Chapter 194
CHAPTER TWO.
HUNTER.
Operation Iraqi Freedom; Des Moines, Iowa, 2003 The bar is dim and blurry and spinning as I finish my beer. I've lost count by now. Ten? Twelve? There might have been a few shots in there, too. It doesn't matter. Derek is next to me, perched on the stool with one foot on the scratched wood floor, flirting with a tall brown-haired girl with huge round b.r.e.a.s.t.s. He's close to scoring, I'm pretty sure. He's been working this girl for over an hour, playing up his best war stories from the last tour. We've been back for a month, and we're not due to s.h.i.+p back to Iraq for another month, but Derek has gotten plenty of mileage out of his experiences. And by mileage, I mean a.s.s.
This girl, for instance, is hanging off his every word, leaning closer and closer to him, arching her back to make her already-impressive rack even bigger. She's stroking his knee absently, and he's pretending not to notice, all the while inching his own hand up her knee toward her thigh, which is bare almost to her hip bones in the little khaki shorts she's wearing.
I wish him well. I've got my own piece of heaven waiting at home...well, her home. It's where I've been staying since I got back Stateside. Lani Cutler has been my girlfriend since my soph.o.m.ore year of high school, and she waited for me through Basic, gave me somewhere to stay until I s.h.i.+pped out, and then gave me one h.e.l.l of a warrior's send-off...for three days straight. And now I'm back and she's here still, giving me a warrior's welcome and a warm bed. I don't know what else it is between us, exactly, which is part of the reason I've tied one on tonight. Things are different, difficult, and confused.
I keep trying to start the conversation with her, but she always avoids it.
I was gone for over a year, and I know better than to ask what-or who-she did while I was gone, since I never demanded she wait for me. She's a good girl, sweet, beautiful, smart, from a good family. Too good for the likes of me, but she doesn't seem to know that. She claims to love me, and I believe her. I've been thinking of asking her to marry me, to make sure I've always got someone to come home to, permanently. I love her, I think. I think about her when I'm gone, miss her. I can see us together.
I've even bought the ring. Little thing, not real expensive, but it's something.
But I have doubts.
At some point, my beer disappears and is replaced by a gla.s.s of water with four wedges of lemon. A rocks gla.s.s full of pretzel nuggets is in front of me, and suddenly, nothing has ever tasted so good as those yeasty little b.a.l.l.s of crunchy goodness.
Derek laughs at something the girl-whom I've named The Rack-says and stands up. "We're gonna get out of here, Hunt. You good?"
I nod. "Yep. 'M good. Not a far walk from here."
Derek frowns. "Sure you're in any kind of condition to walk, bro? You look three sheets to the wind."
I shrug. "Maybe two sheets. But I'm good."
"Dude, don't be a d.i.c.khead. You're hammered. Get in the cab with us."
"f.u.c.k you," I mumble.
"You first, a.s.shat." Derek is laughing at me, but I'm too dizzy to care.
"Oh, be nice to your friend," The Rack says. "Can't you see he's pining over a girl?"
Derek laughs. "Sweetheart, that's not pining. He's gonna stumble home and f.u.c.k her sideways."
I blear at the girl, wondering if I'm that obvious. "Shuddup, Derek," I slur. "'Sides. I'm pretty sure that's all it is. f.u.c.kin'. Just f.u.c.kin'. No love. Just s.e.x."
"See?" The girl slaps Derek's shoulder. "He's pining. He loves her, but she doesn't love him. I'm a bartender. I know that look. Now, get your friend home, and then take me to your place."
Then I'm stumbling outside into the bitter Iowa winter, hunching against the driving wind. I'd forgotten it was winter, for a minute. I've been in the desert so long I find the chill unbearable now. Before I s.h.i.+pped out, I'd have been out in this in a T-s.h.i.+rt, playing tackle football with Derek and the guys. This little flurry storm wouldn't have stopped us from playing ball. We never even bothered with coats until it was single digits.
I'm sliding into the cab, The Rack next to me, her slim, soft arm pressing against mine. I mean, I know she's going home with Derek, and I've got Lani waiting for me, but I'm drunk and I don't mind her proximity.
"You smell nice, like vanilla," I say.
Oops. I hadn't meant to say that. Kind of a creeper thing to say. Fortunately, the Rack is amiable enough and experienced enough with drunk people to not take me seriously.
"Thanks," she giggles, and her b.o.o.bs bounce pleasantly. I try not to stare.
I focus out the window on the shards of snow whipping past, the trees and the buildings of suburban Des Moines. She giggles again at something Derek says, and now that I don't have her bouncing t.i.ts to distract me, the sound of her giggle is actually fairly obnoxious, but I can't place why. Something about it irritates me, rubs me the wrong way.
Oh, G.o.d, I'm entering the d.i.c.khead phase of my drunk. I sigh at myself and concentrate on trying to see single objects rather than double.
We pull into Lani's apartment complex, and I hand Derek a couple of random bills from my pocket to cover the bar tab and the cab fare.
"Thanks for the ride," I say. I wink at them, or try to. I think I actually just closed both eyes.
Derek laughs. "Yeah, dude, no problem. Get some sleep. We'll hit the gym tomorrow."
I nod and extend my hand. Derek slaps my palm and grabs my hand as if we're about to arm wrestle, and then lets go. I get out and stumble to the door, peering unsteadily at the number to make sure it's the right one. It is, and I go inside, finding the apartment dark and silent. There's a single candle burning on the kitchen counter, one of the crazy scented ones Lani likes so much. Cherry b.u.t.terscotch b.u.t.tered coconut rum, or some stupid s.h.i.+t like that. I blow it out, because Lani tends to leave them lit all night, which is a fire hazard, even though she acts like it's not.
I lean against the counter, breathing in the scent of extinguished candle. I've always wished they'd make a candle that smells like a blown-out candle. The clock on the microwave says one-fifty-five, and I know it's probably unlikely that I'll see any action with Lani tonight. She's a receptionist at a doctor's office and has to get up pretty early to be at work, so she goes to bed early. It doesn't bother me, usually, since I'm an early riser myself, having been in the Marine Corps for such a long time. But tonight, I'm h.o.r.n.y. I'm worked up.
Now that I'm home and away from the familiar comfort of the bar, being drunk is a little unpleasant, dizzy and disorienting. I want to sleep, but I know I won't be able to. I want to make love to Lani, but that's not going to happen, either. She might wake up, she might even respond enough to let me do what I want, but she won't really wake up, she'll just move a little, make some partially fake moaning sounds, and then go back to sleep.
I crack open a Dr. Pepper from the fridge,
I see the flashes, the tracers, hear clip footage of the hack-hack...hackhackhack of AK fire, and suddenly I'm transported, kneeling beside an open door, M16 tucked into my shoulder, kicking as I blast triple bursts at a red-and-white-checked keffiyeh visible on a rooftop.
My head aches, my chest clenches, and my fists tighten until I hear the plastic remote cracking in my hand, and then the segment ends and a commercial for Tide detergent shakes me out of it. I flick on the TV and scan the DVDs on the shelf, but nothing seems interesting.
There's an Xbox, here for when Lani's younger brother comes over after school on Thursday afternoons. Some games, mostly sports, a role-playing game, and then the latest Call of Duty. I haven't played that one yet. We don't get the new games over there very often. I pop it in and change the channel to the correct TV input. The opening screens cycle, and then I'm in, quick play option. It's scarily realistic. The sounds are dead on, filtered through speakers, but enough to crash into my head and call up the real thing.
I'm racking up kills like crazy, biting it and resp.a.w.ning, and the controller is slippery with sweat and I'm leaning forward, teeth grinding. Certain parts are realistic, others aren't. The sounds are the most realistic.
I feel small soft hands on my shoulders, sliding down my arms to take the controller from me. I let her take it.
"Hunter? What are you doing, baby?" Lani's voice is muzzy with sleep.
I turn away from the TV and look at her. She's so beautiful, wavy blonde hair sleep-mussed, blue eyes squinting at the light. She's wearing one of my T-s.h.i.+rts, a Slipknot concert s.h.i.+rt, and it comes to mid-thigh, her small, perky b.r.e.a.s.t.s poking the cotton.
"Got back from the bar with Derek and couldn't sleep," I say.
"I never felt you come back to bed."
I shrug. "I didn't. I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep."
She circles the couch and sits next to me. "Isn't that game a little...difficult for you to play?"
I don't answer right away. I shrug, eventually. "Yeah, guess so. Just curious."
"You okay?" she asks.
I hesitate, then decide now isn't the right time to address what's on my mind. I'm half-drunk, and she's half-asleep. "Nah. Just coming down and getting tired."
"Well, why don't you come to bed?" Lani slips her hand around my bicep.
"Yeah, I'll be right in."
Lani laughs, a breathy giggle, and that's when I realize why the Rack's giggle irritated me: it was like Lani's. I push the thought away and turn to her.
"What's funny?" I ask.
She scratches her nails up my arm. "I meant, come to bed..." and the tone of her voice suggests what she's getting at.
"Don't you have to wake up for work in a few hours?"
I ask myself why I'm arguing and don't come up with an answer.
"It's only two-thirty," she says. "I don't have to be up till seven. We have time." She stands up and backs toward the bedroom.
I sit and watch her, feeling the zipper of my jeans tighten as she peels her s.h.i.+rt off, revealing her naked curves. I stand up and follow after her, shedding my s.h.i.+rt and pants as I go. I'm hard and ready, and she's crawling backward across the bed, her hair splaying across the pillow, her hand reaching for me as I climb up between her legs.
s.e.x with Lani never fails to be spectacular. She's pa.s.sionate and vocal, crying out when she comes, moaning my name as I plunge into her, soft hands clutching my shoulders.
Her eyes, though, when I glance at her, reveal a distance as they look at me. A kind of disguised apathy. As if she's acting. The thought bothers me, and I push it away. I release with a soft grunt, my face buried in her neck.
I wish she would put her hand on my head when I bury my face against her like this. She never does, though, and I always find myself wis.h.i.+ng she would. I never say anything, because she'd do it, but only since I asked her to. It's a little thing, insignificant, but somehow it always seems to hit me like this. She does what she thinks I want. She knows I get h.o.r.n.y when I'm drunk, so she has s.e.x with me when I get back from the bar. I'm not sure she wants to, though. Not really.
She's asleep again, turned away from me, still naked, beautiful, and it seems for a moment as if we're in different realities. The absurdity of the thought makes me snort. I roll over behind her and slip my arm over her hip. She's warm and soft and present here with me.
A glow of affection for Lani spreads through me, replacing my doubts. She loves me, and I love her. All is well with my world, in this moment, at least.
A tiny voice in the very bottom-most, shadowy part of my heart speaks up.
Right?
And then I fall asleep without answering that question.
The next few weeks pa.s.s somewhat awkwardly. Lani is increasingly distant. She usually is in the days and weeks prior to my s.h.i.+pping out, but this is different. More p.r.o.nounced. We don't have s.e.x again.
She's on her phone a lot, texting nonstop. She plugs it in next to her bed and puts in on silent. Sometimes it's under her pillow. It's always in her hand or in her purse, or in her back pocket. It's never, ever where I can see it. If I approach her while she's texting, or on call, she pauses until I go away, putting the phone against her chest.
I ignore it as best I can, but warning bells are going off. I ignore those, too. Nothing's going on, right? I mean, I'm about to s.h.i.+p out in a week, for Christ's sake. She would wait till I'm gone to start anything, right?
I go to the gym three days before my plane leaves Des Moines. I'm only there for about half an hour before I feel something in my shoulder pull and decide to call it a day. Usually I'm at the gym for an hour or two, which how it's been since high school.
The gym is a couple miles away from Lani's apartment, and I walk the distance, huddled in a thick coat and sweatpants, feeling the wind bite through the cotton to freeze the sweat on my legs. As I approach the apartment complex, my heart begins to hammer in my chest. There's no reason for it, but it's a feeling I've learned to recognize. It's foreboding. Premonition, maybe. A gut feeling. I've learned to recognize these feelings and trust them. Something is wrong. I don't feel the p.r.i.c.kling of my skin, the crawling of my flesh and the cold sweat of fear, so I don't think it's a danger situation, but something is off.
I approach Lani's front door and slip in, silently. The hinges don't squeak, and the k.n.o.b doesn't sc.r.a.pe. My footfalls are stealthy on the carpet. I don't know why I'm doing this. I'm in a tactical crouch, and my hands are clutched in front of me automatically, as if I'm holding a rifle. It's habit, reflex. Every sense is attuned.
I shrug out of my coat and drape it across a chair back. My skin tightens with apprehension. Is Lani hurt? I don't smell blood. I smell...sweat? Bodies. I smell s.e.x.
Then I hear it: a sigh, gentle, brief, and female. It's a sound I know all too well. It's the sound Lani makes when she comes. She doesn't scream or cry out; she clutches me close, arms around my neck, and sighs-almost a whimper-into my ear. I can almost feel her arms, hear the sigh, but I'm not in that bedroom. She's not making that sound for me. I wait, crouched outside her door and listen, just to make sure I'm not mistaken. Maybe she's pleasuring herself. I don't like that idea much more, since why would she need to do that if she has me? But...no. I hear him. A deeper sigh. A grunt. Murmured words, her laugh, a male moan.
She's having s.e.x, and it's not me.
f.u.c.k.
Anger ripples through me, turning my sight red, making my hands shake. I breathe, hard and deep and fast. I wait, force my blood to slow, force my hands to unfist. I can't afford mistakes. I can't afford to lose my temper. I've been too careful about it for too long to mess up now. Juvie was bad enough. I'm not going to jail. I'm not going to get court-martialed.
When I'm as calm as I can get under the circ.u.mstances, I fling open the bedroom door. There she is. Naked and beautiful, underneath Douglas Pearson. Doug. Skinny little Doug, nerdy, introverted, acne-scarred, works at an insurance agency Doug motherf.u.c.king Pearson.
I resist the urge to throw him out the first-story window.
"Get the f.u.c.k out, Doug." My voice is a whisper. Calm and deadly. "Get the f.u.c.k out, now. I'll be gone in a minute, and you can have her back. I just need to talk to her."
Doug scrambles off the bed and dresses in record time. He stops in front of me, his eyes wide with terror, his nostrils flaring, reeking of fear. But he stops in front of me and faces me. I give him credit for having some b.a.l.l.s. "You won't...you won't hurt her? If you're going to hurt someone, hurt me."
I laugh. It's not an amused sound. "Don't tempt me, pencil-d.i.c.k. No. I'm not going to hurt anyone. Except you if you don't get the f.u.c.k out of my face."
He gets out. Lani clutches the bed sheet around her chest, as if I haven't seen her naked a million times before. As if we didn't lose our virginity together at fifteen. As if I didn't have a ring in my duffel bag. That act, the s.h.i.+elding herself from my view, tells me all I need to know.
"Three days, Lani. Three G.o.dd.a.m.n days. You couldn't wait three motherf.u.c.king days?" I turn away from her and talk to the door. I'm too p.i.s.sed to trust myself facing her. "I don't get it. If you didn't want me, why the f.u.c.k didn't you tell me? I mean, f.u.c.k."
"Stop saying that word, Hunter. I don't like it."
I whirl. "f.u.c.k you, Lani. I'm a G.o.dd.a.m.n Marine. I've got a dirty f.u.c.king mouth, and I'm p.i.s.sed off. You cheated on me." I force myself to take two long steps across the room away from her. "I've never asked. I come back, and I don't ask you any questions. I'm gone for a long time, and I've never asked what you do while I'm gone. But...while I'm here, I kind of expected you to be faithful. Is that too much to ask?"
Lani doesn't answer.
"How long?" I ask. "How long has this been going on with that little p.r.i.c.k?"
"Don't talk about Doug like that, Hunter. He's a good man. He-"
"I didn't ask about him. I don't care. How...long." It doesn't come out as a question.
"I first started seeing him about two months after you left the last time." She lowers her eyes away from mine.
That's a full year. More.
She's ashamed, and she should be.
"And you've been going behind me with him all the time I've been back?"
She nods, a tiny jerk of her chin.
"f.u.c.k." I want to hit something. My fist b.a.l.l.s and I lift it to punch through the wall or the door, but I don't. "Un-f.u.c.king-believable, Lani. If you don't love me, have the b.a.l.l.s to say so."
She moves forward off the bed, sheet trailing behind her, clutched to her chest. "It's not that I don't love you, Hunter. I do. But...I'm not in love with you."