Chaos (Havoc Series Book Two) (13 page)

“Are you even American?”

“Oddly enough, yes,” the blond nut job smiles
widely. “My father is American, my mother is French.” This explains
why he looks like punk bitch momma’s boy. And makes such terrible
food choices like the rotting salad in front of him. “Being in the
army-”

“Marines-”

“Hasn't left you two much time to really get
to know each other hmm?” the question is meant to piss me off. I
can see it in his smug look. My fist starts flexing, itching to
grab him by his blond hair and bang him head first into the table
repeatedly. Each blow to be even more painful than the last. But I
already snapped in his direction once. I already embarrassed Haven.
I can't do it again. I can let this French Fucktard win again. “How
long were you together before you left?”

“Couple of months,” Haven answers with a
shrug.

“Long enough.” I establish with a grunt and
then a bite of my burger.

“Things change...” his eyes lower to Haven's
as she dips a fried pickle into ranch. I watch her suck the
remaining dressing off, a brief reminder of how much I love when
her mouth opens that way. And only for me in
that
way.

“And they stay the same.”

“People change.”

“And sometimes they don't.”

“What's with the third degree, Michele?”
Mandy pipes in her voice breaking my concentration on restraining
myself. “Why do I suddenly feel like he's doing an interview with
Dateline?”

Her joke forces a giggle out of Haven and a
small chuckle out of me, relieving the pressure building up. I
swear she's like a female version of Glove at times. Her mannerism.
Her jokes. Hell even the way she seems to check out every guy
within a two mile radius with a pulse.

“Just making conversation.”

“Yeah like a reporter wearing a wire. How
about you give that shit a break?” Mandy licks the mustard that
dripped from her burger off her finger.

Reluctant but not willing to push it he stabs
his salad. “I was just trying to get to know the guy, but
fine.”

“Yeah like he's in a damn interrogation
room.” she snaps at him again. I like her. I like her even more
than I did when she bruised Glove's ego. “Let's change the
conversation to something more livelily, shall we?”

“Like what?” Haven chimes in like she's
oblivious to what her so called friend just tried to do.

“How about we talk about that movie we saw
earlier this week! Brain Lovers 2... Can. Not. Wait. For. The.
Sequel!” Her excitement over a c class horror movie in a way
reminds me again of Glove. He has a similar obsession with poorly
acted over gory movies. They could be fucking twins.

“Oh yeah!” Haven squeaks. I didn't even know
she liked scary movies. In fact when I left, she wasn't big into
movies at all. She was always emerged in a book. “Brain Lovers 2,
definitely up there on my all-time favorites list of scary movies!”
How many has she seen?

“Oh! And the part with the scarecrow.”
Michele tosses in.

“I was so scared!” Haven giggles before
taking another bite of her burger.

“I remember. That's the part where you had to
bury your head on my shoulder.” Hearing that forces me to push my
plate away. She did what? She touched this slimy bastard? He was
protecting my girlfriend? Touching her? Seeing that he successful
rattled me once more he picks up his martini glass and looks at me.
“You've seen it right, Kurt?”

“Clint,” I correct him sternly. I know what
the bastard is up to. He's misspeaking my name on purpose.
Pretending he doesn't know what I do. Making it so I am on the
outside. The stranger. The unwanted guest. Making me look like some
raging psychopath who doesn't have his shit together. Who doesn't
belong with civilians? Who can't go a meal without trying to
destroy something .Making it so I don't belong. Fuck him because
it's working. “And no.”

“How could you have not—oh—I guess being out
in the field has many drawbacks, huh?”

Stay calm, Marine.
Do not hit him. Do.
Not. Hit. Him. “Some.”

His eyes focus back on Haven who is dusting
crumbs off the top of her chest, “Some...in...deed...”

This asshole is completely in love with my
girlfriend! Every chance he gets, he's doing everything he can to
prove that I'm not worthy. That I'm old news. That the better man
is at the fucking table. There's an unfamiliar stabbing at my
chest. My stomach knots harshly. My ribs seems to feel like they
are breaking, destroying my last breath in the process. I've felt
jealousy. I've dealt with unwanted scum hitting on my girlfriend.
But this? This is an obvious enemy masquerading behind the home
front. This is keep your friends close and your enemies closer.
This is my new terrorist.

The ride home I don't say much. The amount of
anger inside me in unreal. All I can picture is that French Frat
Fuckers pretty boy face. His smug smirk. His snarky laugh. The way
he leans his face forward every time he says something to Haven. My
hands grip the wheel tighter. I need to hit something.

“You alright?” Haven sweetly asks prying her
eyes up from her cell phone.

When did she become addicted to texting?

“Fine.”

“You don't seem fine,” she hums out, putting
her phone down in her lap.

No shit. Of course I don't
seem
fine.
I just spent the last hour and half listening to one of your new
'friends' throw himself at you and is a dick to me. I grip the
wheel until my knuckles turn white. Why won't this fucking light
change?

“Fine, Haven.”

The light becomes green and I press my foot
on the gas thankful we aren't far from home. It's probably not safe
with me on the road feeling this way. Within the next five minutes,
I'm pulling into the driveway and unbuckling thankful to be
somewhere I can get a minute to think. To breathe. To be alone. I
just need space
away
from Haven. Not something I honestly
thought I'd ever want.

Before I get out of the car she grabs my arm.
“Baby, talk to me...”

I clutch the door handle and put on my steel
face. No emotions to be read. “I'm fine.”

“You're not fine, Clint.”

“I'm fine, Haven. Can you please just drop
it?”

“No. Talk to me.”

“I told you. I'm fine.”

“You're not fine, Clint.”

“I won't be if you don't let it go.” My tone
is sharp. Immediately she lets go of my arm like I burned her. Damn
it. This wasn't my intention. I don't wanna fight with her. I
just...I just can't handle the chaos that my life is quickly
creating. Not now. I just need a damn minute.

“Fine,” she sighs and climbs out of the
car.

I open the front door for the two of us and
as soon as it shuts she starts up again.

“I'm gonna start dinner. When you're ready to
stop pouting like a small child and talk to me, I'll be in the
kitchen.” And just like that she leaves my sight.

Fuck! I need to go for a run. Or hit
something. I can't go to the gym. I barely made it home. I was so
pissed off I couldn't see straight. Rushing up the stairs I change
into a pair of sweats and drop to the floor in hopes of relieving
some pressure. I start with crunches for a burn. Then sit ups. And
when that burn is not enough I flip over and start with the
pushups. Then one handed. The entire time I can hear Haven's voice
ringing in my ears.
When you're ready to stop pouting like a
small child.
Since when does she talk to me like that? Where's
my sweet angel who was frightened if she looked at me the wrong way
it was the end of the world? I didn't really like her scared. But I
don't really like her treating me like this either. Fuck. My body
stops mid motion. I need something else.

I go to grab my running shoes when I remember
that I got a new gift in the garage. Perfect. I can hit something
and not spend the night in jail with dad looking at me with an 'I
told you so' face. He already bailed me out of one mess; I won't
put him in another. My feet hit the stairs so quickly it barely
registers when I hit the bottom. I hook a hard right and head for
my present. I look around on the work out shed where I see exactly
what I need. Tape for my knuckles. I quickly wrap them and place
myself in front of the punching bag.

With a heavy hit, an immediate sting pours
through my knuckles and cuts right into the center of me. It feels
fantastic. I hit again. The release I was looking for breaking
through. Thank God. Being wound up so fucking tight was going to
cause me to pop. The problems from the day start flooding back at
me as I start weaving around the swinging bag. Why didn't I know
Haven couldn't wear her tags all the time? Why didn't I know she
liked fried pickles? Or the fact she needed a graduation dress? Or
that she's having trouble in class? Why don't I feel like I'm part
of her life anymore? Yeah, most of that shits trivial, but trivial
shit matters. When it comes to her, everything matters. And when
did she start talking to me like that? Like I'm some sort of an
asshole? Hit. Hit. Jab. Hard hit. And how the fuck doesn't she
realize that the little French Mistake is actually a huge problem?
Hit. How often has he made a pass at her? Jab. Right hook. Left
hook. And how often hasn't she noticed? Or what if she has? Hard
hit. What if she likes it? My fists start wailing into the bag,
bruising on the knuckles most likely in the near future.

The door that leads to the garage opens and I
stop, out of breath to view my intruder.

“You alright, son?” He shuts the door behind
him.

Not in the mood to throw out anything my
brain just threw up I sigh, “Fine, Dad.”

He nods knowing a lie when it comes out of my
mouth. He should. It's not something I've done very often. Never a
reason too. “I see you've taken a liking to your bag.”

“It does a Marine good, sir.”

I turn back to the bag and return to hitting
it. Not so hard. But with as much energy nonetheless.

“I can assume by the way Haven's chopping
vegetables and you're punching this thing that you met Michele
today.”

My hand strikes the bag hard with two quick
punches before turning to face him, “You've met him?”

“A couple times.”

“So you knew all along that some other guy
was trying to fill my space while I was away?” the accusation takes
him back for a moment.

“Tone.” he points to me putting me back in my
place. “I've met the guy. Assessed him. He seemed of no harm. No
threat. Always a gentleman. Always respectful.” Of course he would
be. In front of Haven, he's down right Mr. Fucking Perfect. I
resist the urge to take another swing at the bag. “Otherwise, I
wouldn't have let him come over.”

“He was here?!” my voice rises and I watch as
dad's eyes widen. “Why the hell did you let him in this house?”

“Haven needed help with something--”

“Mindy is a goddamn chef for crying out
loud!”

Dad approaches me with a stern finger pointed
at me again. “That's twice you've lost your tone with me. Do. Not.
Make. It. A. Third.” My lips press together shut. “I'm well aware
of what Mindy is. And what she's capable of. But Haven invited him.
She lives here. Her guests are welcomed here--” I open my mouth to
object when his eyes cut into me, forcing it shut, “whether you
like it or not. Now I tried to warn you things have changed. And I
meant it, Slugger. You're gonna be using this bag a lot more
especially if you choose not to deal with your issues.” My body
leans against the bench. Arms folded across my chest. “You want
this to work with Haven? You're gonna have to learn to communicate.
That's
what adults do.” The previous conversation floods
back at me from the last time Haven and I had a large disagreement.
What do you know? It was over another rich brat trying to have his
way with her. She told me to trust her and I do. It's them I don't
fucking trust. “Now wash up. Dinner's almost ready.”

He leaves me alone to undress my hands from
the tape. Slowly I unwrap them the pain throbbing in a relieving
way. It feels good to have relief. Even if it's only temporary.

I toss the tape, wash my hands, and meet dad
at the bar table for dinner. Haven places a container full of fresh
spring salad mix in front of us both, then some sort of sautéed
chicken with rice and a cream sauce, along with a bowl of fresh
fruit.

Passing the plates as she sits dad smiles.
“Looks wonderful.”

“Thank you.” she smiles back at him taking a
plate.

“Looks great, angel.”

“Hm,” her hum at me is followed by her
shoving the plate at me.

She's pissed. Great. Just add that to the
list of things that have made today the worst fucking Friday ever.
Everyone silently adds a little to their plates and dad tries to
lighten the conversation, asking Haven about school, avoiding
anything to do with Michele, and she asks about some woman he's
seeing named Martha. I merely listen on like a stranger at the
table. Almost like I don't exist. Almost like I'm merely watching
them in their happy home.

Haven asks, “And she just lets her son talk
to her like that?”

“That's what I wanted to say.” Sir agrees
chewing on some chicken. “But it's not my place.”

“But if you two are serious--”

“Which I don't think we are.” Sir corrects
her.

The conversation continues but returns to
non-existent for me. I have no idea what they're talking about. I
have no idea if it fucking matters or not. I've been home a few
days and this is the first I am hearing about this woman. Hell.
This is the first I am hearing about a lot things today. The
realization I don't even belong at my own dinner table sinks my
appetite harshly. Fuck. I need a shower.

“If you two will excuse me.” I stand plate
still covered with more than a sufficient amount of food.

“You're not gonna eat?” Haven asks in a
shocked gentle voice.