Havoc Read online

  Havoc

  By Xavier Neal

  © Xavier Neal September 2013

  Published by Entertwine Publishing

  This version is not to be copied or distributed. All rights reserved by the author and Entertwine publishing.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  Thank you for downloading this e-book. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

  All character, places, and descriptions come from the imagination of the author. All are fictional and any resemblance to real life persons or places is purely coincidental

  Prologue

  Why couldn't he have died that day instead? Why couldn't it have been him who melted before my eyes? It's not that I don't care about him. I just cared about her more. I actually loved her. She gave a shit about me. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that much. I learned that the first time I remember him leaving on deployment when I was four. I know he had left many times before that, but that was when I was still asking, if he loved us so much, why did he leave? Why was he always gone for so long? Being the angel that she was, my mother often told me a soft excuse to cushion my feelings, but when I turned four, I began to pick up on why he left. There was something he loved more than her. More than me. More than us. He loved being close to death. Being that close to death all the time, it would make sense for him to die. Death could've taken him with due cause! Instead, it took her. No warning. No heads up. No text on the go.

  I've played the heartbreaking moment again and again in my head, like my mind is on some screwed-up instant replay you see on ESPN. She convulsed. At first, it looked like a set of hiccups. Innocent. Funny even. Then, she shook. Sweated. I called 9-1-1 and waited, watching jerking go out of control as if there was a demon in her. Once that demon was free, though, she was dead. Gone. Nothing. It’s a very strange concept to me, even now. No life in your body. No light in your eyes. Just darkness. I cried the whole time. What ten-year-old kid wouldn't? I cried as 9-1-1 arrived. I cried as the EMT took her away. I cried as Mindy lied when she said, “It's gonna be OK.” and “Don't worry, Striker's on duty,” God's own hospital angel if there ever was a God. At that moment, I didn't believe it anymore. At that moment, I already knew she was dead. Death had come. And I was once again alone.

  Mindy pushes a plate of fresh-baked cookies toward me and a tall glass of milk. Her hand on mine is warm. Motherly. She always means well. She always has. I imagine she always will.

  “Wanna talk about it, Slugger?”

  “No.” You’re safe here, she wants me to know. It’s her place. I know I’m safe. But, I’m not scared. I’m mad.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  The pause is too brief, “I think we need to talk about it. Don't you? I really feel it would be best. What happened?”

  “Before he yelled at me and told me I needed to suck it up or after when he broke Mom's things? Destroyed them. Tossed the family videos. Ripped the photos. Of her—and of me.” Mindy looks like she wants to say something, but I don't let her, “How about when he raised his hand to me? When he told me to be a man about her death?”

  “Slugger–”

  “No,” I shut her down, snatch a cookie, and break a piece to shove in my mouth. “I don't wanna talk about it.”

  And I don't. Three days pass before I even walk back into my house. I would have stayed hidden longer, but Mindy said, if I did, that she would call him to come and get me. I didn't want that either.

  The moment my foot slips inside the door, I feel a heavy weight on my shoulders. There's vomit rising in my throat now from the sight in front of me, at the betrayal I'm staring at in my own living room. My mother's things, in brown boxes, packed.

  My dad walks down the stairs, another box in his hands. From the looks of it, it’s dresses, including the one she kept sacred—just for homecomings and deployments. I say nothing, rage and hatred alike boiling inside of me. I want to swing my bat and break things. Break him. I want to swing it at him and scream, “It should've been you!” I merely watch in horror, my mom quickly fading from light into a distant memory, forever to be stuck in my head like an almost-forgotten lyric. The one that's always on the tip of your tongue, but you can never remember the words, just the tune. Death’s refrain.

  He drops the box in the living room. “These things leave in the morning.” He clears his throat and reaches for the shot of whiskey in the glass on the coffee table. “I left a box in your room. Take what you want. Keep it in there. I don't ever want to see it. Any of it.”

  I stare at him coldly. How can a man be so cruel after losing his wife? Can he be a man? It's not human to be so indifferent about the death of a loved one, no matter what the Navy may have drilled into him. He's a monster. Any shadow of what used to be my father, the man who bought me my first bat, bandaged my first skinned knee, gave me my first “It's not about losing but how you play the game” speech, gone. Vanished. Nonexistent as quickly as Mom. Death stole him too. Death now owns my family. Might as well own me too.

  “You hear me, boy?”

  This man is not my father. He's an animal. An alien. A foreign creature. An empty vessel in which life once lay but does no longer. Being immediate kin to death now, I join the man I used to call father. I enter the blizzard of bleakness ahead, knowing I cannot take it back, any of it. Death wins all in the end.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  89 Days Till Deployment

  Alcohol ruthlessly overflows from shot glasses and bottles, claiming victory. Success. Another tour survived. Another round won. Mission impossible complete. That's the true job of a Marine. And at the rate I'm going, the way I live for my job, I'll be in Special Ops at 25 or die trying.

  “God, Grim, could you put a smile on that dull mug of yours?” Glove, one of the only friends I have, says. Glove was the first person I spoke to at training when he insisted he sit at my table saying he’d need a wingman for all the hot ass he was gonna pull now that he's a Marine. Apparently, chicks melt at the word alone. This was a true fact I later learned—and even lived myself time and again. But, Glove's arrogance is constant and nearly gotten him killed a couple times, except that I was sniping for him. Doing his job for him.

  “Indeed,” Lordy, the other member of our clan, the other man I trust on the field and usually off, chimes in his southern drawl made even heavier thanks to Jack and Coke.

  “Live a little,” Glove encourages, his lightly tan, lanky arms swinging around the hips of one of the blond college girls flocking at our table. It's beginning to look like a Girl's Gone Wild commercial.

  I hate this town. I hate drunk college girls. I hate this day layover bullshit before we fly home. But, if I had it my way, I’d never go. I’d take duty after duty, dancing with death again and again, turning it into my pet on a leash. Owning it.

  My lips press to my beer bottle. I refuse to let myself get out of control like them, like some drunken frat boy with too much money and not enough talent. Making a mockery of my job. My unit. Myself.

  I lean back in the uncomfortable wooden chair, and a girl with platinum-dyed hair straddles herself on my lap, low-rise jeans exposing her red, very lacy thong. She pushes her boobs at me. They're popping out of a see-through halter top. Her body smells as cheap as she looks.

  “I love a man in uniform,” she coos, her breath fruity, her tone slutty. They're all slutty. They always are.

  She runs her hands through my brown hair and follows by touching my strong-cut jaw, staring into my blue eyes with her own. Her finger intertwines my dog tag chain. I cringe
. I hate when they touch my tags. My lifeline. Honestly, makes me wish to end theirs.

  With a smug grin, I remove her finger and retort, “You'd probably love it if I make you call me Daddy, too, huh?”

  She wiggles her hips in excitement, “How'd you know?”

  'Cause you're oddly predictable? 'Cause you're one step away from swinging around a pole? 'Cause you reek of Daddy issues and Victoria Secret perfume? 'Cause girls with more to offer don't dangle themselves like dog treats in front of mangling mutts?

  Repulsed, I shove her off, “Lucky guess.”

  She raises her eyebrows at me, finally offended, “Jerk!”

  “Buh-bye,” I wave her away.

  Glove freaks, “Seriously, dude? Do you hate sex? Or just sex with women?”

  The comment doesn't bother me. “'Cause I won't sleep with every woman with a pulse, I either hate sex or am gay?”

  “Pretty much,” Glove nods. “It seems like the only logical conclusions.”

  My head slants, “The only logical conclusions?”

  “Uh-huh,” Glove chuckles as a girl slides her tongue along the side of his neck. Pleased by the feeling and the attention mutually, I'm sure, he continues, “Fine, if not every girl, how about just one? Any one. She just has to have a pulse. Hell, maybe not even that.”

  Not in the mood for the public ridicule that's about to ensue, I stand and toss a twenty on the table, more than a generous tip for the one beer I had. “See you in the a.m.”

  They call my name. Once. Twice. Three times. Then, the begging begins. They beg for me to stay, but for what? For another hour of Glove drunkenly pretending to be witty while making slightly homophobic comments?

  I shrug them off, pop the collar of my gray jacket, and take a deep breath, bracing myself for the cold, unforgiving D. C. air. I head toward the hotel, taking a left instead of a right, knowing I could use some Arctic air since it's not going to follow me back to Texas. The sounds of taxis honking, public buses with screeching breaks, and live music pouring out from bar after bar are ones I enjoy. And dread. Being in D. C. only means two things. I'm either coming or going. I prefer coming to duty. Coming to work. Coming to an escape. Making a difference. Forgetting how fucked up my home, if you can call it that, is. This place feels like home. Allows me to forget that I'm human. To forget emotions, empathy and sympathy, two scores that weren't the best on my evaluation test. God, I love that feeling of operating myself like a machine and not a person, the numbing sensation being in the field provides. Feeling human is uncharted territory for me nowadays. Anything I can do to forget, I will. It's the only way I'll survive. The way I was taught. The only way I know how.

  88 Days Till Deployment

  I hate Glove. Michael “Glove” Love has been a literal pain in my side since boot camp. He's selfish. Reckless. Annoying. Everything I imagine it'd be like to have a little brother who acted like a shit. He's always breaking rules for the fuck of it. Expecting the world to clean up his mess and revolve around him like he's some fucking prince. Prince of the land of Privileged Assholes. Take this moment, for instance. We're due on the first flight out. Yeah, I'll be the first to admit it's a bit early, but this jerk has locked himself in his hotel room most likely pants-less, hungover, and carefree. All hail the prince.

  I watch Lordy lean against the washed-out white wall, looking defeated, “We could always leave without him?” Seeing the look on my face, he shakes his head, “I know. I know. Leave no man behind.”

  “Yeah, even when the man's being a complete dick,” I mumble as my eyes slide over to a young woman coming out of her hotel room. Black skirt, high slit, tight top, four-inch heels. She'll do. I call out, “Excuse me, ma'am.” She looks up, her brunette curls bouncing. “Can I ask you for a favor? It'll just take a sec.”

  She pauses and places a hand on her hip. I sure hope she falls for this. Her eyes look me over, assessing the amount of danger I propose. In my jeans, fitted, black T-shirt, and jacket, I imagine she's wrongfully assuming not much. Her heels bring her to us, and Lordy smiles widely as if I delivered her for him.

  In almost a whisper, I ask, “Is there any chance I can get you to say 'housekeeping' in a sexy voice?”

  Her eyebrows lower. Can't blame her. I’d give me the same look, too. Honestly, the way it came out sounded a bit pervy, almost in creep territory. I’d knee me in the nuts and walk away if I were her. Instead, she slides her body between us. Lordy peers around her to mouth 'goddamn!' and leans back, offering her a phony smile. Much like Glove, he's easily pleased when it comes to women. Tries to act holier than thou, but two beers in, and he's just as sleazy as Glove.

  “Housekeeping,” she purrs as she knocks, sounding like the intro to several pornos. Her glance shoots my way. She licks her lips, knocks again, and says, “Housekeeping . . . clean towels?”

  There's suddenly movement on the inside. Thank God. I can't miss this flight. I don't feel like having to explain to Sir why a man of the corps broke his word. She scoots back, and the door is unlocked, revealing Glove's obvious still-asleep face. He groans at us and attempts to shut the door, but Lordy places his monster hand on it to keep it open.

  I turn and nod at her, “Thank you, ma'am.”

  “Sure,” her body presses against mine once more, briefly. Two steps away, she tosses her doe face over her shoulder, “Room 422 if you need anything else.”

  My head bows at her again, and Lordy gripes, “How much do you hate sex?”

  “I don't hate sex.”

  “I think you do.”

  “Didn't we have this talk last night?”

  “We started this talk before you pussed out like you always do.” Before I can snap, he continues, “Did you see her? She was at least an eight.”

  “Six,” I retort, shutting the door behind us loudly, the sound causing displeasure to Glove, who is in his dog tags and boxers with bloodshot eyes and stumbling around.

  “A–”

  “Drop it. We have a flight to catch.” I roll my eyes.

  Another grunt comes from Glove as he falls onto the unmade bed, face first, shutting his eyes again.

  My voice deepens and resonates, “We don't have time for this shit, Glove. If you make me miss my flight, I'll drop your sorry ass like a bad habit.”

  “You'd have to have a bad habit before you drop it, Mr. Perfect,” Glove groans against the mattress. “Aside from not smiling.”

  “Does not having sex count as a bad habit?” Lordy offers.

  Glove's chuckles are muffled but obvious. Annoyed, I kick the mattress, making him bounce and continue emitting noises of obvious irritation.

  Rolling over onto his back, he sighs, “I think pissing me off does.”

  “Stop thinking, and just put your damn pants on.” I kick them over to him.

  Barely making it on time for security and boarding, we shuffle onto the plane, Glove and Lordy in the seats in front of me, their codependency shining bright this morning. I'm in a window seat, the row empty other than me. One thing I love about flying on the first plane in and last plane out—usually, it's lighter people wise. There are only seventeen of us on the plane headed for Texas on a straight flight. Not bad.

  After we've reached cruising altitude, Glove gets unbuckled, makes a pass at the flight attendant, and then sits on his knees to peer over the seat. To irritate me.

  “We're celebrating our return home tonight, you game?”

  I don't respond.

  “Come on, Grim,” Lordy, Glove's biggest supporter and enabler follows suit with his posture then the protest. I swear, it's like having two half twits for younger brothers, even though Lordy is older than both of us. Growing up, I wished to God for brothers. Nowadays, I realized He didn't give them to me for safety reasons. I would most likely have skinned them or buried them alive. “You have to. Sam and Dean from boot camp will be there. Couple of girls I know you'll like—if Glove doesn't fuck 'em all first.”

  They are walking stereotypes that all men think abou
t is sex. I guess the average guy in his 20s does. But, I'm 21, and I think about it only occasionally. Between push-ups and combat training, that's all they talk about. Glove brags on endeavors, most of which I think are exaggerated like a letter to Penthouse. Lordy eats them up like he's lacked it most of his life. Me? I listen. I'm always listening. To everything. To everyone. Observing. Monitoring.

  At times, when Glove is sprinkling on the embellishment, I can see he's doing it to forget that there's real danger we face—bullets aimed at our heads and hearts, enemies lurking on the home front and in the field. He gushes about it, so he doesn't have to remember the sounds of innocent people screaming or his own teammates dying. He buries himself in sex, so nothing keeps him up at night.

  Lordy, on the other hand, has a bad breakup song written on him, like a kick-me sign—lousy tune, with a suck-ass chorus, cheap lyrical stabs at the ex because the singer can't find another way to express his angst—every boy band, ex-Disney Channel, pre-pube voice and body, kind of bad love song. His sexual conquests are billboards to whoever dumped him that he's over it, over her—neither, of course, the case. I even caught him staring at her photo once while out on assignment.

  I envy them both. They feel real emotions. Pain. Fear. Regret. I don't. I feel nothing. And sex, when I do have it, is an escape from that abyss, a vacation from the reality that my life is pretty empty.

  “Or haven't already,” Glove winks.

  My head looks out the window, too dark to see anything.

  “What do you say, Grim?” Glove continues to push.

  “I say turn around before I make that hangover of yours worse.” I shut my eyes in hopes of shutting them out.

  Ignoring my wishes, as usual, he continues, “It'll be out on my cousin Derek's ranch. Beer, bitches, poker .”