Chapter Ten Larissa #2
“Liar,” he mouths, re-gripping my upper arm.
“As you’re well aware, I don’t have a dick. Is there, by miracle, some toilet paper?” I ask, and he winces. “What? I’m still too loud?”
He nods.
“Whatever, being suddenly hard of hearing has its challenges,” I relay stiffly before shaking from his hold again. Holding up a finger, he stalks off and returns just as quickly, holding out a package of wet wipes to me as I eye the meticulously constructed camp behind him.
“I get that you were once a soldier, but how did you get all this together so quickly? Is this some prepper end-of-the-world shit?”
He gives me the universally known stink eye, which needs no translation, and I can’t help but laugh. “Always prepared, like a real-life commando, huh?”
He rolls his eyes as I nod to dismiss him. “Go. I’ll take it from here.”
Turning his back to me, he stands guard mere inches away.
Irritated, I palm his back and push, and it does absolutely nothing to give me the space I need.
While his size isn’t overwhelming, his strength is.
Blowing out an exasperated breath, I push down my shorts and panties and bend, biting down on my tongue to try to stifle my cry.
It’s clear I fail when Tyler’s shoulders inch up at whatever sound escapes me.
Doing my business, I make quick work of pulling my shorts up.
Not long after, he guides me to a camping chair before a mug is thrust toward me in offering.
Coffee.
I nod in thanks before taking a sip and spitting it right back out. “You can’t be serious.”
Undeterred, he extends a plate toward me.
A plate filled with the whitest scrambled eggs I’ve ever seen and what looks like a slice of …
ham? More likely SPAM. Taking the food while biting back any insult, I shovel in a forkful of the eggs before promptly spitting them out and freeing myself to bitch.
“Did you lose your ability to taste at some point in your life?”
I can see the ‘ungrateful’ in his expression as I shrug. “Just saying, it could use some salt? Do you maybe have a truckful of that?”
He walks over to a rubber bin and pulls it out before handing it to me.
I shake on an exaggerated amount as he grabs his own plate, taking the camping chair next to me.
“I’m going to ask yes-or-no questions,” I inform him, shivering due to the early-morning spring chill.
He gives me a slow dip of his chin, eating half his eggs to my one bite.
Dressed in faded camo pants, what look like standard-issue boots, an olive Henley with a strip of leather buttons at the collar, and a matching ballcap, he’s impressively put together.
Though unshaven, he looks as if he’s freshly showered.
By the looks of it, he’s been up for a while, and that sparks some hope in me.
“Do you know the who yet?”
He shakes his head.
“So we’re staying here until you figure it out?”
A nod.
“Are we to carry on with our own plans while you’re sorting this?”
Another nod.
“For how long?”
He shrugs.
“I have no clothes, no toiletries, nothing,” I relay. “Not even a toothbrush.”
He gestures toward another rubber bin on the plastic tabletop, and I eye what looks like a mix of his clothes and other supplies.
“Yeah, you should take me back. Unless you think it’s Ciro.”
He shakes his head.
“Make this make fucking sense,” I snap. “If it’s not Ciro, my disappearance will blow my cover!”
“Safe,” he mouths again.
“Yeah, well, since we’re hiding out in the fucking woods—alone—you’ll have to excuse me if I don’t believe a word you’re saying.”
The dead stare is back, with no trace of the flicker of concern that was there last night. He watches me intently for a few seconds as if to ask, ‘we done?’
“And how exactly do you propose we resume our work off-grid?”
I’m granted more lingering seconds of the bronze metal death stare before he tosses his empty plate into the fire and pulls a laptop from a nearby bag. Opening it, he replaces my half-eaten plate with it, and I make no complaint about the loss of my food.
“So not so off-grid?” I ask as he leans over me, his scent wafting in and stunning me. He smells freshly showered, and it’s evident my sniff was audible when he shoots me a cursory glance before typing.
It’s offline, and what transpired last night has been contained and is being investigated. That’s all you’re getting. You’re on a need-to-know basis now until you do as I tell you. Use this to finish your list today. TODAY, LARISSA.
“Stranded in the woods or not, I’m not letting you order me to do shit, Tyler. Know that now. You want my cooperation—you will treat me like a partner. Just because the scenery has changed doesn’t mean my mind has.”
He’s already typed his reply by the time I’ve finished speaking.
TYPE.
“You have some misplaced sense of power over me, but you’re delusional in thinking so.”
His return expression is pure sarcasm mixed with amusement, and I know it has everything to do with my lick-fest last night.
“You can put last night out of your mind, because obviously, I was out of mine,” I continue as his lips twitch smugly and my anger builds. “Trust me, now that you’ve shown me who you are, I see your colors clearly.”
His body bounces as if he’s scoffing at me.
“That was a moment of weakness. I was drugged,” I remind us both.
“I have no more illusions about your lack of chivalry, heart, and overall personality. You’ve done an amazing job of ruining any preconceived notions.
So thanks for the dope and the tasteless eggs, but I’m not cool with being held against my will while being ordered around. ”
The picture of indifference, he points to a blank Word document screen.
“First, I need a shower.”
A terse jerk of his chin as he again points to the screen.
“Tyler,” I draw out, knowing my tone is reasonable, “I have some residual shit, something covering me from the blast, and I need to bathe. I can be flexible. Is there a river or stream nearby?”
He walks over to a bin before tossing the wet wipes onto the open computer on my lap. When I wince on impact, he mouths a glaringly insincere “sorry.”
In response, I launch the wipes at his head, and he catches them with minimal movement. I must do a shit job of hiding how it impresses me, because his lips lift again, this time in victory, and his dimple pops out.
“You must have one huge pair of balls on you because your cock isn’t big enough for the confidence you’re exuding, soldier.”
I must get away with that lie, or he’s already too pissed at this point to gauge it. Dimple gone, he mouths something, pointing to his chest.
“Didn’t quite catch that.”
He makes a show of pointing to himself again and painstakingly mouthing “MARINE.”
“Whatever.”
Stalking over, he begins to furiously type.
Not fucking whatever. I don’t get offended like some others do, because I’m a Marine who was raised by a mix of Marines and soldiers, but if you’re going to address me in that capacity, I’m a M A R I N E.
And if you address one in the future, maybe give them that title and the respect they deserve, or you might not like their responses to your “whatever.”
“So you’re what, low-browing other people in arms because you—”
Leaning over me, I can see and feel the smash of his fingers on the keys.
Have you ever genuinely thanked anyone in the armed forces?
“Of course,” I say. “I have—”
He cuts me off again by furiously typing.
Well, don’t fucking bother if you don’t mean it.
If you did, you would know that every branch has its own way of branding itself, but when we’re at war together, none of that matters but rank.
We take orders from men of rank who EARNED their title.
The distinctions vary for different roles, but RESPECT is deserved for every title in every branch.
Thank a soldier by knowing that fucking much.
Humiliated as he glares down at me, I type out my response, my temper boiling over.
Hey, Marine, thank you for your service. Sincerely. I respect you for it immensely. Hey, Tyler, GGGGGGGOOOOOOOFFUUUUUUUCCCCCCCKKKKKKK YYOOUUURRRRRRRRSSSSSSSEEEEEELLLLLLFFFFFFFF
Smacking his laptop to the ground, I stand and brush past him painfully, but he snatches my wrist to stop me.
His expression unforgiving as I search for any sign of the humanity I glimpsed last night.
The behavior now glaringly out of character, at least when it comes to me.
Now that it’s clear to him I’ll recover without much issue, it’s business as usual.
I’m a temporary asset, nothing more. He wasn’t concerned for me, only and always what he could gain from me.
I thought so much of him before our introduction, of the man I believed him to be. So much admiration, all of it fading as he keeps his grip on me, only tightening it further as we leer at one another.
It’s back, the contempt, the burden I am to him, the hostility for what blood runs through my veins.
With an adamant shake of his head, he guides me back to the chair, the laptop placed firmly on my lap as he pulls out some sort of chip from his jeans and inserts it into the side of the laptop.
Within seconds, mixed media pops up, dividing the screen.
On one side, by their brand, I recognize it’s all FLEET Media feed running some recent headlines.
On the other, horrific images play in conjunction.
Just after, I recognize it’s not just US news, but global.
At the top of the screen, in block letters, reads ODIN’S VIEW.
I’m educated enough in Norse mythology to know that Odin, who was known for being the ruler of the nine realms and the god of war—amongst several other titles—had a deep connection with ravens.
So much so that he sent his most intelligent birds, Huginn and Muninn, to gather information about the goings-on in the world and faithfully report back.
Aptly titled, the footage I’m seeing is exactly that—the view of a watchful, all-knowing god.
One who’s keeping tabs on a rapidly deteriorating planet.
On one side, news footage runs. The typical view all global citizens have.
On the other are the worst acts of humanity being committed, contradicting the summarized ‘truth’ running parallel. The truth we’re protected from.
Each horrific vision fills me with an indescribable dread.
Unable to look away and knowing I wouldn’t be able to anyway due to the unforgiving hand gripping my face, I watch our world implode.
More stories pour in, this time of the new terrorist group who announced themselves on live TV over a year ago, along with the recent blood baths they’ve left in their wake.
When the next story starts to unfold in the media, a report of twelve missing men, the parallel view shows simultaneous footage of each man starring in their own live execution.
Eyes wide open, I continue to watch what I know is a highly classified feed as their lives are taken in the most barbaric way imaginable.
As I watch, I realize this compiled list is something put together for someone in a place of power. Someone in a position to do something about the atrocities happening on-screen. Someone exactly like Tyler Jennings.
His words from yesterday echo back to me.
“You do realize I’m the fucking right hand of the president?”
For what feels like endless minutes, I witness the worst of humanity. The acts being committed only intensify in degree as a dread settles low in my belly, and I fight like hell not to allow the tears threatening to surface.
“Enough,” I say. “Tyler, enough,” I repeat.
Tyler cuts the feed as I palm my side, which is smarting due to my heaving chest. Though I don’t look up at him, I can feel his gaze searing my profile as I close my watering eyes.
He surrounds me once again, bracketing me from behind while tapping the keys on my lap, and I manage to keep the bile down as the visions continually swarm me.
When he’s done, I lift my eyes to the screen.
I have no fucking time for this. If you need more proof of that, then there’s no fucking help for you, Larissa. TYPE.
“I’m—”
He cuts a hand through the air before taking painstaking care to type each of his following words.
We’re doing this my way, so stop asking questions. I won’t answer them. If you do not type today, you’re on your own. I won’t give you the courtesy of repeating that. I’ll disappear, and you’ll lose the ability to knock on my door. TYPE.
“I can’t just fucking disappear,” I repeat, knowing my protest is weak, not because it’s not true, but because of what I’ve just borne witness to.
I watch him type his reply.
You haven’t. If you want to get out of here faster, then TYPE.
“Your little parlor tricks with technology won’t last forever,” I warn.
To that, I get no response, as he stalks off and out of sight. Even so, I can still feel his eyes on me.