Havoc (19 page)

Before Sir can say another word to me, his
cell phone goes off. Looking down at it, he nods, “I have to go.”
He shakes his head. “Call me if anything changes.”

“Yes, Sir.”

And just like that, he's gone. Predictable.
Growing up when he returned from active duty and took a job as an
officer of the law, I didn't realize his schedule wouldn't be much
different than it had always been, that he would always be
vanishing from my life in times of need. I don't know why I thought
he would be any different this time.

I turn to head back in when I see Howard
strolling through the halls, looking for a room number. It better
be someone else's because, if it isn't, it's going to severely up
his chances of ending up in one of these rooms himself.

“So it has to be . . . right . . . here.” His
voice cuts off as his eyes set on me. “Shit.”

My body goes rigid, becoming a very strong
barrier between him and her room. “What the fuck are you doing
here?”

He grips the yellow roses and balloons
tighter, a snakelike smile slipping from his face, “Came to check
on the pretty lady.”

Rage rumbles in the back of my mind,
desperate to bolt forward, to punch him in the face, drop him like
the sack-of-shit nothing he is. “She doesn't need you to check on
her.”

“And she doesn't need you to protect her like
a pit bull off his leash, yet here you are.”

I'm prepared to shove him against the wall
and plant my fist in his face when Striker comes strolling by and
mumbles, “Remember, Slugger, you are in a hospital.”

With a stifled grunt, I move out of the way
by opening the door for him to follow me in. Inside the room, I
settle back into my chair and watch as Howard greets Mindy and
places his gifts along with the others.

“Just wanted to come by and see her,”
Howard's words make me grind my teeth. “I was close by. Paying a .
. . bill.”

Bill is code for a bookie. Gambler. Weakling.
Pathetic maggot excuse for a human with money. He's lucky I have
other things to worry about right now.

“Well, she enjoys the company,” Mindy hums,
continuing her nail routine. “Just make it brief. She does need her
rest.” Mindy glances over at me, offering me some relief. She
winks.

“I'm sure she doesn't get enough of it with
G. I. Jerk over there taking up all her time.” The comment makes me
rise out of my seat until I catch a glimpse of Mindy, who demands
with her face I settle back down.

“If you can't say nice things, Howard, don't
say anything,” Mindy mothers.

“As long as Clint can remember to keep his
hands and feet to himself.” Just like the pussy he is, he gets
mouthy when I can't retaliate. God, I swear, if Haven would wake up
for just a minute, I'd step outside and put his head through the
wall.

“Tick-tock, Howard,” She not-so-subtly nudges
him.

He looks at Haven and offers her a sleazy
smile. His eyes on her bra-less chest make my skin crawl as he
gently touches the edge of her bed. “Well, seems like you're in
good hands, so I'll get going, but I did bring you the roses on the
sill, and any time you wanna go to dinner, you just let me know.”
Thankfully, before I can wrap my hands around his chicken neck, he
makes for the exit, “Have a good evening, Mindy. Clint, always a
pleasure.”

The minute the door closes, I clutch my fists
and pound them hard on the arm of the chair, desperate to hit
something with more meat to it. My desire to be here with her is
stronger than the desire to destroy something with all my built-up
frustration. Being a Marine, I know better than to get so upset
over such trivial things, but the fact is that the first woman I've
ever fallen in love with is lying in bed in a coma because I didn't
return home when I should've. Because I didn't keep my word. I
scrub my face hard with my hands. I wish I could undo this. Fuck, I
hate this feeling helpless bullshit.

“You do know being that angry isn't healthy,
right?” Mindy’s voice breaks through my internal rant.

“Can you blame me?” I face her.

“I'll admit that Howard has a tendency to be
a little testy, if you will, but that doesn't give you the right to
break his face every time it comes to light.”

I can’t believe it. Now’s the time she
chooses to lecture? “So, you're on his side now?”

“It's not about sides. It's about you
learning that being angry—that angry and all the time—solves
nothing.”

At this moment, it's never been more true. No
matter how angry I get, Haven isn't getting any better any
faster.

“Oh, Slugger, stop beating yourself up so
hard. You didn't do anything wrong. None of this was your fault.
Not this time, nor the last.” I fold my hand with Haven's and place
a kiss on the back of it. “And you know that,” Mindy presses.

I attempt a smile.

“I remember the last time you spent this much
time in a hospital.” Her reference to when Mom got the flu and
nearly died is not helping. I couldn't help her then, and I can't
help Haven now. “No matter how much we begged you, you wouldn't
leave that chair.”

“I didn't wanna leave Mom's side.”

“I remember,” she snips, placing her nail
file down. “Didn't want to sleep. Didn't want to eat. Hell, it was
a pain in the ass to get you to pee!” My face twitches, fighting
the urge to chuckle. “You missed school. Practice. Nothing short of
your own death was going to get you out of the chair.”

“I wanted to be here when she woke up. I
wanted to be the first thing she saw when she woke up.”

“Exactly. So that's why I'm not going to fuss
at you for staying here round the clock. This time, however, I am
going to ask something of you.”

“What's that?”

“Please don't refrain from peeing.”

I release a chuckle and lean back in the
chair, “Deal.”

Mindy reaches down into her purse and pulls
out a food container. She hands it over and gives me a stern look
until I grab it. Now that I can smell it, my stomach is chomping at
it from the inside. How can it think of food at a time like
this?

Picking Haven's hand back up, she begins to
paint a clear coat on her nails. “Go ahead, you know you want
to.”

Reluctant, but knowing I need to keep my
strength up to take care of her when the machines are done, I lift
the lid and remove a piece of fresh, homemade bread, which still
happens to be warm.

The wind is harsh, beating against my face as
I sprint a speed that doesn't seem fast enough. No matter how quick
I move, I don't seem to be getting any closer to her. Her screams
remain at the same solid distance away from me.

A bullet soars toward me. I drop, sliding my
body out of the way, barely missing a step. I have to get to Haven.
I have to save her. Rescue her from–

There's another sharp scream in the distance.
My eyes shoot up, seeing the tower that encases her shadow,
expanded into a shape of pain, mouth open. Those cries are her. I
have to get up there. I can't stop. I won't stop.

Another bullet zips by, nailing me in my
calf. The pain burns, biting at the nerves, trying desperately to
slow me down. I can't. I can't. Another bullet lands, this time in
my shoulder, my body desperately trying to drag itself along to
keep up with the speed I'm pushing for. Don't stop, Marine. Don't
quit now. She needs you. At that moment, another wound appears in
my chest as a bullet pierces it. I drop to the ground, knees first,
face coated in dirt and shame.

In an aching, haunting whisper, a voice as
cruel as Lucifer's comes from behind the bars of his roasting
prison, repeating what I believe is a lie, but it’s spoken like an
unwavering truth, “You cannot save her. You. Can. Not. Save. Her.
YOU. CAN. NOT. SAVE. HER. YOU! CAN! NOT–”

Unsure of when or how I fell asleep, I start
at the slightest twitch of Haven's finger. Thank God. She's alive!
The sight of her big brown eyes with light in them soothes me in
ways I never thought it could. It feeds the beast inside of me that
was dying, rekindles every emotion that was finally settling back
where they belong, letting me become a machine once again. As much
as I hate having to cycle through all of these emotions, there's
something about feeling alive with her that makes it worth it.
There's something about it that makes living finally worth it.

I pop up onto my feet and reposition myself
so I'm closer, “Hi.”

“Hi,” her sweet voice coos back.

With that said, I wrap one hand around the
back of her neck and plant my lips feverishly on hers. It takes all
the will and control I have inside of me not to shove my tongue
down her throat, but I want to savor this moment, this one right
here. The thought of her lips is what will keep me warm on the
battlefield, keep me going in tough moments, remind me that they
are here to live for. They're soft, like kissing a cloud. What else
would angel lips feel like? Not being able to resist anymore, my
tongue softly knocks, asking for acceptance. As soon as I get it, I
push my tongue softly against hers, losing more and more of me with
every push. The excitement from the kiss alone is causing my dick
to stir in my pants. Not. Now. Right now is about this kiss. About
her. About the fact she is alive and the fact that now so am I, and
I'm OK with it. I'm actually more than OK with it. I'm happy about
it. Grim, happy? What were the odds?

Looking in her eyes, I lean my forehead
against hers, “I'm not going another day without doing that.”

“Promise?”

Pleased the kiss was something she actually
wanted, that the signals I was picking up were the right ones, I
whisper back, “Promise.”

“Glad to see you're awake,” a nurse
announces, forcing me to back up, but not drop my hand. She moves
objects around, fiddles with things, and I take another long, deep
breath. She's really here. She's still with me. With a few more
rattling sounds and muffled comments to herself, it appears the
nurse is done. “Dr. Striker will be in momentarily.”

She gives us a nod and excuses herself.

“Dr. Striker? Striker is the ER doc?” Haven
asks.

I don't respond. My eyes drop down to see her
fingertips move against mine.

“Clint.” I can't afford to look at her. I
can't. I can't tell her what I did. She repeats this time with a
sterner tone, “Clint.”

My resistance crumbles. I meet eyes to meet
hers again.

“Why was I brought to see Striker?”

“The night of the concert–”

“Yesterday?”

“Three nights ago, Haven.” My eyes shift to
the wall clock that reads it's a little after two a.m. “I had my
phone on me. Checked it round the clock. There was no word from
you, so I assumed you were safe. After the show, Leighyani begged
me to go to a bar with her to see a few old friends from high
school. It was late, so when I sent you the text asking if you
minded and I didn't get one back, I figured you were asleep.” The
guilt is swimming through my veins, with each word drowning further
in it.

She tries to pipe in, “I really wouldn't have
minded, Clint.”

I nod. I knew she wouldn't have minded. She's
always trying to get me to hang with Glove and Lordy, to spend time
with my friends because she doesn't want them lost to me because of
her. She doesn't want the world to think that she is keeping me
from them. How could I not love her?

“We weren't supposed to be there that long. I
got caught up talking to one of the guys who happened to be in the
Navy, brothers of different arms, you know, but still one to
respect. When I finally noticed the time, it was almost one, and I
forced Leighyani to leave. She bitched the entire car ride home,
but as soon as I pulled into the drive way, something felt wrong.
Sir's car was missing. No lights on in the house. Every light on in
Mindy's . . .” Our woven-together fingers slip apart, and I wipe my
fingers down my face, desperate to scrub away the dishonor. The
disgrace. The shame. “The next part felt like a slow-motion blur. I
ran in the house, panicked, searched for you . . . for Sir. Tried
to call him. His cell was off. Tried to call you. Your cell was on
our bed. I remember brushing past Leighyani, who was yelling
something at me. I ran to Mrs. Callaghan's—er—Mindy's. Banged on
the door. Banged so hard I almost knocked it down. She was in
hysterics. Said you left in an ambulance. I asked why no one called
me, why no one left me a message. All she could say was Sir didn't
have time, and she was about to when I came banging on her
door.”

I hear an actual knock, and Striker's shiny
bald head leads him through the door. His expression is warming and
upbeat, though he has a chart clutched tightly against his chest. I
hate seeing him in his official gear—a white coat, khaki dress
pants, a salmon button down. It's like the icing on the reality of
the situation.

“Hello there, Miss Haven,” he exclaims,
shutting the door behind him. She waves and folds her hands across
her blanket-covered tummy. “You gave us quite a scare. You know
that?”

In a whimper, she whispers, “I didn't mean
to.”

“This gentleman has not left your side except
to pee.” Striker waves a hand in the air and stops at the foot of
her bed. “Just in case you were wondering what that smell is.”

“Thanks, Striker,” I mumble.

“Doctor Striker.” He shuffles his name badge
that's clipped at his hip. “While in the hospital.”

“Sorry.” I scrub my fingers through my
stubble. “I know better than that, sir.”

“Your mind must be slipping a little from the
lack of sleep.”

“That's not an excuse, sir.”

“Mistakes happen, Slugger.”

“Mistakes cost people their lives, sir.” The
doctor not getting the reality of my mom's brain malfunctioning.
Glove not covering his own ass and getting me stabbed, barely
missing vital organs. Me not staying with Haven the night of that
fucking concert. Mistakes are not acceptable. My mistake could have
killed Haven.