All for You (15 page)

T
he lights from the ambulance bounced off the buildings around them. Some jackass really needed to turn off the sirens. It wasn’t like they were in a hurry to get anywhere.

Sloban had been dead before he hit the ground.

Reza stood near his truck, holding a coffee cup and sipping it slowly.

He’d finally opened the flask. He didn’t think anyone would give him shit about having a drink right about now.

Hell, he needed something a whole lot stronger than a few shots of vodka to get the smell of charred skin and smoking blood out of his nose. The laced coffee was helping, but not nearly enough.

He watched the chaos play out before him, feeling detached from the world around him. His heart rate had long ago slowed back to normal. He was lucky that he wouldn’t have a strong crash response after the adrenaline stopped pumping through his system, otherwise he’d probably be ready to take a nap. Other than needing a clean uniform, he still had to go back to work. He was sure that Captain Marshall was going to need a full report, PowerPoint slideshow, and executive summary with note cards before Reza could go home for the day. Douche bag.

The paramedics covered the body and lifted Sloban’s remains into the back of the ambulance. It was only after they moved that he saw Emily standing beneath an old oak tree with Colonel Zavisca. She didn’t really appear to be listening to whatever the colonel was saying. She had her arms wrapped tightly around herself. One hand was repetitively rubbing her shoulder and her face was still pale and drawn. Colonel Zavisca patted her back awkwardly and walked back toward the waiting MPs.

Sighing and knowing full well he should be going in the other direction, he started across the small yard. She didn’t acknowledge him until he was practically on top of her.

“Here.” He thrust the coffee cup toward her. It was like a curtain lifted from her vision as she looked first at the coffee cup and then up at him.

“I don’t drink coffee,” she whispered. “But thank you.”

Reza offered a grin he wasn’t really feeling. “Make an exception. It’ll help get you through the rest of this.”

She glanced skeptically down at the Styrofoam cup. “What’s in it.”

“Bug juice. Just drink before you friggin’ collapse.”

Her hands trembled as she took the cup, then with a deep sigh she tossed back a solid gulp.

And promptly choked. Her eyes watered as she coughed. Reza took back the cup before she spilled. “What was in that?” she asked when she could speak.

He smiled and felt some of the detachment he’d felt snap inside him, letting him feel the warmth of the sun beating on his neck. “Special brew.”

She swiped at her eyes. “I thought you gave up drinking.”

He wasn’t going to answer that one honestly. “Today’s an exception,” he said quietly.

“That was a dirty trick.”

Reza lifted one shoulder, watching a hint of color came back into her cheeks. “You look better now.”

“How can you be so calm?” she asked, tipping her head to peer up at him. A single ray of sunlight glinted across her cheek.

Calm? That wasn’t how he would describe the lack inside him. It wasn’t how he’d explain the total emptiness he felt as the adrenaline wore off. “Guess I’m used to stuff like this.”

“That is a really sad commentary on your life,” she whispered. Already she looked steadier on her feet, more solid, instead of as if a stiff breeze would knock her over.

“It is.” He shifted and turned toward the departing ambulance. “I knew Sloban before…” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat roughly. “Before he got hooked on the bad stuff. He was a good kid. Lots of potential. Something broke him.” Reza looked down at her, noting how close she stood. Color had come back into her lips. “Eventually, war breaks everyone.”

She studied him quietly and for the first time in Reza’s life he wanted to simply sit. Not move. Not drink himself into oblivion or fuck until he passed out. Just sit in a stillness that didn’t echo with the taunts of the dead. It was a strange sensation and not completely unwelcome, but a little unnerving.

“Why do you still stay in, then? Why not get out of the army before it breaks you, too?”

He smiled wryly. “Who says it hasn’t broken me already?” He rubbed his hand over his face and took another drink, then offered her the cup, surprised when she took another, if smaller, sip. “This is the first time you’ve been around something like this, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Not a whole lot of death at home.”

“Where’s home?”

“Outside of Boston. You?”

“New York.”

She handed him back the cup. “You don’t sound like you’re from New York. You don’t sound like you’re from anywhere in particular.”

“I’ve been in the army long enough to bleed any accent out of me.” He kept the rest of his comments to himself. He wanted to make sure she was good to go before he headed back to face Marshall.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. “Speak of the devil,” he mumbled. “Yes, sir?”

“Haven’t you seen my phone calls?”

“Been a little busy here,” Reza said, taking a long pull off the coffee cup. It was pretty sad that he needed strong alcohol more to deal with his company commander than he needed to deal with a kid killing himself right in front of him. Shit, he was a disaster.

“I needed a situation report for the battalion commander an hour ago. I’m pulling into the parking lot now, damn it, since you haven’t answered the phone.”

Reza glanced up in time to see Marshall’s big black Toyota Tundra whip into the tiny R&R Center parking lot like it was a sports car on a closed track. Reza slid the phone into his pocket then handed the cup to Lindberg. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Here, you look like you need a little more.”

She smiled and the way her eyes warmed did something to his insides. “From the sound of that conversation, you may need it more than me.”

He grinned. “Yeah, but I’m used to dealing with douche bag officers. Part of the duty description of an NCO.”

He stalked toward Marshall, praying for the gods of patience to smile down on him. It would not do well for him to punch his commander. Sergeant majors tended to frown on things like NCOs assaulting their officers.

Emily wrapped her hands around the warm cup and sat down on the ring of paving stones circling the tree behind her. Reza was right: Whatever was in that cup was helping keep her upright. All she’d wanted to do was go home, take a shower and curl up in the dark safety of her room. She wanted someone to wake her up and to be able to start the entire day over again.

The nightmare of Sloban putting the gun beneath his chin and pulling the trigger was enough to make her soul bleed. Every time she shut her eyes, she saw him do it again, over and over in slow motion.

She opened her eyes, refusing to descend into the morass of the memories, and watched Reza walk toward one very angry captain. The other captain was almost as tall as Sergeant Iaconelli but much thinner. Where Iaconelli was big and wide and looked built for strength, the captain was wiry.

Other than their uniforms, they looked like they came from two different worlds. The captain was tense and angry, the ends of his dusty brown hair fading into the angry purple of his face. Reza shook his head and jerked his hand in her direction.

Why would they be arguing about her?

Sucking in a deep breath, she stood and crossed the small yard, the dead leaves and dried grass that she’d learned marked the Fort Hood summer crunching beneath her combat boots. The other captain’s voice held barely restrained fury. Reza was calm and unruffled, as stoic as he’d been throughout the morning’s ordeal.

“I don’t really give a shit if the Corps commander was here, Iaconelli. I needed to update the brigade commander and I missed a critical window on the reporting requirements.”

Reza stuffed his hands in his pockets. “One of your soldiers is dead and you’re worried about a report.” He didn’t raise his voice but Captain Marshall’s face went white. Emily couldn’t tell if it was from fury or shame.

Marshall jabbed his finger in Reza’s chest. “You’re out of line, Sarn’t Ike. Completely and totally out of line.”

“What are you going to do, tell the sergeant major I was too busy dealing with a dead body to answer the phone? Go ahead, sir. Knock yourself out. And while you’re at it, add in the part where you revoked Sloban’s pass privileges and ordered him not to do any more drugs. It’ll make you look like a real fucking hero.”

Reza had almost gone to jail that day. Marshall had done everything he could to punish Sloban for his addiction. Reza had gone over his head to get the kid sent to rehab.

Was it just too hard to comprehend that you couldn’t give a soldier a direct order not to use? Not when they were addicted to the hard stuff.

“I told that soldier not to do drugs!”

Reza’s temper finally snapped and he took a step toward his commander. He stopped short of actually striking the man. “He was a fucking addict, you asshole. You can order him not to do a lot of things but you can’t order an addict not to use. I’m done with this shit. Do you have your precious fucking report?”

Marshall took a deep breath, his hands clenched by his sides. “I’m going to let your flagrant disrespect slide because of what happened here today. But watch yourself, Sergeant. One day, all the awards on your chest aren’t going to fucking save you.”

Marshall stalked off, slamming into his big truck and tearing out of the parking lot. Reza turned and almost plowed into Emily. She held up the cup. “You can definitely use this more than me,” she said.

He seemed to visibly relax as he took the cup. He didn’t seem to feel the alcohol at all. “You doing better?” he asked.

“I’m fine. But do you have to deal with that guy on a daily basis?”

“He’s my esteemed company commander. We suspect he was potty trained at gun point.”

He took the cup from her and lifted the lid off, peering into the now empty cup. It had numbed something sharp and stabbing inside her. Missing though, was the comfortable fuzz in her head, like there normally was when she’d had a glass of wine. “You haven’t answered the question, Ma’am.”

She smiled up at him, seeing a crack in the deep mocha steel of his skin. “I thought I was Emily,” she said softly, wishing she could take back the words that had stung him earlier.

“Only if you still want to be,” he said, his mouth curling in a faint smile. There was something about his smile, the way it eased the hard lines around his mouth. Like he didn’t spend nearly enough time smiling.

She tipped her chin. “It just dawned on me that your name is Reza Iaconelli. What kind of a name is that?” She needed the distraction.

“Italian and Iranian.”

“It seems like there’s a joke in there somewhere,” she said quietly.

“It probably has something to do with too much body hair.”

Emily laughed out loud, then covered her mouth as several bystanders shot her looks. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. Sobering, she folded her arms over her chest. “I feel so guilty for laughing right now.”

Reza stood a little too close, close enough that she could see a shaving nick at the corner of his mouth. Close enough that people would start talking if she didn’t step back.

But right then, she didn’t care if the whole world started talking about their relationship. She needed him. More than anything.

At that moment, she couldn’t walk away. Couldn’t tear herself away from him and the solid support he provided by simply offering a cup of liquor to help get her through the terrible afternoon.

“You shouldn’t feel guilty for laughing,” he said, his voice rough. “We all have different coping mechanisms.”

“What are yours? Other than drinking, I mean.”

Something shuttered down on his expression and it hardened. The warmth that had been there a moment ago was now gone, severing the connection that had been growing between them.

“You don’t really want to know.” He twisted the cup in his hand. “I’ve got to head back across post before Captain Marshall crushes my nuts.”

She offered him a sympathetic smile. “Yeah. We wouldn’t want him to hurt those.”

She slapped her hand over her mouth again, her face flaming hot. Reza laughed quietly, the lines around his lips softening. “You going to be all right?”

She nodded, sobering at the reminder of the day’s horror. “Yes. I’d just as soon you leave before I have any more of my boot for lunch.”

He lifted his hand and for a moment, she thought he was going to slide those rough fingers over her face. Instead he rested his palm on her shoulder. The solid warmth steadied her. “Make sure you take some time for you today. This may hit you…later.”

She smiled thinly. “I thought I was the counselor here,” she said weakly. “Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?”

He grunted and lowered his hand, saying nothing, silence in the middle of chaos.

A
n hour later, Reza parked his truck in the first sergeant’s parking spot, and tried to figure out how to give his statement to the commander without wanting to punch him in the head.

Sloban was dead because of Captain Marshall, and that Reza could not forgive. Maybe Marshall hadn’t pulled the trigger himself but he was responsible nonetheless. Sloban had been through some bad shit downrange. Very bad shit. The kind of bad shit that people wrote books about. The kind of shit that ended up in the Army’s Lessons-Learned database that no one paid attention to. But it was also the kind of bad shit that the Army liked to pretend didn’t really fuck people up in the head as much as it really did.

Because hell, every soldier should be able to see their buddy get their legs blown off and come home just fine, right? Add in that Sloban’s wife had run off with his brother—how was that for family loyalty—and Marshall’s relentless push to throw Sloban out of the army for misconduct—and the kid had finally just snapped.

It wasn’t going to be easy facing his commander. Reza reached into the glove box for the flask. He wasn’t so stupid as to risk getting an open container violation riding around on post with a vodka bottle in his truck. Then again, the rent-a-cops that checked their vehicles at the gate weren’t the most astute individuals. They saw what they wanted to see. Unless they happened to have a military working dog at the gate who was trained to sniff out alcohol. But that hadn’t happened to date so Reza wasn’t overly concerned about it.

He sat in his truck and tossed back a shot of vodka straight up, trying to figure out how he was going to keep his temper in check, and felt like a fucking failure for tossing back another one. Marshall was probably having kittens because Reza had deliberately taken his time getting back to the company ops office.

Goddamn it. He’d finally broken. He’d been sober for months. All that hard work was fucking gone.

Just like Sloban.

He rubbed at his eyes with his thumb and his forefinger, then rested his elbow on the door, hoping he didn’t have to see the sergeant major before today was over. Giles would know in a heartbeat that Reza had been drinking and somehow, Reza figured it was safe to assume the old man wouldn’t stick his neck out to save Reza’s ass one more time. He wasn’t getting hammered. He just needed a little bit to take the edge off. He was fine.

Today was an exception if he’d ever seen one.

He’d get through the rest of the night then he’d sober up for tomorrow. He’d get back on track then.

Tonight? Tonight he needed the help.

His cell phone vibrated in his shoulder pocket. “So much for a moment of peace,” he mumbled. Frowning, he saw a text from Captain Claire Montoya.
Are you okay?

He smiled faintly. Trust the mother hen to check up on him.
I’m fine. Shit day at work.

His phone vibrated again.
Don’t lie to me. I heard about the shooting.

I’m fine. Gotta go brief Captain Asshole about it.

He supposed he should be glad that someone gave a shit about him enough to check up on him and in reality, he was. But there were things about him that Claire would never understand and that he’d never tell her. Personal angst and childhood trauma and blah blah bad memories blah.

He took another pull from the vodka to steel his nerves then slipped the flask beneath the driver’s seat.

The company operations was a madhouse. He pushed through the back door and came into absolute chaos. The company supply clerk was red-faced and pink-nosed. She’d been crying. Damn it, he wasn’t ready to deal with other people’s grief. Her eyes widened when he walked in and he glanced down.

Fuck. He still had blood on his uniform. That was not going to go over very well. Nothing said “triggering flashbacks” like walking around in a bloodstained uniform. Jesus, he was going to be the reason fifteen dudes lined up at the R&R Center for counseling after this.

He wondered if Captain Marshall had called the chaplain. You know, for people with legitimate grief issues. Or as Marshall liked to call them, candy pants, crybaby sissies.

The full weight of his own hypocrisy nailed him dead center. He’d said the same thing about Wisniak the other day.

He was cut from the same cloth as Marshall, apparently.

Guilt rose up to choke him.

“I don’t suppose that Captain Marshall would understand if I headed home to change first?” he asked the supply sergeant.

Pressing her lips together, she shook her head. “He’s pretty pissed right now, Sarn’t Ike.”

Reza sighed. “Figured as much.” Bracing for the reaction of his troopers and hating himself for not changing first, he walked through the company ops.

Silence fell over the ops personnel as soon as he pushed through the door that separated company supply from the main office. Foster was there, looking grim and harried, undoubtedly from Marshall’s demands.

“What the hell is taking Sarn’t Iaconelli so long to get here from R&R?” Marshall’s voice carried over the silence then faded as he realized he was the only one talking. It was another moment before he came out of the tiny closet that doubled as his office.

Marshall was six feet tall and believed himself to be bulletproof. His dirty blond hair was cut into a military high and tight and Reza was convinced that Teague was not far off the mark about his potty training happening at the end of a gun. Patience was not in the man’s vocabulary, as witnessed by his excessive use of the word “now.” And while Reza had him by about three inches and twenty pounds, Marshall was convinced he could go toe to toe with Reza.

“Sorry I took so long. Was busy trying to get the blood out of my uniform.”

Marshall’s gaze drifted down Reza’s body and back up. He fought the urge to cross his arms over his torso. Somehow, Reza didn’t think Marshall would appreciate his attempt at sarcasm, such as it was. “I need the rest of the information for an update to the initial Serious Incident Report.”

“I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

Reza was reasonably certain he saw smoke coming out of Marshall’s ears but he said nothing else. Instead he walked into the first sergeant’s office and slipped his ID card into the computer to log on. He clenched his fists as he waited for the computer to load, refusing to acknowledge the slight trembling in his hands.

He was fine. He’d been through worse shit than this. He just wanted to give Marshall the information he needed so he could go burn the blood-covered uniform and then get back to work.

A quiet rap on the door drew his attention from the blue computer screen. “What’s up, Foster?”

“Just wanted to give you an update. I called the chaplain already and he’s on his way down here as soon as he gets done with the battalion commander. And we’ve already pulled Sloban’s emergency data sheets for the brigade casualty affairs officer.”

Reza studied Foster closely, looking for any cracks in the man’s cool demeanor. His behavior was typical. Stay busy after something bad happened. Busy was easy. Busy meant not having to think about whatever bad thing had happened that day.

Busy kept your mind from drifting into dark, uncharted territory. But Foster showed no signs that he was doing anything other than his job. Then again, he’d never really gotten along with Sloban.

“Thanks Foster. That’s two things off my list of shit to do.”

“Yeah, well, I only did it to keep Marshall from stepping on your neck. He’s freaking out about Sloban. The man does not handle pressure well.”

Reza entered his password on the computer then glanced back up at Foster. “None of us should be taking this well,” he said quietly. “Thanks for keeping your cool. I’ll take it from here.”

Foster looked like he was about to say something but then snapped his mouth closed. After a moment more, he said, “You probably need to change your clothes, Sarn’t Ike. Especially if you’re going to stick around today.”

He glanced down at his ruined uniform. “Yeah.”

There was really nothing else to say.

The sun was still shining brightly through the office windows when Emily’s hands started shaking. The duty day had long ago ended and now the silence hung on, echoing down the empty hallways.

She sank into her cheap leather chair, following techniques she’d long ago started preaching to her clients. Breathing deeply through her nose, she didn’t fight the feeling. Rather, she let it take her. Let it fill her up and expand beyond her body. Her breath penetrated the panic, pushing away the lingering fear.

She folded her hands together in her lap and simply was.

Her fingers shook as the grief and the fear and the relentless memory replayed over and over and over.

She breathed deeply. Inhaled slowly, letting air fill her lungs. Praying for a calm that escaped her.

Reza. She wanted Reza. She wanted to check on him. To see how he was holding up.

To feel his arms around her. To lean on him. Just a little bit.

She had the sneaking suspicion that he’d been leaned on too much for too long. There was a reason he no longer drank. That much she was sure of.

And she wanted him. Wanted to be with him when the grief tore through her. Wanted to be there so he wouldn’t be alone. She closed her eyes and felt his big rough hands push her down once more, digging into her flesh, but when she tipped her chin to look into his ebony depths, the soft black emptiness looking back at her offered calm. Her breathing slowed as she gave herself over to the comfort of her fantasy.

Here was a man who didn’t ask for permission before he took. Who dominated simply by being in the room. She wanted to rest there in the shadow of his body. Wanted to feel the heat from his flesh penetrating hers.

She felt his hands on her hips again. Felt the gentle kiss of air as he stepped directly into the line of fire from Sloban’s weapon.

Her heart tightened at the mere thought of the weapon. Her lungs refused to cooperate. She tried to release the sensation, tried to let go of the stifling pain but nothing worked.

She closed her eyes, trying to think of what Reza would do. She rubbed her hands over her face. He probably didn’t have panic attacks. He’d handled the entire thing with little more than a shot of whatever had been in that coffee cup.

And that’s what worried her. The alcohol in that cup had been strong, stronger than anything she was used to. And as long as she’d known him, he’d been avoiding alcohol.

His hands hadn’t trembled. His voice hadn’t wavered. He’d been stoic and steady and calm. And he’d made her laugh during a time when, well, laughing didn’t really seem the thing to do. Psychologically, she realized that dark humor was a way to cope with a tragic situation. In reality, it felt both good and wrong all at once. It was a feeling she knew well, one she’d struggled to avoid in her life since joining the Army, getting as far away from the bad decisions as she could. But some habits were harder than others to break.

She glanced at her cell phone then flipped open a file on her desk. There in bold red ink was Reza’s phone number.

She could call him. She could pick up the phone and see how he was doing. It wouldn’t make her look desperate, right? Or like she was trolling for a hot and sweaty release in the Texas heat?

She’d just been through a crappy situation with him. It would be a completely innocuous phone call.

So if it was so innocent, why did she hesitate?

Sighing quietly, she threaded her fingers together, forcing herself to be still and
think
before she picked up the phone.

Somehow she’d come to depend on him in the short time she’d known him. He’d become somewhat of her Guide to Life in the Military, at least life outside the protected walls of her clinic. She’d wanted to escape the Ivory Tower she’d grown up in but instead, she’d merely traded one for another.

The clinic was just as sheltered as her home had been. She clenched the pen in her hands, flicking the cap on and off. She was not going to let others rule her life. If she wanted to call Reza, damn it, she was going to call Reza.

Except she didn’t pick up the phone. She wondered if it would be better to simply go to his place. She could find his address easily enough. It would be a violation of her ethics but still. A few strokes on her keyboard and she could know everything about him.

But right then? She just wanted to know where he lived.

Because she was a coward who couldn’t pick up the phone.

There was no guarantee this would end up the way she wanted it to. There were no promises that he would even answer the phone, let alone open his door to her. Wouldn’t it be better to simply let him go? Let him fade into a really great memory? Except she was tired of letting others make her decisions for her. Tired of hearing her mother’s voice in her head every time she colored outside the lines, threatening to disown her if she didn’t return home.

She could spend the rest of her life wondering what if. Because she was really good at what if-ing a situation to death. She glanced at her cell phone. At the computer where she could easily look up his address.

Or she could make her own decision for once and ask for what she needed from a big sergeant with strong hands and a good heart.

She dropped the pen onto her desk.

Unclenched her fingers.

And made her choice.

Reza walked into his house long after the sun had already set. His mouth was dry, his nerves shot to hell. His hand shook as he reached into the fridge and pulled out a can of Steel Reserve. He’d gotten through the day with the rest of the pint that morning. A second pint of vodka in his Red Bull at lunch.

He was comfortably numb but not nearly drunk enough.

He wanted to pass out. To fall into sleep and wake up some time tomorrow and find out that the miserable shit day had all been just a bad dream.

But the day had been slowly closing in on him as he’d finished up the endless reports and phone calls. Slowly the pressure had started crushing the air from his lungs and chasing any daylight from his soul. He sank into the ten-year-old couch that he’d been carting around since he was a private at Fort Stewart and kicked his feet up on the beat-up coffee table.