Vanity

Sergeant Saxton opened the door to an apartment marked 2B. A high-pitched beeping stabbed my ears. He pressed something on the wall inside the door, and one long tone silenced the noise. He lowered his luggage to the floor and swept a hand into the room. "Come in."

I clutched the bag of toiletries he'd bought me on the trip from the airport and peeked down the narrow corridor. The other two men with us had entered a different apartment. He'd have me alone in there. He could hurt me if he wanted to, but his calm and confident demeanor didn't raise any warning flags for me. As I'd done at the airport, I trusted the strong sense of security I felt from him and stepped through the doorway.

"Have a seat." He pointed to a black leather couch, the only furniture in the room except for a wooden coffee table. The cushion squeaked as I sat on the edge with my new bag of belongings in my lap.

He bent his knees and crouched down to my eye level. "Shower and change. Bathroom's there." He pointed with his thumb to a door to his left.

"Thank you, uh... What should I call you?"

His forehead scrunched. "Rogan. Call me Rogan."

"The guy on the plane called you Boggs."

"My men call me Boggs."

"Oh."

"Go ahead."

I checked the bathroom lock twice before peeling off my putrid clothes and stepping into my first warm shower in nearly three months. My skin turned red from all the scrubbing, but I had to get every particle of the powdery desert sand off my body. After four shampoo rinses, the grease finally came clean from my hair.

Alone for the first time in months, the terror of it all poured out of me in wet streams. Why had God been so cruel to me? Freeing me from my father's grasp only to toss me into the hands of terrorists. Was he punishing me for rejecting the Brotherhood and planning to escape?

My mother's voice echoed in my head.

I'm sorry I didn't see this sooner. Get out as soon as you can. Do not keep sweet. Keep strong. Make sure they are safe. Fight till you find joy.

With a fortifying breath, I stemmed my sobs and straightened my shoulders. I'd been rescued, and for the moment, I was safe here in this stranger's apartment. A chance at freedom hovered within my grasp and crying wouldn't do me any good. My hollow eyes and stick-thin figure peered at me through the mirror. In my mother's dying words, I found my courage. The time had come to keep strong, and I would do it for her.

I braided my wet hair and dressed in the white cotton underwear and sports bra Rogan had purchased for me. The tears threatened again as I slipped into a heather-gray T-shirt and matching sweatpants. After weeks suffocating in my dress, the cool fabric caressed my skin like silk. Never again would I take for granted the simple pleasure of clean clothes.

In the living room, Rogan waited for me with his hip propped against the back of the couch. He scrutinized me in the clothes, his gaze stopping on the braid over my shoulder. "Drink those to gain your strength." He pointed to a six-pack of vanilla Ensure and two bottles of green Gatorade on the coffee table.

I sat on the couch and twisted the cap off a vanilla Ensure. My first sip tasted overly sweet after only drinking water and tea for the past ten weeks, but the second and third sip went down easier.

Takoda trotted up and sniffed my knee. A greasy residue remained on my hand after petting her. "Hey, girl. You need a bath too."

Rogan watched our interaction with a scowl, like Takoda shouldn't have approached me.

"Is she a German Shepherd?"

"Belgian Malinois."

"Isn't it dangerous for her out there in Afghanistan?"

His eyebrows rose and mashed together. "Yes, it's dangerous. That's why you never shoulda been there."

He peeled off his jacket and dropped it on his pile of bags next to the door. His sweat stained T-shirt stretched tight over his muscular chest and arms.

"When shit gets hairy downrange, the best weapon to have at your side is a trained working dog at the top of her game."

I couldn't pull my gaze from the tattoo on his massive bicep. Two perpendicular stark black lines, one disappearing under the sleeve of his olive-green T-shirt. It looked like a letter.

"Her senses are off the charts—better than any human." He sat on the floor and unthreaded the laces to his boots with mechanical efficiency. "She wouldn't hesitate to throw herself on an IED for me." He aligned his boots next to the door and stood to his full height. A chain around his neck trailed inside the shirt, ending at a bump in the fabric between his pecs.

Affection shone in his eyes when he peered down at Takoda and gave her head a pet. "She's good at it, and she loves her job."

Takoda stood squarely on four legs and peered up at him with eager faithfulness on her face. Her ears flicked as he entered the bathroom and shut the door behind him.

"Wow, Takoda. You are a hero." She came to me and arched her head to get my fingers behind her ears. "But please be careful out there. I'd hate to lose you."

Her eyes squeezed tight as she relished my head rub.

***

Ten minutes later, a misty cloud preceded Rogan out of the bathroom. He'd changed into a royal-blue T-shirt and black cargo pants that hugged his trim waist.

I leaned against the arm of the couch and eyed him as I sipped my protein drink. His sandy brown hair spiked up in dark points as he rubbed it with a towel. He'd shaved his beard. Tiny red dots peppered the sharply angled line of his jaw.

Wowza, they sure didn't make men like him back on the compound. I'd never been in the presence of a man with Rogan's staggering build and rugged handsomeness.

A hint of humid air hit me when he sat next to me on the couch. "You need to choose a new name. Vanity Barebones died in Afghanistan."

"She did?"

"Don't pick anything that will lead them to you."

"Give me a minute to think about it."

"Alright."

How should I choose a name for myself and this new life? I needed a secular name, something meaningful.

"Harlow," I said.

"As a first name?"

"No, a last name."

"Could they trace it to you?"

"I don't think so. It's a name I saw in a book."

"What kind of book?"

"I babysat for a family in town. The Jensens. They had old encyclopedias I liked to read. Harlow was a scientist." Rogan's eyes had unfocused while I was talking. "Would Harlow work?"

"Sure."

"What first name would you pick for me?"

He slid his gaze from over my shoulder and studied me. I hadn't seen his eyes before in the daylight, but oh my, gold and brown whorled in them like wheat in a summer field.

"Sunshine," he answered solemnly.

"Sunshine? Why?"

"Found you in the desert." He pointed at Takoda. "My dog smiles at you like she's looking into the sun."

"Oh."

He cleared his throat. "But how about Tessa?"

"Why Tessa?"

"It's a name a pretty girl like you would have."

I pressed my hands to my cheeks to hide the warmth growing there.

"It's also common enough it won't draw any attention if someone is looking into you."

"Um, okay. So could I be Tessa Harlow?"

One edge of his mouth turned down, and the skin around his eyes crinkled. "Yes, you can be Tessa Harlow."

"Oh my goodness. Thank you."

"No problem." He strode to a card table in a breakfast nook beside the kitchen, opened a laptop, and sat down to type.

No problem. Who was this gorgeous man who marauded across the globe without sleeping and could make me Tessa Harlow with no problem?

A new identity terrified and excited me at the same time, but it was the first step in fighting for my joy, so I'd embrace it and make the best of it. Like Rogan said, Vanity Barebones died in Afghanistan.

I finished my drink and rested my head on the arm of the couch.

***

My father's weight dipped the side of the bed. I shrank deep in my sheets and curled in a ball, trying to become invisible. But it didn't matter. He always found me and slithered in behind me whether I welcomed him or not. With his reptilian arms snaked behind my back and knees, he hauled me from my hiding spot and carried me to the edge of a raging fire pit.

"In you go," he snarled as the flames of the burning inferno licked my shoulders and legs.

"No! No! Let me go!" I pounded my fists on his chest and swung my feet to break free.

"Hey, hey. It's alright. You're safe."

The jagged voice speaking to me sounded nothing like my father's monotone drivel.

"It's just a dream, Tessa."

When I opened my eyes, my hands clutched Rogan's T-shirt as he held me in the air.

"A dream. Oh yes. I'm sorry. Please forgive me."

"Nothin' to forgive." His nose crinkled as he squinted at me. "There's only one bed in this place. I'll be on the couch."

As I peeked down at the bed, he stared at me as he waited for some kind of reply. My awareness shifted to the heat where my side touched his rock-solid torso, and under my legs where his powerful arms supported me.

"Uh... Thank you."

Rogan lowered me to the bed and stayed close for a split second longer than he needed to before straightening.

"Okay, then. There ya go." He turned and left the room in a blur, like a vortex of fine sand in a windstorm.