Military Romance Collection

by E Cleveland

  “Sure,” I sit up straighter, “what do you want to talk about?”

  “I’d like to apologize to you,” he answers before taking another bite of his roast beef sandwich.

  “Apologize?”

  “Yeah, say sorry,” he explains.

  “I know what the word means,” I laugh, “why are you apologizing to me?”

  Jake puts his food down and looks into my eyes, my breath catches in my throat. His eyes, they’re so intense. “I should’ve tried to deal with that asshole without, you know, being violent. I get the feeling that you’ve already dealt with enough of that from men,” he stares into me. At least, that’s how it feels. Like he’s watching my secrets, my thoughts, my fears, all play out on a screen.

  “You picked up on that, huh?” I look down at my ragged nails, trying to push down the swell of shame rising inside me.

  “I did.”

  “How?” I force myself to meet his eyes again, even though it’s unnerving. “I never told you about any of that, hell, I haven’t told anyone here.” I search his face.

  “I’m pretty good at reading people. It’s one of the things we learn in the SEALs. Knowing when people are lying, telling the truth, or hiding shit, can make all the difference between a mission being a success story or an epic failure.”

  My eyes dart back down, I grab another fry from his plate and think about his words. Makes sense.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” His hand grazes against the edge of mine. His touch is a whisper, so light, but somehow reassuring.

  “I don’t think there’s much to say, really. I ran away from home when I was seventeen. Went from a small town to Miami and it was just too much for me. I didn’t know the first thing about surviving in the big city. It didn’t take long to feel like I was being swallowed whole.” I look up at him and he nods, waiting for me to finish.

  “So, when I met Knox, my ex,” I explain, “it felt too good to be true. He was ten years older, had an amazing place, made amazing money, it all seemed like a fairy tale.”

  “But it wasn’t?” Jake prods.

  “Maybe like one of those Grimm Brothers ones. Where the happy endings are bleak and everyone has the plague.” I force a weak smile.

  “Doesn’t sound good,” Jake smiles at my attempt to lighten the mood.

  “No,” my smile slides off my face, “it wasn’t good. Far from it.” I pull another fry off his plate, but don’t eat it. I just hold it as clips and glimpses of memories fight for a spot in my brain. “It wasn’t good at all.”

  “He was violent?” Jake lowers his voice.

  “Yes. Very. At first I did the whole ‘he didn’t mean to really hurt me that badly’ thing. But it didn’t take long to see that he did. He got worse and I never left because… I didn’t have anywhere to go.” I confess to the table.

  “Why did you leave home? Were your parents violent too?”

  “No,” my voice is flat but firm. “They never laid a hand on me. Ever.” I emphasize.

  He nods slowly, “you don’t have to tell me. I shouldn’t be pushing you.”

  “No, it’s ok. I left because,” I swallow the hard lump in my throat, “I left because I could never undo what I did and it ruined my family. It ruined our lives. I couldn’t take it anymore, the guilt, and the shame. Watching the sadness overtake their lives. Watching my neighbors shake their heads at me when I went out. Everywhere I went, I couldn’t escape.”

  “I’m sure whatever you did couldn’t be that bad,” Jake soothes me.

  Slow tears trail down my cheeks and my lower lip trembles, “It was,” I whisper.

  “Let me tell you, I know this from experience, sometimes it feels like we’ve done the worst thing in the world when we’re in the middle of it, but it passes.”

  “No, not with this.” My voice cracks.

  “Why? What happened?”

  “I have a twin sister, Heather.” I swallow hard, “Had,” I correct myself. “She died.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jake grasps my hand, but I pull it back.

  “She died, and I’m responsible. It’s my fault she’s dead.” The tears slide over my cheeks and gather on my chin. “It’s my fault.”

  13

  Jake

  Holly drops her head into her hands and sobs uncontrollably. I gently lay my hand on her shoulder, trying to think of what to say. I have so many questions. What happened to her sister? How is it her fault? Obviously, she didn’t mean to do her any harm, or she’d be in jail instead of here with me. As the tears drip from her palms and she chokes on her sorrow, it’s easy to see that, whatever happened, Holly believes wholeheartedly that it is her fault.

  “Hey, it’s ok. Shhh, it’s ok,” I soothe her. She’s in no state to answer a bunch of questions that aren’t my business anyway. I want to pull her onto my lap with my arms wrapped around her tight and hold her against my chest until she feels better. However, in a place like this, you can’t do that. It’s considered inappropriate contact. It’s a violation of one of their fifteen million rules around here. My mind flashes back to my meeting with the Director. I’m already on thin ice. If they kick me out of here, my career in the SEALs is through. I look around the nearly empty cafeteria and spot one of the counselors wading past the sea of chairs toward us. I instinctively pull my hand back. The last thing I need is another reason for them to give me the boot.

  But, it’s more than that, isn’t it? The thought crosses my mind. This isn’t about your career; you just don’t want to leave her behind.

  The realization fires through me like lightening. For the first time in my twenty-seven years, I’ve met someone I really want to get to know, and not just physically. I mean, let’s not pretend I’m a saint, that’s definitely part of it, but it’s deeper than wanting to fuck her. I want to help her.

  “Hey! You two! You’re late for the activity. Let’s get a move on!” A short, elderly woman with big, military style boots and khakis gives us our marching orders.

  I choose to ignore the little dictator, turning my attention back to Holly. “Hey, are you going to be ok?” I murmur.

  “Yeah, I will. I’m good,” she manages to pull herself together remarkably quick, sweeping her thumbs over her tearstained cheeks like two wiper blades on a car window.

  “Did you hear me?” The counselor stomps over to our table, it’s impossible to tell if she’s scowling or if her face is just wrinkled in such a way that she always looks miserable.

  “We were just heading out,” giving her the sweetest ‘let-me-get-you-your-next-drink’ smile I can manage.

  Apparently, it was a scowl, because her deep lines shift and transform on her face as she tilts her head and smiles back at me.

  “It’s my fault, I was just blabbing about working in the Navy SEALs and totally lost track of time. I would hate to miss the… I’m sorry, what is the activity?” I lay it on thick. I know this woman’s type. She might have a good thirty years on me, but she still wants to have a strong, young buck give her a smile that makes her melt.

  “The what?” She blinks, like she’s just awoken on a stage at a hypnotist’s show with a crowd of unfamiliar faces smiling up at her. “Oh, uh, the activity. It’s an Easter craft,” she answers softly. Then, snapping her head back up straight, her lines return as she grabs a hold of her senses, “And you two are late! So, let’s get this show on the road,” she demands again.

  This time we both listen and get up from our seats at our cozy table and follow her out of the dining hall.

  “Easter craft?” I mumble to Holly. “Seriously?”

  “Yeah, apparently, every week we have these mandatory group functions that we have to attend. It’s so dumb.” She rolls her pretty blue eyes.

  “Nothing like mandatory fun,” I smirk.

  The counselor leads us into a large room filled with tables full of crafting supplies and surrounded by groups of patients. Each table is filled with every preschooler’s dream of glitter, paints, stickers, pom-poms, glu
e and more. Well, doesn’t this look… interesting.

  I scan the faces of the present addicts in here. So many of them look unreasonably happy to be doing this right now. Like, this will be the highlight of their day that they write about on the sheet we have to turn in each night listing what we liked, hated and learned from our day in rehab. It’s just one more way I can’t relate to so many of these people. Not only are they in here because they let drugs or alcohol destroy them, and everything they held dear, but now they’re so deliriously happy to find meaning in everything, that simple things like compulsory craft time brings genuine pleasure to their lives.

  My eyes flicker back to Holly. I almost burst out laughing at the twisted look of pained disdain on her face. It’s like I can see the thoughts running through my brain playing out like a projector on a movie screen across her milky complexion.

  I might not be able to relate to these guys, but this girl? The one right I can’t stop thinking about. The one whose scent drives me wild. The one who I’ve only just met, but feel like I’ve known since we were kids, I get her.

  “Ok, enough dilly-dallying now. You both take a spot at that table back there,” the silver-haired woman points across the room to the only table with less than ten people crowded around it. “We’ve got to get started.”

  “Sure,” I start to walk away, “wait.” I turn back to face her and watch as her deep scowl evolves into a softer gaze again. “What is it we’re supposed to do?”

  “Oh, um, the activity is to take one of the cardboard eggs at your station and decorate it to represent your truth.” She explains, like she’s actually speaking English.

  “My truth.” I repeat.

  “Yes.”

  “And, these are… Easter eggs?” I try to make the connection, but can’t.

  “Yes.”

  “So, are we hiding our ‘truth’ around the building and doing an egg hunt or something?” I’m honestly not even trying to be sarcastic. Although, I can see it’s not being taken that way.

  “No, of course not.” She snips at me.

  “Are we donating these eggs to children or something? For them to enjoy?” I grasp at straws to make sense of what possible association this could have with Easter.

  “No! No egg hunt, no donations. It’s just Easter eggs of your truth. Now, get to your table and get it done before you run out of time,” she peers down at her wristwatch, reminding me of the rabbit from Alice in Wonderland always worrying about being late.

  I look around me for Holly, but see she’s already joined the table we’ve been assigned, so I clamp my jaw shut and head over. I guess it doesn’t matter if I understand the reasoning. Or, if there actually is any. It’s time to spend beside her, and that’s time well spent.

  “You ready to glitter your truth?” I slide in beside her at the table with a smirk. “Oh, look at this!” I mockingly point to the pile of art crap in the center of the plastic, pop-up table, “If glitter isn’t ‘truthy’ enough, you can put rhinestones on that shit!” I pick up a package of dollar store fake jewels.

  Holly laughs loud enough to deafen the scowls of other participants at the table. I don’t give a fuck about them, or what they think of me. I’m only focused on one person, and if I can make her laugh after how hard she was crying in the cafeteria a little while ago, well that’s a win.

  “Ok, I know it sucks, but let’s just do it. Who knows, maybe it’ll help out a couple of lost coke-heads like us,” she smiles up at me sweetly and it takes every ounce of physical restraint I have, in every fiber of my muscles, not to kiss her. God damn it! She’s so beautiful.

  She doesn’t wait for me to stop staring at her like a man who’s been shipwrecked and hasn’t seen a woman in a decade. Instead, she grabs some paints, an egg, and gets to work.

  I pick up a cardboard, unmarked egg shape and stare at it blankly. What the fuck am I supposed to draw on this thing? My truth. Whatever the hell that means. Like I’m going to paint my deepest pain or my biggest desires on the side of a pretend egg. Anger wells up inside of me at the thought.

  I can’t believe my brothers are back in Virginia Beach doing real shit, like fighting terrorism and defending our soil in operations most people won’t ever hear about and I’m here doing this. This fucking stupid craft. Like I’m a six-year-old boy instead of a twenty-seven-year-old man.

  Fine. They want my truth? Then the truth is what they’ll get. I grab a paintbrush and dab it into the paint.

  Time evaporates as I create my masterpiece. With a few flicks of the wrist, I admire my rudimentary artwork with a grin. Sure, it’s no Da Vinci painting, but it’ll do the trick.

  “Time’s up!” The counselor who rounded us up like a couple of stray cattle chirps. “I’m going to come around and collect your eggs in this Easter basket, one-by-one. I’m going to ask that you share the truth, your truth that you decorated on your egg with the group, please.” She stands up, with a giant wicker basket in tow.

  My mind blurs out the monotony of listening to person after person explain their biggest dreams and aspirations. The sheer volume of people who put down “getting clean” as their “truth” tells me, again, how little I have in common with these people.

  Finally, the scowling counselor makes her way to our table, collecting each egg in her basket like a reverse Easter bunny. When she asks Holly what her truth is, my hearing finally kicks back in. My focus lasers in on her as she explains the little puppy dog that she’s drawn on the side of her egg.

  “I, well, I guess even in my darkest times, and I mean the absolute worst moments I’ve ever lived, I’ve always felt a deep connection with animals.” She speaks to a room of nodding heads. “So, I guess, my truth is that I want to do something to help animals as much as they’ve helped me,” she answers, placing her egg in the basket.

  “Perfect,” the counselor gives her a flash of a smile and then turns her attention to me. “And what is this?” She points to my design.

  “That’s me,” I explain the little boy I’ve painted on the side of my egg.

  “What are you doing?” She looks at the rough artwork quizzically.

  “I’m smashing your basket of eggs,” I point to the cracked shells and exposed yolks spread around my egg in a mess.

  “What? Why? How is this your ‘truth’?” Her voice raises with anger.

  “Because, I truthfully think this activity is a stupid waste of time. If I was a little boy, and you sent me a basket of your Easter eggs of sadness, then I’d smash the shit out of them. And,” I pause with a smile, “that’s the truth.”

  Laughter erupts around me, but the only person I can really hear is Holly. Her quiet chuckle is, by far, the loudest in the room to me. I don’t care about the angry lines forming in the counselor’s face, or whether or not I’m going to have to sit in Ms. Morehouse’s office again today, the only thing I care about, the only thing that matters, is the moment of happiness I’ve managed to bring to Holly. No matter how fleeting it is, it was worth it all.

  14

  Jake

  The desert wind swirls around me, the sand attacking my exposed skin like a million, tiny hailstones. That’s how I think of it anyway, even after living in Virginia Beach for years, it still reminds me of the brutal Colorado winters I grew up with.

  Why am I here?

  I don’t have time to ponder, my hands are suddenly weighed down by my Colt M4A1, and my tactical gear adds gravity to my body. I need to move.

  My feet grit against the grainy dirt as I quietly enter the dark building. It’s eerily calm. They know we’re here. It won’t do them any good though, we’ve got them surrounded.

  With my night vision goggles, I can see the blurry details of the house. The first floor is clear. I sweep each room, my gun held out at the ready, as I search for our target through a filter of green. The night vision makes it feel like a video game.

  I throw up the hand signal and make my way up the stairs. We’ve been briefed that this building has at lea
st four floors. We have to sweep them all. We have to take out our target. No exceptions.

  I quietly creep down the hall, into the first bedroom. My partner is on my heels, ready to cover me from anyone stupid enough to try to attack us from behind.

  Empty.

  Next room is the same. As I inch toward the last door on this floor, I hear a woman say “Shhh!” They’re hiding in this room. But is he? I can hear them cowering. His family. I hope he’s not using them as a human shield. It wouldn’t surprise me though, you don’t get to be the head of the most powerful terrorist organization in the world living by a strict moral code.

  I open the door, I can see the women and children huddled against the back wall. The mothers are using their bodies to shelter their babies. I don’t care about them. I’m not here for them. I sweep the room, he’s not here.

  Suddenly, I’m blinded. I can’t see anything! I rip off my night vision goggles to see that a bright light has been turned on in the room, making them useless. There’s no time for my eyes to adjust to the light, because standing two feet from me is a boy, maybe eight years old. There’s a burning rage in his eyes and a snarl on his face as he points the gun in his hands at my face.

  BANG!

  Chaos erupts. Children and their mothers scream. They try to rush the door, but they can’t. My guys have them covered. One of the mothers crawls across the floor, wailing. She makes her way over to the body on the floor. The lifeless boy, who only a second ago was ready to kill me. Dead. His body floods the floor with blood. The blood of a child. Her screams grow louder and louder as the blood pools around him.

  “Fuck!”

  My heart is jackhammering in my chest as I shoot up in bed. Cold sweat trails down my face and my panting fills the night air.

  “It was a dream. A dream.” I repeat the phrase like a mantra. However, I know different. I know that this time it was a dream, but that’s because I already lived the nightmare.