Authors: Eden Winters
Chaos and confusion. Shots fired and explosions boomed. Angry voices barked out orders. Wondering aloud what was happening, some of the men unbuckled
their seatbelts and hurried to the exit of the halted vehicle to peer out the back door. Then the world turned upside down, throwing Michael and his
companions against the top and sides of the transport. His seatbelt snapped. The screams of the men grew deafening.
The vehicle stopped rolling, lying on its side. Where was Ryan? Where was Jimmy? He shifted through the thrashing bodies. Somehow he managed to make it
outside. Oh shit! A blond head caught his attention, a slender soldier running toward the front of the convoy and straight toward a hail of enemy
gunfire. Michael launched into a flying tackle, throwing his body over Ryan, who would have willingly run headlong into death in a futile attempt save
someone who was even then beyond mortal help. Ryan fought for all he was worth, but Michael, bigger and stronger, kept him pinned to the
sand—wet with gasoline and the water they carried.
Ryan passed beyond understanding. “Let me up, Michael! Let me up! Jimmy needs me!” Michael tuned out the pleas.
“It’s too dangerous. I can’t let you go.” He silently sent up a prayer for God to keep Jimmy safe.
Gas fumes stung his eyes. Shots rang out, but if he didn’t get them away from the gas, a single spark might blow them away. Adrenaline
surged, and he dragged his struggling friend free of the wet sand and into the partial shielding of an overturned vehicle. He paused to take a breath
and fire shot through his battered ribs. Damn, that hurt. A deafening roar followed a ‘whooosh,’ shaking the ground and causing his
makeshift shelter to teeter. He threw himself on top of Ryan, bracing against the burning debris that pelted them, pieces of hot, flying metal stinging
his arms where they hit. Blocking out the pain, Michael focused on protecting the man he loved like a brother. The blast probably lasted mere seconds,
but seemed an eternity of smoke and fire raining from the sky.
False quiet descended. Ryan ceased fighting and began shaking, going into shock. Months of training kicked in and Michael raised his weapon to perform
the duty for which he’d so meticulously prepared, all other thoughts fading away but one—defend his position.
Time lost all meaning as he carried out his duty. He may have killed one hundred men, he may have missed them all, but shot after shot he fired, until
he’d spent every round. There was no fight left in him when hands slipped beneath his stinging arms, raising him from the ground and peeling
his fingers from his firearm. Another solder knelt in the dust and lifted his motionless charge.
When he finally regained his feet with the aid of a sturdy arm wrapped around his shoulders, a medic stood before him. Though the man’s lips
moved, Michael couldn’t hear the words. In the middle of a raging battle, he was surrounded by silence. Shaking his head as much to clear the
cobwebs within as to convey that he didn’t understand, he wrapped his arms around his injured ribs and swayed on unsteady feet. Warm wetness
trickled down his neck and under the grimy collar of his shirt, and when he reached up to wipe it away his hand came away covered in blood. Suddenly
light-headed, he grabbed the medic’s shoulder, leaving a bloody handprint on the man’s uniform.
Grim and tight-lipped, the medic took a firm hold on Michael’s arm, tugging him toward a waiting Humvee, picking the way through a veritable
mine-field of debris. From the looks of it, more that just one vehicle had been hit. The odor of burning rubber and charred metal stung
Michael’s eyes and throat, choking him as they passed through a thick cloud of greasy smoke. Emerging from the other side and coughing to
clear seared lungs, he spotted a uniform lying on the ground. He paused. Who left their uniform lying on the ground? Then he saw another, and another.
Oh God. Those weren’t just uniforms, they were soldiers. Staring down into sightless green eyes that he’d seen crinkled in laughter
just that morning at breakfast, Michael screamed with a voice he could no longer hear. These were members of his own platoon, his friends, the guys
he’d laughed with and talked to just hours before.
He fought against the medic’s hold with no idea where he was going, only that he had to get away, had to run. An invisible vise clamped
around his chest, cutting off his breath. Fighting for all he was worth, he suddenly noticed the medic wasn’t the only one fighting back. In
fact, the medic had released his hold altogether to insert a syringe into a bottle. Nameless, faceless ones held Michael’s arm immobile when
he felt the stinging bite of the needle. One second, two seconds. Time stood still.
Suddenly, the constricting bands around his chest loosened, allowing him to breathe again. Though still disoriented, he no longer felt like fighting.
Once more the medic tried talking only to give up, shaking his head in frustration. Hands caught Michael’s arm again and led him to a waiting
vehicle. Three others were already there, sweat-stained and filthy. Emerson, ever-present glasses noticeably missing, sat stony-faced, eyes focused
straight ahead. Rehnquist’s face radiated sheer terror, normal bravado vanquished by what the enemy had wrought. Gone were the arrogant sneer
and biting comments about the locals and their technologically inferior attempts at warfare.
It was the small, lost individual positioned between them that caught and held Michael’s attention, for only then did he recognize the young
man he’d fought so hard to protect. A dark bruise marred Ryan’s cheek and blood trickled from a deep gash over one eye as he rocked
to and fro, cradling his left arm. A face normally full of mischief was a mask of grief, red-rimmed eyes hollow and empty. Without being told Michael
knew exactly what that look meant: Jimmy had fallen. Without intercession Ryan would have fallen, too. Those haunted eyes turned toward Michael,
clearly asking, “Why?”
He never learned if the question was why Jimmy was dead or why Michael had stopped Ryan from joining him, but when those pain-filled eyes locked onto
Michael’s he couldn’t turn away. Whatever had been inside the hypodermic took effect and he lost consciousness.
With all the horror of that day, it wasn’t the bodies, the intense pain of broken ribs, or even the gut-clenching fear that Michael remembered.
It was those beautiful, sky-blue eyes. In his nightmares he saw them as they were at that moment; devoid of all life and happiness, begging for
something…what, he didn’t know.
The other survivors could only imagine that Ryan had lost a friend and fellow kid from Arkansas whom he’d known most of his life. But Michael
knew better. Ryan Jackson had, in his own words, “Lost my reason for living.”
***
“Hey, you all right?”
Michael bolted up from the couch, fist ready to fly. Gentle but firm hands wrapped around his clenched fingers, urging them back down to his side.
“Dude, you okay? You don’t look so good.”
The anguished blue eyes disappeared from his mind as Michael returned from a personal trip to Hell, replaced by warm, concerned brown ones. Shit. Here was
the last person he wanted to witness a flashback. Shock and panic from that long-ago day remained, as it always did when this happened, daring him to shake
it off. The adrenaline flowing in his veins sought an outlet and he flushed in embarrassment at just how close he’d come to physical violence.
A quick glance around the room assured him that Jay was the only one who’d noticed the moment of weakness, and he said a silent prayer of thanks
for small favors.
Piercing dark eyes narrowed, their unwavering gaze hardening. Just loudly enough to be heard over the music, Jay suggested, “Why don’t
we go outside and get some air? I think we could both use a break right about now.”
Yelling at the room in general, “Be right back!” Jay stepped ahead and created a path through the crowd of gyrating bodies.
Angie’s raised brow was answered by a wink and, “Gonna go take Shasta out; your brother is gonna keep me company.”
Angie nodded, turning back to her conversation with Victor.
Jay wrapped his hand around Michael’s upper arm, the gesture an unwitting reminder of the medic from all those months ago. Neither said a word as
they made their way to the back door.
“Come on, Shasta,” Jay stopped and called over his shoulder.
The retriever crawled out from under a couch, ball in mouth, tripping everyone in her path as she cut a swath across the room, oblivious to everything but
the toy clenched in her teeth and the prospect of going outside. Her ever-wagging tail wreaked havoc on the drinks arranged on the coffee table, leaving
chaos and spilled beer in her wake.
When they stepped onto the porch Jay closed the backdoor and hurried to the screen door, the excited dog bounding through the moment he wrestled it open.
In a flurry of blond fur Shasta leapt down the steps and into the fenced yard, disappearing from view. Jay turned and sprawled on an old wooden swing,
precariously suspended from two rusted chains. He patted the seat next to him. Michael ignored the invitation, leaning against the doorframe instead. As
much as he didn’t want to be inside right now, being outside was still hard to handle.
Jay set the swing to rocking violently as he stood and crossed the porch again to pull the screen door closed. Then he loosened the bamboo shades over the
windows, providing the illusion of walls. Michael could still see outside through the screen in the door, but felt more secure with most of the outdoors
hidden from view. He nodded his thanks to Jay, who smiled and sprawled across the swing.
Michael stood rigid in the doorway. He’d fucked up, big time. And Jay had come to his rescue. The timing couldn’t have been worse, for
as much he longed to see Jay and be alone with him, nearly slugging the guy in the jaw wasn’t quite what he’d had in mind.
He gazed out over a yard softly illuminated by the glow of a street lamp. A haze of shimmering fog created an ethereal landscape, limiting his view to the
dilapidated wooden fence encircling the property. Breathing steadily in and out, he willed his racing heart and jangled nerves to calm. “Sorry
about that,” he whispered into the shadows. “I would say it won’t happen again but I’m in no position to make
promises I can’t keep.” He had no idea why he’d confessed, but at that moment he desperately needed someone to talk to.
Jay pushed the swing with one foot, staring out into the backyard. After a moment he asked, “Care to talk about it?”
The “no” came out of Michael’s mouth without a thought. It didn’t seem to bother Jay, however. He continued
dragging his foot against the uneven wooden boards of the porch, seemingly unconcerned that his roommate’s brother had come close to taking his
head off.
Finally Michael said, “Something happened… over there. The doctors say it’s post traumatic stress.” He stared down
at the floor, scuffing the toe of his tennis shoe against the smoothly worn boards. “They say it’s common, that it happens
sometimes…” he trailed off, half expecting Jay to remember something requiring his immediate attention and run away.
The chains creaked as the swing tilted back and forth in time with the steady thumping beat from the living room speakers. Only after the song ended and
the music faded did Jay reply, “One of my cousins came back with a similar problem.”
Michael chanced a glance up, expecting to see pity or judgment. Instead he saw warmth and understanding. Jay’s drawl made the words soothing.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of. You served your country, you did a good thing. But you were wounded just as surely as those who come
home with physical wounds. Give it time, man, it’ll heal.”
Michael wanted to believe him. “I just want to forget,” he whispered.
“Yeah, but what if in forgetting the bad you forget the good, too? Maybe you just have to balance them out and come to an acceptance.”
Jay rose and closed the distance between them until they stood toe to toe, nearly touching. A callused hand reached out, cupping Michael’s cheek,
turning his face up and forcing their eyes to meet. “It’s okay,” Jay breathed, the words a quiet purr. “I may not
ever fully understand what happened over there, but I do understand that you’re hurting and I’m sorry for that. If there’s
anything I can do…”
Michael, plain tired of being lonely, leaned in and planted his lips against his comforter’s. “Ummpppphhh,” was all Jay
managed to say, but after a moment he responded, fingers easing around Michael’s neck to caress his closely cropped hair. Jay’s touch
was gentle but firm, secure without restraining. When those lips parted, Michael invaded, finding Jay’s tongue and stroking with his own. It
wasn’t his first experience with a man, but it was the first time he’d kissed one. Ryan had shared only body and grief—both
kisses and heart belonged to another.
But this wasn’t just any man Michael kissed, this was Jay. Heat swept down into Michael like liquid fire, leaving him hard and throbbing. He
cupped Jay’s ass, enveloping a double handful of firm flesh and pulling closer, moaning in satisfaction when Jay’s body responded.
Primal instinct overrode any objections his mind might have had, and Michael rubbed against the tempting firmness that lay just out of reach behind the
denim of Jay’s jeans. Answering moans interrupted his thoughts, bringing him crashing back down to reality.
Holy shit, what am I doing?
Michael jumped away. “God, I am so sorry,” he stammered.
Oh my God, what have I just done?
“Shhh…” Jay whispered, placing two fingers lightly over Michael’s trembling lips. “Don’t say
anything. It doesn’t matter. I like you, Michael, and I want to be your friend. If there’s something I can do to help you, all you need
do is ask. And if this is what will help you…” He left the sentence hanging, the invitation open-ended as he backed away and stretched
both arms high over his head. His shirt rose, displaying a tightly muscled abdomen and the barest hint of a treasure trail. The view teased for only a
moment before disappearing under the hem of his black T-shirt. “I think I’ll go see if there’s any pizza left,” Jay
said. “You come back in when you’re ready.”