Havoc (21 page)

“The normal.” He has another gulp of his
beer. “Four or five. Nothing special.”

Disgusted at the amount of women he cycles
through without even thinking about them, I drink from my own beer.
“They're gonna name an STD after you one of these days.”

“I hope they call it Glove. 'Sorry, Miss, but
you've got the Glove. Can be cured with a simple shot of pleasure
from him.'”

“Or penicillin,” I joke. Lordy laughs, and I
ask, “Other than driving his one nights to the doctor, what's new
with you?”

“Nothing really. An old friend called me the
other day. Asked to come visit while I'm on leave.” The way he says
friend I know who he's referencing. Her. The girl in the photo.
What he thought was his own Haven.

“Yeah?” I prod, “And?”

He shrugs, “I don't know.”

Lordy's eyes are searching for advice from
me, me of all people. If this situation would've occurred months
ago, I would've told him I didn't give a shit and let it roll off
my shoulders. But now, I get what he's feeling. His love left.
Broke his heart. Mine almost died. In a way, we're closer now than
we've ever been, and if we don't tiptoe around this carefully,
Glove will throw a tantrum.

“Well, if this friend's really worth it,
bring 'em down. If not, fuck it. They'll see you whenever you
decide to go back. If you ever do.” Translation: If you really love
her and you think that the right thing is a second chance, go ahead
and invite her down, otherwise let her go and move on. Strange how
it sounds one way but means another. Call it code necessary to keep
Glove content.

Lordy nods at me in thanks for the advice,
and Glove draws the attention back to himself, “I think I want a
new tat.”

“Me too,” I finish my beer, the only one I'm
going to have.

“I'm thinking maybe something patriotic.”

“A condom wrapper isn't really patriotic,” I
argue, making Lordy snicker.

“And you?” The words lightly trail out before
he ends his beer’s existence.

“Uh.” I scratch the back of my neck, looking
down, unsure if I want to admit it out loud. “I kind of want my
girl's name.”

Both Lordy and Glove make panicked faces.
They stay in stunned status until I clear my throat in an effort to
move through the episode that’s about to come.

“I'm sorry, Grim. I think I was
hallucinating.” Glove shakes his head. “I thought I heard you say
you wanted your girlfriend's name tattooed permanently on your
body.”

“I did.”

“That's really a dumb idea,” Glove says with
a straight face.

I raise my eyebrows and tilt my head to the
side sarcastically. I do not believe I'm going to let him of all
people stare me in the face and call me stupid. This feels like a
bad dream sequence, one that, I might add, would end up with me
punching him in the face so he fell backwards.

“That's beyond a dumb idea,” Lordy backs him
up.

“Coming from the two of you?”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Glove raises
his empty bottle, I can tell, in desperate need of another.

“I'm just saying you have no room to lecture
me about dumb ideas.”

“How do you figure?”

“You once got highlights in your hair because
a girl told you Lance Bass was her favorite member of NSYNC.” The
incident of having to come to his aid floods back to me.

“That wasn't that stupid.”

“You tried to die your pubes so 'the curtains
would match the drapes.'” The insult reminder makes Lordy chuckle
like he's never done anything dumb over a female. “And you.” I turn
to him. “You once entered a beer drinking competition to impress a
girl from Germany and ended up with alcohol poisoning. You didn't
even get her number. She went home with the host that night.”

The recollection causes Lordy to stop and
Glove to grunt, “I need another beer.”

“Me too,” Lordy agrees, and they reenter the
apartment.

Standing up, I follow them inside, shutting
the door behind me. “It's not a dumb idea. I think it's a great
idea. Everything that matters most to me is tatted on my body, so
why should this be any different?”

“It's like you love the girl.” Glove's words
are followed by Lordy downing some of his beer, knowing that's the
truth.

“I do love her.”

Glove nearly drops his beer bottle.
Thankfully, he places it down on the counter instead, “What?”

“I love her, Glove.”

“How the fuck can you love her? You barely
know her!”

The thought of Haven seeps into my mind. In
some ways, I can get how he doesn't understand, particularly since
he's never experienced anything close to a mature relationship, but
at the same time, I really do know her. And she knows things about
me that sometimes I'm not even sure I know about myself.

“I know her.”

“What's her favorite color then?” Glove pops
the top off his beer.

“Yellow.”

“Favorite food?”

“Cupcakes.”

“Favorite book?”

“Pride and Prejudice.”

“Favorite movie?”

“Gremlins.”

“The first one?” Lordy plops down on their
old, worn-out leather sofa as I sit in the matching chair beside
it.

“Yeah.”

“At least it's a good one,” Lordy's effort on
my side further infuriates Glove.

“What does she look like without makeup, huh?
Does she snore? What's her bra size?”

“She looks like an angel. She snores only
after a hard day. And I wouldn't tell you her bra size on your
death bed as your last dying wish.” Glove smirks. “Look, I'm not
playing Trivial Pursuit with you over my girlfriend.”

“But how do you know if you really love her
if we haven't even met her yet?” Glove's question causes my mind to
stir. For the first time in the history of our friendship, he has a
semi valid point. I don't actually care if they like her or not. It
would never change my feelings about her. She killed a man, and my
feelings didn't sway. I can't imagine her being repulsed by these
morons would do any damage, but they are a part of my life. A
strong part. Stronger than I care to admit to myself most of the
time. And at first, I didn't want Haven to know anything about me
other than I could protect her, that I want to be there for her,
but now . . . After she almost died, I want her to know everything
about me. If she can handle Slugger and love Clint, then she
deserves to know Grim as well. Unfortunately, that means exposing
these extensions of myself.

I shrug. “You'll meet her soon.”

Suddenly, we're all silent. I can imagine
what they're thinking, but it doesn't matter to me. At that moment,
Glove walks from the kitchen toward me, one hand in his pocket, the
other clutching his beer for dear life.

A look of betrayal is on his face, “Hey,
where are your tags?”

I scratch the back of my neck again,
silent.

“It's like we don't even know you.” Glove
speaks like I'm a traitor.

“You're being a bit dramatic, even for you,”
I reply.

“Back me up, Lordy!” Glove demands, sitting
beside him. “First a tattoo, then love, and now your tags! What's
wrong with you? You're acting like you're going to marry this
woman!”

Hm. Marriage isn't exactly what I had been
thinking about, but now that he said it, it all makes sense. That
dreams I’ve had all have been with the two of us married, together
on a permanent basis, even in the more restless ones. I need her in
a way no one can take her away from me. I guess that's all I really
want. And I guess that's the way to make it happen.

“You are not thinking marriage!” Lordy snaps
me out of the thought.

“I'm . . . thinking I have to go. Taking her
to a ball game tonight.” I head toward the front door.

Nodding, Glove leans back, “Fine, run off,
Grim. Puss out like usual. But just wait a bit for the tat, OK?” I
open the door to let myself out when he follows up, “And don't dye
your hair either!”

“Later guys.” My words are cut off by the
shutting of the door.

Thankful I'm home alone, I sit on the edge of
my bed and stare at my closet doors. Marriage. It's a word I never
thought would be in my vocabulary. I never thought it was for me.
The institution itself isn't bizarre or even something that's not
fathomable for a normal human being, but me? The Grim Reaper. I
kill for a living. I don't over think. I don't over analyze. I just
do. My goal has always been to make it from one deployment to the
next in the least amount of time to get closer to death, to enjoy
its scent, slap its hand, put it back in its place until it comes
for my remains. But with Haven in my life, that's not what I want.
I mean, serving my country and staying loyal to it will never
change, but she makes me have a reason to come home, to disconnect
from the constant games with death. To have a reason to smile. To
enjoy the little things. To just take a moment and breathe. She
eases the constant havoc inside.

I launch off the bed, open the closet door,
and pull out the tote. With a lift of the lid, I pull out my
mother's old jewelry box and open it. My eyes search through the
jewelry, almost immediately locating the most important item in
it—her diamond wedding ring.

“Why's it so big?” I climb onto the kitchen
table, using it like a seat, knowing how much she hates when I do,
but I can't stop from doing it anyway.

“It's just the one Dad picked,” she insists,
rinsing off another dish.

“The bigger it is, the more he loves
you?”

She chuckles under her breath, tossing her
head back. I love when she does that. She looks like the old
black-and-white movie stars she and Dad watch when he's home. “No,
Slugger. If that were true, he would've bought me one the size of
the moon.”

“The moon?”

“Or the sun,” she exclaims. “Rings aren't
about the size. They're about the loyalty and love you put into
them.”

“Clint, do you know if Haven washed my
gray-and-white pinstripe shirt?” Sir's voice pierces my room and my
thoughts. At the sight in my hands, his jaw opens, and he looks
dumbfounded. “Where'd you get that?”

I don't answer.

“Clint, where'd you get that?”

“Mom's jewelry box, Sir.”

My eyes watch Sir's movements. They are few.
Very select. His breathing pattern has slowed down severely. His
gray eyes are narrowing in on the ring in my hand. He's livid.

“You have no business having that.”

“With all due respect, Sir, you told me I
could have anything from the boxes.”

“Not her ring!”

“It was in the boxes, Sir.”

“Clint, I was looking everywhere for
that.”

“To sell it, Sir. I remember.” I place the
ring back inside box and shut it. “And it wasn't yours to sell,
Sir.”

“I picked it out! I bought it!”

“And gave it to her, making it hers, Sir. You
informed me I could have whatever I wanted, Sir, so I took it.” I
rise to my feet, standing my ground. My body takes its natural
military stance. “When you wanted to sell it, it was no longer
yours to sell, Sir.”

Frustrated, he growls, “Why are you gawking
at it? Are you thinking about selling it yourself?”

“I would never sell her things, Sir. Not even
if I was starving to death. Especially not her wedding ring.”

“Then what were you gonna do with it?” He
repeats the question, the pressure of the idea of marriage
screaming in my brain to remain silent. I don't even know if I'm
ready for this yet. It was just a thought. An idea. The ultimate
path to happiness but still in idea form. “You can't possibly be
thinking of marrying Haven.” I keep my lips shut. “You cannot.”

“I heard you the first time, Sir.” I walk
past, hoping that is the end of the conversation.

“Hearing me and listening to me are two very
different things, Clint.” His voice trails after me as I head into
the kitchen in hopes of getting something to drink, an action taken
to declare our discussion over. “You can't marry Haven.” Still
getting no response from me, I reach the other side of the kitchen.
“You barely know her!”

My body shakes in anger. I've had enough!
First the lectures from the jarheads, now the lectures from him. I
can't handle any more lectures. Enough is enough.

I snap around and point a finger at him, “Do
not tell me that, Sir.”

“It's the truth!”

“It is not the fucking truth! I know more
about her then you could possibly imagine. Do not sit and judge our
relationship, Sir.”

“Fine! You're too young, however, to be
thinking about marriage.”

“You know what, Sir? I'm an adult. In an
adult relationship. If I choose to think about marriage or plan for
it with Haven, then that is my business. If I want to give her a
mood ring, a promise ring, a wedding ring, or Mom's wedding ring,
then that is my decision.”

“Goddamn it, Clint! I said–”

“I wasn't asking.”

“I'm your father!”

“Today?” The word seems to have struck a
chord within him. “Tomorrow? Are you my father only when it’s
convenient for you?”

“Clint–”

Suddenly, it feels like my mind isn't willing
to back down from this fight, this fight we've never had before but
needed to. That's the thing about emotions. You can't just take the
good ones. “Were you my father when I got jumped my freshman year?
Beaten so badly I could barely see out of my right eye? How about
the day I graduated? Were you my father the day I left to join the
Marines?”

Sounding hurt, he tries again, “Clint–”

“What about when I was seven and gave my
lunch money to Tommy Tillman because he couldn't afford food four
out of five times a week? How about when I got six acceptance
letters for college? Then?”

His face is trembling. I should stop. I know
I should. But, I can't.

“Were you my father the day Mom died?”

“That's not fair!”