Finding Serenity (8 page)

“Layla—”

“In nothing but Kenya’s Bob Marley t-shirt.”

Layla is queen of manipulation. Logically, Mollie knows this, but the guilt of stealing your best friend’s crush doesn’t die easily. Even after four years. The beauty of the summer day on an isolated Cavanagh campus is utterly destroyed by the heavy guilt Mollie suddenly feels. The loud chirp of the sparrows singing in the oak trees falls mute. The sweet hum of the lake in the distance seems to still as Mollie takes in Layla’s challenging, lifted eyebrow and pursed lips. Even the loud roar of a black car speeding by can’t distract her from her best friend’s frown. “Fine.” She drags Layla off the planter by her elbow. “I’ll do it, but this is the last time you get to play the Kenya card.”

Layla’s fabricated glower immediately disappears and her lips are pulled tight with the enormous smile she sports. “Awesome. Thank you so much, Molls.”

Mollie shakes her head, and leads Layla toward the parking garage near the rugby pitch, trying her best not to laugh at her best friend’s automatic excitement.

“You know, I did you a favor hooking up with Kenya.”

“Hardly. He was so beautiful, you bitch.”

“Yeah, well Mr. Beautiful gave me crabs.”

Silence would not keep, would not let him find rest. There were screeches of memory that invaded every crevice of space. In the silence, where he was meant to breathe, rest, where the horrors of yesterday should be extinguished with time, Vaughn only found nightmares.

For him, the war is over. There are no more bombs splintering the eerie quiet in the desert. For him, there is no more desert, but even in his sister’s palatial home where comfort abounds and security means more than the reach of his gun, Vaughn still labors every night. But it isn’t bullets and bombs that break the quiet of sleep. It isn’t the scorching heat or the combatants that threatens his life with every patrol in a third world village. It is the dream; the memory that comes back to him, exaggerated by the haunting images, many that he does not understand, some that he can never erase from his vision.

It is always the same.

Arms reaching, searching, begging to be held. And then, he takes her hard, the way she likes it. Their bodies slicked, sweat pooling down his back with each thrust.

“Here, right here, baby.” Her voice is soft, heavy from the screams she makes when his hips work faster. Vaughn follows her hands, licking a path between her breasts while he arches, reaches deeper. She rewards him with a squeeze against his dick.

“Fuck.
Ah…
”

“Harder, baby. I like it hard.” Her legs are small, lithe, weighed nothing as he moves her knee over his shoulder, gripping down to penetrate harder so that she can feel all of him, all that is hers.

He loves the sharp yanks she makes against his hair, the way her fingers twist tight, the way she moans when his hold on her hips tighten.

“I want to ride you, baby. Move us.”

And he does, taking her down, settling over his lap as he leans back against the headboard. He loves the way her soft, pink tits bounce against him as she rocks, he can almost fit her small waist in one hand as he guides her over his cock.

Her movements increase, those glorious breasts moving faster. She is close,
so
close and Vaughn knows what she needs, what she likes best.

Her nipple comes easily into his mouth, fits between his teeth and she bows back, her movements jarring, disjointed as her climax builds with each small nibble he makes against her.

“Fuck baby, yes. Just like there. Bite it. Ah,
oh God.
”

And Vaughn lets her ride the wave but it isn’t complete, is left unfinished. He increases his effort, kisses her chest, just between her small tits, loving the way the salt on her skin tastes, frowning when that taste transforms, becomes tangy and metallic.

The blood is everywhere. On her chest, on his tongue, in his hair and Vaughn screams, the terror of his love battered, broken and he is helpless, forcing his eyes shut as bloodied limbs fall on the bed, as he watches her heart beating in her open chest—the fray of skin, of muscle, the splintered remains of flesh sliced by a bullet’s quick trajectory. Then she is crying; he hears the screaming cries every time he fell asleep.

“Help me, Vaughn. Please. Save me. Save me.”

And then she is nowhere, everywhere, laying next to the kid, PFC Tony Williams, fresh from Basic, scared as he lays bleeding on the ground, bullets and shrapnel flying over their heads. His legs are missing, arm hanging from his shoulder as he gurgles out pain, torment.

“Winchester, help me, man… I can’t feel it. I can’t… feel anything.”

The gurgle deepens, sounds wetter and Vaughn reaches for him, for her, scared that he cannot help. He cannot help either of them.

It never varies. It never stops. The constant loop of those words gut him, make him feel less, make him feel nothing when sleep is denied.
“Save me.”

And now, in that odd nightmare space where sleep had come, but at a price, Vaughn hears the words yet again. He sees thin, pale fingers lunging toward him, gripping, trying in vain to take hold one last time. Just as that cold grip of deathly bone skims across his wrist and the constant refrain of “save me” shouts with a brittle, angry voice, Vaughn wakes.

“No!” he screams, jerking his arms away from the ghosts that haunt his dreams. “No,” he says again, this time a little calmer, a bit less anxious. “Damn.” Head down, face hidden behind his palms, Vaughn wipes the sweat from his skin, tries to still that quick shake moving his fingers. “Suck it up, man,” he tells himself.

He doesn’t look up. He knows his sister has come again, that the light pooling into the living room is from the kitchen where she has set up an impromptu workspace, never able to really let her job stay at the office.

“You okay?” his sister says, sitting next to him on the sofa.

“Fine,” he lies, not eager to have her worry overtake them both. It’s what she does and the more concern she displays, the heavier Vaughn’s guilt surges. “I’m fine, Viv. Really.”

Viv rubs his shoulder, hand firm, encouraging. Tonight she is dressed down, comfortable in cotton PJ pants and a cardigan over a silk tank. It’s not how his elegant sister generally looks, but when she’s home, a rarity as of late, Viv forgoes the crisp black suits that are part of her district attorney “uniform.” To him, though, she doesn’t look much different than she did at twenty-five when he left for basic training. She is still thin, though age has rounded her hips. Her eyes are still bright and cobalt blue, though time has left traces of hard work on the corners of her lids. “You always say that, but the dreams keep coming. I wish you’d take the medicine they gave you at the VA.”

He doesn’t want to hear it again. Vaughn doesn’t need another lecture. “Thirsty,” he says, ignoring the low frown moving Viv’s mouth. He leaves the sofa and thunders into the kitchen, grabbing a glass to fill with cold water from the fridge.

“Vaughn,” his sister begins, but stops short when he shakes his head.

“I don’t like how they make me feel. I get lazy. All I wanna do is sleep when I’m on those pills.” He takes a swig from the glass, slams down half in one gulp.

“It’s not healthy, you having these nightmares.” Viv’s fingers on his back only makes his unease double. “I’m worried about you.”

“Don’t be.” He grips her hand in a quick squeeze before he faces her. “Look, sis, I’ll be fine. I figure the more I work out, the more exhausted I’ll be. Too exhausted to dream.”

Viv doesn’t look convinced. She leans against the island, arms folded tight and that pinched expression makes the slight wrinkles on her face exaggerate. “It’s been at least a week since you had one.”

“Yep. I know, but I didn’t kill it today at the studio. Had some stuff to take care of.” Another swig of water and Vaughn takes a breath. “I just got distracted. It’s my own fault.”

“Distracted?” Vaughn can read the hidden meaning behind her question. Her lips are no longer dipped into a frown and the dimple in her right cheek is dented deep.

“Don’t give me that look,” he answers her, putting the now empty glass in the dishwasher. “Yes, distraction. It happens now and again.”

Viv pulls her loose sweater tight over her thin waist and jumps onto the island. “Does this distraction have anything to do with your little visitor?”

“Nope.”

Vaughn hates when his sister laughs at him like this. It always makes him feel like a child. “You are a God-awful liar, little brother. I can always tell.” Her laughter only increases when Vaughn flips her the bird. “You know who she is. This little infatuation won’t help with what you have to do.”

“It’s not about her or what I have to do.” Vaughn knows his voice was too loud. Viv flinches at his yell and he instantly he feels like an asshole. “Sorry,” he says, rubbing her arm.

If his sister is upset by the small break of his temper, she doesn’t comment on it. Instead, she moves her manicured nails through the back of her hair and curls her arms tight, as though she’s suddenly caught a chill. “You need to get out more. Go somewhere besides your studio.”

“I have been.” He leans against the island at Viv’s side and picks up the remote to the small TV on the counter, aimlessly flipping through the channels with the volume cut low. “You’re just too busy to notice.” He stands up when she winces, as though he’s slapped her. “Hey, I’m kidding.”

“I don’t mean to leave you on your own so much. You’ve barely been home a year and I’m always working.”

“Your job is important, I get that.” Vaughn makes sure she knows he isn’t really upset and squeezes her hand. “Besides, who says I want you hanging around? Maybe I’ll pick up a hot chick and bring her home. I don’t need you around cock blocking me.”

“Yeah, I’m sure that’s what you want to do. And no self-respecting woman would blanche at a twenty-six year man bringing her back to his sister’s place, right?”

“Wow, Viv. That’s below the belt.”

Again, she laughs, pushing him out of her way as she rustles through the stack of paper near her laptop on the other side of the island. “That’s what you get for yelling at me, ass.” Vaughn is distracted by Sports Center recapping the Minnesota Twins and their game against the Phillies as his sister shuffles her files. “Anyway, I’m only teasing you. But I meant what I said. This case requires a lot of my attention and if I’m not around, it’s not because I don’t like your company.” Vaughn nods, not really listening to his sister as she continues on with her excuses. “But I don’t want you staying cooped up here either. You need to socialize.”

Aaron Hicks catches a lightning fast ball to the outfield as Vaughn nods to Viv once more. “I do. Been playing in an amateur rugby league at the Y.” He switches the channel, but glances at his sister as she types on her laptop. “Dickie Collins organized it. Remember him from high school?” Viv frowns, but dips her chin, acknowledging his question. She never liked Collins. Always said he was a bit of a chauvinist. “Anyway, we aren’t terrible. Won a few matches and there’s a tournament in Cavanagh next weekend.”

“In Cavanagh?” Vaughn narrows his eyes at Viv when her smug little smirk returns to her face. “Isn’t that where she lives?”

He exhales, gearing up for what he knows will be another lecture. “Yes. She’s a student at the university.”

“She’s off limits.”

“I’m not going to date her.” He throws the remote onto the island. “She’s a job.
Just
a job. Jesus, you’re the one that got me into all this.”

“And I appreciate your help, I do.” She grabs his hand. “I just want you to remember what’s at stake here. Emotions get messed in the middle and everything will go straight to hell. I just don’t want six months of work to blow up in our faces.”

Sleeplessness begins to overtake Vaughn. That and Viv’s constant nagging. He can only shut out her stern frown with a quick swipe of his hands over his eyes. “It won’t. I’ll do what I have to and you’ll get your witness.”

He knows his sister isn’t convinced. Another argument brews in the room, hangs on the air circling through the AC vent, but before any bitching leaves her mouth, the name “Cavanagh” echoing from a news report brings both of their eyes toward the TV.

“Authorities at Cavanagh University tell WLMV that there were no serious injuries late this afternoon in a small fire on campus.” Vaughn turns up the volume as the station flashes video of the Cavanagh campus and a small building just off the main street. “Walter Lambert with the Cavanagh University Police Department tells our Melissa Thompson that they believe the fire stemmed from a prank gone awry.”

The screen changes, pulls up the form of a wiry looking guy with muddy brown hair and watery black eyes in a puke green Cavanagh police uniform. His badge reads: W. Lambert.

“We believe a few kids may have thought it was funny to bust a window in one of the administration offices with a lit bottle. The incendiary landed on a stack of documents and caused a small fire in the office. Workers were able to extinguish the fire before any real damage was caused, but we are still investigating the incident.”

Red and blue lights from several police cruisers paint across the screen and the camera scans to the building, a non-descript, brown structure with a small group of bystanders looking past yellow police tape. When the camera pans left, Vaughn bolts upright as Mollie and her friend Layla stand near the cruiser, blankets thrown over their shoulders.