's willing to move. I don'
t know what triggered the vomit attack, but I damn sure don't want to trigger it again.
After she nods, I help Haven up and to our room, where I give her a bit of privacy to change into one of my old T-shirts and a pair of pajama shorts. Call it compromise. Mindy loaded her up with tons of designer wear, but I think she looks more beautiful in my old Ts. Something about seeing her in something that belongs to me gives me an ease I don't know how to explain. I don't know that I care too.
Once I'm changed into a pair of pajama bottoms and a tank top, I crawl in bed, let her head nestle on my shoulder, and extend one arm around her. I won't push her to talk. I just won't. She deserves her space and respect. Maybe I should act as if everything is normal? Maybe I should just behave like this is any other typical night in bed.
I reach for the crime novel that's sitting on my nightstand beside her Wuthering Heights and, in my steadiest voice, ask, “Do you wanna read for a while?”
She shakes her head slowly. I give her another look, seeing the tears back in her eyes on the brink of falling. I can't stand to see her heart aching like this. I can't stand not knowing how to fix it. I hate being so fucking helpless. Suddenly, there's a sharp pain in my chest. I wince. What the fuck is that?
Trying to brush off the feeling, I pull her in closer, open my novel with my free hand, and do my best to focus on the printed words. They seem to appear so empty even though they fill the entire page. They seem meaningless. Vacant. I can't concentrate while she's in pain in like this. Hell, pretending is bringing on the headache of the century. Come on, Grim. Get it together. Treat this like any other mission. Objective: Remain calm, so Haven knows she’s safe. You can do this, Marine.
Her fingertips start to rattle the dog tags, the clinking of metal somewhat soothing. She knows I'm here. Even if she doesn't feel safe, she knows where she is. Whatever prison she's trapped in inside, she's still here, still with me.
“About earlier . . .” she whispers, my finger turning the page even though I can't recall a word I just read.
“You don't owe me an explanation.”
“No, but you deserve one,” she declares in a hushed tone. “I want to give you one.”
Closing the book, I lean over and place it back where it came from, my breaths long and slow. The anticipation of what's coming has me on edge. Whatever she says, I will not love her any less. She will still be mine. I will still protect her. Everything is going to be all right. Fuck, though. If that's true, then why do I feel like what she's about to say is going to fuck my world up.
“The news report victim was . . . Left Arm.”
Clueless to who or what that is, I remain silent.
“Left Arm was Old Man Banks’s oldest son. He was sent to watch over me when Old Man Banks would go into town for a couple of days. Left Arm was just as rough as Old Man Banks when I didn't obey, though instead of the gun, Banks gave him a bat to use when I wouldn't succumb. He, unlike his father, often lacked . . . stamina. Moments with him were significantly shorter but by no means less painful.”
My body unconsciously wraps my other arm around her and constricts, tight like the gates of guardianship they should be. Tight like heaven's heavily guarded territory. There's no other way to hold an angel with broken wings when such an evil, life-sucking force is exposed.
“But after a while, there was no pain, just numbness. I was thankful for it. I'd been thinking about ways to escape. Green Eyes, Banks’s other son, brought his science books when he came. He didn’t have any interest in me, so I read his books, too. I studied hard where vital arteries and organs are. For weeks, I sharpened a pencil with vengeance and hatred. I was not going to miss my chance. Old Man Banks left that morning right on schedule. Left Arm came, and I stabbed him. Once. Precise. In the throat. It bought me enough time to run. I stole his car. I had no idea how to operate the thing, but I guess, when you need it, your body takes over. Anyway, I drove until I ran out of gas and started running again. Old Man Banks always said, if I tried to run away again, he'd kill me. So I knew, I knew I had no choice but to keep going. And I didn't stop until . . .” The tears fall onto her cheek. “Well, until . . .”
“Until you collapsed in my yard,” I whisper, pushing a strand of hair out of her face. At that, she curls against me like a wounded animal who is ashamed of the injury she bares. Holding her tighter, I lean down and plant a soft kiss on the side of her forehead, knowing only one word can express everything, “Alpha.”
80 Days Till Deployment
She killed someone. Haven, the beautiful angel who landed in my front yard, murdered someone. She'd killed her keeper's son for a chance to live. A life for a life. This should change everything about the way I view her. A couple days ago she was this innocent, misused princess who had escaped the wicked clutches of an evil stepfather-like person—a little fairy tale-ish, but give me a break, that's how it sounds—but now she's not some damsel in distress. You could call her a cold-blooded killer, but that would be a lie. She's a warrior. The best kind. One with an innocent face and ruthless means. I'm not in love with some girl who was mistreated and abused. I'm in love with someone who, the more I get to know her, reminds me of myself. She has her own walls to keep the outside world out crumbling at the same speed as mine. She wanted to keep her name. She wanted to expose herself. I hide from mine, but I’m being exposed anyway.
After she tells me about killing Left Arm, as she referred to him, she slips quickly into the grasp of sleep. For a while, I just stare at her, knowing her secret is safe deep within me but at the same time wondering if I really know the girl cuddled up on me. It takes a couple of hours, but eventually, I realize I'm getting to know her much like I'm getting to know myself. One brick at a time. The fact she killed someone to set herself free doesn’t change my love for her in the least bit. It’s just one more fact to add to the angel I’ve been nursing back to health.
Though Haven seems to have found some relief in revealing her secret, it keeps me from sleep. Should I tell Sir? This information would make his search that much easier. I don’t want to misuse the trust Haven left in me by telling her story. But, it's more important that we find that bastard and give him his death sentence.
Haven and I spend the day around the house, tidying up, doing laundry, watching old movies like Casablanca and Romeo + Juliet, the version with Leonardo because I can tolerate it, and enjoying each other's company. This is the way it should be. Always.
By the early evening, we've managed to migrate back to our room, where we end up staying until time for dinner with Sir and his girlfriend. I can’t hold that subject at bay any longer.
“How many are you supposed to be able to do?” Haven asks from our bed as I sit up from doing push-ups. In downtime, she reads. I like to push toward those Spec Ops requirements.
“Personal goal is fifty a minute.”
“I think you can do it.” Her encouragement makes me smile. A small, devious smirk crawls on her face, “The question is, can you do it with extra weight?”
Puzzled, I nod, “Probably. What kind of weight?”
She searches around with her eyes before finally grabbing our books off the nightstand. Both of them are light, and together, they really won't make a difference. I reposition myself for more push-ups. She places the books on my back. Honestly, it feels no different, but seeing her impressed face makes me wish it did. I do fifty push-ups in just under a minute, knowing the real trouble comes from not stopping when you hit that mark.
“Impressive. What if I sit on you?” Her laughter is now growing louder.
It's by far the most beautiful sound I've ever heard in my life. She laughs, and the world seems to make sense. That sound and the fact that, with each passing moment, I'm more human doesn't seem to suck so much.
“I dare you.”
“Dare me?” She sounds like she doesn't believe it.
Haven pops up and suddenly saddles herself on my back. Still laughing, I start to push my body up and down, the sound of her laugh
ter louder and louder. Doing my best to keep my composure during this pretend training exercise, I hold back as much laughter as I can. Finally, I collapse and start laughing uncontrollably just like her.
She leans her face down, so it's snuggled beside me. With a push of her hair out of her face, she asks, “Not as light as I look, huh?”
Still in the mood to tease, I shrug as she slides off beside me, “Lighter.”
Her hand goes to playfully pop me, when I catch it and fold our hands together. I slide my body up, so I'm leaning down over her, wanting nothing more than to kiss her, something I have yet to do. Not sleeping with her is fine, understandable, respectable, but not kissing her makes me feel more and more like a chump. It's not completely my fault. Every time I go to make a move, something or someone gets in the way. Yeah, sure, I could do it quick and sloppy between running errands or doing chores, but I want it to mean more. That and, of course, I don't plan for it stop once it starts. At that moment, I watch her lips slightly part in an inviting way. Her eyes shift from mine onto my lips. Even her breathing has seemed to change, now shallow. Anticipating. All signs suggesting she may be thinking exactly what I am. God, I hope I’m not making this up.
“I’m home! She'll be here any minute!” Sir's voice interrupts the moment. The two of us sit up. She blushes as she looks down, but I don't. I'm not embarrassed we almost got caught kissing. I'm frustrated because it seems like she’s ready, but we just can't get there.
“We'll be right down, Sir,” I exclaim, rising to my feet and helping Haven up on hers.
I remember my first kiss. I was nine. She was ten. I looked older, so she didn't feel bad. I later found out she told her friends I was fourteen. She also told them it was the most amazing feeling in her life. Up until now, I never understood how something so simple could come with so much excitement. Waiting for the perfect moment to kiss Haven is like waiting for Christmas morning as a kid. You know Santa's coming, you know the gifts are going to be fantastic, you know it will have been worth all the wait, but you still can't help but feel like it's never going to come.
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