by Lush, Tamara
She shook her head and stared. "I was reading. Just going to bed. Need to be up early."
I glanced away, unable to hold her intense gaze. "What were you reading? Do you still like manga and anime?"
Jessica nodded. "Yeah. But I was reading a non-fiction book on the Everglades."
"That was the one thing I didn't get a chance to do when I was here last—see the alligators there. It was something I always wanted to do."
She smiled. "I remember. So we should go." She paused, then stammered, "I mean, you should go."
"I'd love to—with you. We could go on my bike. Gotta get you a helmet, though. I'll take care of that."
"I'd...I'd like that," she finally said.
I perused a shelf, feeling hopeful. She'd apparently gotten over her annoyance about Megan enough to spend time with me. For a second, I imagined us on my bike, her arms wrapped around me as we sped down the road. The very idea made me happy.
"This brings back memories," I said, eyeing the contents of the lobby shelf. I glanced over at Jessica, who was standing by an overstuffed green velvet sofa, strumming her fingers on its arm. What was she like, the real adult Jessica who wasn't racked with grief? Was she silly and funny? Serious and bookish? I wanted to find out.
"It looks exactly the same as it did five years ago. Amazing," I continued. I ran my finger over the smooth, pink lip of a large conch shell. "I actually remember this shell. This was here back then, wasn't it? I remember my dad picking this up and putting it to his ear and pretending it was a telephone."
Jess nodded. "How is your dad?"
I released the shell and shrugged. "Fine, I guess. The same. He still worships money. And women."
Jessica frowned. Back when we were kids, I hadn't talked about my dad in those terms. Maybe because I hadn't been old enough to see my father for what he really was.
"I don't think he knows about your mom, though. I was going to tell him the next time we talk."
"You didn't tell him during your conversation last night?"
Oh, right. I was supposed to have called my father last night, and she'd remembered. I apparently couldn't expect to slip anything past her.
I shook my head, then ran my fingers over some shells and framed photos of Palmira Island.
Jessica puffed out a small laugh. "Your dad. He was a piece of work. I liked him, though. I remember him being funny. He really made my mom laugh."
I nodded, and my gut clenched.
A strained silence filled the air. What did she know? Should I talk about it? No. I wouldn't bring it up now. I hated the idea of confrontation or causing her more pain in the wake of her mother's death—especially if she hadn't already heard the details.
I cast her a hopeful look, wanting to talk about happier times. "Do you remember that night our families had dinner in the courtyard together and we played charades? You and I were on the same team. We thought we were so smart by doing charades of dolphins."
That got her to smile. Good.
"And a cowgirl," she replied, laughing—a sound I loved. "It was pretty inventive that you were the horse. And I rode you into the room, trying to pantomime a rope and lasso."
It was my turn to grin. "I tried to hold your hand under the table that night."
A wistful look crossed her face. "Yep. I thought that was scandalous, wondering if everyone knew. But do you know what I remember about that night?"
"What?"
I knew exactly what she was going to say, but I wanted to hear the words. I stepped closer, my heart thumping wildly.
"That was the night you came into my room. The night we..." her voice trailed off.
It had been the night we lost our virginity. The night we promised to be together forever. The night I fell for her so hard, no other girl would ever measure up.
I took another step toward her. "It was all so intense, wasn't it?"
She nodded.
I stared at Jessica for several excruciating seconds while the room's temperature seemed to roar into heatwave territory. She reached up and traced my cheekbone with her fingers, and I sucked in a breath, suddenly conscious of how soft her fingertips were on my skin. My body had positively burned with anticipation ever since our slow dance.
"Jessica."
"I'm sorry for earlier," she whispered. "I overreacted."
With that, she kissed me, and the sensation sent a searing, aching need through me. Jessica was what I'd waited so long for. I knew there were reasons I shouldn't allow this pleasure, but it was impossible to control myself around her when she was here kissing me and taking charge.
Her soft mouth molded to mine, and she hummed ever so softly. Our lips feathered against each other. The kiss was slow and chaste and erotic all at once, and as my tongue found hers, I stroked her face. God, her skin.
I nibbled on her bottom lip, ran my tongue over its seam, then wound both hands into her hair and claimed her more fully, kissing her mouth as if I was drawing our past from her lips. I needed to feel her body next to mine. I kissed her with an open mouth, and an appreciative growl came from the back of my throat when I realized she was surrendering to me.
"A thousand times better than my memories," I whispered. "You're still a perfect fit in my arms."
I pulled back to look at her. Jessica's breath hitched, and her eyes flew open. She said nothing.
"I've wanted this for so long. I've wanted you for so long," I said.
She sank onto the couch, then reached for me, tugging at my shirt.
I slid my hand across her cheek and moved to kiss her again. Jessica moaned and put her arms around me.
The sexual spark between us hadn't vanished. It had become an inferno. She gave a little sigh-moan. It was a sound I'd waited for, and if she gave me the chance, I'd make damn sure she'd do it again many times.
"I shouldn't want you as much as I do," she whispered. "It probably isn't smart."
I swept a few curly locks of damp hair away from her face. There was a twinge of fear along with the delicious ache of desire. A twinge about the recent past and all I'd fled. "I could say the same."
"Then let's not say anything. Let's not overthink. Let's just do this."
Jessica cupped my face and brought my lips to hers, seeking a hard kiss. I obliged. Then I skimmed my hand down her waist, over her curvy hip, and pulled slightly away, realizing we were in the lobby of the damn hotel.
"Um, Jess?" My voice was hoarse, and I lifted my head to look around the room.
She cleared her throat, then murmured, "The reception area isn't the place for this, is it? Should we...?"
Something snapped in my brain, and I nibbled on her neck to stall. Sure, we could go to her room, but then I'd have to leave. I didn't want that. Didn't want it to feel like a one-night stand. I'd never had one with any woman, and I sure as hell wouldn't want it with Jessica.
But I also didn't want the inevitable conversation about why I couldn't stay the night. The last thing I wanted was for her to wake up and see me freaking out in some PTSD nightmare. And I didn't have any condoms with me, and that's how that pregnancy scare had happened five years before.
"Jess, I think we should—"
The phone on the desk erupted with an annoying buzz.
Startled, I reared up. Jessica squirmed out from under me, tumbled off the sofa, and moved to answer. By the time she reached the desk, she'd firmly belted her robe. With a clipped voice, she spoke into the phone, then hung up. That awesome sensual mood was shattered.
She turned and took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, I have to go. A guest is having problems with his air conditioner thermostat. They probably don't know how to set it properly. I need to help. But..." she looked at me, "you can stay."
I frowned. "You're going to a guest's room by yourself? At this time of night? Why don't you let me go instead? Or can I go with you."
She shook her head and moved close, ran her hands over my chest. "Thank you, Leo, but no. This is my business, and I know how to take care of myse
lf. I've been doing it for years. And what were you going to say while we were on the couch?"
"Oh. I was going to say I think we should take this slow."
She tilted her head and frowned. Damn. I wasn't handling this right. Of course she looked confused, because no guy in his right mind would turn her down.
"I mean, Jess, I don't have any condoms and I—"
She smiled, then wrapped her arms around me, and when she brushed her lips against mine, she seemed even more relaxed. Was she also relieved at not to be rushing into sex?
"You're right," she said. "Slow is better. I mean, we barely know each other. We'll talk later. I gotta go. Can't keep a guest waiting."
I paused and hugged her. "Sure, sure. But, Jessica? Are you really going to someone's room in a robe?"
She stepped away from me and rolled her eyes. "Of course not, silly. I'm going to change."
"Okay." I exhaled. "I'll go home. But will you please text me when you're finished helping the guest? It will make me feel better. Take down my number."
She went back to the desk to grab a pen, and as I rattled off my cell number, she scrawled it on a notepad. I leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek, pausing to wrap a curly strand of her hair behind her ear. She looked dazed when I pulled away, and there was a confused look in her eye when I said goodbye.
I understood. Sort of. As I walked down the hotel steps, a helpless, out-of-control feeling settled in my chest.
How long could I take things slow when fast was what I really wanted?
Fast and forever.
Chapter 17
Horror of the Past
LEO
Toward the end of my tour of duty, one of my jobs was to gather dead Marines' personal effects, bag them up, and send them home: their books, their clothes, the rings they had on their fingers when their arms were shot off. Anything stained with blood was considered a biohazard and couldn't be returned. Some of the things smelled like death. Others had the odor of moon dust. Everything had an unmistakable aura of fear.
Still, I was a Marine, and I was efficient, a machine, numbed by it all. I wore two sets of latex gloves as I inspected good luck tokens, letters, photos tucked in books and envelopes, all from dead people and all meant for their survivors. Everything was logged neatly into a laptop.
Sgt. Mark Leduc, 34, wife and two kids. They'd get his ID card, his wedding ring, and a small, blue plastic frog found next to his cot.
Lance Cpl. Jim Blanchard, 40. His wife received the letters she had shipped him and the unsent letter to her he had still been working on when he was killed.
Private Chris McLeod, 22. He had a photo of a beautiful redhead in his breast pocket when he died. On the back, it said: Come home soon in one piece, you sexy man! I love you, B.
With those things neatly categorized and bagged, I turned my attention to the letters. A long sheet of paper was draped over a stone desk. My task was to write to the loved ones of the deceased.
I took a pen out of my pocket, but instead of ink, blood flowed from the tip. That didn't faze me, though, because I was beyond all feeling.
When I looked up, all three dead men were standing before me, pointing.
At me.
Blaming me.
I woke, sweating and gasping. Looking around, I felt the area near my body, then exhaled when my fingertips found cotton sheets stretched over the futon mattress.
Thank fuck. I was still in my bed.
I hadn't had a sleepwalking night terror since New Orleans—probably because I hadn't taken any Ambien, or maybe because Palmira was a truly a calming influence—but the nightmares had returned, and I hadn't gotten a full night's sleep in days. Some weeks, I'd have none and think my mind was on the mend. Then they would come roaring back every night for a long stretch.
This was apparently one of those stretches.
The dreams always involved blood and death. Sometimes, the insurgents fired on me, and on the really bad nights, my nightmares would replay the day the IED blew up the Humvee and killed Steve. In the small moments of the night like these, I felt hopeless. Alone.
As a teenager, I had often wondered whether I had what it took to be a man and fight for something right and true like my father and grandfather. Now that I'd been to war, I was left wondering whether things were ever so black and white. My therapist back in New Orleans had said I not only suffered from PTSD, but also something called "moral injury," which involved guilt and shame over the ambiguities of war.
Flicking on a lamp, I grabbed my wallet from the nightstand. I opened it and extracted a photo. It was of Jessica. I must've stared at it a thousand times while I was overseas. She'd given it to me during that vacation. I hadn't looked at it since my discharge.
Over the years, I'd come to recognize I didn't know the real Jessica. Not the woman she'd become. Still, the photo was almost like a good luck talisman. In the picture, she smiled sweetly for the camera, her blue eyes shining, her cheeks smooth and girlish.
The photo represented the one perfect, innocent time in my life when Dad wasn't yelling at me, when I wasn't grieving my mother who died from cancer, when human suffering didn't haunt me.
In my darkest moments, and there were many, I liked to think back on the day I met Jess and we fell in love. How we'd locked eyes when she served me coffee at her family's hotel, and how I'd made her snort Sprite out of her nose when I did funny impersonations in my Cajun accent. I stared at the image and listened to the sound of the surf in the distance.
Jessica. Back then, she'd been sweet and tender, the opposite of my recent life. I was no longer innocent, and maybe the same was true of everyone. Jess certainly seemed like she had her own shit to deal with.
The two of us had been so young. Had we really been in love? The idea seemed more complicated now. Was I even capable of loving someone after what I'd been through? Had coming to Palmira been a good idea?
Still, her kisses. And her body. And her eyes. I'd never felt such craving, not even when we first met.
She'd texted me that she was okay, as I'd asked. I was grateful for that. I definitely didn't like the idea of her being alone at that hotel. What if something happened to her? What if some sleazy guest tried to get physical? What if she was hurt somehow? The very thought filled me with anger. I couldn't bear to lose another person in my life, and Jessica was impossibly special. Which was the trouble with getting close to people. They could get hurt or die. Their suffering would become mine.
Shaking my head, I smacked my mouth, which felt like it had been stuffed with cotton. Wearing only a pair of sweat-drenched boxers, I trudged into the kitchen and guzzled a giant glass of water.
I was one of the lucky ones. I didn't have a traumatic brain injury. My physical wounds had healed well, except for the scars on my arm. A doctor said plastic surgery could fix most of those, but for some reason, I wanted to keep them as a reminder of what I'd been through.
As if I'd ever forget.
My emotional wounds weren't even quite as bad as other men I knew. I didn't have rage issues and wasn't inspired to drink or take drugs to numb the night terrors. At least, I hadn't thought I had rage issues, but that night in the New Orleans park made me second guess my entire psychological state. Could I trust myself?
Shaking, I went to my laptop on the makeshift card table I used as a desk. I opened the computer and clicked to a bookmark I'd saved days ago, the New Orleans Times-Picayune. My eyes went straight to the headline on the left-hand side of the page.
Still No Arrests in Recruitment Center Arson.
I scanned the article. By now, the details were familiar. The Marine recruitment center building had been empty, and no one had been hurt. Thank God. Officially, there were no suspects, but an alphabet soup of federal, state, and local agencies were investigating.
Tonight, there was a new detail. I read the paragraph over and over. Officials had revealed they'd found a red T-shirt in the bushes near the strip mall and were analyzing the fabric for evid
ence and DNA.
Leaning back in the chair, I pushed out a breath. Of course I'd woken up shirtless and didn't recall what I'd been wearing earlier. Didn't I have a red shirt? Where was that red T-shirt? I got up and went to a small bureau I'd bought. Yanking open the drawer, I pawed through, hoping to jog my memory.
Yeah, I owned a red T-shirt. I’d gotten it when I'd done a 5K in high school. But it certainly wasn't in the drawer now. And it's not like I could call Dad and ask him to look through my crap back home.
Wide awake with fear, I went back to the computer and read more of the details I'd read a hundred times already, trying to squash the anxiety in my chest.
DNA. They'll be at my dad's house within a week. Or less.
My eyes scanned each sentence, read and reread every word. Unnamed police sources and local politicians opined the arson was the work of homegrown Islamic terrorists. But I knew otherwise. It had to have been me, right? I'd been nearby, had ash in my beard, couldn't remember anything about that night. And my red T-shirt was missing.
Was I capable of doing something like this?
Possibly.
I'd been so tweaked out earlier that day, my anxiety at record levels because it had been the two-year anniversary of Steve's death. Could I have slipped into a fugue state and taken out my rage on the place where I'd enlisted?
The answer terrified me.
I'd been so angry over Steve's death. There had been rumors of friendly fire, rumors that were never substantiated, but still... Friendly fire was more common than anyone wanted to admit, and it was often swept aside and never properly investigated.
If I was responsible for that arson, there was only one honorable thing left to do: turn myself in. But, no, I couldn't do it now. I wanted to do one perfect thing for Dad before humiliating him with this arrest. I'd make Dad proud, at least for a day or two. Then I'd go to the authorities.
I'd only need a week or two more to get the bakery up and running—if I didn't procrastinate and do stupid shit like carve sand sculptures in the middle of the day so I could stare at Jessica.