CHAPTER TWO
GABE
I can’t stop thinking about Shannon on the way to the hospital, that slightly awkward smile, her even more awkward social manner. But it’s her body that’s really playing on my mind, those sweet curves begging to be touched, her mocha hair drawn up tight at the back of her head, her beautiful, plump lips on show.
You forget these small details when you’re on deployment, the subtleties, the smell. That’s what the game does to you. It makes you forget what a woman is like out of fatigues and camo, neither of which were designed to do any justice to the female form. But the way Shannon wore that dress, even though it didn’t really suit the girl speaking about her pet gecko or fondness for Peter Anderson films, was perfection. She doesn’t know how hot she is, but it wasn’t lost on me. Every poor fuck in that room was gunning for her, even if her friends thought they were stealing the show. Those social butterflies are not for me. I’m not looking for the next Kim Kardashian.
You shouldn’t be looking at all.
Maybe, but that’s the key word, isn’t it? Looking.
I wasn’t going to do anything, wasn’t going to act on my impulses even if my dick was doing a rain dance in my pants.
Yes, I gave her the impression I wasn’t interested.
Yes, I lied.
So what?
I’m not a liar by nature, but even if I wanted to go there, and the tent pole in my pants suggests I do, I couldn’t allow it, not after her.
Too much has happened. I’m broken in ways poor, innocent Shannon couldn’t even begin to comprehend. Frankly, she deserves better. She deserves the kind of adorable idiot who’s not going to bring baggage to the party.
I park at the hospital and head up to Oncology, a fancy name that more or less translates to ‘you’re fucked’.
I clear my throat in the doorway to Mom’s room. My brother Matt, sitting beside her, turns and stands, walking over. He closes the door behind himself and embraces me. “If it isn’t my shithead SEAL of a brother.”
I hold him away from me. “If it isn’t my ball-sack of a sibling. How the fuck are you?”
He looks wearier than I remember. “Good.”
I nod past the doorway. “And Mom?”
He hangs his head before lifting it to meet my eyes. “Not so good. She’s been asking about you, specifically your personal life, though we both know that is basically non-existent.”
I smile. “You’re not wrong. So, what did you tell her?”
He leans against the wall beside the door, shoves his hands deep into his pockets and shrugs. “She’s worried about you, bro. Truth be told, so am I.”
I roll my eyes. “I can handle myself. I’m doing fine.”
He taps against my chest with a fist. “You’re sure that’s not metal under there, that you’re not some fucking terminator, a cybernetic organism…?”
“…Living tissue over a metal skeleton,” I finish. “I’m not a robot. I concede I haven’t been around much, but—”
“You’re busy saving the world, ‘fuck yeah, America’ and all that, right?”
“Right. Country comes first.”
He glances down. “And what does your dick have to say about that? I bet it hasn’t been wet since senior year.”
I nod slowly, ignoring him. “Is she awake?”
“She is. I’m going to go grab whatever roadkill they shoveled off the floor for lunch in the cafeteria today. You want something?”
I tap my chest. “I’m a fucking robot, remember. Chow is for pussies.”
He salutes, backing away. “Yes, sir, Senior Chief.”
I’m shaking my head as I enter Mom’s room.
She smiles when she sees me. Her voice is almost as paper thin as her skin. “Gabriel.”
I don’t like people using my full name, but Mom gets a pass. She sure as hell needs one with terminal bone cancer.
I sit, waiting for the tiny plastic chair beside her bed to split in two under me. “How you doing, Mom?”
She attempts another smile, but I can see even this is a major effort. She’s lost more weight since I saw her last, little more than a skeleton sunken into the bed. I saw victims of chem attacks that looked just like this a few years back. I guess that’s basically what’s happened here—my poor mother pumped so full of poison it’s pushed the life clean out of her.
She doesn’t get to reply. Her eyes close, lips parted, as she drifts off.
I scratch the back of my neck, suddenly uncomfortable in this fortress for the sick. I’ll take an open battlefield over this shit any day of the week.
I sit and thoughts of Shannon start up again—the way she commented on my stupid gecko tattoo, the puzzled expression on her face when I told her what I do, leaving out the most important acronym. Matt was right about one thing. My cock’s been starved for attention for too long. Something tells me that sinking into Shannon would be heaven on earth, the tight, wet glove of her pussy drawing me in, my tongue toying with her nipples.
What about Triss? Have your forgotten about her already?
I haven’t. It’s hard to forget an ex when they had such an impact on your life, when you spent so much time together. You live under someone else’s skin for long enough and you can easily lose yourself. Maybe that’s happened. Maybe that was how the shitstorm started.
A mental block rises up. I won’t do it. I won’t allow myself to think about what happened to her. Point is, I’m not ready for another relationship, especially given everything going on with Mom. Besides, I don’t deserve another.
I shift in the chair but accidentally knock the table beside the bed.
Mom’s eyes flicker open. “Oh, did I go to sleep again?”
I wave it off. “It’s fine, Mom.”
Her eyebrows twine together. “No, no. You’re home, back from deployment. The least I can do is catch up with my eldest son.”
I take a glass of water and direct the straw in it between Mom’s lips. “Here, drink.”
Her cheeks hollow as she sucks, barely a mouthful of water passing through the straw. I place it back on the table and lean back in the chair. “Matt said you’ve been talking about me.”
Her hand shifts across the blanket. I take it, note how all I can feel is bone.
“Gabe,” she begins, “we’re just concerned about you. You’ve been away for so long, so caught up… I know it must be hard to adjust back to civilian life.”
I squeeze her hand. “Like I told Matt, I’m perfectly fine, Mom. You don’t need to worry about PTSD or anything like that. I’m good. I was down range for a long while, but now I’m home. I’m here for you.”
Her eyes become glassy. “Are you? I wish I could be around to see you settle down, Gabe.”
“Mom,” I protest, “you know I don’t like it when you speak like that. You’ve got to fight.”
She smiles again. “I’m not you, Gabe, or your father, rest his soul. My fight’s over, and so is yours. You’ve been away almost a decade. You’ve retired with an honorable discharge. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”
But she doesn’t know the full story, and I’m not about to tell her. I place my other hand on top of hers. “I know, Mom, and I’m going to make it up to you, make sure you are taken care of no matter what.”
“I only want you to be happy, Gabe. It’s my only wish.”
“Actually, I’m seeing someone, Mom.”
I don’t know why I say this. It just comes out.
Her whole face lights up. Her body straightens in the bed. “You are?”
Way to go, dickhead. How are you going to get out of this?
She tilts her head a little, her smile beaming. “Oh my. Are you… engaged?”
I know it’s wrong, that I should correct her, but I nod in response, can’t help smiling myself.
What the fuck are you doing?
I swallow hard wishing I could suck the words back, but it’s too late now, not after seeing Mom like this. So what do I do? I deepen the fucking lie. “In fact, it’s going really well.”
“Oh, Gabe,” she beams, “I’m so happy for you. I want to hear all about her.”
You and me both.
“She’s…” Better start thinking. “…a local, a civilian, kind of quirky.”
“That’s wonderful. They do say opposites attract, you know.”
She’s in full-on mother mode now. “What does she do, your fiancé?”
That word really nails it. I have no fucking idea. My fake fiancée and I never discussed it. “She’s studying, for now.”
“Well, that’s okay. She sounds smart.”
I could tell Mom this mystery fiancée is a three-eyed dominatrix who gets her kicks ball-stomping and she wouldn’t give a damn. That’s the thing about Mom. You can get her on board almost anything if you press long enough. “She is,” I concede, trying to dream up a way to change the subject, but my stupid, sand-logged brain is unable to dredge anything up.
“What’s her name?”
Jesus. “Shannon,” I blurt back. She’s the first girl I think of.
“That’s nice. Is she pretty?”
Does the sun rise in the east? “Yeah, Mom. She’s real pretty—brown hair, blue eyes…”
Mom’s eyes widen further and I know a grand thought is incoming. “You have to bring her in, Gabe. I have to meet her.”
Fuck times two.
There’s no getting out of this now. I’ve dug myself deep and I’ve forgotten the damn shovel. My loose mouth has gotten me into trouble before, but never like this.
You sure about that PTSD, sunshine?
I silently groan at my impulsiveness. “I’ll bring her in soon, Mom, I promise. I just didn’t want to rush things.”
There’s the understatement of the year.
Matt’s standing in the door with a tray of what could well be dirt or some kind of mystery meat. It’s hard to tell. “Bring in who?” he asks.