The Last Hour (9 page)

He nodded. “Mine just use good old fashioned guilt.”

I grinned.
 

“So ... I’m not up on current shows, been away too long. What’s this one?”

I took a breath then said, “It’s sort of a love story. Set in Ireland, it’s about a street musician, and a Czech immigrant who fall in love.”

His eyebrows lowered, and he glanced down at the program. This was the point where he’d make a big deal about how attending the show with me, instead of going to a basketball game or a bar or having sex, was a big favor. It never failed. I guess it might be different if I was still in New York, men who will admit to enjoying Broadway shows aren’t as rare there. In Texas, they were a rare bird you only caught a glimpse of before they winged away.

He flipped the program over, his eyebrows pushing together, and said, “Wait. Wasn’t this a movie? Sort of an Indie flick. I remember the music was awesome. I saw it before I joined the Army.”

I swallowed. “You’ve seen the movie?”

“Well, yeah, I loved it.”

I felt a stupid smile on my face, but I didn’t want to give away the store, so I kept my answer light. “We’re going to get along just fine.”
 

He raised an eyebrow and looked me in the eye. “I could have told you that.”

And then he leaned close and said, “Let me prove it.” The next thing I knew, our lips were touching again, his pressing against mine, firm, not aggressive or pushy, but he clearly knew exactly what he wanted. I closed my eyes, drinking in the sensation, feeling his stubble, the very faint smell of sweat, the overwhelming feeling of his hands on my upper arms.
 

Then the lights went down, and the voices in the theater dropped. We broke off, slowly, tentatively, and turned our attention to the show.

I was immediately swept up in it. It was a wonderful show, with none of the pyrotechnics, over the top choreography or catchy pop tunes that seemed to be inbred in most Broadway shows I’ve seen. Instead, this was understated, engaging, gentle storytelling. No wonder it won so many awards.
 

Five minutes into the show I grabbed Ray’s hand, and I didn’t let go until the intermission. I never got so lost in the show that I didn’t feel him in the seat next to me. I was acutely conscious of the fact that every once in a while he glanced away from the stage, in my direction. When he did, my breath would catch. I didn’t understand why he affected me this way. I was lightheaded, almost drunk with sensation.
 

When the intermission came, he turned toward me and said, “Come here.”

“What?” I said, but I could feel my smile widening, impossibly wide.

Apparently he didn’t have the patience to explain, because he reached out, putting his hands on my waist, and lifted me right into his lap. I’m not a small woman. Yes, I’m thin. But I’m also six-two and have no problems hiking twenty miles up a mountainside. But he picked me up like I was a little girl. I let out a squeal and threw my arms around his neck, and then everything in my world narrowed down to that touch, the breath between us, and the urgent pressure between our lips. He had one hand fixed on my waist, the other in my hair, and my arms were thrown over his shoulders. I felt goose bumps on my arms, my whole body alive.
 

It was overpowering. Overwhelming. I was twenty-seven years old. I’d been with men before. I’d dated, at least twice seriously. But I’d never experienced anything like this. Right at that moment, it was as if every wall I had, every boundary, every defense, had simply stepped to the side, opening the gates to who knew what. If we hadn’t been in the theater I might have torn his clothes off right then and there. As it was, I was grateful, for once, for the semi-private box I’d resented in the past.
 

He broke off and spoke, his voice low, husky. “Is this going too fast for you?”

I met his eyes. “It’s not going fast enough.”

Ray’s eyes widened. “I’m liking that. You know I haven’t been with a girl in ... two years? At least.”

I leaned forward and bit his ear, then said, “I haven’t been with a girl in two years either.”

“Oh my God, that’s so fucking hot.”

“Let’s go,” I whispered.

“The show?” he said.

“It’s awesome. I have a box, we can come back tomorrow.”

Ray didn’t kid around. Too fast to even catch my breath, he had me on my feet and was grabbing our coats. We never even discussed the hotel he was supposed to check in to. I drove as fast as I could back to my apartment.

I
n my dream, the lights are dim, not off,
and I can see Carrie’s pale skin, almost translucent really. Her hips are straddling mine, and she slides the sweater dress up her hips, lifts it over her head with both arms, and I gasp as I stare at her perfect, beautiful body. She wears a black lace bra, which leaves nothing to the imagination, and leans forward, tracing her fingertips across my chest. The nails aren’t painful, but intense, drawing a line that seems to brand me.

My hand touches the scar on her side, four parallel lines, and I say, “It wasn’t a house-cat that did that.”

She grins, a fierce, hungry look, and says, “Right now, I’m the hungry cat.” Her lips curve upward as she says the words.

I like it. My hands are on her hips, her waist, her breasts, and even though I can feel the hazy reality of the dream, it still feels real.

I arch my neck as she brings her lips to my chest and bites; the sensation overpowers all thought. Then I grab her by the shoulders and roll her over. I’m on top of her, and with one yank I pull her panties off and throw them to the floor.
 

She lets out a cry as I enter her, and I whisper words without meaning, with too much meaning. Her legs wrap around me, her fingers dragging down my back, and she gasps in my ear.

But then I’m cold. Shivering. I’m standing on a trail on a mountainside, rifle slung over my shoulder, and I want to cry out, “Where’s Carrie?” because all around me are men, my men, Dylan, with his leg stained with blood and a fragment of bone poking through the mess of his thigh. Kowalski is just ahead of him on the trail, and he turns toward me, his face nothing but wreckage, and I can see his teeth because his lips are gone. He lifts his M249 machine gun over his shoulder like a toy and says, “Come on, Sergeant, they’re just ahead.” He turns away, and Dylan follows, and so does Roberts, shambling, his legs crazy wobbling because there’s hardly any skin or muscles attached to his bones. I want to cry, because I shouldn’t be here, I should be in bed with Carrie in her apartment in Houston, and instead, I’m stuck in this crazy horror show, back in Afghanistan with people I
know
are dead. Off to my right, a short distance away is Hicks’ fire team: Hicks, Weber, Reynolds and Gruber.

And then I hear Sergeant First Class Colton. Our platoon’s father, our disciplinarian, our hero, and he’s shouting ahead somewhere, “I got ‘em! Close up!” We’re running up behind him, somehow back on the trail leading to the village, and standing in front of Colton in ragged, dirty clothes is Carrie. Her hair hangs loose, dirty, unkempt, and her face is streaked with dirt and terror, eyes wide open.

Colton shrieks at her, and shrieks again and again, his voice accusing, blaming her for Kowalski and Roberts and Weber’s deaths. It’s obvious he’s gone nuts, his eyes slightly bulging, the rage on his face mirrored by the terror in hers as he lifts his rifle.
 

Staff Sergeant Martin shouts, “Colton, no!” and runs over, and then the rifle is pointed at
him
, and I shout, “Sergeant Colton, don’t do it!” Then there’s a hand grabbing my arm and shaking, shaking hard. My mind is fogged, I think the hand is trying to pull my rifle away and I scream and
kick
, and I hear Carrie scream.

My eyes jerked open as I heard her scream followed by a loud crack. Disoriented, I looked around the still dim room, the lights not quite off. In a fraction of a second my eyes focused and found Carrie.

She was nude, her back against the wall where ... I’d thrown her? Her eyes were open in shock, staring at me. Dazed.

That shocked me back into the present, my senses suddenly sharp. I yelled, “Carrie? Oh,
shit!”
and jumped out of the bed and ran to her. She raised her arms—as if to ward me off—and I said, “Oh, God, baby, I’m so sorry!”

She seemed too shocked to react. With effortlessness born of adrenaline and fear and that awful nightmare, I scooped her up into my arms and laid her gently on the bed. “Carrie ... I didn’t hurt you, did I? Oh, shit, shit, shit.”

She shook her head, still not talking, as if she couldn’t catch her breath. I traced my fingers along the back of her head, checking for bumps, bleeding, head injuries of any kind.
 

“I’m okay,” she whispered. “Not hurt.”

Oh, God.
The fear swept out of me, all at once, and I wanted to collapse.
What the fuck just happened?

She shivered, goose bumps appearing on her arms and breasts, and it hit me then how cold it was in here. I leaned over, grabbing the blanket off the floor and swept it over us. “I’m so sorry, Carrie. I was asleep ... I didn’t mean to do that. Jesus Christ.”

I was shaking, and she was too. I slid under the blanket next to her, gently pulled her into my arms, and whispered, “Seriously, are you okay?”

She slowly nodded, then turned toward me. “I’m fine ... are you? That must have been some dream.”

“Carrie ... I’d never hurt you. Never.”
 

Christ almighty, what the fuck had I done?

She touched the side of my face and looked me in the eye. It was dim, but I could see the worry and fear in her eyes. “I know that, Ray. I know.”

“Maybe this isn’t a good idea,” I said, my voice rough.

Her face twitched, fear flashing across her eyes. That quickly morphed to anger. “Ray. I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”

“But ... what if I’d seriously hurt you?”

“Shut up. Kiss me.”

I swallowed and pulled her to me. Not a kiss. An embrace, trying with all my might to reassure, to wash away the fear, to bring our souls together, to memorize the feel of her body, the brush of her hair, the scent of her skin. I was still shaking. Then we repositioned, Carrie laying against my side, her head half on the pillow and half on my shoulder.

It took her a long, long time to fall back asleep.
 

That was okay. I waited patiently, as her breathing steadily lengthened, slowed. Once I was sure she was asleep, I continued waiting. Watching her, studying her face, the curve of her cheek. She had a slightly upturned nose, and in her sleep she looked closer to seventeen than twenty-seven. I knew from our long talks that she was a mature, levelheaded, experienced woman. But I also knew that she’d never experienced anything like the gulf of pain and anguish that came along with a war.
 

Part of me thought I should just walk away before it got too serious. But I knew that was no answer.

Once she was finally in a deep sleep, I slipped out of the bed, pulled on my jeans and t-shirt, and walked out to the balcony. She had two cast iron chairs on the balcony, and a small table. It was bitterly cold outside, but I welcomed that. I wasn’t in any space to go back to sleep right now. Instead, I lit a cigarette and looked out at the traffic winding through the streets of Houston far below. From her fourteenth floor balcony, I could see Park Plaza Hospital across the street, and the campus of Rice University spread out to my left. It was a beautiful view, even if it was ice cold out here.

How many weeks ago had I said to Dylan Paris that he was a fucking idiot for stepping back from Alex? Because of his worries about the war? Because
he was afraid of hurting her?
Not that many.
 

All right ... I wasn’t going to go there. But I wasn’t going to hide it either. Because no matter how much joking I did, no matter how much good friendly advice I doled out to friends? I hadn’t talked with anyone about what happened. I hadn’t told anyone. And if tonight was anything to go by, that silence was taking its toll.

I’d talk with her. And let her make a decision. If she wanted to walk away at that point, at least she had a choice in the matter.

The problem was ... I really wasn’t ready to talk about it. I wasn’t even ready to think about it. I carefully crushed my cigarette against the bottom of my shoe then lit another one. I’d been smoking too much lately. I didn’t smoke at all before the Army, but when there are people trying to kill you, cancer risk just doesn’t seem like that big of a deal.

I needed to talk with Dylan about it, too. I’d known that since I’d come home. But he’d been so screwed up—over his injury, over Alex—I didn’t want to mess with his head any more than he’d already had it screwed up. He’d said it more than once: Sergeant Colton was a father figure to him. And there are few things worse than having your father destroy everything. Dylan had a right to know. Fact was, he might even get dragged into it. Even though he didn’t witness the actual events, he knew all the people involved. It was hard to say.