Havoc (18 page)

“On this?” She strolls over and gently
touches the handlebar.

“No. No. Old girl here doesn't see much
action. I keep her polished. Change her oil. Change her fuel. Make
sure her vitals are intact. I start her, but I don't ride her.”

Haven straddles the seat, hands now settling
on the bike, creating a very vivid picture. Re-instilling some very
strong emotions. I'm not sure I can handle another uproar of
feelings, even if they are good ones. “Why not?”

I’ve asked myself that very question several
times. Maybe because I was still waiting for Mom and that magical
ride. Maybe because, unlike everything else in the house Sir got
rid of that was hers, this never came into question. Maybe because
it meant so much to her that I didn't want to disappoint her. Or
maybe, just maybe, because she was right when she said it's like
the right woman. It's worth the wait.

“Ever been?” I ask.

“Riding on a motorcycle?” Her hands fall off
the bars. She shakes her head, “No. Wow. Me? No. No.” Still shaking
her head, she huffs, “No. My dad had a friend that owned one.
Mitchell Brown. The one time I asked if I could have him take me on
a ride, my mom almost had a heart attack.” I stifle a chuckle. “Mom
said, 'No way, Haven. You're only fourteen!' And Dad countered with
'When you're eighteen and make your own choices, then sure. Sure,
you can ride.'”

I take a couple steps backwards and lean over
to let the garage door up. The cool air hits us both, and I
declare, “Let's go.”

“Wait. No. I mean . . . But you just
said–”

“I know,” I grab the helmets from the top of
the bench where the towel hangs. Handing her my mom's old helmet,
still as shiny as the day she bought it, I grin, “It's been worth
the wait.”

Haven beams, nervous and excited as I grab
the keys from the shelf as well. While she tucks herself safely
away, I stare at the small photo key chain and nod. You were right,
Mom, definitely worth the wait.

The two of us head out of the neighborhood,
Haven’s arms clutched tightly around me, trusting her life in my
hands once more. There is something unexplainable yet phenomenal
about knowing that the person you love more than yourself trusts
you in that way. It's like getting the best birthday present of
your life, every day. I cruise us around the community, passing
houses twice the size of ours and twice the price, out toward a
small, paved back road. Between the hum of the bike and the
pressure of her body against me, I feel like I'm at the gates of
heaven, choirs of angels watching through the golden fences, their
energy pouring straight through, encompassing me so tight I almost
can't breathe. And it's amazing.

Finally, I pull off the road and park,
unwrapping her from me. Placing our helmets on the bike, I lead her
down a small, rock path, our vision crossing rows of wild flowers,
blooming even though the last days of summer have forsaken
them.

Before Haven says anything, I sit down and
pull her to settle between my legs, back against my chest, my arms
wrapped around her waist, and my head on her shoulder. Just
breathing her in soothes any havoc that pumps through my veins to
an undeniable halt. God, what was life before her?

Leaning back into me she asks, “Why'd you
bring me here?”

My eyes close, feeling ease from the
vibration of her chest buzzing with every word she says. With a
deep exhale, I say, “When I was younger, there were times I would
get so angry it seemed like I was inconsolable, and she would bring
me here. Right here to this spot, right next to this pond, wrap her
arms around me and not say a word. At first, it would make me
angrier, but there was something about being wrapped up with her
that put me at an inexplicable peace.” I can feel Haven's smile
against my cheek. “I haven't felt that way since. Until you.”

A soft pair of lips presses against my cheek,
and I hug her tighter. The croon of the nighttime bugs is
accompanied by the gentle sound of fish splashing around beside
us.

Suddenly she speaks, “Wanna know why I love
sunflowers?”

I open my eyes and see the bright flowers in
the distance. “Of course.”

“When I was with Old Man Banks,” I have a
feeling this is going to make me wish Sir has made more progress
than he actually has, “he kept me in this tiny room underneath his
house. There was one small window, one glimpse of what the outside
world looked like, and through it were rows of yellow sunflowers.
And every morning when the sun would touch them, I told myself God
put them there to remind me one day I would get out. That he put
them there so I would know he hadn't forgotten me in this pit of
hell I somehow managed to fall into. I thought of them like a
sacred, unspoken promise between me and the grace I knew would help
me escape. Almost four years, Banks held me down there.”

My face leans away to look into her eyes,
which are swimming with relief and appreciation to still be alive.
To be free. To have her prayers of independence finally
answered.

I wet my lips and press them to her forehead.
With a deep breath, I release my grip around her and walk over to
the patch of flowers she was staring at. Plucking a sunflower
gracefully from among its friends, I stroll back to Haven and squat
down in front her with this message of hope held out in front of
her for the taking.

Her jaw trembles as does her touch while
reaching for it. There's another unfamiliar tug at my heart and a
warmth that feels like, if it keeps up, I'll be crushed. I can’t
quite smile, knowing that promise God gave her is one I will bleed
to death upholding. I whisper, “Alpha.”

I cannot move.

I cannot think.

I cannot breathe.

I swore yesterday was just a bad dream, that
there was no way it was happening to me. It all started off so
simple—a day running errands, then getting ready to go to that
stupid concert with Leighyani, and then seeing Haven's gorgeous
face briefly before I left. Nothing seemed out of place. Nothing
should've gone wrong. She doesn't deserve this. She's been through
enough. I never should've gone to hear that awful band play. And I
never should've gone to catch up with those people I went to high
school with. I couldn't give a fuck about them. I don't know why
people feel the need to catch up and compare notes like that. Yeah,
sure, one of the guys knew the lifestyle, a Navy man, but still a
military one nonetheless. That was the excuse I used at the time to
justify why I was gone so long. No excuses are acceptable. I
should've been by Haven's side. I wasn't there to protect her. I
wasn't there to take care of her. I was busy having a beer and
laughing at dirty jokes. I hate myself. I fucking hate myself.

Christopher Striker was on call. That's the
only thing working in my favor. Striker is not only married to
Lexi, Haven’s tutor, but is also one of the best ER doctors in the
country. His skin is several shades darker than my angel’s. His
head is bald and shining in the poorly lit room I'm suffocating in.
His face has a cleanly cut goatee. He always reminds me of Samuel
L. Jackson, from the look to bad-ass attitude.

Striker strides in and offers me a
sympathetic expression. I don't need sympathy. I need Haven to wake
up. He doesn't say anything as he checks her vitals. Her chart.

“She'll wake up.”

I don't respond.

“Stop worrying.”

It's not in my nature to worry, which is why
it feels like someone is choking the life out of me, slowly but
surely. And they should. I deserve it for leaving her.

“This is not your fault, Slugger.” He slides
a hand in his pocket.

Of course it is. “I should've protected
her.”

“We both know that's not how it works,
Slugger.”

“I should've never gone.”

“You can't be by her side every minute.” The
words sting because they're true. It's not the first time I've
heard them, and I'm sure it won't be the last. “Look, what matters
is you're by her side now.”

“And I'm not leaving until she opens her
eyes.”

“I know. The nurses have all been informed.
And I got you scheduled for your blood draw. Doesn't the base–”

“Thanks, Striker,” I cut him off before he
can finish. The base does check us on a regular basis to make sure
everything is all right, but more so, they can tell how we will
perform more than anything else. And while I'm careful every time,
I did just have an encounter a couple weeks ago. If Haven and I . .
. when Haven and I get to that point, I want nothing to worry
about. I want her to have nothing to worry about.

Striker moves more objects around. Takes some
notes and just stares at the angel in her frozen state. By the
reaction on his face, I can assume that no changes have occurred.
No progress. No poison known as hope for me to take.

The door opens, and Sir's grim expression
hurts just as much as my own. I expected him to lecture me about us
taking her in, that this was inevitable, that I was a moron for
thinking she would come free of complications, yet all he has said
implies just the opposite. He told me he fought the urge to panic
when he brought her in. He explained what he knew, that he had to
continue to work, but he expected me not to leave until she woke
up, that he would be calling for daily reports. There have been
many days when I felt like we were on opposite sides regarding her,
but now more than ever I'm starting to think we're on the same
side.

Sir leans against the wall closest to where
he entered. Striker and he make brief eye contact before the doctor
disappears. Once out of my line of sight, he says, “Striker says
he'll let us know when there's progress.”

“I know, Sir.” I reach for Haven's hand and
stroke it gently. God, I wish she could feel me. I wish she knew I
was here. I'd give anything for her to know that. “I haven't left
her side, Sir.”

“You need to eat, Clint.”

The words are far from registering with me. I
don't need to eat. I don't need to drink. As a Marine, my body is
well equipped to handle long periods without food and hydration. I
will be fine. I need Haven to wake up. I need to tell her I'm
sorry, that this is my fault. That is all I need.

“Not hungry, Sir.”

With a frustrated growl, he says, “You need
to take a minute for yourself here.”

“I–”

The door cracks open, and Mindy's smiling
face appears along with a couple of vases filled with sunflowers.
Promises. Each and every one. “Knock. Knock.” Before we can tell
Mindy to give us a few, she's in the room bombarding it with her
presence, strong perfume, and unstoppable cheerfulness. How can she
be cheerful at a time like this? “Good afternoon, Slugger.”

“Ma'am.” I nod, my hand still gripping
Haven's.

“Whiskey.”

“Mindy.” He tries to offer her a smile.

“And Haven,” she hums at her as if actually
expecting a response. Mindy struts her way to the window, black
skirt so tight it barely moves as she does, and places the two
vases full of sunflowers in the window. “These are from me and
Doug. These are from Felix and Anna. Oh!” She turns around on her
black stiletto knee-high boots and marches over to Haven's
motionless body, “And what did I tell you about manicures and your
nails? Constant updates . . .”

I watch Mindy, slightly confused as she sits
down in the chair across from mine, pulls it closer to Haven, and
removes a pocket nail kit from her Michael Kors purse. She
immediately begins filing her nails. I fight the urge to smile at
Mindy's behavior.

“Clint, let's talk in the hall,” Sir
insists.

I shake my head, back still turned, “I'm not
leaving Haven alone.”

“She's not alone.” Mindy points the nail file
at me. “Now go. Go talk to your father for a minute.”

“But–”

“If she wakes up in the forty-five seconds it
takes for the two of you to not work out your problems, I'll
holler.”

“Your word?”

“My word.” Her eyes fill with hope, the same
kind I miss seeing in Haven's. The same kind I will see in them
again soon. I have to.

I follow Sir into the hallway that's emptier
than I thought it would be. For some reason, I assumed everyone
would be shuffling back and forth like we're in some sort of
prime-time television show where people rush from room to room
saving lives. Obviously, I haven't spent much time in hospitals
since I was a kid. Since Mom. Never had a reason to. Never wanted
one either.

“Clint,” Sir uses my name to draw me back
away from my thoughts. “This isn't healthy. And it's not helping
Haven either. It's just gonna get to you in here with her.”

“I'm all right, Sir. I know my body's
status.”

“You haven't eaten.”

“Not hungry, Sir.”

“You haven't slept.”

“Not tired, Sir.”

“You haven't–”

“I know what I have and haven't done, Sir,” I
cut him off, patience nonexistent. “And I appreciate the concern,
but I'm not leaving until she opens her eyes and I know she's all
right. Period. You can lecture me if you like about everything that
I need to be doing, but honestly, I'm not going anywhere until she
opens her goddamn eyes, Sir.”

“Clint–”

I feeling myself losing it once again,
flashing on the fact that there's another danger out there I
haven't been able to put down. “And instead of standing in my face
preaching at me, why don't you tell me where you are on this whole
Old Man Banks thing, Sir. That should be your concern, Sir.”

Now obviously heated himself, he growls,
“That is my concern. And if there was progress, you would know by
now. As much as that and Haven are my concern, so are you.”

The threats against Haven seem to be stacking
up, and right now, I have no way of facing the enemy that put her
here nor the one that caused her to fall into my life to begin
with. I feel a gnawing inside of me, a paralyzing feeling of
uselessness.