Luka
“Uncy Luk. Uncy Luk!” The panicked voice reaches me as I empty the oatmeal into bowls. I react immediately.
I fly up the stairs two at a time and run into Poppy’s room. Instead of the horrors I’ve braced myself for, I find Poppy on her bed, shoes on, laces undone. “I can’t do up my shoes.” She huffs and crosses her arms over her chest, giving me an angry glare.
As my fear recedes, I smile at how everything seems to be an emergency to Poppy these days. I don’t know if it’s a reaction to all she’s been through in life, or simply how all three-year-old girls act.
As I tie her laces, I glance up to find her watching me carefully. Her breath gently whistles past my ears from her open-mouthed concentration.
“There, done.” I sit back on my heels and smile up at her. I still get surprised by the tender emotions she stirs in me. Since getting home, my emotional thermostat has been set at numb, or angry. But Poppy can break through all that.
“Thanks, Uncy Luk. Do you like my scarf?” She grasps the pink, fluffy scarf in chubby fingers and holds it away from her neck for me to inspect.
“It’s pretty.” I stand and lift her up with me. “How about some breakfast?”
“Can I have smashed Humpty Dumpties?”
I laugh. “Of course, you can, Poppy poppet.”
Poppy used to live in terror of Humpty Dumpty. Sally told me how she’d done all she could to allay Poppy’s fear of the nursery rhyme character but it didn’t work. The next morning, I took a box of eggs and painted the shells in a rough interpretation of Humpty Dumpty. When Poppy came down for breakfast I showed her them and proceeded to crack open one after the other.
I let Poppy scramble them, and then we cooked them. I told her not to fear Humpty Dumpty anymore, because if he tried to hurt her, we’d scramble him all over again.
Sally wasn’t happy. Said it was a bit violent, but Poppy’s not scared of Humpty Dumpty anymore. And she doesn’t wake up screaming at night scared that he’s sat on her headboard. It’s a win as far as I’m concerned.
As we walk towards the stairs, Sally comes out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around her.
“You want some breakfast?” I ask.
“Yeah, but not that horrible Muesli you make!”
“I’m having Smashed Humtpy Dumpties, Mummy.”
Poppy sounds so proud, I can’t hold back my laugh.
“Seems like you did cure her fear.” Sally reaches out and smooths down her daughter’s hair.
“Spiders next.” I jiggle Poppy in my arms. “We’ll soon teach her they can be smashed, too.”
Sally’s eyebrows shoot towards her hairline. “Oh, my god! You can’t teach her to overcome all her fears with violence. Eggs are one thing, but not innocent insects?”
“Technically, spiders aren’t insects. And they are anything but innocent.”
“Smash spiders!” Poppy shouts, waving one arm in the air.
“Lord.” Sally shoots me an annoyed glance, but I catch the twitch of her lips before she turns away.
Breakfast done and the things cleared away, I head for my room to get changed into my workout gear. I’ve got a personal training session, and then I’ll head into the office to sort some stuff out with Liam.
I smile at the thought of seeing him and the guys. Liam, Ethan, and the gang are like family. They’re more than friends, and us all working together again is great. Although, I could have done without all this teacher training shit.
“Will you be—” Sally pops her head around the door and stops dead mid-sentence. I have my top off, and I forget she hasn’t seen me undressed since I’ve been home. The scars aren’t that bad. They fade out on my back, and are still a bit red on my lower stomach and hip, but nothing major.
Ironically, they’re mild shrapnel wounds, and they only took a few weeks to heal. They’re from the first incident I was involved in. The one that haunts my nighttimes. Unlike the damage to my fucking brain, from the second time I got too near an explosive device. That fucked me up and stopped me from going back to work in the specials again. Fucking migraines.
“Looks worse than it is.” I smile at her trying to be reassuring.
She swallows and looks away. When she turns back to me, her eyes are suspiciously bright. “Will you be eating with us tonight?”
“I might be late. The teaching course holds a lesson in the pub at the start of term. It’s sort of a getting to know everyone deal. Apparently, it often goes on late into the evening. Either way, I’ll grab a kebab on the way home.”
“Healthy. Do you tell your clients to eat kebabs?” She laughs, and the smile chases away the last remaining ghosts of sadness haunting her face.
I pull on a worn t-shirt and grab my kit bag. “Nah, but they don’t run for miles and miles each week. It’s only once in a blue moon. Hey, do you need me to take Poppy to nursery? I’ve got time.”
“No. I’m going in late today. I worked lunch three days the past couple of weeks, so I’ve taken some time owed.”
I give her a nod and a wave and I’m out of there.
I spend two hours training clients, and then five sat in a chair. The five sat in a chair are way more uncomfortable than the others. I ache by the end of the day. So, I decide to walk to the pub and exercise the aches away.
It only takes me fifteen minutes to reach the old pub. Noise hits as soon as I enter the dimly lit back room. I see the teacher-training group dotted around the pokey space, and glance at my watch. I’m an hour late, but seeing as it’s a casual meet and greet, I doubt it matters.
I do a quick sweep of the room, a habit I can’t seem to stop, despite not being anywhere dangerous.
I see Sue. She gives me a quick wave and beckons me over. Giving nods and smiles to some of the others in the group, I wind my way over to her.
She’s sat with a woman I don’t know. A glamorous bottle-blonde.
“Hi, Luka. This is Rebecca.” Sue waves her hand in the direction of the woman next to her.
The blonde looks younger than most people on the course. Mid-to late twenties maybe.
Of course, one Ms. Toulson is younger. She looks about twenty, but I reckon she’s maybe twenty-five or so. And how she got where she is by that age, I’ve no clue.
Rebecca tosses me a high wattage smile. “Do you want a drink? I’m getting one for myself and Sue.”
“I’ll get these.” I glance over at the bar, but Rebecca is already moving around the table, past where I’m stood.
“No, honest. I owe Sue one, and I don’t think men who’ve fought for Queen and Country should buy their own. Not the first round at least.” Her gaze skitters over my body.
With an internal sigh, I sit down. “I’ll have a pint of lager please.”
Another flash of her killer smile and she’s gone. She might be a looker, but Rebecca doesn’t push any of my buttons. I don’t do forces groupies. They always want to start talking about the action I’ve seen and it creeps me out.
“How have you been?” Sue’s kind eyes regard me.
“Good, you?”
We’d talked the previous week, nothing in-depth or personal. Despite not knowing much about her, I like the quiet librarian.
I’m in a shitty mood for this socializing bullshit. I don’t want to be here. And I’m seriously considering telling Liam to get someone else to do this training bull as I don’t have the personality for it.
“Here you go. Pint for you, Luka. Gin and Tonic, Sue. And a glass of wine for moi!” Rebecca sits back down with a toss of her long blonde hair.
“Where do you work, Rebecca?” I’ve no real interest, but this is what normal people do, right? They ask things for the sake of being polite.
“At a beauty spa, the one in town next to Marks and Spencer. We’ve set up an evening class for those wanting to get into the industry. The intake is great, but none of us have taught before. So, we put our names in the hat for this course. I drew the short straw!” She giggles.
“Ooh, if you ever need guinea pigs for your students, count me in.” Sue pats her short hair. “I could do with a bit of pampering.”
“We always want volunteers, so I’ll hold you to that.” Rebecca narrows her eyes. “You could do with having your eyebrows plucked. Take ten years off you.”
I meet Sue’s eyes and stick my face in my pint glass to keep my smile from showing. Here I am worrying about passing as normal, but Rebecca’s got the tact of a rhino.
“And as for you.” Rebecca’s hand with its long, painted nails lands on my arm, before taking off again to flutter around her glass. “If you ever need a massage to loosen up those muscles, give me a call.”
She follows this up by taking a small card out of her purse and placing it in front of me. “Call me.”
“What about Sue?” I nod over to the woman in question who is biting her lip.
“Oh, of course. Here you go, Sue. Come in and get those eyebrows sorted out. Oooh, if you’ll excuse me, Betty’s arrived, and I want to talk to her about putting us in the paper. She’s a journalist, you know.”
Grabbing her drink, she gets up and crosses the room. After a couple of seconds, I shoot a glance towards Sue and we both burst into quiet laughter.
“Cheeky cow.” Sue smiles.
“Hi there, hope I’m not interrupting?”
I turn at the soft voice to see Cara hovering by our table. She’s wearing another long, dowdy skirt, sensible shoes, and a white t-shirt. The t-shirt shows off her slim arms and full bust, and I’d bet money she doesn’t mean it to.
I wonder why she drapes herself in such unflattering clothes. I get it at the prison. Unless you’re a world class tease, like Gina, you don’t go getting all gussied up to teach prisoners. But why here in the pub? She dresses like someone from some uptight religious community. Fuck, maybe she is religious. The idea turns me on in a totally messed up way. I’d love to turn her bad.
“No, not at all.” Sue indicates for Cara to sit with us.
“I’ve been sent over to drag you two into the fray. The whole point of the meet and greet is to mix,” Cara says this with a prim expression on her face.
I want to wipe it off and replace it with something else. Something a whole lot more carnal. I don’t even know why she makes me feel like this. I could easily take Rebecca home and fuck her tonight. But I’ve lost all interest in anything too easy. God knows why.
Cara won’t be easy. Cara will make me work for it. And I haven’t had to work for it in a long time.
“Gosh. I sound like a school teacher now, but would you mind coming over and sitting with the rest of us?” Cara flushes as she speaks.
Gosh? Who says ‘gosh’ anymore? She’s such a strange mixture of competence and old-fashioned blushing maiden it makes my head spin. I wonder who she really is?
Does she even know?
She might be younger than I thought, but then if so, how is she teaching this class?
I look over at the noisy group and my heart sinks. I don’t like crowds and noise. It often sets my head off. And once it starts, I only have a brief time to head it off before I’m useless for two to three days.
Post Traumatic Brain Injury migraines. Thank you very much, life. You sick fucker.
“I’d rather not, if you don’t mind?” Sue lowers her voice. “I’m a touch claustrophobic. I like being on the edge. Maybe if we move to the next table, we can chat to people but I won’t feel trapped?”
“Oh.” Cara seems lost for words for a moment, but then gathers herself. “Of course. Sorry, I didn’t know. I mean why would I? But of course, if you want stay here. Don’t want to make you uncomfortable, perhaps if—”
“The next table sounds great.” I interrupt Cara before she can waffle on any longer and make Sue even more uncomfortable. “I don’t like crowds, either.”
When we settle at the table, Cara sits with us, to my surprise, but soon gets involved in another conversation. Sue turns to me, and begins to speak in an almost whisper. Loud enough for me to hear over the others, but not enough for anyone else to pick up on what she’s saying.
“My son fought in Afghanistan. I didn’t say last week when you said you were military, didn’t think it was the place. He suffered with panic attacks when he came home. I thought maybe he got it from me. I’m an anxious old thing, but he said it’s pretty common after being in a war zone.”
“Yes. It is.” Fuck me. I fight to speak around the sudden lump in my throat. I don’t talk about this shit with anyone but my therapist. And on a few occasions, Ethan.
“I’ve been much worse with the claustrophobia since he died.”
I turn to her, shocked. “I’m so sorry. What happened?”
“Killed by a hit and run driver. Can you believe it?” She raises her glass with a shaky hand and takes a sip. “He went out with some friends, and a speeding driver mounted the curb.”
“Christ.” I don’t know what to say to this. Surviving Afghanistan, only to come home and be killed by some idiot behind the wheel. Jesus.
“My husband’s pretty much done in by it. He’s been off work for over a year now. But for me, getting out, being with other people, it’s a way to cope. If I’m not in amongst big groups, or stuck in small spaces, I’m okay.”
“Bonfire night gets me.” I can’t believe I’ve said so. But after what she’s just told me, I feel I need to give her something back. “Fireworks do my head in. I get migraines from an injury out there, and the endless bangs set them off. Plus, the noise, it’s too reminiscent, you know?”
A warm hand grasps mine, and Sue squeezes before letting go. For a long while neither of us say anything, but simply sit, side-by-side, sipping at our drinks.
As one pint becomes two, I begin to relax. The light outside dims and the lights inside flicker on, taking the pub from dingy to cozy.
Laura has joined our table at some point, but she and Cara had faced the main group most of the time and joined in their conversations, leaving me and Sue free to talk.
“So, you two.” Laura turns her friendly face towards us. “Looking forward to the course?”
“Bit nervous, actually.” Sue slurs the ends of her words. She’s gone through two more gin and tonics. “Worried about where I’ll be able to gain enough practical teaching hours. I don’t want to have to take up a placement.”
“I might be able to help you there.” Laura’s face lights up, and she moves to the bench running down the back wall, to sit by Sue.
I let their voices wash over me and mingle with the others in the room. I’ll probably make my excuses and head off in ten minutes.
“Did you think any more about what days would suit you best?” Cara’s words make me jump, snapping me out of my daze.
“Sorry, what?”
“The prison. You seem keen to carry on, so have you thought about which days suit you best?”
I can’t shake the feeling this chick doesn’t like me. I mean properly, seriously doesn’t like me. Something about her attitude rubs me up the wrong way tonight. Ruining the nice mellow I’d got going on.
She’s still as hot as fuck. More so, even, with the way the low lighting makes her hair shine. But her tone and expression are pissing me off. I want to wipe that superior look off her face. Who does she think she is, with her goody-two-shoes clothes, and her pity job at the prison?
“Yeah, I’ve thought about it.”
“And.”
“I’m definitely in. I’ll email you the days I can do.” Stick that up your superiority complex.
She nods and looks down at the table, face tight, disappointed. As if I’ve told her Santa isn’t real.
Fuck this. “Is it going to be a problem...us working together?”
“No. Why would it?” Cara flushes, her complexion deepening. She’d be useless in enemy hands. They wouldn’t have to torture her, she’d simply blush her way to a confession.
I like the look on her though. I idly wonder if she’ll look the same way after she comes. Preferably all over my cock. I pull my mind out of the gutter and focus on our conversation.
I keep my words calm but deliberate. “Because, I get the feeling you don’t like me.”
For the longest while, she says nothing. Then she shrugs and meets my gaze head on. “I don’t know you. I don’t dislike you. I’m not terribly fond of the military, but it’s not personal.”
Her words take me completely by surprise. They’re not what I expected. Then they piss me off. “You don’t like the military? It’s kind of a big institution, full of thousands upon thousands of people. Do you dislike them all?”
She gives a small but impatient shake of her head. “I’ve told you, it’s not you, or other individuals, but I don’t like the military machine. Don’t like war.”
“Who does?” I mutter. I’m fucking grateful when a third pint gets sloshed in front of me by Sue. What a conversation. I take a long big swig of it, and I’ve nearly downed half the damned thing. It’s strong too, not sure what, but it’s not some weak beer.
“Well, the military for one.” Cara claims my attention once more.
She doesn’t know what the fuck she’s talking about. “Hardly. The military are the ones who know the reality of war. It’s mostly politicians who are eager to send men and women away to die.”
“Okay, maybe so. But when you join up, you know you’re going to be an agent of those politicians. You know you’re going to have to kill in their name, right?”
She’s fired up now, and I’m starting to get the distinct impression this is her thing. Politics. Debating. Shit, my life. I need to end the conversation. I don’t do deep and meaningful talks about bullshit. I don’t even vote. And I haven’t eaten all day and am a big way down my third pint of strong lager, so I can’t count on holding my tongue. I sigh and decide to change the conversation.
“I find it hard to respect that.” She purses her pouty lips into a thin line.
Whoa! Did she outright say she doesn’t respect me? In a weird way, I find myself liking the balls on her. But I want to tell her to get down off her high fucking horse at the same time. I thought she’d be hard work, but this is going beyond that.
“Fine by me. I don’t need or want your respect. Just for us to be able to work together.” I study her as I speak. She’s pissing me off and managing to turn me on at the same time.
God knows, I don’t need the hassle of getting involved with some bleeding-heart idealist.
God knows, I don’t need to get into some messed up hate-fuck scenario.
God knows, I’m probably going to do it anyway, if she’s onboard because nothing beats a good, hard, angry fuck.
Something about her pushes my buttons. For someone so fucking prim, she makes me think about sex.
Hot, dirty, sweaty sex.
“You can justify what you chose to do for a living all you like, but it won’t wash with me. I’m sorry, I will always be firmly against war.” She stands. “Excuse me.”
She walks away as I stare at her, so fucking livid I’m surprised I haven’t smashed the table to pieces. Justify? I don’t need to justify anything to her.
Not even thinking, I stand and follow her, not sure where she’s going. She turns right and down a dingy corridor before hanging left and into the ladies. I follow her in there.
It’s carpeted, with two sinks, a mirror and a tattered chair. There’s a bowl of potpourri by the sinks, and then two stalls.
“Excuse me! You can’t be in here.” Cara turns to me, her eyes flashing.
She makes a small sound in the back of her throat and tries to move around me, but I put my arms out stopping her.
“We need to get something straight, right now. I don’t have to fucking justify myself, to you or anyone.”
Her eyes widen, and I think she’s scared, which is about right because I’m scaring myself right now. The monster inside is awake and breathing fire.
I jab my finger at her as I speak. “The only reason you are free to spout all the pretentious, holier than thou bollocks you talk is because people like me fight for those freedoms.”
To her credit, she doesn’t back down. “No. No, you don’t. At least, not in my name.” She’s scared, but she’s standing her ground, and despite not wanting to, I find myself feeling a grudging respect for her. But it is obliterated right now by my rage, and something else, something animalistic and hungry. Ravenous.
I stalk forward, and she backs up, one hand gripping the vanity unit to her left.
“I’m not going to hurt you.” I hold my hands up because I’d never hit a woman, and she’s acting like I might.
“You’re staring at me like you might want to hit me.” Cara smiles and gives a small laugh, but her fingers curl around the edge of the vanity unit.
“No…I don’t want to hit you.” Hitting her isn’t the thing on my mind right now. Suddenly, in this small space, only us two, I’m so turned on I could explode. “I don’t hit women,” I add for good measure.
She makes this little noise, and I can’t figure out what it means.
What I want is her on her knees, that smug mouth of hers wrapped around my cock. I’d like to fuck the self-righteousness out of her. I’d love to make her so sated and incoherent she doesn’t have the time to overthink shit every minute of her day. Because I can tell she does. She probably agonizes over which fair trade bananas to buy for fuck’s sake.
“What do you want to do then? You won’t persuade me you’re right.”
“I don’t want to persuade you.”
“What do you want?”
And there’s something there. Something in her eyes, the way she asks the question. She’s scared, but she’s feeling the crazy attraction I am too, and she’s as turned on as I am. Her chest is rising and falling, and her pupils are crazy big.
“I want to shut you up.”
“How would you shut me up?”
Is this happening? I came in here to tell her to back off and we’d be fine working together, and suddenly, it’s as if we’re in this other world. Just me, her, and the simmering attraction that’s been there from the moment I saw her in that damned lift.
“I’d give that mouth of yours other things to do.”
“Like?”
And then I’m not thinking anymore. I’m acting on instinct. I’m on her in a flash, pushing her against the wall and tilting her chin to give me the access I want. I kiss her hard and deep. My tongue swipes the crease of her mouth, demanding access, and she gives it to me.
Her taste bursts inside me. Fresh, a bit minty, but with a heady tinge of wine. She’s delicious. I could get drunk on her.
She moans and presses herself against me, and I push right back, letting her feel how hard she has me.
Then something shifts in her. I sense her tense a moment before she places both hands on my chest and pushes me back. Her lips are swollen, her eyes heavy.
It takes all my restraint not to push her into one of those stalls and lock the door.
“You’ve got to get out of here,” she gasps. “Anyone could come in.”
She’s right, and I don’t want her to lose her job over this. I step back and regard her.
I’m still seething, and horny as hell, but I swallow down the monster and make a heroic effort for calm.
“I’m going. I’ll see you at the prison.”
She’s still breathing like a steam train, and her face is flushed, but she smooths her skirt down and nods.
She attempts to lighten things up, and smiles at me. It even reaches her eyes. “Yes. I’ll see you then. I think I’m a bit drunk. Sorry.”
“No need to apologize.” And suddenly it’s awkward as hell between us. “So…you think we can get on well enough to work together in your classroom?” I smile at her. I can make nice, see?
“I think we can play nice, if we try,” she says. Then seems to realize how it sounds, and her flush deepens.
Oh, I can play nice sweetheart. Very nice if given the chance.
I wonder what happens if you fuck your tutor? Liam will kill me if I get thrown off the course for sexual shenanigans.
Cara wipes a hand over her face. “Look, what happened tonight. The conversation, what we’ve just done…it isn’t…we should put this behind us. I’m going to head on home. I’m sorry.” She watches me and her face falls. “Truly, I’m sorry if I offended you. I didn’t mean to. I suppose I carry deeply held beliefs, and I’m not used to holding back. Most of my friends are the political type. Debating team alums and all of that.”
I need to go before I say something I’ll regret and take us back to the angry nastiness of moments ago. I shove the door open and step out into the dark hallway.
“I am sorry. I didn’t mean to push. I’ve had a fair bit to drink and don’t handle it well. I’ve always been an opinionated person. I guess sometimes, I don’t know when to let things lie.” She touches my forearm, a soft flutter of her fingers against my skin. “I don’t know what you’ve seen. The things you’ve gone through. I can’t begin to imagine so I shouldn’t run my opinionated mouth off. Sorry. Again.”
“It’s fine. No worries. I’ll see you soon, yeah.” I’ve got to fucking leave.
Her apology is my undoing.
My adrenalin has spiked and subsided, and now I’m no longer angry or horny. I don’t know what I am. Hollow.
Her words, along with Sue’s story about her son, have triggered something in me, and I can’t be in this space any longer.
I push through the pub and out the double doors, chasing the fresh air. As soon as I’m out into the night, I take a few deep breaths. I shove my hands into my pockets and put my head down as I start to walk.
I hardly ever talk about my experiences fighting. I don’t discuss it with anyone but the blokes from my unit. And then it’s mostly reminiscing about the good stuff, and gallows humor, not deep and serious shit.
I don’t know why I shared about my migraines with Sue. I hate them. They make me feel weak, because I avoid stuff I used to take for granted. The fact I got them from some terrorist fuckers, holed up in a cave complex, doesn’t help my reaction to Cara’s words of wisdom any. If she’d seen some of the things I have, I doubt she’d go around waving her placards and being so certain of herself.
But the head injury isn’t the thing giving me the weird sensation in my gut right now. It’s the other incident. The one from the Marines that haunts my nightmares.
When I saw a group of young girls innocently playing outside get slaughtered.
I couldn’t save them, and yet I’m treated like a hero, given medals.
I lived with that memory for years, and I was fine. Since getting my head bashed in though, it’s resurfaced, and drives me crazy. I dream about it. Repeatedly. And it scares me because I know I’m more than capable of hurting someone if my head gets too screwed up.
So, I go to therapy. I work out religiously. I eat like some clean-eating guru. I don’t drink more than a couple of pints in one go. I take my migraine meds if there’s even a hint of one coming. And I spend my life terrified that at some point the doors are going to blow off my self-control, and I’m going to hurt someone.
I think of all the good men I’ve known who have died. I think of the terrible irony of Sue’s son’s death. And then I think of those girls. Their eyes as the life drained out of them.
Something wet on my cheek has me looking up to see if it’s raining as I brush it away. But the night sky is clear.
Fuck me. Am I crying? I never cry. I suppose this should be a good sign. My therapist is always telling me crying is a good form of release. A healthy way of processing some of the memories. I’ve not been able to though. Not at all. So why now?
A gust of wind blows a paper bag past me, and I startle as it crosses my line of vision. Three girls stagger right at me, merrily tottering on too high heels. One gives me a saucy wolf whistle as they pass.
The large expanse of grass known as The Stray lies empty before me. I find myself walking to the edge and onto it, towards the other end, where there are no lights. As I walk, I come across a bench, and I sit down heavily on its cold iron surface.
For a long while, I stay there, looking out at nothing but darkness.
I put my head in my hands and think about the friends I’ve lost, the children I’ve seen so horribly injured…and the man I used to be.