Havoc (23 page)

“Lordy!” I shout at him from across the room;
he jerks away from the picture he was staring at. I know that
picture. He thinks he does a good job staying unnoticed. He
doesn't. “You're gonna be late.”

“Right.” He quickly shoves the picture back
where it came from and hustles over to me.

The two of us head over to the martial arts
program. This is one of my favorite things about training, learning
a highly effective way to take down another individual without a
weapon. Being focused. Being a successful warrior with just my bare
hands. Class conducts itself as it usually does, with sparring at
the end. I'm called as is Lordy. It's not that I have a problem
taking down one of my best friends in front of others; it's just I
wanted a challenge.

As I predicted, Lordy is not only not a
worthy opponent, but it's obvious his mind is elsewhere, allowing
for easy grapples and weight transfers. Taking him down in what
will be recorded as record time for me, I give him a good shoulder
throw, tossing him onto his back. I drop a hand for him to get
up.

When he doesn’t take it, I growl, frustrated
and annoyed. “Focus, Marine!”

Suddenly, the words are echoed louder and by
my commanding officer’s voice, this time at me. “Focus,
Marine!”

The honking of a horn snaps me out of it.
Focus, right. I'm not concentrating on anything I should be today.
A couple minutes later, I pull into the driveway, thankful I'm
finally home.

“Hey, Angel, I–” My voice halts in my vocal
cords. Turns out I was wrong. The day just went from worse to
worst—ever. Satan's bitch boy has his hands on my girlfriend.

“Hi.” Haven offers me a smile.

Her smile can’t stop my reaction. The pent-up
aggression I have over the last time this dick snaked a girl from
under me seeps back into my mind. I didn't do anything then because
I didn't care. He could have Leighyani. Any day of the week. He
can't have Haven. Ever.

“What the fuck are you doing in our
house?”

“Chill, Walker.” Howard's sly face sports a
grin on it, like he wins again, as if she's a trophy to compete
for. Like she's not a person. “She twisted her ankle.”

“How'd you do that?” I trade anger for panic
as I rush over to the couch to check on her.

She starts, “I–”

“She slipped off–”

Gently, I place my tags back around her neck,
returning them home where they belong. “I didn't ask you,
shithead.” I don’t even look at Howard.

Haven starts again, “I–”

“What's your fucking problem?” Howard rises
to his feet like he wants to challenge me. Like he wants me to hit
him. Like he wants me to sock him in his pretty-boy rich face. And
I do. With all the bullshit I've dealt with today, I really fucking
do.

Haven faintly says, “I–”

I approach the little shit. “What the fuck
did you say to me?”

Haven whispers, “Clint.”

“I said–” barely makes it out of Howard's
mouth before I yank his sorry ass into the air one handed by his
flimsy T-shirt like he's nothing. He is nothing. A sorry excuse for
human flesh lumped together and given breath. With both my hands
now gripping him tightly, I shake him, hoping to at least correct
one mistake for the day. Him walking this Earth.

“Stop!”

“Not such a big shit talker now.” I watch as
his face shifts colors to a bright red, one my favorite stages of
suffocation.

“Clint, stop!” Haven's shriek sounds distant
even though she's right beside me.

I can't stop. I can't force myself to put
this prick down. This shameless bastard wastes his parents’ time
and money while effortlessly pimping himself to everything with two
legs and a space for a dick to fit. He gets to enjoy his life, gets
to walk around free, gets to remain free to enjoy the perks of
independence, while I bust my ass and risk taking my dying breath
for him. I grip tighter.

“Stop!”

“Clint! Put. Him. Down!” Sir's voice pierces
through the blinding rage, echoing the sounds of my commanding
officer.

With a simple hand-opening motion, Howard's
body falls rather lifelessly to the carpet.

What's wrong with me? What's happening to me?
I slowly turn my head over my shoulder, ashamed at myself, ashamed
I'm letting my emotions fuck up my life. “Sorry, Sir.”

“You're damn right you're sorry, Marine!”

“Sorry, Sir. I lost control.”

Sir slams down his keys on the bar, which
makes Haven jump, as does the sound of Howard's sudden gasp for
air.

Howard whispers, “I should sue.”

“Go home,” Sir insists.

“Whiskey–” Howard’s plea’s cut short.

“Now, before I call your father to aid you in
your exit.”

Howard huffs and storms off, cussing under
his breath, effecting a giant door slam upon his exit.

The silence is neither stiff nor long. Sir
speaks up, “Clint.”

“I already apologized, Sir.”

“Clint–”

“Sir–”

“Clint!” He yells my name in an unfamiliar
way. I've heard Sir raise his voice to me in anger. I've heard him
livid. I've heard him unforgiving and non-understanding. But this,
this tone is new.

I turn to face him, hands behind my back,
shoulders back, head lowered, prepared to receive another earful
for the day. Good Marines do not make mistakes, yet today, that's
all I can do. What if I'm not the Marine I thought I was? What if
I'm not the man I thought I was? What if I'm not a man at all? What
if I'm nothing more than a scared boy who watched his mother die in
front of his eyes?

“Yes, Sir.”

“What you did just now, that was reckless!
Uncalled for! Hot headed! Not proper conduct for a Marine!” He
points a stern finger at me and follows it up with, “Not proper
conduct for my son.”

There's no remorse on my face. I know he has
a point. But, I don't want forgiveness. I just want a minute to
fucking breathe.

“You will not behave like that in this
house!” Sir continues, spouting at the top of his lungs. “Am. I.
Clear?”

My body feels like it's at boiling
temperature. I feel like I’m being put through some sort of sick,
sadistic new-age torture scenario and am losing, badly. Two words
manage to make it out of my mouth, “Yes. Sir.”

Haven hobbles between us, reminding us she is
in fact still in the room.

Sir points, “What happened to you?”

“Slipped on Felix's deck after washing paint
brushes. Striker says it looks like a sprain and to stay off of
it.”

“So you're–”

“Listening to the advice, but I need to put
the cold pack away.”

“Let me.” I reach for her.

Suddenly, she yanks her body away from me and
yells, “Don't touch me!”

Haven has never raised her voice at anyone or
anything that I know of, even when I found her. She treated me like
I was a stranger, yes, but there to save her, not harm her. But
today . . . today has to be officially the worst day of my entire
fucking life next to the day my mother died. Haven not only screams
at me but refuses to have any physical contact with me? I need that
contact. I need that shot of peace through my system. God, when did
I become so goddamn dependent?

“Do. Not. Touch. Me.” The words are soldier
cold, a lifeless order for me to obey.

“Haven . . .”

“He didn't do anything wrong.” She motions
toward the door Howard just got done abusing.

“I–”

“I wasn't finished!” The unexpected yelling
continues, “I am capable of talking, Clint! I know how to express
when something is wrong! He only helped me get home! He didn't
cross any boundaries! He did absolutely nothing wrong . . . in this
case.”

My body finally weakens. It can no longer
hold the weight that's crashing down on it. I brace myself against
the bar counter for just a moment. I need the swirling in my head
to stop. I need the brick wall that separated Grim, Slugger, and
Clint to be back up. I need my life back.

She sighs, “I'm going to Mindy's.”

I try again, this time more desperate than
before, “Haven.”

“No, you're not.” Sir steps toward Haven into
this battle. “I'm going to help you up the stairs, and you're going
to cool off. Clint is going to get the grill started and cool off.
Then we're going to sit down like a family for a meal together.
Clear?”

“Yeah,” she says, handing him the ice pack,
not willing to even look at me now.

“Yes, Sir,” I mask my pain once more and walk
past Haven, eyes dead ahead on retrieving what I need from the
garage, knowing that, if I meet eyes with her again, I might not be
able to stop myself from breaking down.

Outside, I focus my attention on the sun
setting just behind the trees. I’m in total disbelief that today is
actually happening. I've never had a day I wanted to escape from so
bad in my entire life. And that says a lot. I have seen unneeded
bloodshed, war, terrorism, yet I'm letting this day get the better
of me? What is wrong with me? Sir was right. Marines do not behave
this way.

“Wanna talk about it?” Sir’s voice croaks
from the doorway. He leans on the frame, one hand in his pocket,
the other a home to a beer he offers to me.

I need that beer, “Talk about what, Sir?”

“What's clearly bothering you.” He steps out,
shuts the door behind him, blocking out the chance of Haven hearing
us, and hands me the beverage. I don't waste any time popping the
top and taking a sip. If only this could make me forget this
shittastic day.

After a couple more long drinks, I stand up
and relocate to the grill to check on the chicken. It's not ready
for the BBQ glaze yet. Normally, it doesn't take this long to cook.
Normally, it cooks too fast that I nearly burn it. How is it that,
right now, it’s slow roasting like this day that I just can't seem
to escape from.

“Come on, Clint,” Sir says, sitting where I
was and forcing me to remain standing.

I place the beer beside the covered bowl of
glaze that's waiting to be used. My arms fold across my chest as my
eyes lock on Sir. He looks concerned. He looks as if he's worried
about his son, not his solider. He's been looking more like that
more often. I don't particularly give a shit for it. His chance to
play father ended with Mom, maybe even before that. But, I can't
help but wonder . . . What's causing him to shift? His new
girlfriend hates kids, and Mindy's been failing at it for years. It
couldn't possibly be Haven, could it? Geez, changing one Walker
isn't enough—she wants to change us both?

“Nothing major, Sir,” I do my best to brush
it off with a shrug. “Rough day on base. Got in trouble at
training. Mis-assembled my gun. Got my ass handed to me, Sir.”

“Mind's been on Haven, hasn't it?” The
accusation is one I can't deny. Her name makes the corner of my lip
curl upward. Damn it. I simply nod. Leaning back, Sir sighs, “It's
not that bad. I went through the same thing with your mom. The
right woman will do that to you. It's like a huge storm going on
inside your brain, but it'll pass, and you can resume to your
duties as normal. Understand?”

“Yes, Sir.” I nod and turn back around to
tend to the chicken. Still not ready. Damn it.

“And that thing with Howard?”

The scumbag’s name makes me cringe. I pick my
beer up, desperate to grip something so I don't punch anything.
“What about him, Sir?”

“I understand that, too.” Those words cause
me to look over my shoulder, baffled. Yelling I was expecting.
Another lecture on self-control, well-mannered behavior, proper
solider conduct, but not that. “I once broke this prep school
jerk’s nose and bruised his ribs for buying your mom a beer.”

I turn my head back around to face the grill
and smile, not really wanting him to see. At least I know where my
hot temper might have originated from, well, before the years of
shoving shit behind the brick wall.

“I'm not condoning it,” he quickly clarifies.
“I'm just saying I understand. I also know that there's more than
you're letting on. I saw it in your eyes. So, be honest, Clint.
It's more than just a bad day at work, a jackass hitting on your
girlfriend, it's . . .”

No response.

“It's . . .”

Silence.

“It's . . .”

Finally, the chicken is ready for me to
glaze. I continue the silence. I paint the homemade sauce on top of
the meat and stare at it sizzling away in front of me. All I want
is for this day to be done. All I want is to forget that, a few
days ago, I felt like I had it all, and now everything is slipping
through the cracks of my existence.

I decide to change the subject. “My orders
got moved up today, Sir.” There's no response as I shut the lid on
the grill and turn all the way around. I pick my beer up, “By a
month.”

He doesn't say anything. He merely stares on.
It's as if, for the first time, he doesn't know what to say, or
maybe he doesn't feel compelled to. He knows exactly what it feels
like it. The number of times his deployment date changed was
ridiculous. Mom never complained. She never held onto anger or gave
him guilt him about it. She was always really great at accepting
decisions revolving around his military career at face value. I
hope Haven can learn to do the same thing, you know, once she's
forgiven me for being a little irrational this afternoon.

“I take it you haven't told Haven yet.”

“No, Sir,” I finish up the last of the beer
and set it down. “The whole Howard episode put a damper on that,
Sir.”

The smell of the chicken fills my nose. It's
finally done. Smelling it himself, Sir rises to feet, steps over to
me, places a hand on my shoulder, and insists, “Clint, do not wait
to tell her.” After a single squeeze, he opens the glass door back
to the kitchen, leaving me alone to load the chicken onto the
serving dish.

I know I shouldn't wait to tell her, but it's
hard to explain to someone you love you're now leaving earlier when
she isn’t even talking to you. When she can't stand the sight of
you. When she can't even stomach the idea of you.