He'd been arrogant, demanding he have his way with her. She'd seen beyond him, past his need to be in charge and taking the lead, understanding he needed it to develop and flesh out his personality and find his feet in the difficult and deadly job he'd volunteered for. But that wasn't needed now and she was ready to help, like she had, clearing his emotions and head so they could start working as a team. They were becoming his base unit like a twelve man Special Forces A-team, a building block for all the subsequent levels.
“I'm sorry,” he understood how strong she was, how her love had carried both of them, this fragile part of himself he'd hid away, acting like it wasn't here, not part of his psyche, like all the other men he'd fought with. But it was a lie, one he faced and admitted at last, like he did every other aspect of a looming fight.
Men lost battles when they fooled themselves, or omitted facts that conflicted with their ego's need to dominate and prevail. Some things didn't feel good, like being surrounded by ten times more armed men, all in the hills you'd entered with minimal reconnaissance. A loser would fall back on platitudes and hopeful words of encouragement. Jabo never did, focusing his mind on finding a way, the tiniest chance they might make it out, going all out without hesitation or doubt. It worked, well enough he'd lived where others had died, proof enough for him and his superiors who'd seen something he finally understood. He was good at this shit.
His entire civilian fantasy disappeared in that moment. This was his destiny and he felt what his ancestor did at the Alamo, looking out at the huge number of well armed and trained men facing him and his much smaller garrison of volunteers. It was suicide and so be it, we'll fight it out here, and take as many as we can with us, delay them in hopes someone will plan better than I did and beat these assholes. And that was it. He'd climbed down from the wall and started issuing orders, firming things up, arranging groups, appointing leaders, explaining how they'd react when things went south, which they would, making it clear what he knew was in their minds as well. We're doomed but what the hell, we can't escape, so let's make our lives mean something.
That was Jabo's mental outlook, like his namesake, ready to do the impossible and ready to die though not wanting to, because what rational man rushes to death happily? Bullshit, but when it's inevitable you get one chance – either see the facts as they are and do your best or fool yourself, lie inside so you what, feel better? Fuck that.
“Apology accepted,” she shrugged, sensing he'd flashed through all the shit she'd gone through and resolved to accept her as a full partner, so they could be here, doing this, become a team nobody could pry apart, starting with the damn U.S. Government.
“I start right now, I mean we do,” she hugged him, crying a little, feeling her own terror he'd cut her out, forcing her to do the same and end this. She was strong but nobody is that strong, able to look through the candy store window their entire life.
“Good, good,” they kissed, short then longer, starting to make love, his hands moving over her body, light touches that excited her, increasing their breathing rate, two horny dogs going at it in the park in front of everyone – shameless and full of life.
“Wait,” she pushed him back and slapped his face, then laughed at his shock as he felt his hot cheek, asking angrily 'what the hell' with his eyes then he grinned as well.
She held up her hand and wiggled her ring finger, “what's wrong with this picture?”
“Today?” he asked and she nodded, adding her mother was going to raise hell about getting married in the closest church that could take the large bribe his father would offer to set up a wedding in minimum time.
“We should go empty a flower shop, hell two, you're rich right?”
“Damned straight, I love flowers, fill the whole damned church with them since all my relatives and friends aren't going to be there.” A little of her pain leaked out, what she was going to miss, the one great event in every female's life, a glorious, blow out wedding, start to finish, like a blockbuster movie. But what the heck, in the end it all faded, the flowers wilted and were tossed in the trash or mashed to dry in a scrap book.
“We're going to find out the fastest way to get married without you looking like a backwoods teenager I knocked up then tried to run out on,” a joke that was far too close to the truth, making her frown, feeling scared at last.
He hugged her, “you're in, that's what matters, right?” He let her go and looked in her eyes, “jitters are to be expected, shit I'm scared and that never happens.”
“Really, mister deadly is scared of little old me?”
“Shouldn't I be?” As a joke it sucked, again too true to be funny like he wanted it to be. He was so bad at this, being funny and romantic. He'd better stick to one or the other. He kissed her, feeling their desire rush back, faster this time, instantly clawing at each other's bodies before she broke the clinch again, panting and pink cheeked. She wanted him bad but he'd promised her they'd be married the first time and every time thereafter. They were very different from nearly all of their generation, conservative didn't quite explain it, or traditional. They loved each other and let it make the decisions for them, creating a bond he felt now – what kept erupting into flaming passion when they kissed.
She looked off then dug out her phone. “Mom, we're getting married today, I know, isn't it romantic?” She listened then cut her off, “Daddy is your problem, so get him in line, tell him to find a church big enough to fit his ego and set it up, that'll keep him out of our hair, which reminds me I will not go down the aisle without an hour in the chair of the best hair burner this town has to offer, that's your job,” she waited, “yeah, Army life, he's back in,” she frowned, getting pissed, “Mother, never say shit like that to me again, ever, understand?”
He got up but she pulled him back down, laying her hand flat on his crotch possessively and rubbing his hardened cock like it was a puppy needing attention. All Jabo could do was listen and look off, feeling the difference between facing the world alone and with a partner like her. He looked at Cathy, getting a shy smile as she kept calling different people, working out details at light speed, just like him, but feminine stuff he had no clue how to sort out and certainly not at the rapidity their union in a few hours required.
Fuck, she'd body slammed him again, taking over without asking, a tail on her very big dog. Fair enough, she's earned it, her day, as promised and he'd have to put up with it and then they'd clear the decks for action, what would start the moment they both felt it was right, when the ceremony and first fuck was over, their bodies cooling as they stared at the ceiling, seeing their life before them. Destiny had woven them into one...
“Saint Ignacio, situated on, you guessed it, Saint Ignacio street, guess they loved the guy,” her father laughed at his own joke. He was dressed in what passed for casual attire for him, a less pretentious suit, custom made but relaxed because he wore it more often, at home. She'd never seen him without a tie, even on Sunday morning or Christmas. That was one of his mysteries she'd given up on and never asked her mother to explain.
The huge limo held her, Jabo, her parents and her best friend, Clara from kindergarten til now, her sole buddy who got to hear everything, who'd made it possible for her to wait all these years for Jabo to get 'done' with it. Their wedding planner was mumbling to her mother who was checking off the lines they'd written out on the legal pad as the planner talked on his phone at the same time, marshaling the forces, arranging a restaurant back room and some semblance of a special dinner, 'off the menu', which was like eating dog shit to someone like him, who'd fly in ingredients and the chef to make the perfect reception meal – spare no expense. But this was an emergency wedding, with a deadline, a challenge her mother and the wedding planner had embraced after a few heated minutes of argument, later called discussion when they could laugh about it.
“Three trucks of flowers will be there, they promised, in...” he looked at his watch, his flushed face as pink as his shirt and gushing gayness like
an East Texas oil well blowing off a thousand barrels a minute, “ten minutes, are we close?”
“Fuck if I know,” her father said, “we'll get there when we get there,” smirking at his rare use of nasty language, feeling liberated by the rapidity of events instead of the slow pace things had been taking. This was exciting as a circus he remembered parading through town when he was a kid, elephants and scantily dressed ladies who'd filled his developing, horny mind for years after.
Her mother turned her husband's harried face to hers and they put their heads back together, getting back on point, leaving Cathy to look at Jabo who had the appearance of a French Nobleman being taken in a tumbrel to a guillotine, resolved but terrified. She fussed with his bow tie for the zillionth time, as nervous as him, worried it would all look like a disaster or a funeral, which it was underneath, for his grandparents, an undercurrent they'd both chosen, silently, to not mention only feel, dedicating their new life to their old ones that had been cut short.
They drew up as the men were carrying in armloads of flower arrangements, one with her named spelled with a 'K' instead of a 'C', making the wedding planner nearly pass out, the sort of detail he'd never miss, normally.
It reminded Cathy of the day she'd met her friend Clara in first grade. She'd written Cathy's name with a 'K' then apologized, nearly crying, wanting to impress her so much with her ability to write, to be liked. That sincerity had built a bond they felt now, staring at each other, both reliving that moment from age five, smiling and crying together as they exited the limousine, the driver rushing to all the doors on the sidewalk side so nobody would make the mistake of getting out in traffic.
“What the hell, no, impossible, well fix it, I dunno, call the fucking Bishop or something, do it, when? How about now, move it, I don't care, call everyone you know, fast, you have,” her father looked at his watch, “ten minutes, yeah you heard me, do it or you'll never get another dime from me, right, thank you.”
“Daddy?” Cathy sounded like a dazzlingly dumb debutante, smiling like a village idiot, drunk on the day, her day that had finally come. The church was spectacular, the second biggest Cathedral in El Paso, though on a back street near the barrio. But the stained glass windows made a slanting colored light that was right out of a romantic movie when they walked inside, all the females crinkly and rustling in their long skirts as the men moved in pants that were too tight and new, in shiny shoes that windowed the stained glass, not that anyone noticed that detail.
“Who was that, anyone I know?”
“The fucking mayor, oops,” realizing he'd have to dial it back a little, become the solemn father of the bride for his little girl who'd grown up. She'd done it, effected him like no other person. He remembered her as a shy teenager – gushing and excited – how she'd been when he bought her a horse and stable to go with it, staffed and running, so all she had to do was show up and ride. That was her life, something she was letting go like it had never happened – someone else's life. He didn't want to tell her, to fail her but she had to know.
“The padre here decided he couldn't do it unless both of you were life long Catholics, no compromise.”
“But Daddy,” she loved how his body posture changed, protective and flustered when she was so ebullient and excited, his little girl, needing something he could muster with a little extra effort, that he wanted to give her, using his power to provide. “Jabo is a protestant, like us, whatever will we do?”
Her mother was ready to burst out laughing, standing behind her husband who was ready to call out the governor and demand the national guard hold the Bishop at gunpoint to make him perform the ceremony.
“Mister Bateman?” a young priest ran out, wearing heavy gold threaded vestments over his wool cassock with a small, gold trimmed biretta on his head, clearly the second team. He ran up to the wedding planner, “I'll do it, sir, if that's fine with you,” then he understood his mistake, shaking hands with Cathy's parents to move to the couple to be.
“I'm the Bishop's assistant, do you want your ceremony in Spanish, English, Italian or Latin?” he smiled, showing off, then his face turned serious, “I'm sorry for the misunderstanding, love conquers all you know.”
“In this case it has,” her father said with a touch of rancor, then he let his wife shut him up. The young priest held his hand out to Cathy, “we need to hide the bride so she can make her big entrance.” The young priest eased Cathy away from the others, with Clara tagging along, showing her every courtesy from the West Texas Diocese he was called to represent.
Her father looked at Jabo, his reticence about this young man gone after getting a call from the junior Senator of Texas, a man he highly respected and helped get elected, financially and socially. Now the roles had been reversed and Cathy's father had listened to the reasons Jabo was needed, back in the service – his ability was essential, could Jeff accept that, gracefully? Now he saw it in this nervous, smiling man, trying to find his feet in a world he'd felt just as lost in, when he'd married Ellen, his wife so many years ago. Jabo was a 'lion', that's what the Senator had called him, a warrior their country had to have on the front lines.
His pride as a Texan, born and raised, like the man who was marrying his daughter, had soared and all reservations vanished. Whatever they needed, for they were a couple now, even before it was recognized by the church and society, they'd get everything they required, from him and anyone he could convince to help them.
Jabo went through the details, more stuff he'd never heard of, dutifully memorizing the entire ceremony like a battle plan, making a picture in his mind of the two of them, facing each other as the priest stood beside them, facing the pews filled with flowers.
“I thank you for all the flowers, it smells like... Eden, don't you think?” He was trying to calm the young man's nerves, not knowing Jabo had faced certain death on four different occasions and prevailed, turning it back on his assailants, wiping them out.
“Yeah, so you'll fill me in or give me a signal if I mess up.” He liked the young priest, for his arrogant confidence that matched his, two warriors in different realms.
“I've never seen a marriage like this, it's dramatic and enchanting,” the young priest smiled, lost for words.
“No relatives or friends, except that guy and my bride's best friend.” Jabo jabbed his thumb at a single soldier, in full dress blues, a buddy who'd been in the area, ready for the party of his life when Jabo cycled out tonight. Seeing them look over he grinned back, clueless, glancing at Clara who was done up like a movie starlet, giving him ideas. Ron was a real horn dog and Clara was in for the ride of her life if she smiled back at him, oh shit, she did. That lady was toast.
“She seems to like your friend,” the priest mentioned, looking at Jabo with a smirk, “I didn't see that, but God did, remember that, God always looks over your shoulder.”
“Was that an advertisement?” Jabo felt his joke fall flat, then the priest chuckled, nervous in a way too, staggered by the instructions he'd been given, to make this extremely proud, very rich man happy, marrying his only daughter, creating a favor the church could call in later, and would.
“Yes, that's my job, sell, sell, sell,” he sucked in his breath, changing his posture, standing at attention which made Jabo automatically do the same, how they roused themselves to face the situation, how both of them stiffened when a general or a bishop walked in. In this case it was Cathy smiling at the back of the Church, hanging on her father's arm.
“There she is, you're a very lucky man.” Jabo sensed, for a second, the humanity of the priest, how he'd given up love and romance for his life in the church, like Jabo had given up his life with Cathy they were starting now, here, in a few seconds.
“Thanks,” he whispered then started going over the script he'd been given, hearing his internal voice speaking the words, 'I take you Cathy Sul Ross Bateman-Smith...'
The reception was a blast, since a rock band was in town that Cathy had known before they were famou
s, helping them get their first big gigs in Austin and Dallas, where they'd hooked up with an agent, then it was all history, the new face of rock in the Southwest for five years now. They'd taken a day off, between bookings and Cathy had called up the lead singer on a whim, one of her many friends, making Jabo feel like a loner in comparison, since his buddies were dead or engaged in deadly combat somewhere in the world, except Ron. His Special Forces associate was dancing with Clara, grabbing her ass which she shooed away slower each time, letting him feel her nice rump through the stiff dress and layers of petticoats and slips. She'd take an hour to peel out of all that cloth and lace, fighting Ron the entire way, to show what a good girl she was. Good luck to both of you, it might work.
“Hey, I'm over here soldier” Cathy kissed him then leaned back, sipping her flute of champagne that never emptied. A waiter stood at their table, never leaving, snapping his fingers when the slightest need arose, keeping them fed, watered and opening the next bottle of very expensive champagne with a flourish while bouncing the cork off the ceiling so a small boy could run over and grab it, to add to the pile on the table. Ten? Had their table gone through that many? And who were all these people? Had Cathy's parents flown them in, family friends who'd drop everything to get here as fast as possible? They were still walking in, laughing loudly at the wild décor, more flowers, their ad hoc marriage coat of arms and family crest – Roses over Lillies. They'd made a jungle, over doing it as a reminder of this day – how it had needed to be special, different, memorable – and it was.
“Gawd it smells so nice,” another woman came through, big and brash, kicking off her tight shoes when she saw the crowd of other rich, important people letting their hair down, happy there were no photographers, no press, no parasites or paparazzi to stick their noses where they weren't wanted. “Let's party!”
And they did, with Cathy weaving when she pulled him out to dance with her, kissing him as they lost it then realized they were getting started on the next, best part a little early once more. Then friends bumped their bodies and they swirled with the others, all gone wild, whooping it up like an old time barn dance it had become, everybody far more drunk than they'd ever let themselves be in public, happy and carefree and safe from prying, judgmental society, in their element which was just people, vastly wealthy and important, but reduced to their basic humanity for a few hours. They were people laughing and playing like kids, doing stupid things, talking too loud, throwing around their bodies to the music that pounded out songs they'd never heard but felt right, sounded good in a new way, making them feel like teenagers.
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