41. My Honor
my honor
Mirren
I hear nothing from Nate by that night. Nothing from Mom either, and that’s unusual because I dangled raw bait in her face with the bite I got on joining the Texas Trio as I’ve come to call them.
Worse, I don’t hear from Strider. Which is the first time since we decided we were an us. I dial and it goes straight to voicemail. The second time it does the same.
I can’t get through to you. I’ll be awake for a while if you want to call. Are you having phone issues?
When it’s after midnight, I send a second.
Sleep well and have sweet dreams. I hate that we couldn’t connect tonight.
I toss and turn all night. Maybe it was the thick steak or the buttery potatoes. Hell, it could’ve been the drink too.
Or that I forgot to leave the light on. Not that the light keeps the nightmares at bay. But I haven’t had any since Strider.
And it’s a doozy. I’m surrounded on every side by insurgents, encircled by them. So many visible rifle muzzles pointed in my direction. No matter where I turn or how many times I spin, there’s no escape.
Bullets whiz, tearing past my head, whirring deafeningly in my ears.
One rips through my knee, and I go down.
On my knees in boiling hot sand, they march on me.
Their movements are so slow, it feels like dramatic theatre for the sake of inciting terror alone.
And it’s fucking working. I shout, but no sound comes out.
My eyes search and search for escape, but there’s none to be found.
Finally, I dig. My hands shovel sand with tremendous strokes of pressure until my shoulders lock up from exhaustion and cramps. Tears well. And I let them fall freely.
I think of my parents, my brothers, my regiment.
Those kids who didn’t make it out of boot camp.
But it’s the face of the soldier at twelve o’clock that guts me.
Strider’s face. He speaks but the sound dies as it falls from his lips.
He’s asking questions that go unanswered because I’m deaf to everything but the sound of my pants.
He lifts his rifle’s sight to his eyes and asks or says one last thing, but my eyes close. I know what comes next. When it does, I’ll relax. I’ve done all I can, given everything I have—my mind, my body, my service, my honor… and apparently now, my life.
I wish I could tell him. I wish I could say I love you. Because I do. I wish he could hear the words that have no voice.
When the bullet rips through me, I feel the tear of every muscle, the shatter of bone, and the air leave my lungs. I hear the insides of my body rend from where they belong. And I fall into blissful black sleep.
My sheets are soaked when I wake.
I sob salty tears into my pillow in the tightest ball I can manage.
I don’t want the nightmares to come back. I can’t afford to fight them every night and be my best every day. No amount of exhaustion or therapy makes it better. No running or change of location fixes what’s broken in my head.
All I want is to be held by the one person who’s too far away to help, the man who calls me Freckles and wants a life with me, the only one who makes this all better, my love, who I can be myself with…
Just me, in all my terrible glory.
Strider
The gray cloud that follows me through my Monday morning and into the afternoon is oppressive. Its weight presses down on me until it’s almost unbearable.
I thought it was the lies, but it’s really losing Mirren that does it. Or even the idea of losing her.
There was no conversation last night. I made no attempt this morning.
I’m pissed that she lied.
I’m angry I was betrayed.
I’m livid she wove a scheme that sucked me in while her web ensnared me.
More so, though, I miss her down to my bones with an emptiness that only true loss causes. That hollowness wrestles inside me with anger until I realize I want her more than I hate the lies.
She’s been agonizing over how to keep her job and keep you.
She has these conversations with her father.
Mirri would be fired—or worse—if she told you.
June’s words tumble around causing hope to rise up—hope that wars with reality and resentment.
She’s been problem solving something she values and how that impacts me. She’s talking to her parents about how to make us work. She couldn’t tell me without fear of retribution.
A gentle reminder hits me. We’re new. So, so new. I know she’s the one for me. But even knowing she’s the one for me doesn’t mean I know her likes and dislikes, or whether she wants to keep this job long term, or even her favorite color. Though somehow sunshine yellow surrounds her in my mind.
Not that any of this is an excuse to lie. Having me believe she’s a landlord while doing spy shit was a choice, but if she couldn’t tell me, and she knew lies would end us… Was our split inevitable?
I can’t believe that. She wouldn’t play me for fun. She’s too direct. Too open. She lives out loud.
Then she either never planned to tell me at all, or she didn’t plan this as a career.
Or, I wasn’t in the plan, and there’s been no time to adjust.
That would be the most reasonable if I pull emotion out of it. Remove the hope, the anger, the lust, the frustration, and it makes logical sense.
I’m no expert on relationships. Mirren’s a novice, too, if I take her word on it, which I do. Come to think of it, I believe her when she’s in my arms. I believe her words and her actions. She shows me I can trust her.
Hell, she not only told me she missed a period, but that she was afraid I would choose her because of it. That’s raw. That’s real.
So, what are the chances that this could work despite the lies?
Reaching up, I scratch my throat. At least I can take worrying about Price O’Neill out of the ever-growing box of shit that’s trying to suffocate me. But what case was he working on? June used the word “evidence.” How is beyond me because I know my business, my books, and my search history.
That level of malevolence takes character that I don’t have, and an edge I’ve never possessed. But there was—or there is—a case. An actual case. Which means there’s data to be found. It just requires digging in the right places.
Grabbing my phone, I scroll to hit up Liam, this time with more information. I start typing out a text only to realize that my messages are probably being monitored. Do phone calls have legal protections? Did someone jump through hoops to do a wiretap? Do they tap cell lines?
The fact that I don’t know any of this should tell them I’m not the problem they think I am. Still, I’m smarter than to get Mirren in trouble at work, especially when her job is with an agency that trains its employees how to kill with their bare hands.
I rub my neck again. I should be thankful Price didn’t finish the job.
Liam and his sister-in-law need to be looking in the right places, and I need answers to questions that texts and phone calls won’t fix. The state and their order to stay put be damned. I’m heading to Alabama.
How many flights can I book in one month? Seriously, it’s not glamorous. Those jet-setters who act like this is fun are full of shit.
The rideshare drops me off in Mirren’s driveway, and, for the first time in a week, my soul settles. The Illinois Bureau of Investigation can kiss my ass. They were either brought in on behalf of or as a decoy so Mirren’s bosses can dig into my business even deeper.
Taking the stairs two at a time, I knock on Freckles door, surprised the lights are off. No answer. I try the big house getting nothing, and no one stirs there either.
I pull my phone out of my pocket to see a new message.
Mom
There’s a lovely girl in our living room. She says she came to see you, and you weren’t home. Where are you? I’ll have fresh cookies when you get here.
Is she a beautiful blonde woman with freckles on her nose?
Her name is Mirren Jones and I like her! She’s a nice girl.
Fuck.
My.
Life.