Hero to Obey: Twenty-two Naughty Military Romance Stories

by Selena Kitt

  For a few long moments they continued to stare, uncomprehending. And then Haden's mouth quirked up and he looked so much like Drew that Irene's heart squeezed itself along a knife blade and she felt tears welling in her eyes. "You mean he'll be like a cyborg."

  "What?"

  Jason piped up. "Cyborg. Mom. Like a transformer. Or a robot. That's so cool!"

  Irene bit the inside of her mouth, torn between laughing and crying. "Yes. Of course. Super cool."

  "Anakin Skywalker lost his hand!"

  Haden interrupted his brother. "Anakin was the bad guy. Daddy's not the bad guy."

  "Luke Skywalker did, too."

  "Yeah." They considered this for a moment, eying each other as brothers sometimes do, coming up with more mischief, she was sure. "Can we help Daddy pick out his arm? It has to be a cool arm, not an ugly one."

  "I know, I know! It can be an Iron Man one."

  "Iron man didn't lose an arm, that's a suit!"

  "But it would still be cool. And he could shoot out of the hand!"

  Irene couldn't handle it any more. "Boys! Your daddy will pick it out. Because it's his arm. He gets the one he wants. Okay? Now enough. Just… just…" she trailed off, unsure what she was asking from them.

  Haden and Jason quickly wrapped their arms around her waist—ye gods, when did they get this big? Their heads are above my shoulders—and Irene held them tight, dripping tears on their hair. "It's okay, Mom. We'll help daddy learn to throw a ball again." And that was it, she couldn't help it, she was sobbing, holding on to her babies and wondering when the world would go back to right-side-up again.

  Three days later she was back at work, and the boys were back in school. Normally animated, she couldn't even get up enthusiasm for explaining derivatives to her calculus class. Question after question was raised, and she decided the flip side of not being excited to explain it was not being disappointed when her students asked the same questions over and over in different ways.

  When the last student had filed out, she sat in the chair behind the desk, staring at the ceiling. Whenever she called, Drew wasn't awake. She felt an urgency to see him, to touch him, to reassure herself that he was alive and breathing. She had a passport. But she didn't have money for a plane ticket. Well, that wasn't exactly true. She did, if she pulled it out of their savings. He was what was stopping her. He'd said, 'tell her not to come'. Why?

  She texted his number again. Nothing. He probably still didn't have a new phone. It's only been three days. He's probably not even conscious yet.

  * * *

  Marianna sat in the kitchen mixing massage oils five days later. Irene sat at the table across from her, feeling useless. Carmen sat next to Marianna.

  "I can't stay long. I was hoping we'd have heard something by now."

  Marianna's voice was soothing, the same voice Irene had heard her use for nervous clients, for other people in pain. "I was, too. But sometimes these things take time. He's tough, your son."

  Carmen nodded. "So very tough. He's been like that since he was a boy."

  Marianna smiled. "Oh, I remember. He's stubborn, too. Wouldn't back down when Tony didn't want to sell him that motorcycle."

  Carmen laughed. "Oh, Mary and Joseph, he was so pig headed. He was fuming about that for the whole first week. He wanted to take it home and practice on our road. I told him, 'Andrew Watson, there are too many potholes on this road. You would break your neck! I'm glad that man didn't let you.'"

  Marianna nodded. "I think it worked out for the better in all the ways." She snuck a glance at Irene. "It gave him an excuse to see Irene once a week."

  Irene blushed. It had never really been discussed in her family. The day after Tony declared Drew competent to ride his new motorcycle on the open road, the day Irene was sure she'd never see him again, Drew had asked her on their first date. Her parents agreed without any questions, and in time it became simply the way things were.

  She spoke confidently, quickly, as if reassuring the mothers would reassure herself. "He's been wounded before, too. Remember when he was shot in the calf? He and Ken tied their legs together like it was a three legged race and made it out of the city to the ATV. I didn't even know about it until a week later when he had phone service again. So he's probably fine. Just concentrating on getting better."

  Carmen fingered the beads around her neck. "That was awful, him getting shot. But he's losing an arm. What will he do?"

  Irene spoke up. "He probably won't be able to stay in the Marines."

  "That's all he's ever wanted to be. Since he was a little boy."

  "I know." She hugged herself. "I know. I've been researching it. He's going to be devastated when they tell him. Maybe they already told him. I don't know. But I don't think he'll qualify. All Marines are riflemen. And I don't think there's going to be a way for him to qualify as a marksman with one arm, no matter how good his prosthetic is."

  "Oh, no." Carmen's eyes watered. "How awful. What a way to go."

  Marianna interrupted. "He's not going anywhere. Even if he has to retire from the Marines early, so what? He's a smart man. Strong. Tony wouldn't have given his permission for Irene to marry him if he wasn't capable."

  Irene cut in. "Mom!"

  Marianna continued serenely. "It's true. Tony would have put his foot down and kept you home, even if it meant turning you over his knee until you saw reason. The fact that he didn't, and gave you his blessing to marry Drew? That's enough for me. I know Drew will be just fine."

  Irene felt the bottom of her stomach drop out. What will he do? It's true, he's always wanted to be a Marine. As long as I've known him, that was the plan. And now? He won't be. And not only that, he's losing his right hand, his dominant hand. He won't be able to ride a motorcycle. He won't be able to spank me. He won't be able to even write his name. Abruptly she got up and ran to the bathroom, emptying her stomach of the eggs and bacon she'd just eaten. Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods. Why did you have to DO that to him?

  * * *

  She got a text eleven days later. It was simple. "I love you, apple cheeks." So she knew it was from Drew. She handed out copies of the test she'd planned on giving to the students the next day, and told them to work in groups to solve it. In the meantime, she quick-walked to the bathroom and stood in a stall, crying. She texted him back, but received no reply. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. She waited, her head leaned on the cold stall wall until her watch beeped with her five-minute end of class warning. She stepped out, washed her face, and hurried back to the classroom.

  "If you didn't finish the worksheet, that's your homework. We'll grade it tomorrow." For the few minutes between classes she concentrated on breathing slowly, putting Drew out of her mind. She ran through the square root table, backwards, until she could look at the students who were staring at her curiously without breaking down.

  "Hello, class. Today we're going to work on graphing curves with x or y axis symmetry."

  * * *

  Days dragged into weeks, weeks dragged into months. Irene decided she was just going to pretend it was a regular deployment. He wouldn't have been expected back for another three months anyway. Sometimes when he was gone he couldn't communicate much. Sometimes she went weeks without a text or phone call or Skype session. He was busy. Or the service was limited. Either way, this—this paucity of communication—still fell within the range of 'normal' for a deployment.

  Carmen had only stayed a few days before she had to get back to her job, but Marianna and Tony had decided to move in for the long haul. It was difficult. Their little house on Lejeune was two stories, but it had no basement—none of the houses did—and while it had an attic, it wasn't finished.

  Tony didn't let that stop him. He went to work, laying floorboards and hanging drywall. The boys were excited to help grandpa too, and in less than a week he'd had the entire attic enclosed and solid. The next step was figuring out how to get their beds up the ladder—there wasn't a staircase, something that made it even more exciting for t
he boys. So of course Tony took their bed frames apart and hauled them up the ladder, piece by piece, while the boys put them back together in their new room.

  "Pop, I hate to break it to you, but their mattresses will not fit through that crawlspace."

  Tony paused long enough to eye the two foot by four foot opening. "Honey, twin beds are only thirty-nine inches wide."

  Irene continued to look skeptical. "The roof is too low. Even if—if, mind you—you could get it through the opening, you still wouldn't be able to turn it around up there."

  "Honey, you need tha space. There ain't more space anywhere. It'll work."

  "I don't think it will!"

  "Honey, lemme handle it. You've got enough on your plate keeping up with the summer classes and that tutoring you're doing. Let me do this fer ya."

  "Pop, I don't want you to! It doesn't even matter anyway, because who knows how long we're going to be able to keep the house if he's discharged! I want it to be back to how it was and I want Drew!"

  Tony put down the railing he was carrying to embrace his daughter. "I know, honey. But life ain't fair, and I'm here. Now you go on and git yourself a nice glass of lemonade and sit on the porch an' enjoy the breeze for a bit. You understan' me?"

  He continued to rub her back until she gave in. "Okay, Pop." She sniffled, and went to do as he told her.

  * * *

  The attic finished, the boys were delighted with their raised perch. They could see farther from the attic windows than they ever could from their regular bedroom windows. Marianna and Tony moved into their old bedroom, which gave them somewhere else than the living room to sleep and keep their things. Much as Irene hated to admit it, it did decrease her stress to have her living room back to how it was. Or, mostly how it was. Marianna kept her massage table in the corner now, along with a set of curtains to close off one side when she had a client. There were two more sets of bike gear crowding the hall, but Irene felt like she could relax a little more now and not feel that her parents were watching every moment. It also gave her space to have friends over and socialize again.

  "Have you heard from Drew recently?" Beth leaned on the arm of the couch, her feet tucked under her and a glass of wine in her hand. Gerard had been promoted on a similar schedule to Drew, and was still in Drew's platoon.

  Irene shook her head. "He's texted a few times. No calls. No Skype. He won't tell me anything about how he's doing. Just asks about the boys. Asks about me. I had to hear it from his CO that he was released from the hospital in Germany when he was on his way to California. To the military hospital there for rehab for a few months."

  Joan perked up. "California vacation, baby! Woot! Why did they send him there instead of here? The hospital here is fantastic."

  Irene picked at her skirt. "That's the thing. The CO apologized. Told me Drew requested the California base specifically. To be further away. From me. And that he had requested no visitors. No calls. Nothing."

  Beth sat up. "What in the hell?"

  Joan set down her wine. "What the fuck?"

  "I know. I know." Irene picked up her own glass and took a swig. "That's what I said. I couldn't—why would he say that? Why doesn't he want to be here? With me? Why can't he just come home? Gods dammit!" She began to cry.

  "He's hurt." Beth leaned back again. "He's hurt and he's hiding."

  Joan frowned. "That doesn't make sense."

  Beth flicked a practiced eye over the younger woman. "You wait until Mark has been deployed. You'll understand. They have to be unbelievably hard out there. Killing machines. There isn't a good way to acknowledge that they need help. He can't admit it. So he's not."

  "But I've always been here for him. Always. Isn't that enough?"

  "Baby, it's not your fault. He's not doing it to hurt you. He's trying to protect you."

  Irene shook her head. "No. That's not protecting me. I need him. I need him here."

  Joan leaned back again, frowning. "I don't know. If Beth is right, that makes sense. He doesn't want to be a burden to you. He doesn't want you to be stressed out."

  "I AM stressed out! I can't bear it!"

  "So say fuck it, girl, and get your ass to California."

  Irene nodded, but her stomach was in knots. Could I defy him? That's… that's always been a thing… obedience to him when he stated an order.

  * * *

  Two months in, she couldn't bear it anymore. She booked a ticket, and sent him a text. "I'm coming to see you. I'll be there next week."

  The reply was immediate and harsh. "NO."

  "What the fuck? I love you. I have to see you. I have to be with you. I need you."

  "It's not up to you, apple cheeks."

  She'd thrown the phone across the room, hating herself for breaking it, for having to waste time and money to get it replaced, for not being able to see if he'd said anything else afterward. But it kept her from arguing with him.

  She canceled the ticket, got a credit towards her next flight but no refund. She hated Drew. She hated life. She hated the Marines. She hated whoever built the most gods-cursed IED in the history of man. She hated that the USA was too big to drive across in less than a day. She hated that the boys were nonchalant about the fact that their father was missing a limb. She hated the war, she hated the desert, she hated California. She immersed herself in taking over everything without his input.

  * * *

  It was Saturday, a month before her birthday, and she still didn't know when Drew would be discharged from the hospital. Every time she texted she'd asked for permission to go see him, and every time he'd told her no, until he got fed up enough to tell her she was no longer allowed to ask. She obeyed; then she stopped asking him about anything. She barely ate. She slept as long as she could. She watched the boys spend time with their grandfather and wished it were time with their father instead.

  There was a knock on the door. She got up and stumbled down the hall. "Jason, Haden, haven't I told you to remember to take your keys with you?"

  She opened the door. Her mouth dropped open and her heart broke. He spoke. "My keys are somewhere in the sands of Afghanistan." She wrapped him up tight in the biggest hug she could manage while her sobs threatened to break her chest apart.

  "Oh, gods, Drew! Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you call? Why couldn't I see you? Why couldn't I visit? Drew, gods be damned, you hurt me!"

  He stood still, taking her tears and her questions and her bitterness, stroking her back with his left hand. "I'm sorry. I needed the time. I needed to learn to be strong for you—for us. I couldn't do that when I first came back. I needed to focus on just myself for a time."

  I would have been a burden. I shouldn't have asked. Finally, she got up the courage to peek. She opened her eyes. He had a prosthetic. It was pale, the wrong color for his skin, and didn't appear to do anything but fill in his shirt sleeve.

  "May I?"

  She extended a hand towards his fake one, and he inhaled slowly. "Yes."

  She touched the hand, repulsed by the plasticy feel of it. Her fingers slid up the fabric of his sleeve to the elbow—it seemed this was just a basic prosthetic, one for traveling, maybe, so he didn't attract stares? There it was. The straps that held it on, the warmth of his flesh. She felt more tears slipping down her cheeks. "I'm so sorry. I love you so much."

  He wrapped his left arm around her and held her close. "I know. I'm sorry too. I didn't mean to hurt you… I promised I'd take care of you and the boys. And I couldn't even take care of myself for a time."

  She shook her head, but inside she was eaten up by doubts. Could he still take care of us? Or am I going to have to do what I never wanted to do before, take on the role I so desperately need him to fill? I'm no alpha. I don't want to be. But without him…

  There was no more time to talk. The boys came around the corner and barreled into him with joyous shouts. "DADDY!" They almost knocked him over in their joy and then he was back to normal, joking and laughing with them. Irene watched them, but
the doubt was there. He is a good man, a good father. But he can't take care of us. Not like this.

  * * *

  There was something wrong. It hurt to breathe, to move, to do anything at all. Irene functioned—she got the kids up in the morning, fed them, watched as they ran out the door to the bus. She went to work and pretended nothing was wrong. She came home and continued to work, grading papers or designing lesson plans. Marianna took over the housework so that she wouldn't need to be bothered, considering it was nearing the end of the semester, and exams. In between, Marianna took massage clients; soldiers, their spouses. Tony set up shop in their garage and fixed motorcycles for the soldiers on base. Drew was fine with the boys—to them, it was a great adventure. They took advantage of his lesser skill with his left hand in throwing balls or hitting balls or dunking balls or whatever sport they were into on whatever particular day, but their laughter gave Drew a reason to smile and work on improving his dexterity with that hand.

  It was at night, with Irene, that he was different. He reached for her the first night, but she didn't respond, couldn't. She hated that her love warred with her fear that he wasn't enough, wasn't her alpha anymore. He released her, turned away. She cried, the first time he did that. Sniffling as quietly as she could, she hoped he didn't hear but was sure he did. He never mentioned it.

  So night after night she lay awake, perfectly still, her breathing deep and slow and even. She didn't think he realized she was still awake most nights. He would toss and turn. Sometimes he muttered to himself, and she strained her ears to hear the words, but never could.

  He didn't make decisions anymore. She didn't let him. It was so much easier to just plow ahead. He's busy. He has to go to rehab. And his counselor. And do PT to strengthen the rest of his body after too long in a hospital bed. I can't keep leaning on him. It wouldn't be fair. If she spent an hour researching the practical implications of which neighborhood to move to, that was an hour she wasn't falling apart in his arms. He was on terminal leave—the last bit of time he had before being discharged—and so he had nothing to do but learn to adapt. Besides the necessary appointments, he spent time with soldiers he'd served with.