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three
In his dreams, they were still alive. At least for a little while. Devon, with his big grin and the dance moves that won him the ladies’ attention, and Masters, tall and droopy like a willow tree, smiling half as often as Devon and couldn’t dance a lick. Rhett rushed all his men into the bunker as soon as warning sirens blared. Only Devon and Masters were missing. In his dreams, Rhett knew about the rockets before they hit. He’d call out, searching for Devon and Masters, but his voice came out silent.
The explosions happened, no matter what, no matter how many times Rhett’s slumbering brain tried to rewrite the story. About ninety percent of the time, the explosion was his alarm going off. Most people dreaded the alarm, but not him.
The alarm was a relief.
He reached, and a few empty beer bottles hit the floor. One smashed into sharp chunks. They were old, had been there for days, but Rhett wasn’t much into cleaning lately. He wasn’t going to lie—those beer bottles would be fresh every night, just enough to dull the dreams, if his physical well-being weren’t so important to his job. He fumbled with his cell phone and rubbed his bleary eyes just enough to see so he could turn the damn thing off.
He got up. Pissed. Took a shower. Cleaned up the glass. Ate.
Did the stuff everybody else did. The fog began to lift, the memories to recede. The nightmares retreated to their corners, shied by the sunlight.
It was one bright, sunny fucking day.
Despite being ten miles away, the booms from the Quantico marine base shook Rhett’s town house enough to make the glass rattle in the cupboards. The shadow box containing his Purple Heart, propped on an end table with old magazines, shuddered against the wall. A gift from his mother. Rhett sank to the couch, covered his ears and waited. He willed the shadow box to fall over, the glass to shatter. But it settled at an angle, teetering but safe.
“The beer bottles break and the shadow box doesn’t.” Rhett shook his head and glanced at the ceiling. “Shut up,” he said. “I got it under control.”
His cell vibrated in his pocket.Melinda.“Hey, fatso.” Even though she weighed about a hundred pounds.
“Worst brother ever.”
“Yep. Got the award to prove it.”
“You awake?”
“Um. Duh.” Rhett tossed his dishes in the sink, next to the others.
“You at work?”
“Going now.” He found his car keys, buried in a pile of unopened mail.
Melinda made some kind of growling noise. “Beast,” she said. “Do you think you could bench-press your little sister’s fat ass?”
Rhett tripped over his sneakers, then grabbed them. “Two of you in each hand.” He sank down on the top step and shoved in his left foot, then his right. “Hey. Why’re you bothering me so early?” He cradled the phone against his ear and laced up his sneakers.
“Mama’s making me ask about Thanksgiving. Again. You coming down?”
Driving down to North Carolina, in holiday traffic. Papa, making enough food to feed a small army. Turkey, yes. But also Papa’s “secret recipe” hot sauce, homemade corn tortillas and, the next day, chilaquiles with leftover turkey thrown in—Papa loved mixing up the cuisine. Lazing in front of football all day with Mama, moving from the couch only long enough to eat. All sounded great, except for the traffic. “Nah,” Rhett said, even though he wouldn’t mind seeing his baby sister and little nieces. And getting the leftover food. Mama would stuff his car full and he’d be in hog heaven for a week. “Too busy. I told Mama that weeks ago. She only hears what she wants to hear.”
“That sucks. Just be forewarned, Mama may do something stupid if you don’t come.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. You know Mama.”
“It’s fine. I want to work.” He’d much rather train the bulky powerlifters, the soccer moms who wanted to be “toned,” the rich girls with all the money to spend but not a speck of intensity or even the little old ladies cheating death by lifting their very first barbells than do the Happy Family Holiday Thing. Anything was better than the Happy Family Holiday Thing. That was a pill he just couldn’t swallow right now. “And hey. I’ll save you another call, Mel. Tell Mama I’m not coming for Christmas, either.”
A long silence followed. “You really want me to tell her that?”
“Yep. Might as well.”
“Why not, Rhett? Surely you can get away for a few days—”
“Not—” Rhett stood up and tested his leg “—coming.” His quad was worse today than yesterday. But he should be fine once he got warmed up.
“All right.” Melinda gave a resigned sigh. “Go sweat it all out. But call me later. Tonight, maybe, just to check in.”
