Collateral (18 page)

by my table when Cole stormed

in. The guy had just made a totally

inappropriate remark, or tried to.

He was so drunk, he could barely

spit the word “ejaculate.” I happened

to be laughing at his poor attempt. Cole

assessed the situation, took it all wrong.

I ever saw those beautiful eyes

go all crazy. Scary crazy. He came

stomping toward the table. “Uh, I think

you'd better go,” I told the stranger,

right about the time Cole reached

the table and spun him around.

Get the fuck away from her, asshole.

The guy had two choices: compliance

or belligerence. He chose the latter.

Who you calling asshole, asshole?

The two squared off and things

were headed straight toward ugly.

But then the bartender, hyperaware

of the situation, called them out.

He told Cole to relax and the other guy

to find a designated driver. The drunk

slunk away, muttering obscenities.

I swear, I never thought Cole would

blame me, or I might have realized things

were headed south when he didn't kiss

me hello. Instead, he went straight

to the bar, called for whiskey, neat.

The double was already half gone

when he plopped into the chair next

to me. I reached out one hand, touched

his cheek with two fingers. “Hey, soldier.”

I thought he relaxed a little. Silly me.

“Do you know how much I've missed

you?” Cole sipped his drink before

answering, taking plenty of time

to deliberate.
That was sure a funny

way of showing it, don't you think?

“I don't . . . oh, you mean that guy?

I didn't do anything, Cole.
He
came

on to
me
.” Prickles of anger started

up my spine.
Yeah, well, you didn't

exactly discourage him, did you?

Fucking women are all alike.

Okay, that pissed me off. “First off,

women are
not
all alike! And believe

it or not, I asked him to leave me alone

three or four times. Jesus, Cole, I drove

all the way here to be with
you
, not some

drunk jerk who I don't even know.”

I finished my own drink in one long

swallow. Softened my voice. “Guess

maybe you're the one I don't even know.”

I got up, started to leave. Cole caught

my arm.
I'm sorry. Goddamn sorry.

Sit back down, Ashley. Please?

Was to jerk my arm from his grasp,

collect my stuff, drive back to San

Diego and quit taking his calls.

But then, I looked into his eyes,

found every hint of crazy gone,

and in its place, overriding love.

I sat, disquiet building a wall

between us. We'd been together

for two years. Shared laughter

and tears and beds and dreams.

I'd never glimpsed that side of him.

Had he really seen something

different in me?
Ashley, baby,

I love you so much. I can't stand

the thought of losing you. Please . . .

“The only way you'll ever lose me

is by accusing me of something awful

I didn't do, Cole. I can't believe

you have so little respect for me,

after all we've been through. I-I-I wait

for you for months at a time. Worry

about you. Stress over you. I put my life

on hold for you while you're away,

doing God knows what in some foreign

hellhole . . .” I was crying by then, tears

of frustration. “You're the only man

I've ever loved. I would never cheat on you.”

Leveled, in fact. What I failed to see

was how hurt Cole was, too, even though

he had zero reason to be. It's rare

for him to display emotion, but he did

then. He reached for me, gathered me

into his arms. Kissed me so, so sweetly.

I don't know what I'd do if you left

me. Something brig-worthy, no doubt.

You are the absolute best thing

in my life. Without you, I'd be just

another lonely grunt, searching

for a good reason to come home.

“I'm not going anywhere, Cole,”

I whispered into his ear. “But I am

moving over now. People are staring.”

It was true. Not sure if they were

hoping we'd get back into it, or

totally make out right there. Either

way, I wanted to take it private.

We finished our drinks. Skipped

dinner and went straight to the motel

for a couple of rounds of makeup sex.

When you walk into a room.

You don't notice. But I do.

It's one of the things

I love most about

you,

this lack of self-

awareness. You wear

beauty like April

wears blossoms,

only

spring shows off

an impatient display,

hurries away;

you

stay. Knowing

you're there, waiting

for time to

bring

meaning to your pause,

delaying your own dreams

to soothe mine, this keeps

me

sane midst the chaos.

Without you, I have no reason

to find my way

home.

Cole Gleason

Mai tai. Find my way back to the hotel,

sober enough to walk a straight line,

drunk enough not to worry about

the creep who accosted me earlier.

It's a different desk clerk, and I'm glad.

The last thing I want is to have to make

small talk about my wonderful Marine.

The same grunt who basically just called

me a slut. Every time he's about to deploy

he questions my moral fiber. Fucker. Wow.

And every time we have another pretour

sendoff, my language devolves. At least

I didn't say it out loud. I must look as

pissed as I feel, though, because people

are moving out of my way as I cross

the lobby, stomp into the elevator, head

up to the room. Our nice, romantic

suite, overlooking the Pacific. Damn.

Damn. Damn. Damn. I throw my stuff

on the big comfy-looking chair. Start to

pace. Pacing lowers my blood pressure.

Helps put things in order. I count steps.

One-two-three-four. All the way to twelve.

Turn. Count backward. Eleven-ten-nine.

Good thing we've got a big room. Fewer

than a dozen steps would make me crazier

than I am. Yeah, I know I'm a little touched.

Who wouldn't be, all things considered?

On the obsessive side—

needing cleanliness.

Wanting order. But

the compulsive thing

started after falling

in love with Cole and

so much of my life spun

totally out of control.

Can't control:

Where he is.

Where he goes.

When I'll hear from him.

When I'll see him next.

Let alone:

If he'll be safe.

If he'll stay sane.

If he'll come back whole.

If he'll come back at all.

Or what he'll be like

post-deployment. Post-

retirement. I've never

known him as a civilian.

Never known him as just

a regular guy, something

I'm not sure he—or any

warrior—can ever be again.

My own life, best as I can.

My grades are back in order.

It took a while, but I finally

figured out how to concentrate

on my classes, even with Cole gone.

I like the fieldwork, like helping

people, though I miss working

with the preschool kids. Teaching

still calls to me, despite the years

I've put into my master's.

Okay, I don't like to think about

that. Pace-pace-pace-pace. Two

times two is four. That is order.

Three groups of four is perfect.

Why twelve? Not sure. Eggs,

maybe. Two straight lines of

ovals, in their safe cardboard

nests. Picturing that makes me

calmer. Which is good, because

I hear the whir of Cole's key

in the lock. I turn toward the door,

brace myself for a wave of anger.

He comes through and, without

a word, comes straight to me,

lifts me off the floor, sweeps me

into the bedroom, throws me

onto the bed. Anger may feed

what follows. He rips himself

out of his pants, lifts my shift,

yanks off the bikini bottoms.

His hands lace into my hair,

hold my head against the pillow.

He is inside me before he says,

Don't you ever leave me like that

again. Do you understand?

He punctuates each word with

a thrust of his hips. I lift my own,

wrap my legs around him, open

myself to accept his metered

plunging. “Yes,” is the most I can

manage as he drives the air from

my lungs. The smell of rum and

whiskey clings to him, and his face

is sticky. I lick away the dried

mai tai, stoking his building frenzy.

Too soon, we crest, hard, sticky wet.

Together. Too soon, but there will

be an encore. And tonight, I'll sleep

with him circled around me, one

hand claiming my breast as his.

Is our alarm this morning. I left

the slider cracked, and the loud shriek

jumps us awake. Cole shoves me

over the side of the bed, onto the floor.

Get down!
He covers me with

his body until the wailing fades.

It takes a few seconds for him to

realize where he is and exactly what

all the noise was.
Goddamn it. You

must think I'm a basket case, huh?

“Not really,” I huff. “But could you

please get off me? I can't breathe.”

I try to keep it light. Truth is, my

heart is booming and the reason

I'm having a hard time breathing

is because he scared the crap out of me.

He draws himself up to sit on the side

of the bed. I get to my knees, crawl

over to him, and when I look up

into his eyes, I see fear. No, terror,

only just now receding. “You okay?”

He nods.
On an FOB, a siren means

incoming. Generally those fucking

Hajji mortars hit pretty damn wide.

But a couple of times, man. Way

too close for comfort. I got lucky

once or tw
—He stops short. We

never talk about close calls. Never

discuss danger. Especially not now

that he's going back. Totally bad juju.

Still, I climb into his lap, reveling

in the feel of his nakedness beneath

my own. I slide my arms around

his neck. Kiss his forehead. Dare

to ask, “Do you ever get scared?

Over there, I mean.” I have not

ever asked him this question,

assuming he must but that he

probably wouldn't want to confess

it.
Fear is your friend over there,

sweetheart. If you're not at least

a little scared, you're stupid, and

stupid guys die faster than the rest.

I push him back on the bed.

“I want you to be scared, then.”

This time I make love to him.

Long. Lazy. Unselfish. Giving.

Ask me, that kind of sex is better

than the kind you demand.

After we both shudder release,

we lie, semidozing. His gentle

snoring tells me his fear has passed,

for the moment, at least. My own

unease is growing. Can't say why.

I count by fours. Eight. Twelve.

When we pry ourselves from bed.

Shower. Dress for the day. I reach

for my purple bikini bottom, lying

on the floor next to the bed. Pull

back, then ask myself why. Cole

bends over. Picks it up. Hands

it to me.
I want to see how you

look in it. Please wear it today.

I think that's an apology. I smile.

“Even at the beach? Even at

the pool? Even at all those places

where the other guys drool?”

Cole laughs.
Yes, even there,

Theodor. I'm not sure your

poetry class is making you

reach deep enough, though.

“Maybe not. But my teacher

has excellent taste. I showed

him one of your poems. He said

to tell you it's really good, and

you should do something with

your writing one day. I happen

to agree. And so, I bet, would

Dr. Seuss.” Cole's face is the color

of an overripe tomato.
What?

Ashley, no one but you has ever

seen my poetry. Why would