Havoc (6 page)

The lock turns, and I realize the fortress of
the moment with her alone is broken. My emotions, no matter how
strong they are barreling out of me, don't matter now. I have to
get a grip. Sir expects more out of me. I expect more out of
me.

He's on the phone as he comes toward me, the
words out of his mouth not registering as many things haven't been,
like the sound of my own phone, the noises of cars driving by, the
clock ticking. Sir is not in his uniform, and since I haven't seen
him since his shift last night, I can assume he made a social call
after work before his stripper girlfriend had to report for duty.
His eyes settle on me then the sight beside me.

Baffled, he says in haste, “I'll call you
back.”

And just like that, it's quiet again.
Puzzled, he just stares at the sight of Haven. Sir crosses his arms
sternly and takes several deep breaths, his signs of an internal
debate. How many ways can he chew me out for a crime I'm sure he
thinks I have committed? His faith that one day I'll snap from
trained solider to trained assassin for hire is radiating off him.
He's convinced himself I will fuck up, and when I do, it'll be
royally. Whether or not that's true, it's not true at this very
moment.

“Kitchen,” Sir declares pointing to the
island bar, Mom's idea for dining without him. She used to let me
watch cartoons while she cooked, kept them on to laugh with me
while we ate when it was just the two of us. Whenever he came back
from deployment, we sat at the corner kitchen table with the
built-in bench. She explained it was more intimate. We needed to
appreciate moments of togetherness because, someday, that might be
all we have left. I have a feeling, when she said it, she was
referencing the idea of her military husband not returning, not the
possibility of her dropping dead on a Sunday afternoon. Sir and I
haven't eaten or sat at that table since she passed away. It gets
dusted by the cleaning lady, but that's as far as touching of it
goes, almost like a monument to her memory.

I sit down across from him, raise my body
from the relaxed state I've been in, and show my respect for the
commanding officer of my so-called home life.

“Explain.”

“I found her in our yard, Sir.”

“And?”

“And I brought her in the house, Sir.”

“Why?”

I don't respond.

“Why? Why didn't you take her to the police
station or hospital?”

Both of those would've been more responsible.
Reasonable. Logical. Thoughts that, with any other person on the
goddamn planet, I would've immediately done. I wouldn't have a
thought of another option, let alone bring them into the house. But
it's her. He doesn't understand. I don't understand. He waits
impatiently for an answer.

I clear my throat. “I'm not real sure, Sir. I
. . . I want to keep her.”

His eyebrow shoot up, “She's not a puppy,
Clint!” The sharp way he says my name cuts me like diamond to
glass. Precise. With purpose. “That's not realistic.”

“Sir–”

“And since when do you give a shit about
anyone?” The words are coated in vinegar, making it even harder for
me swallow them.

I say nothing. I can't argue with that
because I would be lying. I know what he really wants to ask, which
is simple. Why do I care about her and not him? Another simple
answer.

“She could be a junkie–”

“She's not.”

“How–”

“Checked for marks. Studied her behavior
while she was conscious. No signs of addiction, Sir.”

“Fine. A dumb, drunk party girl–”

“No, Sir. I checked her attire. Checked for
ID. And of course I spoke to her as well, Sir.”

No, I don't know where she came from, what
she's running from. As a matter of fact, she spoke very little
while she cried. My knowledge of this female is almost the same as
it was when she was lying in our grass, except I know she speaks
English, was most likely abused, and her name is Haven—a name I’ve
already sworn to protect.

“Illegal–”

“No, Sir.”

He glares, “I hate when you don't allow me to
finish my sentences.”

“And I hate when you're patronizing, Sir.”
He's missed that phase in my life to talk to me like a small child.
I'm an adult now whether he accepts it or not. I'm not incompetent
or naive, though my reactions to Haven are leaning dangerously
close to those things.

“Where are your tags?”

My eyes shift toward my sleeping beauty. The
look on my face says it all.

“This isn't good,” Sir quickly states,
shaking his head. “You're not thinking straight. Clearly.”

His eyes flick toward Haven. I resist the
urge to jump down his throat, rip it out along with his lungs and
then his heart just so he can experience a bit of the agony that
I'm in. That she's in.

“I want her to stay with us.” I push past the
immediate confusion on his face. “With me.”

“No.”

Ignoring him, I continue, “She's got
something in her past after her. I can tell by the way she's so
observant of her surroundings, Sir. Not sure of the details
exactly. I suspect abuse from the bruising, though she hasn't said
much.”

“And you want her to stay here?” The disgust
in his voice makes my jaw clench. “Did you go out drinking last
night too? Are you still drunk?”

“Sir–”

“Do you hear yourself? You know nothing about
her.”

“It doesn't stop you from bringing women
home, Sir.” The sharp jab pokes at his patience, but he's poking at
mine.

Tugging at his collar, he argues, “This isn't
a random girl you picked up at a bar or nightclub. She's a complete
stranger.”

“But–”

“She could be a killer.”

“But–”

“She could've had a bad fight with her
boyfriend and ran away mid-argument from a couple blocks over,
Clint. That would be the most likely case.”

I don't answer. That thought hadn't occurred
to me. If she is, what kind of man would treat his girlfriend that
way? And what kind of woman would let herself get treated that way?
No. He's wrong. He has to be. Whatever or wherever she’s running
from isn't some half-cocked moron from suburbia. He's not some frat
boy with a temper. It's much worse. I can feel it, among feeling
other things. Ugh, again with the feelings.

“You aren't thinking logically here,
Clint.”

“Sir, just hear me out,” I plea once more.
I'm never like this. I've never been someone to whine against
orders, to damn near beg for something he wants. Hell, I've never
wanted anything other than to be a Marine and in Special Ops. I
can't beg to get there. Even if I could, I wouldn't. “She needs our
help.”

“You don't know her.”

“Sir, with all due respect, I know how to
read a situation. We're trained to do this. You should remember
that.”

The slight reminder of his Navy past, a
lifetime ago now, always triggers something inside. Always buys me
moment if I really need one. I do not exploit his weakness often
because the man he once was no longer exists, just like part of me
doesn’t.

“I'm telling you she needs our help. If we
let her go, if you force my hand to release her, she will die.” The
words leave my lips, and I feel lightheaded. I can't let another
person I care about just leave like the others have. I can't—I
won't let the only thing that's got me feeling human again just
wither away and die. I may not understand my feelings or know what
to do with them, but I do know something. I'll save her. I'll
protect her life like it's my own. In a way, I feel like it is. The
next words are spoken precisely so they will not be misinterpreted,
“I. Will. Not. Let. Her. Die.”

There's a faint sound of my dog tags
clinking. She's awake. The corner of my mouth turns upward. Sir
erases that by rising to his feet, towering at 6' 3", and
relocating closer to her. Intimidation tactic 101. I rush to her
defense. While the number of whiskey bottles he's thrown back in
his years since retirement settle clearly in the front of his
stomach, he's still fit enough to scare criminals and someone
fragile like her.

“Young lady,” Sir places his hands behind his
back and stands at attention. “I see you are awake.” She nods. “It
is my understanding that you are running from something or
someone.”

“Like I told you–”

“Clint, if you would like this young woman to
stay here, if this young woman wants our help, then she will answer
the questions that follow.” His stern face returns to her. “Do you
understand?” She nods. Thank God. “Name?”

“Haven Davenport.”

Relief washes over me. While it didn't matter
to me if she answers the questions for him or not, because frankly
if he won't let her stay here, I will find a place for us, I am
thankful she did.

“Nice to meet you, Haven. My name is
Johnathan Walker. Friends call me Whiskey. I'm actually the sheriff
of Duckenbauch County. Do you know where that is, Miss
Davenport?”

“Reckonberg.”

“Very good,” he nods. He's pleased. “Are you
a runaway?”

Her silence returns. Damn it.

“All right, how old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

Wow. That was not the answer I was expecting.
I'm not light years older than she is. I am only 21, but just
hearing that seems hard to believe. Would I be a bit more at ease
with the idea of us together in a romantic sense, when it comes to
the romantic sense, if she were a little older? Yeah. Did I just
say romantic sense? What the hell is going on?

“Do you know your date of birth?”

“In twenty-seven days.”

Not quite the answer Sir was expecting, but
nonetheless, it's the one he got. Simple information that we take
for granted like that can be easily erased from the mind if it
subdued to enough torture and trauma. The fact someone did that to
her makes me want to start counting up toward the day when I put
him in the ground. Six feet won't be deep enough. I don't really
want him to get to enjoy the sweet taste of death. I want him to
spend an eternity tortured the way she has been and will be, even
once she moves past the initial pain.

“Miss Davenport, are your parents the ones
who you are running from?” She shakes her head. “Are your parents
alive?” The next head shake is slow.

Both of her parents are gone as well. My
heart calls out to her. I want to tell Sir to shut up, no more
questions needed. I get why I get this girl. I get why part of me
is dying to connect to her. She's just as disconnected from the
outside world as I am. No parents. No thoughts of a distant future.
Just here and now. It's like my body and mind were sensing this,
looking for shelter in another individual like me, dormant until
they were found. Though knowing she might be silently suffering as
much as I am or was, I don't want to suffer with her. I want to
stop her pain. Give her joy. Give her that poison people call hope,
the very venom I've begun to taste. It's sweet and addicting.

“Is it your legal guardian you are running
from?”

She nods, but her body is shaking, screaming
she's uncomfortable. I wish he'd stop with all the questions. They
can wait. Bravely, ignoring Sir's attitude and judgment that's sure
to follow, I touch the tags around her neck, making them give a
slight clink sound. The noise seems to cause peace within her the
same way they do me.

“I know that these questions are hard, Miss
Davenport, but I have to ask a few more. Did your guardian abuse
you?” Of course, Sir! She nods. His chest tightens as he growls.
“Violently or sexually?”

“Both.”

Sir isn't fond of many things. As far as
human behaviors are concerned, men who violently and sexually abuse
women sit at the top of the chop-their-heads-off list. Nothing is
more disgraceful. Disgusting. Oddly, this is one of the only things
we see eye to eye on. Men who behave in such manners shouldn't be
called men. The term scum is even too noble. I can feel my own
blood beginning to boil once more. Get a grip, Marine. Now is not
the time.

“Well, Miss Davenport—er—Haven, would you . .
. care to stay with us?”

I hold my excitement back. Geez, I have
excitement? Since when? “For how long, Sir?”

“You ship back out in three months, Clint.
That should be enough time to create her a new identity, a new
life, and possibly put away her old one.”

Demanding his attention come off of her, off
of the damaged woman he sees before him, I clear my throat. “I want
her here where you can protect her when I can't.”

“We're not discussing that option,
Clint.”

“Sir–”

“I said–”

“I heard what you said.” My voice rises in a
way it never has before. Frankly, when it comes to matters with
Sir, what he says ultimately goes. There's usually very little to
warrant long conversations or arguments. This is indeed the longest
conversation we've had since I decided to join the Marines and skip
college. But this is different. Just as that moment was. Life
changing. Baffled by my action, he tries to shake off the
perplexity and take back command. “It is not a debate, Sir. You
were once told it takes a village to protect the wounded and a
village to heal it. With all due respect, Sir, we are that village.
And we will protect her.”

Those were the words Striker and Mindy said
to him shortly after Mom died, when he had to return to duty before
he could request to pull out. They assured him that I would be well
taken care of in the approaching years and that so would he. Mindy
promised that we would never be alone. She meant that in both a
non-literal and very literal sense. Striker said he knew a thing or
two about protecting those who needed it. At the time, I had no
idea what he meant, and until just now, I didn't understand the
importance.

“We'll protect her,” Sir repeats, his eyes
locked on mine. “She'll stay here with me while you are on active
duty. I'll pull some strings. Do my best to get everything settled
by first thing in the morning. As for tonight, we need to introduce
her to the village.”