Chapter Ten Months Ago
Ten Months Ago
Lloyd Commons Residence
I was over this. College, parties, all of this shit. Garbage waste of my time.
Three years ago, during that one recruiting trip, this was a little fun. Blow off some steam, get a little rowdy. But these idiots had turned me into an old man at twenty-three. If I never have to go to another one of these fucking things—
"Yo Mick! Where's Drakes, man? He still here?"
"Not my night to watch him." The drunk sonofabitch who asked wouldn’t remember that I was a king-sized asshole.
He grinned with red bleary eyes. "Probably getting lucky. Life of a baller, man."
Yeah. Wish he’d already moved on. Or could babysit his bench of wannabes—the guys who rode his coattails and nailed his leftovers.
A faceless dude half-crawled past me. I followed him into the hallway as he threw himself into the bathroom door. I rolled my eyes at the sound of heaving and turned to head back to the kitchen. I should just carry around a backpack of bottled water and condoms. Worse than Marines on Liberty.
The common living room was still crammed, practically wall to wall with partygoers in various stages of drunk. I maneuvered and shouldered my way through the crowd, dodging when Sato turned—narrowly missing a giant elbow to my jaw.
"Sup, Mick." He held up a fist. I bumped it and attempted to scoot around the human wall. Wasn't happening.
"You seen Drakes?"
"No. And when the fuck did I become his keeper?"
His round face split into a grin. "You’re gonna do all right, man. With your ‘don’t fuck with Marines’ shit. These guys don’t have guns. Just pads. They ain’t a threat to you, Mick." He laughed and held out his fist again like we hadn't just done the "bro" thing. "That’s why you just chill."
I glanced down at his pint-sized girlfriend. "You’ll get him home or you need a rideshare?"
Misha motioned in the air with electric-colored nails. "You don’t have to worry, I’m sober curious."
Curious enough to remain sober, or—? I didn’t ask. I continued on my way to the kitchen, grabbed an armful of water bottles, then wound my way back to the vomit-curious guy reclining on the floor blocking the way to the bathroom.
I’d just finished propping him up in the more-secluded hallway area, force-feeding a half bottle of water into his face—when Drakes emerged from one of the closed-off bedrooms. He fumbled with his zipper and grinned like he thought he was a movie star.
"Mick! Ma brother." He nodded at me and finished zipping and tucking things. "These chicks, am I right?"
My stomach clenched—whether it was the whiff of vomit-guy, or Drakes…
"You play your cards right and they’ll be all over you next year." The stocky third-round AFL draft pick was cashing out his Texas State Tech football career—moving on to a life most of these guys, including me, could only dream of.
"Have some water." Dick.
He took the proffered bottle with a mumbled, “Really need a beer."
"You should stick with the water," I replied. He didn't argue. I leaned back against the opposite wall, glancing down at vomit-guy as I let out a long breath.
It wasn't the "chicks" part that I envied, or wanted. It was the…unburdened view of life. Drakes had never and would never have to take on a second job to help his mother pay for groceries, or attend the funeral of the guy who ate in the mess hall next to him during boot camp.
And he didn't have shrapnel scars riddling half his back and shoulder.
He gulped water and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. "Not gonna miss it, ya know. All the teachers and the bullshit.” He shook his head.
I grunted my agreement. I’d had my own difficulties coping with this place after deployment. Wouldn’t miss it, either.
“And those guys.” He pointed at the crush of bodies just visible at the end of the hall. “Well, let's just say they won't be following me.” He chuckled. “Y'all can have all the chicks wanting leftovers."
Jesus, what an entitled prick.
"But my girl? She's fine, dude." He faked a punch at my arm. "She’s pricey too. Got her a ring and everything."
A guy pushed through our chat to get to the john. I handed him a water bottle as he passed by.
“She was just surprised, that’s all. Should’ve made sure the romance was front and center.”
And I had no idea what he was talking about. Is there an "eject" button on this conversation? The place smelled like puke, his attitude made me want to puke…"Congrats." I slapped him on the back and made for the rear of the residence, where no one should be wandering about.
I shoved the exit door aside and followed the short path to the greenhouse. The place itself, I'd built out of habit. Growing up, my family had always had a few vegetable plants. And the food in the student center had me fondly reminiscing over military rations.
At least there's fresh fruit. They haven't figured out how to ruin that…yet.
It’d been harder to keep the garden up between semesters and over the summer, but once I started growing things, Sato and Danny pitched in.
And we branched out into a few flower varieties; roses were difficult, delicate, prickly.
I hadn’t done well with orchids. I still had hope for my mini orange tree, though, and the magnolia.
Sato’s sober-curious girlfriend had taken to growing gardenias and jasmine—changing the smell of the place from earthy green to a flowery perfume.
I ducked inside the greenhouse and closed the door. A gasp rang out at the same time I flipped on the dangling lamplight.
She stood there, golden light glowing like embers in the strands of her coppery hair. Arms crossed over her stomach, tears staining her cheeks. A tightness gripped my shoulders as I raised my heavy Maglite and scanned the room.
But the place was empty. "Are you hurt?"
"No."
"Is anyone else in here?"
"You?" She shrugged and shook her head. "A few shadows that might be ghosts?"
The tightness relented. I set my flashlight on the worktable and met her gaze. "They don’t count."
She tipped her head. "Do you?"
"I’m not here to hurt you." I flipped on another light.
She winced and then brushed her fingers over her cheek. A flash of hazel-gold eyes. They glanced at me then flitted away. "Oh."
"You’re not supposed to be in here." I ducked my head, trying to catch her gaze again. "Off-limits for party guests."
"I’m not here for the party. Not really." She touched the rim of an empty flowerpot, craning her neck to her left, then turning her head.
Why's she here? "If you’re one of those California sober types, you won’t find any of that in here."
"Uh, no." She frowned. "So this is yours? This place?"
"It’s something of a group project. But, I built it."
She nodded. "It’s nice. I like it out here.
" She cocked her head to one side. "It’s almost like how I’d imagine outer space.
Quiet. Still." She paused, and the room held its breath.
"Like we could be close enough to see the lights and shadows of people living normal lives.
But too far away for it to make any sense. "
I held out one of my bottles of water. "Here, drink it. But, if you need to puke—"
"I'm not drunk, but thank you." She sipped at the bottle while I drank her in.
She had the well-formed shoulders of some of the enlisted women—after boot camp.
I knew better than to let my gaze linger too long on her chest. The curve of her hip sloped beneath a short skirt into long legs that held nice muscle definition.
But no shoes.
"That's dangerous here. Lots of broken pots." I hooked a thumb over my shoulder. "You need to go."
She met my gaze, and my lungs froze in my chest.
"I need a moment. I can't…" She shook her head. "I can't go out there." A shaky hand ran through her hair. "Not yet."