We were the good guys, and we specialized in ridding the world of the dangerous motherfuckers who wanted to blow it to shit. What we did was important. Necessary. I’d been thirteen when the Twin Towers crumbled, and I’d never forget the fear and anger I felt at the bastards who crashed those planes into the towers. My mom and sisters huddled in front of the television, holding each other and crying as we watched the explosions again and again. People jumping out of the goddamn buildings to get away from the smoke. That’s something you can’t un-see. I knew right then that I was going to enlist, because I wanted to make sure nobody ever attacked the US again. I trained, I fought, I prepared, and I felt damn lucky to be part of a team of soldiers who felt the same way.
But I hadn’t anticipated the civilian casualties.
Innocent people died in wars. Shit happened. Not every bullet found its mark. Sometimes bombs took out the wrong people. I knew the risks. But knowing was not the same as seeing it. Not in the least.
We entered the city on foot, at dusk, under the cover of smoke still lingering from the air strikes. Climbing over rubble, we skirted the more populated streets and hurried toward our mark. The cowardly motherfucker was holed up in an underground children’s refuge, and getting him out of there would be tricky.
As we passed bodies, demolished buildings, running through the wrecked and ravaged city, I reminded myself that all this destruction was necessary. Couldn’t be helped. We had to stop the bad guys. I knew the truth of that in the very essence of my being. If we didn’t attack them, they’d come for us. Some other American landmark would serve as the target, and we could not allow that to happen.
Rounding the corner of a partially leveled building, we came across a child. He couldn’t have been more than four or five, and was sitting beside the body of a woman, just staring at her. Blank look on his face, no tears or anything. His gaze shifted, and he made eye contact with me. The kid looked hollow. Empty. Shit, it was crazy. I swear I’ll never forget that look in his eyes as long as I live.
We were the good guys, and we’d killed his mom, no doubt leaving him an orphan. The air strikes were necessary. Her death had been unintentional. This kind of shit happened in wars. None of that knowledge stopped me from smelling the coppery-sweet scent of his mom’s blood mixed with the stench of shit.
And God help me, as I stared at the kid with the hollow eyes, I wondered if he’d grow up to be a fucking militant. Would he hide the IUDs that took out my convoy? Would he raid our camps and steal our shit? Would I have to put a bullet between his eyes?
Dark, fucked up thoughts. They made me feel like a monster. He was just a kid. But as we passed him, I kept my M16 ready, and didn’t take my eyes off him.
Someone shouted.
Sounding an alarm? We couldn’t allow that. Turning to find him and fire, my world blurred, bringing me back to the present.
I was sitting in my tow truck, my hands outstretched like I was holding my M16. The ambulances were gone, and a cop stood beside my tow truck, watching me like I was high on something.
I’d let the past drag me back again.
Disgusted with myself and angry that I was still so fucking helpless to control my triggers, I took a deep breath and dropped my hands. My heart continued to race, and the sound of gunfire lingered. No, wait. That was the news helicopter.
Fucking chopper. It didn’t even sound like gunfire.
Sometimes it felt like I was losing my ever-loving mind.
I made eye contact with the cop, silently reassuring him that I was clean and sober. He watched me for a beat, and then waved me forward and directed me toward the wreck. Another officer pointed me to the second car, an Audi. Since the front end was smashed into a Camry, I backed up to its ass end, hooked it up, and got the hell out of there.
Julia
HAVOC SAID HE would be my date for the wedding, and I had no reason to doubt him, but I still worried he’d come to his senses and change his mind. I mean, I hadn’t exactly come off as sane. I paced back and forth through the front of my bookstore, scrolling through the text messages we’d sent back and forth since. His first text was a thank you for sending the gardener to help him. Javiar had gone out Monday and figured out the problem—some PH imbalance in the soil paired with over watering—and Havoc planted new flowers that were now thriving. He was so proud, he sent me pictures.
There was something sweet and unexpected about a man who looked like Havoc sending me pictures of his flowers. Clearly a man who did things like that wouldn’t just up and ditch a woman who was counting on him. At least that’s what I kept telling myself.
After his flower fiasco was taken care of, Havoc continued to text me. I’d get a “Hi,” here, and a “How are you doing?” there. Nothing too heavy, just friendly texts that provided quick escapes from all the time I spent dreading Laura’s wedding. Havoc asked what I was wearing to the wedding, so I sent him a picture. He sent back a drooling emoji that made me laugh and stole away some of the anxiety I had about wearing such a revealing gown. I asked about his suit and he sent me a picture. I upped his emoji game by sending two drool faces and a winky face. All our correspondence was light, friendly, and flirty, and I couldn’t find anything that should have scared him off.
Maybe two drool emojis and a winky face had been too much?
“You look gorgeous,” Justine said, glancing up from her textbook long enough to flash me a reassuring smile.
“You really do, dear,” a sweet elderly lady perusing the romance section added. “You might want to grab a sweater or something, though. Not much fabric to that dress.”
I cringed, knowing she was right. My sister’s bridesmaids were all little whores and they’d outvoted me, choosing bridesmaid’s gowns that were gorgeous, but revealing. Really revealing. Lavender, beaded, and sleeveless, the unique halter style dress had a keyhole front that started three inches below my collarbone and ran down to the bottom of my breastbone. The back was open to right above my ass, with a few thin straps of fabric crisscrossing to keep it from falling off every time I leaned forward. The only real coverage was between my waist and the floor. At least my feet would stay warm in their strappy white heels.
The design forced me to abandon my normal strapless bra for a pair of adhesive silicone lift D cups. Emily’s little brideswhores all had perfect bodies and fake boobs, so they didn’t have to worry about things like keeping their partially exposed breasts in place or their back fat from showing.
Bitches.
I’d been dieting and working out every day since we’d ordered the dresses, and was pleased to admit that I looked damn good. The gown embellished my curves and made me feel glamorous. Sexy. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt that way.
My long hair was styled in a fancy updo with soft ringlets framing my face (courtesy of the salon down the street), my makeup was flawless (courtesy of my contouring wizardry skills), and I was ready to face down the country club of people I wanted to incinerate. All I needed was my date.
As if summoned by my mounting fear that he wouldn’t show up, a giant, newer blue Toyota Tundra with a king cab pulled up in front of the bookstore. Even though I couldn’t see the driver from where I stood, I knew it would be Havoc. The truck looked like it was built for him personally. The door opened, closed, and then he stood on the sidewalk wearing a suit.
