Devastate (Havoc Series Stand Alone Book 5) (2 page)

              She smirks to herself. “What's not in your file?”

              I shift in my seat. I hate that my entire life is color coded and alphabetized to some system to better predict what I will and won't do in the field or in highly dangerous situations. How well I'll perform under pressure. How well I'll hold the secrets of this country, of this world, we're entrusted with. I hate how all the things I'm running from in my past, all the nightmares I keep buried in the corners of my mind, are typed and organized on sheets of paper for the world's strongest, so beautiful it should be prohibited, woman to analyze.

              “I felt up my first girlfriend at 13 on a tractor.”

              Confused, she lifts her face back up. “What?”

              “That's not in my file.” I smirk and tip my cowboy hat. “Or is it? By that look on your face, I'm guessing it's not.”

              She giggles and shakes her head. “No. It's not. However, being caught skinny dipping in the lake at 15 is.”

              “Mrs. Kennedy was pissed when she found what her less than innocent daughter had been doing as a freshman.” I chuckle. “Ever been?”

              “Less than innocent?”

              “Skinny dipping.” The words cause a reaction that makes me grip the wheel tighter. Jazz's toned thighs, that look amazing in her jeans, which were a rarity prior to this trip, push themselves together clearly trying to hold something in.

              “Um...no.”

              “Ya know, I don't know much about you,” I continue. “In fact, none of us do. You know all the nooks and crannies about all of us and we barely know more than your name, your obsession with Victorian Era romance novels, and rack size.”

              “My rack size huh? Glove's two-cents?”

              “He's got an eye like no other for tits.” My smirk causes her to smile in return shaking her head in disapproval. Most people can't say tits to their commanding officer. I can. I can also see them rising and falling in a heavier fashion as if the word created another heated longing. Sex with Jazz is not an option. Not a good option. Not an option without severe repercussions. That doesn't mean I have to stop fantasizing about it.

              “He's seen enough pairs in his life time to be that sort of an expert.”

              “Have I?”

              “I don't know. Have you?”

              “That's not in my file?” Another sarcastic stare comes from her, so I switch gears.

“Can I read yours?”

              “No.”

              “Can you tell me something that's not in it?”

              After a brief pause she replies, “I like caterpillars.”

              “That's...something,” I mutter, turning the radio down. “Why?”

              “I feel like they mimic human nature.”

              “By crawling through the grass?”

              “By striving to be something more. To fight to live. To devour hope, into making it to the day you become something greater than you are. The struggle to stop being what you are and transform into something free. Something that can travel further than you could've conceived. It's beautiful.” I smile and she turns away back to her paperwork. In a whisper she confesses, “I've never told anyone that.”

              My hand slides down the wheel to my lap, anxious to stretch it over to hers.

              “Now.” Jazz clears her throat. “You tell everyone you haven't spoken to your family since you left, but that's not the truth. Why lie?”

              Pulling off the main highway to a private road, I grumble, “I didn't lie.”

              “You send out a letter, with no return address, every four months, six at the most, to your parents’ address.”

              “Wrong.” I correct her as the scenery changes, the lush green trees curving in, covering the path like a tunnel. “I send out an unmarked letter to my grandparents. One property. One mailing address. Technically, I haven't spoken with them. They don't get to reply and my voice has never said anything to them.”

              “Smartass,” she snips. “Then why send anything at all? What's the point?”

              “They deserve to know I'm still alive, even if my parents don't.”

              “You were very close with them Lordy. I wanna know why you left.” She shuts her folder as we approach the over-sized plantation home.

              “You've read my file. You wanna tell me it's not in there?”

              “It says when you joined. Not why. Grim and Glove's actions were easily predicted given each of their circumstances, but you...” her voices fades. “Nothing from your raising or heritage suggests military at all. It appears as if you just rolled out of bed one morning and decided to become a Marine, which of course isn't the actual case. So what was the reason?”

              Putting the truck in park, a wave of numbness rolls through my system. “You'll understand soon enough.”

              Our attention turns to the front windshield where I see my grandmother on the front porch of their plantation home, wiping her hands on her white apron. She looks just like she did when I left home about four years ago. 5'2, tan skin from always attending to something in her personal garden, brown and gray wavy hair, and more fit than any woman who eats that much fried food at her old age should be.

              I yank out the keys from the ignition and prepare to hop out of the truck. “Come on. Let's get this over with.”

              At the sight of me, my grandmother hands shakily raise to her mouth. It was heart wrenching enough walking away from them, but it had to be done. I couldn't stay. I just couldn't. Not with how the situation continued to unfold. Not with the life that was panning out in front of me. Fuck that. I couldn't do it. I wouldn't do it. On a deep breath, I start towards her as she travels down the wide steps to me.

              The minute she's within reach, my arms fly around her. She cradles me closer to her before chokes out, “Oh Rascal...”

              I whisper in return, “Ma...”

              Inhaling the sweet smell of peaches and berries, I let my eyes close. There's a certain comfort to being in the arms of the woman who raised you that you can't find anywhere else. I've missed these hugs. Needed them after deployments. Woke up in tears and shudders, trapped in the prison of guilt for leaving her behind. The black hole of self-hatred for deserting one of the only people to give a fuck about you in your entire life, because you couldn't handle the shit cards life kept dealing, is a deep one. And it's one that almost broke me during HORN training.

              Ma pulls away from me and rests a soft hand on my cheek. “Rascal...I've missed you.”

              Leaning into her touch I nod. “Me too.”

              She smiles softly once more before popping me on the cheek.

              “Ou!”

              “You're lucky I don't get the spoon,” she seethes planting her hands on her small hips. “You had no business leavin' like you did! Disppearin' right from under everyone's nose! Not even so much as a goodbye Rascal! You were raised better than that! You had me madder than a wet hen!”

              “Sorry ma'am.” My hand rubs at the lingering sting.

              “Don't you sorry me. I am tempted to drag you in the house by the ear and put you over my knee, I swear to the Lord.” Fighting the urge to smile at her caring ways, I push my lips tightly together and nod. “Now that that's settled, introduce me to your young lady that you didn't open the door for. You know better.”

              Jazz adjusts her work bag on her shoulder as I make introductions, “Ma, this is Jazz, one of my commanding officers. Jazz meet my grandmother.”

              Extending her hand she declares, “You can call me Ma.”

              “Yes ma'am,” she respectfully agrees, shaking my grandmother's hand in return.

              Suddenly Ma snips at me, “Where are your manners Rascal? You know better than to let a lady carry her own luggage! First you didn't open her door. And now her luggage! What is the city doin' to you?”

              “She won't let me,” I squeak instantly feeling like the misguided teenager who ran away. “She has this whole independent thing she likes to hold on to.”

              “Oh sugar, you can be independent and still let a man open doors for you.”

              Before Jazz can argue I intrude. “She insists on carrying that bag herself. But I'll get her others ma'am.”

              Jazz smiles politely and shakes her head. “I can roll my own luggage.”

              “Not around here,” Ma denies. “Rascal has manners. He'll use 'em. You hungry sugar'?”

              The echo of a shot gun blast fills our ears preventing her from answering. Afterward my grandfather yells, “Whooo! Good Lordy! Good Lordy! Did you see that shot?”

              Quickly Jazz’s head snaps to me, jaw on the ground.

              “Yeah. I...may have picked that up from him.” I scratch the back of my neck at the sound of my catch phrase from the man who raised me like his son instead of his grandson. Turning to Ma I ask, “Who's he talking to?”

              “Probably Barkley,” she sighs. “Damn dog doesn't talk back.”

              “He's still alive?”

              “Oh Rascal, ya know Barkley is probably gonna outlive your Pa...He's a lazy dog, but not that old. Now come on you two. You can grab the bags later Rascal. Let's get you to him before he puts a hole in another one of my wind chimes.”

              “He still does that?” I chuckle rushing around to grab the door to let the two of them in first.

              “To drive me up the wall, I swear,” the drawl escapes her making Jazz giggle, a sound she doesn't typically share.

              It swells my chest with pride at the fact it's my family that can do that for her. That give her something she can't give herself. I follow behind them after wiping my feet on the rug. Veering to the left side of the stairs upon entering, my eyes try not to wander to the family portraits and pictures in frames that grace the walls. Most of them are filled with awkward forced poses between me and my brothers. It felt like there was a never ending effort from Pa to get us to be a little closer than we were. The three of us take another left and enter the kitchen where we can see Pa sitting in his rocking chair on the back porch with his shotgun in hand aimed at a can on the tree, his basset hound companion at his feet.

              “Jody!” Ma pushes the screen door slightly open. “Get in here! Rascal's home!”

              The man I'm named after places his gun down and shuffles back towards the house, rushing in to see me. While I don't share any of the same light features as him or the rest of my brothers, I will say if I age half as well as he does, I'll consider myself pretty damn lucky. Looks wise, Glove shares more similarities. When Pa was younger he had a whole playboy pretty surfer look to him that even when I was growing up, ladies still flocked after. My height may come from him, but in his old age, I now tower over him. After one long look at me he cocks his famous trouble grin and sighs, “Peach fuzz on your face Rascal? Should I string you up one of the trees until you're ready to be picked?”

              I run my hand across my chin. “It's not that awful.” After a beat I say, “Probably wouldn't look so bad if Ma hadn't popped me in the yard.”

              “Spoon?”

              “That's next,” I mutter.

              “Damn right,” she agrees. “Have the nerve to leave me and not say goodbye. I should go get that spoon right now.”

              Jazz softly questions, “Is this a real spoon or a metaphor?”

              “Oh it's real,” Ma assures her before turning back to us. “Now you two quit with all the man fussin' and get to huggin'.”

              Knowing better than to defy her the two of us take a couple steps and hug warmly. He gives me a few good pats and says, “Welcome home Rascal.”

              I'm not home. Home is back in Texas, in my shitty little apartment with my best friend who hates to take out the trash. Home is where I have a local gym that knows my face not my house. Home is where the local bar knows my name 'cause we hang out there a couple times of week, not the bar that knows it because your family owns it and the rest of the fucking town. The only thing about here that's home, that's ever felt like home...is him and Ma.

              He pulls back and gives me another good look. “It's about time you filled out. Marines are doin' you well.”

              “Yes sir.” I nod.

              “You look a grizzly bear in the making,” the description of my large, muscular build and dark brown features, makes me laugh. He laughs a little until he starts to cough, the rattle, almost worrisome. “Don't start scratchin' your back on any of my trees, ya hear me?”

              Skirting past his joke, I usher a hand at Jazz. “Pa meet Jazz, my commanding officer.”

              “Back in my day we called them girlfriends,” Pa replies shaking her hand. “And then wives.”