His Rules Page 9

  As much as doing so troubled me, I decided to take the advice of Lewis Carroll’s King in Alice in Wonderland.

  Begin at the beginning, and go on till you come to the end: then stop.

  “Three of us were gathering intelligence in the Helmand province. We’d been in hiding behind a few large boulders in a valley at the base of a mountain for three days. Taliban soldiers began to show up a few hundred feet from where we were, and they continued coming for two days. So, there we were, surrounded. We rationed our food, knowing we could be stuck for a few more days. The three days turned into a week. It seemed they were using our location as a compound. Exhausted, short on water, and out of food, we knew we had to do something.”

  I let out a sigh. From a combat standpoint, the events of that day were noteworthy, but it wasn’t the most significant of all the missions I’d been on. It was, however, a turning point in my life.

  “We called for evac, and scheduled our pick up for the next morning. We planned on getting to the other side of the mountain, and knew in the shape we were in, we’d need twelve hours to get there. If we could get there.”

  She looked at me and swallowed hard. I forced a smile and turned toward the beach.

  “Think of a pie, and what it would look like if you took one small sliver of a slice out. The pie that remains was where they were. The slice was our only way out. Halfway between our position and the base of the mountain, we were spotted. It got ugly, and it got ugly quick--”

  “How many of them were there?” she asked.

  “A hundred or so.”

  Her eyes went wide. “And there were three of you?”

  I nodded.

  “Oh. My God. Obviously, they got you out, though. I mean, you’re here.”

  I somehow managed to laugh. “The day we were to be evac’d, I got shot. Four hours after we pulled out of their compound.” I pressed my hand against my thigh, directly below the wound. “Trapp got shot twice, and Big Gus had more bullet holes in him than I could count.”

  “I’m so…did they…did they live?”

  “The three of us did. More than I can say for the rest of my platoon, though. They shot down the evac chopper with an RPG as it was landing. Half the platoon was killed in the explosion. The three of us were stuck on the side of that mountain for another 24 hours, but we held our ground.”

  I realized how emotional I’d become while telling the story. Every hair follicle was raised and my hands were shaking, but it was the tears that I didn’t expect. Weeping for my fallen teammates wasn’t something I’d taken the time to do.

  I wasn’t able to attend the traditional funeral service, or participate in the pounding of the trident onto the coffin. I realized as I sat there and wept that I never took the time to acknowledge their deaths, or to let them go.

  I leaned out from underneath the overhang far enough to allow the rain to fall onto my face. Each falling drop helped mask what I was feeling, and I welcomed them. I silently said each of their names, paying respect to them for their sacrifice.

  Little Smith.

  Tremont.

  Gus.

  Wilson.

  Patterson.

  Hart.

  Sweeney.

  Carson.

  Eventually, she broke the silence and brought me back to reality.

  “I can’t imagine how three men could fight against a hundred. That’s amazing,” she said. “I’m sorry about your friends, though.”

  “So am I. We understood the risk when we signed up, though.”

  “Luckily, we recovered a dozen Kalashnikovs from men we had killed. We spent the night taking shifts. One man would sleep for an hour while the other two took position and fired at opposition. Our constant repositioning, and the changing of weapons from our M4s to the Kalashnikovs kept them wondering just how many of us there were. By the grace of God, we held them off. The next morning, we got CAS from a couple of F-18s and an A-10.”

  “CAS?” she asked. “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Close Air Support. Airplanes flew over and dropped bombs.”

  I recalled the elation I felt when the airstrike happened. In circumstances such as ours, airstrikes don’t always go as planned. Ours, however, was spot on. Seeing the devastation to our opposition gave the three of us the energy to make it to the extraction site.

  “Energized by the airstrike, we got to the new extraction site. When that bird landed…when the skids touched down?”

  I swallowed hard. The emotion of that day, of that extraction, and of that mission, all of a sudden returned. The odor of our adrenalin-laced sweat and chopper filled with blood replaced the smell of the beach and of the falling rain.

  Incapable of continuing, I extended my right hand and gave the thumbs up.

  After taking a minute to recompose myself, I drew a breath and continued. “I was taken to a hospital in Germany. It was the second time I’d been shot. It wasn’t that bad. In and out the front of my thigh. They sent what was left of my team to be with another team until they could reassign some men. I got one week of leave, and came home unexpectedly.”

  I clenched my jaw muscles and looked away. I needed to continue, but doing so was a reminder that although I told myself I wasn’t resentful about what happened, I obviously was. I was something, that much was certain.

  I decided I was simply hurt.

  What happened was beyond my control. To think for one minute that what my girlfriend did was a result of something I had done – or failed to do – was preposterous.

  “I didn’t tell her I was coming home. She didn’t know about the mission, or about my injury. I never told her about the bad, only the good. It was best that way. There was a truck in the driveway when I pulled in, and I got that feeling in my gut. You know, the one that you can’t deny?”

  I looked at Taryn.

  She rested her hand on my knee. “I do.”

  “I didn’t announce my arrival.” I forced a laugh, and it sounded like it. “I snuck in. They were in bed together. I don’t know how long it was going on, but I didn’t really care. We weren’t married, but we’d been together five years. I moved out that day. Put all my stuff in storage, and stayed abroad for five more years. It took that long for me to feel like I could come home. So, for what it’s worth, I know what it feels like to be cheated on.”

  She inched closer.

  I draped my arm over her shoulder, and pulled her into me. Silently, we stared toward the beach. I’d always told myself if I somehow ended up with someone who had been cheated on in the past, that they’d never do to me what was done to them. My belief was that anyone who felt the pain associated with the betrayal of being cheated on certainly wouldn’t want to impose that upon their significant other.

  I glanced over my shoulder.

  She did the same.

  “Do you like malts?” I asked.

  She coughed a laugh. “What? Malts?”

  “Chocolate malts? Milk, ice cream, malted milk. You know, a malt.”

  “I haven’t had one in forever. Yeah. They’re pretty good, why?”

  “Come on,” I said. “Let’s go inside. I’ll make us a malt.”

  We stood in unison, and when we did, she turned to face me.

  “A malt sounds good, really,” she said.

  I could only suspect that her feelings mirrored my own. I knew a malt wouldn’t fix either of us, but I’d never had a chocolate malt worsen my mood, I knew that much for sure.

  She looked in my eyes. I held her gaze for some time, wanting both of us to feel better about everything, but knowing what heartache we felt wasn’t going to miraculously vanish. The sacrifice we’d each made in our brutally honest revelations was a huge step in understanding each other’s pasts.

  I reached for her chin, lifted it, and leaned toward her.

  Her eyes fell closed.

  I kissed her softly, but as passionately as I’d ever kissed anyone.

  It wasn’t planned, it simply happened. I w
ouldn’t change it if I were able, though. Kissing her told me everything I needed to know.

  Everything.

  Chapter 15

  Taryn – Day eleven

  It was reassuring to know that Marc had experienced infidelity. It was impossible to accurately explain the heartache, the damage to one’s self-esteem, and the incessant desire to fix something that couldn’t be fixed to a person who hadn’t experienced it.

  We sat and stared out at the ocean. I had spent the thirty-minute drive to his home dreading what I felt I needed to share with him. Yet. The evening ended up being a memorable and rewarding experience. Whether Marc and I stayed together or ended up drifting apart, this night with him would hold a cherished part in my heart, always.

  I glanced at him. At the same exact moment, he looked at me. We locked eyes and seemed to get lost in a moment of admiration. He smiled before he looked away, and then he slipped his arm over my shoulder.

  I had no idea if what he was doing was intended to comfort me, or if what I was experiencing with him was an advance our relationship had made. I hoped the latter.

  He glanced at his watch and then looked at me. His mouth curled into a boyish grin. “Do you like malts?”

  I looked at him in disbelief. It sounded like he asked me if I liked malts. It seemed really random, especially considering where we were and what we’d spent the night talking about. And, really, who doesn’t like malts?

  “What?” I asked. “Malts?”

  “A chocolate malt. You know, chocolate syrup, milk, ice cream, malted milk. A malt. Do you like them.”

  My mouth watered at the thought of it. I couldn’t remember the last time I had a malt. “I haven’t had one in forever. Yeah. They’re pretty awesome, why?”

  “Come on.” He stood. “Let’s go inside. I’ll make some.”

  The man who two hours earlier had tried to tell me that he wasn’t opening up wanted to make malts. He could believe whatever he wanted to believe. I knew the truth.

  I smiled. “A malt sounds great.”

  He lifted my chin slightly and leaned toward me.

  Oh God. You’re not going to…

  His lips pressed against mine. It wasn’t soft, but he certainly didn’t assault me, either. Our mouths became one, and for that instant, I was lost. Completely. He pulled away, and when he did, I opened my eyes.

  He looked right at me. He didn’t smile, but his eyes did. Then, he kissed each of my lips individually, encompassing them fully with his as if they mattered to him independently of my mouth.

  Our mouths parted.

  I opened my eyes.

  His gray eyes looked back at me. For the first time, I wasn’t intimidated by them.

  What did you just do to me?

  It wasn’t my first kiss. But it was the first kiss I’ll never forget.

  We sat at the kitchen island sharing a malt out of the metal cup he made it in. I was hesitant to categorize what I was experiencing as part of my love life, but I couldn’t help but make comparisons as if it were. My past had been filled with a cheater, and more one night stands than I could recall.

  Yet.

  In one evening, my life had somehow transformed into my very own happily ever after. It was quite possible that anyone else would have simply dismissed the night as thought provoking or mildly romantic, but I couldn’t dismiss what I felt as anything other than what it was.

  Magnificent.

  As unbelievable as it was, at least for that moment while we each sucked liquid ice cream through a straw, I was experiencing it with a man who I had yet to have sex with.

  I wouldn’t have traded it for the world.

  With our eyes locked on each other, we sucked like our lives depended on it. Eventually, the sound of slurping resonated from the bottom of the cup.

  I lifted my head and let out a long breath. “I’m going to barf.”

  “I can’t believe we did that.” He wiped my mouth on the back of his hand. “That’s it. I’m done. No more.”

  I giggled. “What? You’ve never had three malts back to back?”

  “No.” He pressed my forearms against his stomach and rolled his eyes dramatically. “I’m going to have to run six miles tomorrow to get rid of this.”

  “But we laughed,” I said. “That’s the most important thing. We laughed.”

  “We sure did.”

  “Do you run every day?”

  “I do.”

  “Run for real, or on a treadmill?”

  “One foot in front of the other, and it propels my body forward. That kind.”

  “Treadmills freak me out,” I said. “I feel like I’m being punished or something.”

  “I feel the same way. I can’t do it. Do you run?”

  “Not as much as I should, but a few times a week, yeah. You?”

  “Every day. Three miles.”

  “I’m glad. Not that you run three miles. I mean, not really. I’m just glad you’re not one of those guys that looks physically fit and does nothing to maintain it. You know, the people that lay around and eat pizza and drink beer but never gain weight? I’d like to slap them with the hand of reality. If I didn’t eat decent food and exercise, I’d be three times this size.”

  “I have no idea what I’d look like if I didn’t exercise. I’ve always done it. Hell, I might be one of those guys.”

  “Let’s just say you’re not, okay?”

  He shrugged. “Okay.”

  “If you had to pick your biggest fault, what would it be?” I asked.

  “Where the hell did that come from?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I want to know more about you. You snuck in a kiss, so I should be able to sneak in a random question.”

  His face transformed to a playful scowl. “I didn’t sneak shit. I announced it.”

  “Well, I didn’t get the memo. It shocked the crap out of me.”

  “Good shocked or bad shocked?”

  I smiled. “The good kind.”

  “I though the same thing,” he said. “It seemed the right thing to do when I did it. Then, when it was over? How could anyone describe it as wrong?”

  With each passing day, it was as if he allowed me to see a little more of who he truly was. At that moment, as I gazed back at him, I felt that I was finally seeing the real Marc. A much softer Marc.

  I looked him over. His strong jawline was peppered with a day’s growth of stubble. His tee shirt clung to his broad chest, and his biceps left little the imagination as to what else was hiding beneath the thin layer of cotton. His short dark brown hair was, as always, perfectly situated.

  He was handsome, no doubt. He was also kind, considerate, and caring. Although I never would have guessed it, somehow those three qualities edged out handsome and muscular to take the spot as being his most redeeming assets.

  The thought of losing him in nineteen days sickened me.

  “I don’t think anyone could,” I said. “It was as right as a kiss could be.”

  He pushed the stool away from the island and stood. “Come on. I want to show you something.”

  “Okay.”

  I followed him to the far end of the house, and into a large bedroom. In the center was a king-sized bed. At each side of the head of the bed, a white night stand sat. On the left, a lonely digital clock. On the right, a small speaker.

  The white walls were bare.

  The wall that faced the ocean was glass, and without any window coverings that I could see.

  He reached for my hand. “Follow me.”

  He slid a door open at the corner of the room and reached inside. The room illuminated. With an opened mouth, I stared. A closet that was larger than my apartment was lined with shelves on one side, and hangar rods on the other.

  White, as was the rest of the home, the closet was the most incredible sight I had ever seen. It resembled a work of art, not in structure, but in form.

  On each of the shelves were folded clothes. Gray shirts, folded in perfect squares, stacked
on top of each other. On the next shelf, blue shirts, stacked in the same manner. Beside them, white shirts.

  Below the shirts, carefully situated on the shelves, were jeans. Perfectly folded. Stacked six high, side by side. Each stack was placed on an individual shelf.

  Shirts, sweats, boxer shorts, exercise clothes, athletic shirts, jeans. All situated flawlessly with the edges clean and crisp. Each stack was so impeccably positioned that it resembled a fabric box.

  I looked at the other side.

  Slacks, dress shirts, and jackets lined the first third of the closet. Separated by color there were three of each, side by side.

  There were no boxes. There was no clutter. No socks, no dirty clothes, and no hamper.

  “Seen enough?” he asked.

  “I uhhm. Sure.” I was awestruck, but tried to act indifferent. “What are you showing me?”

  “My biggest fault.”

  “Which is?”

  He turned out the light. “Perfection. I strive to reach it in everything I do.”

  “Things could be much worse.”

  “Walk a mile in my shoes and then say that.”

  I cocked an eyebrow. “Ever seen a hoarder’s house?”

  His face washed with worry. “You’re not a hoarder, are you?”

  “No, but I’ve watched that show on T.V. about them. It’s pretty bad. At least you don’t do that.”

  He turned toward the door. “That’s one way to look at it.”

  “Speaking of doing things. I’ve never asked. What do you do for a living?”

  He paused, and then turned to face me. “I’m a cop.”

  A lump shot up my throat like a rocket. I tried to swallow it, but it lodged halfway between my tongue and my heart. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Kind of,” he said. “Actually, I’m a detective.”

  “You’re a detective?”

  “I am.”

  “Like Danny Reagan on Blue Bloods?”

  “More like Gibbs on NCIS. I work the gang unit, so my cases aren’t simple. Generally, they’re pretty detailed investigations, and they can get pretty gruesome.”