Page 98 of Jonesing for a Spy

“She may need a water.” He continues on a murmur, “And another napkin.”

I slice my eyes to him, but it loses the effect as I sniffle and choke again. To the server, I nod but spend my focus and effort on breathing. I didn’t survive all I have to die inhaling a mixed drink in my hometown.

And Skipper, that fucker, pulls out his phone and snaps a pic of me, turning it so I can see myself looking for the world like I’m holding in violent diarrhea after swallowing a swarm of bees.

“New contact photo,” he offers as he hums and fiddles on his phone. “That’s what you get for hiding from me.”

Oh, Charlie will get his due. And it will be epic.

And we thought Wiggle’s prank on Mom was good. Skipper has no idea what’s coming for him.

41

my honor

Mirren

I hear nothing from Nate by that night. Nothing from Mom either, and that’s unusual because I dangled raw bait in her face with the bite I got on joining the Texas Trio as I’ve come to call them.

Worse, I don’t hear from Strider. Which is the first time since we decided we were an us. I dial and it goes straight to voicemail. The second time it does the same.

I can’t get through to you. I’ll be awake for a while if you want to call. Are you having phone issues?

When it’s after midnight, I send a second.

Sleep well and have sweet dreams. I hate that we couldn’t connect tonight.

I toss and turn all night. Maybe it was the thick steak or the buttery potatoes. Hell, it could’ve been the drink too.

Or that I forgot to leave the light on. Not that the light keeps the nightmares at bay. But I haven’t had any since Strider.

And it’s a doozy. I’m surrounded on every side by insurgents, encircled by them. So many visible rifle muzzles pointed in my direction. No matter where I turn or how many times I spin, there’s no escape.

Bullets whiz, tearing past my head, whirring deafeningly in my ears. One rips through my knee, and I go down. On my knees in boiling hot sand, they march on me. Their movements are so slow, it feels like dramatic theatre for the sake of inciting terror alone. And it’s fucking working. I shout, but no sound comes out.

My eyes search and search for escape, but there’s none to be found.

Finally, I dig. My hands shovel sand with tremendous strokes of pressure until my shoulders lock up from exhaustion and cramps. Tears well. And I let them fall freely.

I think of my parents, my brothers, my regiment. Those kids who didn’t make it out of boot camp. But it’s the face of the soldier at twelve o’clock that guts me. Strider’s face. He speaks but the sound dies as it falls from his lips. He’s asking questions that go unanswered because I’m deaf to everything but the sound of my pants.

He lifts his rifle’s sight to his eyes and asks or says one last thing, but my eyes close. I know what comes next. When it does, I’ll relax. I’ve done all I can, given everything I have—my mind, my body, my service, my honor… and apparently now, my life.

I wish I could tell him. I wish I could say I love you. Because I do. I wish he could hear the words that have no voice.

When the bullet rips through me, I feel the tear of every muscle, the shatter of bone, and the air leave my lungs. I hear the insides of my body rend from where they belong. And I fall into blissful black sleep.

My sheets are soaked when I wake.

I sob salty tears into my pillow in the tightest ball I can manage.

I don’t want the nightmares to come back. I can’t afford to fight them every night and be my best every day. No amount of exhaustion or therapy makes it better. No running or change of location fixes what’s broken in my head.

All I want is to be held by the one person who’s too far away to help, the man who calls me Freckles and wants a life with me, the only one who makes this all better, my love, who I can be myself with…

Just me, in all my terrible glory.

Strider