Promise to Protect: Military Second Chance Romance Page 3

  She stops a few feet away from me. Her whole body is tense, displaying an elegance that can only come from real strength.

  "Who else has been hanging out with you?" she asks, gesturing to the other chair.

  "Brian," I say.

  "Oh," she mouths. Those lips are a challenge, begging me to subdue them, to taste them, and to not let them overwhelm me.

  "Brian is doing good," I say.

  "I don't care."

  That's fair. Brian was like a sidekick to David and me, but he and David had a contentious relationship. David lived by a strict moral code. There was always a fifty percent chance that Brian was a sociopath.

  Emma moves away from me, gazing at the walls. In high school, she was pixie-ish— on the border of being too thin, the two of us looking comically different when we stood side-by-side. But she must have started working out after I joined the Marines, or her body naturally filled out blessing her with a gravity-defying ass and thighs that I wanted to fall asleep holding onto. She had been beautiful before, but now she was stunning.

  "You shouldn't have painted the room such a dark red. A lighter color would have made it seem bigger."

  "If I wanted a bigger room, I would have torn down more walls."

  I twist around in my chair as she reaches the entrance to the kitchen. She walks into the room, disappearing from my view. I lean back in the chair as I hear her soft footsteps, so subtle that she could be a ghost and even Satan knows I don't need any more of those.

  "Are you going to stay here all night?" I shout out.

  "Maybe," she says. "Depends on your symptoms."

  "You can't wander out in the middle of the night. This isn't the best neighborhood."

  "It's a sorority and fraternity neighborhood."

  "Exactly." I pluck my KA-BAR out of the chair's cup holder. I should have had it with me when I was at the Marttrik factory. A clip point blade has a 79% chance of making other men piss their pants. I look over my shoulder again. "You know, David told me to watch out for you."

  "When have you ever done anything that anyone has told you to do?"

  "The whole time I was in the Marines."

  "I can watch out for myself. I figured out how to do that when you joined the Marines."

  Her voice drifts closer. I turn as she plops down in the other chair. She holds out a black binder.

  "What's this?" she asks. I snatch it from her and tuck it near my armrest.

  "It's nothing."

  "It looks like you're setting up some kind of plan for something called Wild Shelter. The word "veteran" pops up a lot."

  "It's just an idea."

  "It's a foundation," she says.

  "Right now, it's just an idea. There's already a thousand groups like it."

  "It mentions camping and hiking."

  "Did you read the whole thing, Emma? Why are you asking me about it if you already know about it?"

  "Because I saw the photo of you and David tucked in it," she says. "And I thought it was weird you hadn't brought it up to my parents or me."

  "I haven't raised enough money to make it into anything real yet. Did you want to make a donation, or just grill me all night to make sure I stay awake?"

  "I hate it."

  "Donations?"

  "Your whole idea," she says. "You're just trying to exploit David's death in order to profit and give purpose to your own life."

  I stand up. "Why would you even accuse me of that? Have I ever acted selfishly?"

  "You act selfish all of the time!" she snaps, kicking back her chair as she stands up. "You were selfish the whole four months we were together! You ditched on our dates all of the time to go play basketball with David!"

  "I knew David was depressed. He needed a friend."

  "David's depression didn't get bad until he joined the military."

  "I thought that would give his life purpose."

  "You just wanted somebody to be with you because you're selfish," she retorts. "So, you took my pacifist brother and made him who you needed him to be."

  "I only suggested it as an option and he..."

  "He would have done anything you did. You protected him from bullies up until his growth spurt in high school. You knew he'd do anything for you!"

  "Get out of my house, Emma."

  "This isn't a house. It's a hideaway. You're remodeling it just like you think you can remodel yourself into someone who cares about other people."

  "I'm not the only person who has changed," I say. "Did you even read David's journal?"

  "How do you know about the journal?" she asks.

  "He told me he gave it to you. He said he hoped you'd learn from it."

  "When?" she asks. "David only gave me that journal the night before he died."

  The pain licks at me like a flame. I can picture David sitting across from me, the afternoon before he killed himself, a beer in his hand and his words seeping with regret, love, and gratitude. I knew something was wrong. I never imagined that he had already reached the end of his rope. I never recognized the fact that the only emotion he never exhibited was hope.

  "I meant he told me he was going to give it to you." I turn back toward the chair. My head is pounding now like all my thoughts are infiltrating the places in my brain I've worked so hard to protect. This is a scorched-earth tactic, where we're just slowly destroying everything that the other person needs to survive. It's pointless and a violation of everything I promised to David. "We should just go to sleep."

  "You're not supposed to sleep."

  "And you're supposed to act better, but we're both failures," I say. I move toward the stairway. "Lock the door when you leave."

  "You..." She doesn't finish whatever expletives I'm certain she wanted to use. She flings herself at me, shoving me against the staircase. I barely sway, but the scent of her white musk surrounds me and brings me a strange level of comfort. It's like the drugs she's taken, but stronger and more permanent. "You didn't even come to the funeral. You couldn't even take the time to be there for me. You couldn't look my parents in the eye and say that you were sorry for their loss."

  "Lock the door," I repeat, the phrase starting to feel like it had a double meaning. I walk up the stairs, my feet feeling heavy. When I turn around the corner at the top of the stairs, I see her in my periphery. Her head is in her hands, her cinnamon hair hiding her face. If this were easy, I'd go back to her— I'd wipe away the pain until she shined with the revelation of her own self-worth.

  Maybe this is a retreat and perhaps I can tuck myself into the trenches of my barren room, but I'm a soldier under siege and this is the only maneuver that makes sense. Her accusations slip around me in the same way that her beauty does— casually, then gripping me so tightly, it takes everything I have not to become their slave.

  Chapter Five

  Emma

  The dorm rooms are small— there are two twin beds about six feet apart with a desk pushed up against the foot of the bed and a closet a foot behind the desk. A prison cell would offer more space and privacy. I shouldn't be surprised to find my roommate, Rachel Ferreri, sitting against my bed while three of her friends are scattered in-between the two beds, smoking a blunt with a bottle of tequila in the middle of them and four candles spread out around the room like they're performing a seance. Knowing Rachel, it is completely possible that they were trying to summon Charles Manson and the devil, so they could prove how edgy they are, but they forgot what they were doing after one tequila shot.

  I shouldn't be surprised, but after dealing with Shane, the joyride on the acid has screeched to a stop. There is something about Shane that evokes a feeling of shoving a fork into an electrical outlet. And Lord knows that I love the consequences of bad choices.

  "Hey, Emma," Rachel slurs. "You look so pretty and so fucked up at the same time."

  "Thanks." I drop my book bag on my bed behind her. The strap brushes against the back of her head, but she doesn't notice. I grab a candle on my desk and blow it out.
>
  "Maggie thinks I should tell you about the bad thing I did." She gestures to the short-haired blonde. The blonde looks away when I glance over at her, her pale cheeks turning pink. She has black paint on her elbow, so she must be an art major like Rachel.

  "You do a lot of bad things. You're going to have to be a little more specific."

  "You were taking a shower…" She grabs for the bottle of tequila. "It was right after you had a hissy fit about me using your lotion. And I was mad."

  I wait. She takes a sip of the tequila, then another sip. I snatch the bottle from her. She doesn't even resist, her fingers releasing the bottle like she was giving it to me. "Finish your story."

  She reaches for the bottle but falls back onto her ass after stretching a couple of inches. Her lips pinch together.

  "God, this is why I do this shit. You don't have to be such a colossal bitch all of the time."

  "What did you do when I was in the shower, Rachel?"

  "I just read your diary, okay?" she whines. "That's it. Give me my fucking bottle back."

  "I don't have a diary."

  "Yeah, you do." She rolls her eyes. "It was in your bag."

  I take off my bag, wrenching it open. Even before I see it, I realize what she's talking about,

  "That was my brother's," I say, the words feeling like knives on my tongue. "I haven't even read it."

  "Why do you have your brother's diary?"

  I hurl the bottle at her. Her head snaps back as it whacks her across her face. Her two friends jump to their feet, but they're nervous— they're not about to fight. After being at the Marttrik factory, Shane's house, and hearing about this bullshit, I wouldn't mind diving into an unfair fight. Rachel and Maggie wouldn't be a problem, but dealing with three of them at the same time would be a good challenge.

  Rachel pinches her nose as she struggles to get onto her feet. "You fucking bitch!”

  When she runs toward me, her body seems to move in slow motion. I don't know if it's from her drinking alcohol or from the acid, but I sidestep her, grabbing her by her ponytail. I yank her head back as my other fist hits her in the ribs. Her two friends scramble out of the way, the blonde grabbing the tequila bottle as I shove Rachel away from me. Rachel lands near her bed. Blood spatters on the carpet. The lack of light in the room casts her face in shadows. I almost feel concern for her until she scrambles toward my ankles. I step out of the way as she tries to grab me. My foot hits against something.

  "Oh, shit," the blonde mutters. Initially, I think she's looking at me, but as heat trails up my leg and I look behind me, I realize it's not a water bottle or plastic cup my foot had hit against. It was a candle and the flame is consuming a painting Rachel had done for class.

  Well, this is just fucking great.

  "I've got it." The blonde has already opened the bottle of tequila. Before I can stop her, she splashes the last bit of it onto the fire. The flames shoot up, the red and yellow filling up my vision.

  "You're so fucking stupid, Maggie!” Rachel snaps. She reaches down to grab her painting but drops it as the flame devours the paper. The paper lands on her chiffon blouse she had left in a bundle on the floor. The smoke alarms in every room in the building start to blare.

  I grab to my book bag. There's nothing else in here that I care about, but I can't risk anyone getting hurt. It's one thing to beat Rachel; it's another to let her burn up just because she's an idiot. There's a fire extinguisher in the lounge.

  I open the door. I hear the fire crackle as it feeds on the new oxygen. As I step out into the hallway, I see our RA, Libby Gill, her hands clinging on to a fire extinguisher. Her black hair blends in with her black clothes. The black jeans and lack of accessories always made me think she was not trying to look gothic, but trying to be ready for any sudden need of a stagehand.

  Though, the expression on her face is less 'helpful' and more 'murderous.'

  "Libby..." I start. She holds up her hand.

  "Don't talk. Show me the fire."

  I point to my room. The other women have already evacuated. Libby pulls the pin out of the fire extinguisher, aims the hose, and squeezes the trigger. She sweeps the hose back and forth near the base of the fire. I watch it slowly die down, but Libby's shoulders only get more and more tense with every second that passes.

  Once the fire is out, she sets down the fire extinguisher. She looks straight at me.

  "If I give you a drug test right now, would you pass it?" she asks me. I open my mouth, waiting for a lie to come out, but I'm exhausted. This has easily been the third or fourth worst day of my life. "What if I look in your bag and pockets? Would I find drugs?"

  "No," I mutter, the lie crawling out reluctantly.

  She shakes her head. "The campus police are going to be here soon. They're going to ask what happened and you're going to be kicked out of this dormitory."

  "I didn't start this."

  "You had nothing to do with how this fire started? You just happened to be in the room? What about that blood on the carpet? Did you have anything to do with that or were you just hanging out in your dorm, staying out of the way as someone bled and a fire was started?"

  I press my lips together. She's just another person that I wish I could hate, but who knows me so well, and I might as well be an open book. Or a diary that can be easily stolen out of a book bag.

  "That's what I thought," she says. "I'd start gathering your things now. The campus might give you another room for a little bit, but you'll need to be searching for a new place. You might want to get rid of the drugs too."

  I keep a tight hold on my book bag. All the anger seeps out of me, extinguished just like the fire. I move toward the closet, grabbing my clothes. David would be so disappointed in me for so many reasons. Now that someone else has read his words, I should feel obligated to read them, but I know I won't. There are so many things I need David to have told me— reasons, excuses, explanations, compassion for me, and compassion for himself— and so many things I can't handle him telling me— pent-up frustration, accusations, criticisms, and misplaced pride— that reading what he had to say can only pull me down further into my own hostility. For someone who knows they're not innocent, the prison cell isn't reinforced by four walls, but it's knowing nothing can change the past.

  Chapter Six

  Shane

  "Survival of the fittest isn't about who's the strongest or the fastest— it's about who can adapt. Adaptability is the best attribute you can have when it comes to survival. Physical strength is important for survival, but your ability to think quickly and modify your behavior to your environment is more important. It's a mental test, and survival in the winter is one of the most difficult mental tests you'll undergo. Do you use leaves or pine needles inside your shelter? How do you make an A-frame shelter? Should you use snow as a form of insulation? You think it's your body that is tested by the elements, but it will be your brain that decides whether you survive or not. The best bodybuilder in the world could freeze to death while a child could survive in the woods for decades."

  Two of the people in front of me look like children— scrawny, short, and skin untainted by scars, zits, or the slightest exposure to the sun. There's one woman beside them, who is toned, but not overly muscular. The three other men look relatively strong— like high school football players or baby gym rats who have very few muscles that could be used in a real-life scenario.

  "I'm telling you this because, while there is physical training in this program, it will mostly be training you on how to use the tools around you. It will be about using the environment to your advantage."

  Like a siren that wants to sing me to a rocky shore, I see Emma approaching. Her strides are long, but her arms are crossed over her chest, sending mixed messages. She is trying to reach me faster, but she isn't open to the idea of being in front of me.

  I look back at the potential roster of new trainees. "If you sign up for this program, you'll learn the facts, you'll learn how to do things ri
ght, and you'll learn to hone your instincts so your first action is the best one, but most of all you'll learn to adapt. If you walk back to the main building, Joshua will show you around Valence Camp's property. Thank you."

  Emma reaches me as I turn away from the group. Her hands are on her hips now.

  "Dr. Shepherd said we had to do this experiment together," she says without preamble. "It involves your job, so I figured I'd come here."

  "You're lying." I glance down her body. She's wearing sweatpants with Camden University's logo near the hip and an autumn jacket. The woman doesn't seem to get cold.

  I look back up at her. Her upper lip is nearly twitching with anger. "What on earth would I be lying about? Everything I just said was a fact."

  "You're not here because of the experiment. We could have worked on the experiment on campus. You wouldn't have come all the way out here unless you needed something."

  "That's not true."

  "Fine. Let's talk about the experiment. So, we should have at least nine couples, though it should be closer to one hundred couples if we want the experiment to have any legitimacy."

  "Why?"

  "Because the more participants we have, the more likely our conclusion isn't a fluke."

  "I meant… why do you have to be such a pain in the ass? Why do you think I would only travel to see you if I needed something? I traveled to where you wanted me to go all of the time when we were dating."

  "And then you got smarter. You figured out that you don't need to bend over backward to get what you want. So, you don't. That whole thing at Marttrik factory with that prep kid proved it. Let's be honest— you also need money, and you haven't asked for it or even tried to get a dinner out of me, so you're trying very hard to live independently. But something has happened and now you need something, so you're willing to come out all the way to my place of employment to ask for it."

  "What makes you think I need money?"