Military Romance Collection

by E Cleveland

  Williams doesn’t have any of those. He stares me straight in the eyes, his face unchanged, “Raise thirty,” he slickly palms three chips and tosses them in the center of the table.

  All eyes are on me now. I take a sip of the rum coating the bottom of my thermos coffee cap. Williams does the same with his whiskey, mirroring me. Not that we’re allowed to be drinking this stuff, but no-booze policy is one of those things the officers look the other way on, unless it causes a problem. All it takes is one guy being a bad drunk and then all our bunks would get searched and charges would be laid. We don’t have any problems in this barracks. We all know how to enjoy a couple drinks without getting piss wasted. And even if one of us did fuck up and overdo it, we police our own.

  I flip the edge of my cards and nod down at my ace and king. With two aces already down, I’m feeling pretty good about my chances of collecting on this hand. I’m sure that Williams is bluffing. I don’t know why, but if I’m right, maybe I can crack his tell after all. Besides, even if I lose, these poker games make the monotony of war somewhat more bearable.

  “Thirty? Sure,” I shrug. “And I’m gonna raise,” I answer.

  “By what?”

  “By half a bottle of rum,” I reach under the edge of my seat and plop it onto the table. Now that’s a bet to get the blood pumping.

  “So we’re playing for thirty plus what’s left of our liquor?” Williams drops his gaze to his whiskey and I see it, a tiny flash of uncertainty as he considers needing to part with something so hard to come by.

  “You got it,” I nod.

  The guys make ooohhhing noises and don’t even pretend they’re not watching us. Williams clenches his jaw, I think he’s about to fold when he leans over, picks up his whiskey and slides it across the table. “Call,” his voice is cool.

  Hernandez flips the last card, the last ace. Williams slumps over, defeated before I can say a word. I don’t hide my grin. I slap my hands together in a loud clap and flip my cards over. “I appreciate the spending money, but this,” I kiss the side of his Jack Daniels bottle, “I’m gonna savor every single drop,” I lift both bottles by the necks and swirl them around.

  “McAllister!”

  Every head in here snaps toward the door where Captain Forrester stands. I’m holding not one, but two chargeable offenses in my hands. I let the contraband hit the table and stand at attention.

  “Sir!”

  Captain Forrester narrows his eyes, scanning the bottles on the table. His eyes snap up and his jaw clenches, there’s no way I’m getting out of this without charges, I can see it written all over his face, but then it changes. I’m not sure what I’m seeing at first, his angry glare morphs like mercury, changing shape to something I’m sure I’ve never seen on him before. It’s sits there just for a second, just a flicker for… something. Pity? Sadness?

  I have no idea because before I have a chance to unclench my ass cheeks and think it over he frowns, “McAllister, you come with me, get yourself presentable. The rest of you have exactly one minute to make all traces of this unauthorized event disappear.” He turns and walks out and we all lunge across the room at different things. I grab my shirt and hat, everyone else starts dismantling the poker table like teenagers trying to clean their parents house after a weekend rager.

  Shirt on, boonie hat fixed on head, I step out of my bunkhouse and try not to look like I might shit a brick. I mean, I might not be as gung-ho about this tour, but that doesn’t mean I’m ready to get sent home on disgraceful bullshit drinking charges. The captain doesn’t glare at me or start jacking me up though, it’s like he can’t look me in the eyes at all. If I was about to go down for the booze, why would he tell the guys to just clean it up and then look the other way?

  “Follow me, McAllister,” he turns and starts walking.

  I do as he says. “Um, Sir?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Where are we going?”

  “So-and-so wants to see you, as your Captain, it’s my job to escort you.” He answers.

  Commander Hollis wants to see me? To hell with trying to look like I’m not gonna shit a brick, I might shit two. My mind spins like a four wheeler in spring mud as I try to think of what this is about. Did I fuck up? Is my mom okay? Am I getting promoted? With every step on our march through the dusty pop-up buildings I think of every possible reason I could be getting summoned to see the top guy.

  Captain Forrester stops at the door and knocks, “Come in!” The call is barely muffled.

  We walk inside, me behind the captain and I stand at attention waiting for this mystery to be solved.

  The CO’s eyes flicker over me, the fluorescent light overhead glints off his nearly invisible white scruff, “Sit down,” he motions to the chairs in front of his desk and we do.

  I must not be in shit. If I was I’d still be standing. I look from Forrester’s face to Hollis and back again. Is this a promotion? It’s not uncommon for military guys to get the good news while on tour. My own grandfather went up two ranks during his bout in Vietnam.

  “McAllister,” he begins, “I’ve been notified by your family about a tragedy,” my heart sinks straight down into my guts. Oh fuck, it is my mom. Or my dad. “I’m sorry to tell you that your sister has passed away,” he continues and I blink.

  I blink and just keep fucking blinking because I’m sure he’s wrong. They fucked up. They’ve got the wrong guy. Blythe is just a kid. She’s only in high school. There’s no way on this earth that she passed away.

  “I’m sorry, but that’s not right,” I shake my head, confident he’s wrong. “There’s no way. Blythe is only seventeen, she didn’t die,” I feel relief wash over me, that’s how sure I am they’re wrong.

  “I know she was only seventeen, and I’m so sorry. That’s an awful tragedy.” Each one of his words feels like a knife slicing into my heart. I stare forward, trying to imagine how the fuck a teenaged girl suddenly dies. “We’re going to send you on the next flight out of here, you’ll be leaving in just over two hours. I know you’re reeling right now, but I need you to pull it together enough to pack up.”

  “She wasn’t sick!” I yell, smashing down on me, “was she in a car accident? How does a seventeen-year-old suddenly die?” I stand up, tremors attacking my arms like fire ants.

  “I don’t think her cause of death is relevant right now,” my commander interrupts.

  I know I need to stop pointing my finger in his face, but I can’t think right. I can’t see straight. I can barely talk. “Sir, I need to know,” I answer through grit teeth. “Tell me what happened.”

  “Please take a seat, McAllister. Listen, I understand this is a shock, but losing your shit isn’t going to change this. I’m sorry,” he looks down and I can see he truly is. “I know she was just a kid, but she’s gone. You need to go home and say goodbye.”

  I slump in my seat, tears prick my eyes and I drop my head as they fall. “Please,” I beg, “how did she die?”

  The officers exchange a glance, Hollis clears his throat, “she took her own life.” He looks down at his desk, “I’m sorry.”

  My ears squeal like cicadas on a hot summer day. Part of me floats up out of my body, leaving me an empty husk of confusion. She killed herself? My sister is the sweetest, fucking happiest kid I’ve ever met. Even when she hit her teen years, she didn’t turn into one of those overly dramatic, hormone-driven nightmares that most kids do. She has always had a level head. A kind heart and a sweet smile.

  If Blythe killed herself something fucking unimaginable changed in her life. And when I get home, I’m not going to rest until I find out why.

  2

  Cole

  Sitting in my darkened car, between lamp posts, I watch him slip out his front door from half a block away. He pulls one knee up to his chest, then the other. He shrugs his shoulders toward his tousled hair a couple of times and then puts his earbuds in before running out of sight.

  He does this every night. I’ve been watching.


  Waiting.

  The handle of my Glock 26 is warm. It’s been in my hand for almost an hour now, my body heat has transferred to the cool steel. I get out and tuck it into my waistband. A quick look in each direction shows me that this sleepy little subdivision is clear.

  I refuse to run. Each step that I take toward his house is measured. Like a man out for an evening stroll. Nothing to see here, folks. Nobody important to remember.

  Up the driveway and I reach his front door. I turn the handle, walking inside without hesitation. He always keeps it unlocked on these nightly jogs. I’ve kept tabs.

  My footsteps sound like thunder, echoing off the sparsely decorated walls. Not that the art hanging from them is cheap. Nope, Mommy and Daddy have provided only the best for their baby boy. I guess when you’re a Senator’s son, that’s one of the perks.

  Only the best. Until the best bores you.

  My mouth tugs downward as a vivid memory of Blythe floods me with emotion. Now isn’t the time for sentimentality, I remind myself, pushing it all down into a lead ball buried in my gut. There is only one thing I have time for now: revenge.

  I cut my tour short and make my way up the stairs, two at a time. With some squinting, my eyes adjust to the dark. I can’t turn on any lights, it’ll warn him or his neighbors that I’m here. I’m not going to let something so stupid fuck me up. I’m taking care of this… of him… tonight.

  The details of his bedroom are easy to make out, even in the dark. Stepping inside makes a flurry of images from the video shuffle through my mind. The same nightstand with the same lamp perched on top sits beside his bed. Even the blanket on the bed is the same.

  After she killed herself, I took my sister’s electronics to a guy. I don’t mean the local “Mac genius” at the mall. This guy doesn’t advertise. I paid him to hack into her stuff and get me everything on them. Every picture. Every contact. Every text. Especially the ones where she literally begged him to take down that video. The video where she’s passed out, eyes rolled back in her head, her mouth hanging open. He looked like he was fucking a corpse. And now, because of him, she is dead.

  Rage boils the blood in my veins and I grit my teeth together.

  I hear the front door open. He’s home. He’s panting. The noise makes another flash of the video pop up in my mind. I push it down with the others. I force it all from my mind.

  Tilting my head, I listen to him fill a glass with water downstairs. It clinks as he sets it down on the counter. His feet stomp heavily on the stairs as he races up here. I pull out my gun, lengthened by the silencer I attached to it to keep nosy neighbors at bay.

  I’m ready.

  Shallow, steady breaths rise and fall in my chest as I hold the Glock up at the ready, but he goes into the bathroom instead. Water sprays into the tub and the distinctive squeal of the shower curtain fasteners scraping across the metal bar tell me he’s stepped inside to rinse off.

  Lowering my gun, I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding and wait.

  Blythe’s blue eyes watch me in my memory. Her slightly crooked smile squeezes my heart. When I got back from my military deployment overseas, that smile and those eyes had already been taken from me. Used up and thrown away by him. Now, I’ll never see them again.

  The police were no help. It kills me to think of how much worse I made my parents heartbreak when I took all the evidence to the station. They had no idea about the rape or the video. In a way, I think it gave them a sort of closure, or at least an answer. Still, those answers came at a cost. The cost of never being able to unknow how she suffered.

  The “investigation” was nothing more than an interview down at the station. He told them that she was pretending to be passed out because that was her kink. Like that’s a thing. According to him, his only crime was posting the video. I showed them Blythe’s frantic texts, the ones that made it clear as day that she was unconscious. The ones where he told her he wasn’t even sure what girl she was or what video he’d have to take down. There were just too many of them.

  Even after that, he walked. It didn’t even go to trial. When they closed their investigation, it was like she died all over again. My parents are never going to be the same. And neither will I.

  My mind snaps back into the present as I hear the shower turn off. Again, I lift my gun with a steady, experienced hand and wait.

  The switch on the wall snaps as the light overhead floods my vision, but I quickly blink away the spots blurring my vision and he comes into focus.

  My target.

  “Fuck! Jesus, who are you? Oh, my God, don’t shoot,” he holds up his hands and drops his towel. I’m tempted to shoot his wilted pecker clean off. Instead, I rush him. The fucking coward doesn’t even try to move. They say when you’re facing danger there are two responses, fight or flight. They forget about the most common one: freeze.

  “Get down on your fucking knees,” I bark out the order but he stands like a deer in the headlights. A swift crack of my gun across his cheek seems to do wonders for his listening ability. He sinks down and starts to cry.

  Poor baby.

  “Why? Why is this happening? Who are you?” He sobs, his hands are trembling by the sides of his head.

  “Don’t worry about who I am,” I snarl, pulling my phone free from my pocket as I keep my gun level to his head.

  I open the phone and press play. I can’t look at the screen. I’ve already seen it. My stomach twists into a knot as I hear his moans over the cell’s speaker, “Remember her?” I jam the phone against his nose and his eyes go wide.

  “Man, what were you? Her boyfriend? If you were, she didn’t tell me. She was all over me at the party, like she really wanted it, I swear. It was her idea to come to the room,” he blubbers. “She didn’t even mean anything to me, it was just one night. We were both drunk!”

  “No, asshole, you were drunk. She was fucking unconscious. You raped her and then posted this shit on every porn site out there,” I tap the nose of my gun against his forehead.

  “It was just a mistake,” he blurts out his words as tears flow over his cheeks.

  Aww, poor guy. I wonder how many girls he’s left in ruins. How many videos has he made? How many lives has he destroyed.

  “You fuck up, you pay the price,” I snarl. “Tit for tat.”

  “But I didn’t kill her! Man, please listen to me. I’ll go to the police, I promise I fucking will if you just put the gun down. I’ll tell them I did it, okay? I did,” snot bubbles in his nostrils as he cries, “I’ll tell them it was rape, just please let me go and I give you my word…”

  “Your word means fuck-all to me!” My voice vibrates off the walls and he hunches down, cowering at my feet. “You had a chance to do the right thing and all you did was smear her good name. She was seventeen, a kid for fuck’s sakes. You raped her and then you destroyed her life. As far as I’m concerned, you did fucking kill her.”

  I push the muzzle into his temple and he twists away, wincing. Trying to escape the fate I’ve decided for him. Cramming the phone back into my jeans, I grab his hair and dig the tip of the gun into his flesh.

  “I’m so sorry, okay? I’m sorry,” he blubbers.

  BANG!

  Fragments of shattered bone, brains and a streak of blood hit the wall as his naked body slumps over on the floor. I quickly step over him, carefully avoiding the pool of blood pouring from the gushing hole in his skull, and race down the stairs.

  Even with a silencer, the distinctive sound of a gun being fired is easy to identify. It’s not like a movie where it practically whispers a tiny ‘pew-pew’ like a schoolgirl pointing her finger and thumb during recess. I don’t know if his neighbors heard the noise over their television shows, and I’m not going to stand around to find out.

  I hurry out the front door and use focussing techniques I learned in the military to force myself to control the adrenaline. I can’t run. Now is not the time to raise suspicions or make myself visible. Police are going to be
questioning people at every house on this block by tomorrow. I refuse to give any of them something to remember.

  I retreat to my car. It’s lined in plastic bags, just in case any of that fucker’s blood splattered on me. I know my next stop, where I’m burning my clothes. After that, I’m all ready to go. I’ll need to toss the gun, of course, but not in the same place I burn the clothes. I’ve got to cross two states before I hit the northern border, and I already know which one I’m tossing it at.

  I turn the keys in the ignition and drive away. I’ve already got the car packed and my passport in the glovebox. Stay calm. Stay cool. No one will even start investigating this crime for at least ten hours. That’s plenty of time, but I still need to get past border patrol, I remind myself. I should be on the other side before the first siren even rings out here.

  Taking a deep breath, relief washes over me as I realize that piece of shit is dead. I know it does nothing to bring Blythe back, but a man like that is like an animal with a taste for blood. He was never going to stop. Especially not when his powerful father could keep hiding his crimes. He destroyed my sister and God knows how many other girls. He can never do it again, and somehow it makes me feel like Blythe can rest in peace.

  Now, I just need to get to Canada and I’ll be free.

  3

  Abbie

  “Just look at all those woods down there! All those mountains! That bastard is hiding out there somewhere. I’m tellin’ ya, he can’t hide from us. We’re gonna find him,” Mr. White yells over the tiny plane’s engine.

  For something so small, it sure makes a lot of noise. I nervously cling to the armrests of my uncomfortable seat, it’s only one of eight in the entire cabin. I’ve never seen a plane where you could lean over and have a conversation with the pilot if you felt like it. But then again, until today, I’d only ever seen airplanes on television. The commercials of smiling, gorgeous flight attendants serving people in luxury lounge chairs is very similar to the two jumbo jets we took to connect here, but a far cry from the reality of this flight.