American Bad Boy: A Military Romance

by Eddie Cleveland

  “What are you talking about? Are you trying to blackmail me?”

  “Blackmail? No. This is an ultimatum. You either get the help you need, or you can’t be in our lives anymore. I can’t always be wondering and waiting for you to explode again. This time you pulled an innocent man out of his car. Do you know how upsetting it was for Chris to see that today? What are you going to do next time? Beat someone to death? No. You either get help, or you leave.” My voice wavers, but my mind is made up.

  Silence again. It hurts my ears more than anything Mack could yell or say. I keep staring at the wheel, hoping that Mack will listen to reason. That he’ll put his family, not to mention his health, above his inflated ego and pig-headedness.

  “Fine,” he sighs.

  Oh, thank you God. I silently pray. Thank you!

  Mack reaches over to the door and opens it, stepping back outside of the car before I fully understand what’s happening. “Then, I’m leaving.” He slams the door in my face and storms back to the police station as I watch in disbelief.

  Mack Forrester had only just walked back into my life a little over a week ago, and now he’s leaving me again. And this time, I think it’s for good.

  36

  Mack

  2014

  The oak table under my arm is solid and the beer in my glass is frosty cold. Both sensations are keeping me grounded in the present. After what happened on the drive today I know being grounded is just what I need. Lauren’s furrowed brows and soft eyes linger in my mind and all of a sudden I don’t want to be grounded anymore. I want to be fucking drunk.

  The pub is pretty much a ghost town at only four in the afternoon with the exception of the bartender, a young couple laughing in a booth and a slovenly drunk guy who’s cozied up to the bar like it’s a replacement for the wife that surely left him.

  Across from me, the twenty-four-hour news station is passing off their opinion as facts. The news anchors keep yelling at each other like children competing for their mother’s attention. They discuss every point like it all has the same weight, whether is about a drunk driving accident or Kim and Kanye, the fervour is the same.

  “Are high-tops the new flip-flops in hip hop? Find out about this summer’s latest fashion craze coming up in the next hour.” The voiceover tries to titillate us with the hard hitting stories coming up. Seriously? Is this the news or Dr. fucking Seuss? It’s annoying and little more than a background noise. Until my face flashes on the flat screen.

  Oh, that ain’t good.

  Of course, they’re using my military grad picture where I’m in full dress uniform. How long do you have to be out of the military before they stop using those pictures? Five years? Ten?

  My mind flashes back to my first day at West Point, when Staff Sergeant Skillnick formed us up in our civvies and gave us his introductory speech. “Welcome to West Point, ladies and gentlemen. Let me make it clear to you, that will be the last time anyone in your life refers to you that way. From now on, no matter what you do. No matter where you go. You will always be known for your military service first. It’s an honor few are ever awarded and not one to be taken lightly. So just remember this, whether you’re buying your first house or getting arrested for your first crime, it will be you rank, your service and this United States military that will open those doors for you, or that you will tarnish with your bad decisions. Choose carefully.”

  Fuck.

  My attention snaps back up to the television and I strain to listen to the same newscasters that only moments ago I was hoping would choke to death on live tv.

  The blonde with the severe make-up and over processed hair jumps in, “clearly, Captain Forrester has lost it.” She shares her unbiased, professional view. “Have you seen the video footage?” She drawls. “It’s just disgraceful. In my opinion he should have to give back the medals he was awarded. A man like that shouldn’t get to keep the highest award for courage…”

  “Hey,” I interrupt the program and wave my hand at the bartender. “Do you mind turning the channel?”

  The guy behind the counter doesn’t even look up from his phone. He just picks up the remote and clicks it one channel higher to an afternoon cooking show.

  “Hey, man. Sorry I’m running behind,” Cameron Armstrong comes up behind me and plops down on the chair across from me. “Have you been waiting here long?” He looks down at the beer I’m one swig away from finishing.

  “Nah, I’ve just had the one,” I hold up the bottle and finish the last mouthful.

  “Ok, well, I’ll get us a couple more.” He pops back up out of the chair and heads over to the bar.

  How about a couple dozen more?

  I distract myself by peeling at the label of my empty Stella and Cameron clunks two more down on the table and shimmies out of his jacket, hanging it on the back of his chair. “I’m glad you called, man,” he looks at me earnestly. “I was hoping we could get some drinks sometime.”

  “Thanks for coming out. I know it’s on short notice.” I lift up the new bottle and tilt it toward him in a silent salute.

  “I didn’t have much going on today anyway, so this is perfect.” His jacket erupts with a sound of bubbles surfacing on water and Cameron reaches into the pocket and pulls out his cellphone. “Shit, sorry about that,” he swipes his thumb across it and a huge pair of brown titties fills his screen in a text message. “I forgot to set it to vibrate. I’ll do that now,” he leaves the tits and changes his settings.

  “Looks like you’ve got it pretty rough there, Armstrong,” I nod to the phone. “A hard knock life, huh?”

  My old Corporal shrugs it off. “You know how it is, all these girls are all flash and no substance. Not like what you’ve got with that Lauren chick. That shit looks like the real deal.” He chucks his phone back in his pocket and takes a long gulp of his beer.

  Twist the knife, why don’t ya?

  Instead of getting into any of that mess, I just down another third of my beer.

  “You know, it’s the craziest thing,” he continues, looking down the neck of his bottle, “I’ve got all this easy poon chasing me left and right, but I haven’t been able to get Lauren’s sister out of my head since the game. Did she, uh, mention me at all?” He looks up at me.

  “Huh? Oh, no. Not to me anyway. Her and I aren’t really close or anything.”

  His mouth twists to the side like he’s in deep thought. “Hey man, do you think you could bring her to another game for me? Or, maybe give her my number?”

  “Seriously? Armstrong, what are we? In high school? Do you want me to pass her a note in science class too?” Irritation is sewn through my words like the lace on one of Mr. Star Quarterback’s footballs.

  “Jeez man, who pissed in your cornflakes?” He frowns at his bottle and I watch a wave of realization wash over his face. “Oh, uh, you know what? You’re right. My bad, man. I know it’s been a shit day for you.” He looks up from his drink sheepishly.

  I sigh. Obviously he knows about the incident today. I guess everyone knows. That’s a hard pill to swallow. “No, don’t worry about it,” I wave my hand like I’m trying to sweep away the bad vibes. “I’m just being pissy cause Lauren and I broke up.”

  Cameron slowly swallows the beer in his mouth, and his eyebrows shoot sky high as he looks over at me. “I didn’t know, that sucks man.”

  “Yeah, I’m just trying to figure out what to do. I thought I might be living at her place, but now I need to figure out a ‘Plan B’ I guess.”

  “You’ll stay with me.” Cameron quickly interjects. He’s not asking me. It isn’t an invitation, it’s a statement.

  “That’s nice of you, but you don’t have to do that. Trust me, that’s not why I asked you to come out or anything.”

  “Fuck that. You’re staying with me. It’s done. You’ll crash at my place as long as it takes to get yourself sorted out… uh, I mean settled.” He looks up at me nervously.

  “Thanks.” Somehow the word feels too small fo
r the gratitude I feel.

  “Don’t mention it,” he shrugs it off. “It sounds like you’ve had one hell of a couple days. If staying at my place helps, it’s all yours. I can never repay you for what you did for me, Captain. There’s not a lot of men who would’ve risked their life like you did to save me. If crashing on my couch is something that can help you, then you can stay as long as you need.” He states matter-of-factly.

  “You’re a good man, Armstrong.” I take another drink of my girl Stella and she goes down easy, just like I like ‘em.

  “Don’t mention it, but, Captain?” His eyes dart up to mine and he nervously licks his lips.

  “Yeah?”

  “I just want you to know that I’ll help you in anyway I can. Like, if you need a hand tracking down someone to talk to or anything, I can help with that too.

  “I don’t need help, thanks.” My words cover our conversation in frost.

  Cameron picks at the label on his beer as the awkwardness marinates us. He looks torn. “I think you do.” He finally answers, his voice is barely above a whisper, but the push back is undeniable.

  “Listen, I don’t need help,” I stress for the third time today. “If this is the kinda strings your offer to stay with you comes with then forget it.” I thump my bottle on the table and get up to leave. Where I’m going, I have no idea, but I’m not going to sit here and listen to this shit.

  On the television the five o’clock news flashes on across the bar and a shaky cellphone video of earlier today leads the day’s stories. I stop and watch in horror as I see myself, frantic, panicked and screaming at the poor man in the minivan to drive. The terror on my face in undeniable and my stomach flops like a fish on a line as I have the out of body experience of seeing myself pull the guy from his vehicle. “In today’s top story,” the crimson lipped news anchor somberly tells the camera, “Captain Mack Forrester, West Point graduate, and the famous hero veteran who lost his leg saving several lives in the Afghanistan war, was arrested for the scene you just witnessed.”

  I slump back down in my seat, defeated. I drag my fingers through my hair and down the back of my neck as I try to digest what I just watched.

  Fuck.

  I look up at Cameron, and swallow hard to try to shake this feeling like a dump truck just dropped a ton of bricks on me and left me for dead.

  “Ok, man.” I nod my head and close my eyes, forcing myself to say the words: “I need help.”

  37

  Lauren

  2014

  My cellphone buzzes with another text from Chelsea. I’ve already ignored at least five phone calls from her on the home phone. Now she’s blowing up my cell.

  I pick it up from the coffee table and read her message: “call me. It’s an emergency.”

  Someone better be critically injured or dead. Guilt instantly boils in my gut at the thought. I call my sister and it doesn’t even get to a full ring before she answers.

  “Lauren! Have you heard from Mack?” She sounds breathless.

  “Chelsea are you seriously calling me every two seconds for this? I’m hanging up.” What was moments ago guilt is now anger lapping it’s flames up from my belly.

  “No, wait! I don’t mean about you two, I mean, have you seen that he’s doing an interview? I sent you a link. He’s talking to Cooper Sanders tomorrow and they’re doing a live special. They never do the interviews live on CNB.” She rambles.

  I walk over to my computer and open the e-mail she sent me. Sure enough, there’s a link to the CNB’S homepage. I click it and Mack’s military photograph is staring into me. The same picture they’ve been using on the news all week. Just below is a YouTube video with an oversized play button in the middle of it. I don’t need to click it; I’ve seen the footage of Mack’s meltdown about a hundred times in the past few days. Hell, I’ve seen it so much that the grainy cellphone footage is almost replacing my actual memory of the event.

  Chelsea is still blah-blahing about something or other, but I can’t pay attention. My eyes scan the article below the video, she’s right. Mack is doing an exclusive, live interview with Cooper Sanders tomorrow night.

  “Do you think they’re going to talk about us?” I can’t tell if Chelsea sounds horrified by the idea or flattered. “Do you think he’s going to explain what happened?” She continues.

  “I couldn’t tell you,” I answer her glumly. One thing is certain though: I’ll be tuning in to find out.

  38

  Mack

  2014

  “I’m just gonna dust a little powder on your nose, that’s all. You don’t want to look shiny on camera,” The chick I banged in the back of a vehicle in Afghanistan leans over me and runs a fluffy makeup brush over my face. Her tits are popping out of the low V-neck of her shirt. “There, all done,” she steps back and admires her work, blinking her long eyelashes.

  She’s pretty, that much is undeniable. Too bad looking into her eyes is like taking a glance down into the Grand Canyon. A barren, empty, seemingly bottomless void. What was it Cameron said the other night about these chicks? All flash and no substance.

  Not like Lauren. My gut churns as I remember for the tenth time in the past hour the perfect woman I lost. Again.

  “Thanks, uh…” there’s no way this woman’s name is coming back to me. Lauren would call her a card carrying member of my bimbo fan club, but I doubt she would appreciate the nickname. Although from the vapid stare she’s returning, it might not bother her as much as you’d think.

  “Tiffany,” she fills in the blank cheerfully. From the way her face doesn’t move at all, she’s either full of Botox or she doesn’t care that I forgot.

  Probably both.

  “Ok, let’s get this stuff cleared out of here,” Cooper walks over to the chair poised across from me to get ready for the interview. “Thanks Tiffany, you can go too,” he directs her. She practically skips off the set, flipping her hair like she’s in a shampoo commercial the whole way.

  I can’t believe I ever found girls like her sexy. Once you’ve been with a woman like Lauren, all you can see is how every other girl comes up short. Once you’ve had an exquisite work of art, paint by numbers just don’t cut it anymore.

  Cooper sits on the very edge of the chair across from me, holding a small stack of papers in his hands. His crew are buzzing all around us, checking wires and aiming cameras. I never realized how much went into these interviews. When he joined us in the desert, it was bare bones compared to this circus.

  “Ok, so I just wanted to go over some of these questions with you so you know what to expect,” he’s hunched over with his elbows on his knees and barely speaking above a whisper. I get the feeling that he doesn’t usually give his interview subjects a preview of the hard hitting questions he’s known for serving up.

  The cameras have been following me around all day, recording me being “natural”. They’ve gotten footage of me cooking food, running with my blade, and of strangers recognizing me and thanking me for my service. I’m starting to feel like I’m in an infomercial selling portions of Captain “America” Mack Forrester.

  But wait, if you act now they’ll even throw in scenes of me petting puppies and kissing babies.

  “Obviously, we’re going to show the footage of the incident, ok? Then, I’m going to have to ask you if you think this is appropriate behaviour for a highly decorated war veteran. I know that sounds rough, but don’t worry, I’m gonna follow up with a bit saying how you’ve had a hard go and that this is being blown out of proportion. Ok?” He looks up at me with his steely blue eyes and I can see that he’s concerned for me.

  He cares.

  “You don’t need to do that,” I run my hand over my beard and try to ignore the voice inside telling me that this can all blow over, if I just let it. It looks like my old buddy Cooper Sanders is offering me a get out of jail free card. Wouldn’t I be a fool to turn it down?

  “The hell I don’t!” He raises his voice and then looks around the stud
io self consciously. The two of us pop our heads up like a couple of groundhogs looking for shadows in February, but if any of his staff noticed him raise his voice they don’t care enough to look our way.

  “Come here,” he leans into me, “look at this,” he continues, rolling up the sleeve of his dress shirt until the lower half of his arm is exposed to me. “You see this?” His blue eyes settle on me.

  “I can.” I don’t quite have a full sleeve of tattoos, but Cooper does.

  His twisted scars mark a time I wish I could leave in the desert. A time that haunts my days, let alone my dreams. Down the entire length of his arm is a roadmap of the cowardly attack we both survived in Afghanistan.

  “The plastic surgeons, they wanted to fix it. Make it disappear.” He talks to me like he’s revealing his deepest secret. “I told them to leave it alone. You know why?” His blue eyes always been hard to look away from. Never harder than now.

  “Why?” The word somehow bubbles up from my lips.

  “Because, when I went over there, to do the piece on you and the platoon, I thought I was king shit.” He smiles sadly at the memory. “I thought I was at the top of my game. A hero, at least in journalism. That’s why I pushed to keep up with you guys over there. I convinced myself I was just as badass as you guys, just without the uniform, you know?” He frowns and closes his eyes.

  “Ok.” I don’t know what else to say? Do I tell him I’m sorry that Afghanistan ruined that for him? That me getting my leg blown off somehow sucked for him? Less words are often better, I’m learning.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Until a grenade was thrown at my feet. Then I froze, didn’t I?” He opens his eyes and looks straight at me like he wants me to confirm what he already knows. I nod but keep my mouth shut. “But, you didn’t.” He says with reverence. “You didn’t even fucking hesitate. At all.” He looks over his shoulders again, but no one cares about us any more than they did five minutes ago. “You saved my life,” his blues suddenly look a little bluer when a mist forms around the bottom of his eyelids. “So, if I can return the favor, you better bet I will.”