All for You (23 page)

Reza leaned forward and took a pull off his coffee, staring off into space. “Do you ever think we’re not fighting the good fight anymore?”

Evan tossed his pen onto the table and leaned back. “Every day I question what I’m doing, brother. Every day.” Evan studied him quietly for a moment. “You thinking of hanging it up?”

Reza lifted a shoulder and dropped it. “Not much out there by way of jobs for a washed-out infantryman unless I want to go mercenary. I kind of like that whole food on the table thing.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit. You know where I think you’d be great?” Reza lifted both eyebrows, waiting. “Middle school gym teacher.”

Reza choked on his coffee, coughing roughly. “Where the fuck did you come up with that good idea fairy?”

Evan grinned. “You’ve got the kind of personality that people look up to. Think of the difference you could make in a little kid’s life before they end up all fucked up by their parents.”

“Yeah, cause I’m such a great fucking mentor.” The tattoos on his arms ached with failure.

“Just saying. It’s a lot like what you do now except you’d be teaching kids how to hit a ball or make a basket instead of kicking in doors. You know, if you were serious about getting out.”

Reza frowned. “Yeah, well, thanks; but there aren’t a whole lot of soccer moms who would be comfortable with a man like me teaching their kids to play ball.”

“You’d be surprised. People look at the uniform and see the shiny hero, not the mud, blood and tears that go along with it sometimes.”

Reza said nothing as he stood. The idea of him wearing bad shorts and a whistle to work was beyond insane. He’d go crazy without the constant stress and strain of army life. It might take everything he had some days to get up and go to work but it was all he knew, all he’d ever done.

His upper arm itched and he rubbed it absently. The idea of hanging up his career in the middle of the war felt like…treason. Worse, cowardice. What kind of soldier would he be if he cut and run while his boys headed back into combat without him? He’d survived so long and so much crazy shit, going back downrange felt like the only way to thank the fates that had kept him alive for so long.

It felt like a sin not to prepare soldiers the best way he knew how.

He crossed the quad toward his company operations office, not really wanting to deal with Marshall. Then again, there was never a good time to deal with Marshall but today was going to be particularly bad when Marshall found out about the memorial. And he would find out.

Reza had passed the point of caring. He walked into his office and turned on his computer. Temptation beckoned to him from his desk drawer. He held the bottle in his hands, twisting the cap off and on until his hands no longer shook as he logged onto his e-mail and skimmed for anything important.

He could do this. On. Off. On. Off.

Three e-mails but the most important one was from Giles asking about Wisniak. He fired off the update and included that he’d finished his interview with Evan. He didn’t expect a response from Sergeant Major Giles and he received none.

Reza was getting ready to face the most aggravating part of his duty day when Teague walked in. Reza was instantly on edge. Teague hadn’t shaved and looked like he’d been up a hell of a lot longer than Reza. “What happened?”

“Nothing. Foster and I were up commiserating last night.

“You look like you were doing a lot more than commiserating. What was the occasion?”

“Two years since the firefight where we lost Deek and Bo.”

Reza sat back in his chair, his heart twisting with the memories the names inspired. Lieutenant Deek Merreck and Sergeant Dave Bonamie. “They were good dudes.”

Teague scoffed quietly. “Does anyone ever say, ‘man, they were such fuckheads’?”

Reza didn’t laugh. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to hold up for another trip down memory lane. He was keeping things together by a strand of five-fifty cord and hundred-mile-an-hour tape as it was. “No, I suppose not.”

They sat together in silence for a long time. There were no words that could put the myriad of feelings churning inside him to voice. There was no need, either.

The silence of shared experience said enough.

After a long while, Reza glanced at his watch.

“Ready for the memorial ceremony?” he said, looking at Teague. They’d pulled it together in record time—less than 24 hours. It would be small but the people that mattered to Sloban in life would be there to commemorate his death.

It was the right thing to do.

It still sucked.

“Are we ever ready for those?” Teague asked quietly.

“No,” Reza said softly. “I suppose not.”

“Specialist Sloban?” Reza’s voice did not break as he called the roll. A small crowd of soldiers from across the Reaper brigade surrounded the ramp of the Bradley.

These were men who remembered Sloban from before he’d begun his descent into drugs. There were still a few of them around and willing to brave the shit storm of disobeying an order.

Reza couldn’t have been more proud.

He owed Teague a beer after this. Marshall was likely to have kittens if he knew that they were having a ceremony for Sloban but Reza didn’t rightly care.

“Specialist Neal Sloban.” His voice rang out across the silent crowd. Heads were bowed. More than one battle-hardened infantryman wiped his eyes.

Silence greeted Reza’s call once more.

A third time, his voice rang out.

“Specialist Neal H. Sloban.”

Reza turned and saluted Teague. “Sir, Specialist Sloban out of ranks.”

His voice cracked. Teague returned Reza’s salute then motioned for him to come up onto the ramp. The ceremony was less formal than one conducted by a chaplain. By rights, Captain Marshall, not Teague, should have officiated.

Sadly, Marshall wasn’t alone among those who were of the mind that suicide was an act of cowardice that did not deserve to be memorialized.

Reza counted himself lucky that he served with men of character, even if he was not such a man himself. He rubbed his hands against his sides as he climbed the ramp. Facing the crowd, he recognized men from his old platoon. Familiar faces like Shane Garrison and his pain in the ass sidekick Vic Carponti. Teague and Foster stood at the edge of the crowd. Foster didn’t look like he was holding up too well. He was either hung over or still drunk and Teague—while he was putting on a good show—didn’t look like he was doing much better.

But this was important. The most important thing Reza would do today.

“We’re here today because one of us has fallen.” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat roughly. “We lost a brother by his own hand.” Reza paused. “And that pisses me off.”

All eyes lifted as one.

“Sloban was a good kid. A brave warrior. But those of us who knew him best failed him. None of us knew how badly he was hurting. None of us took the time to make sure he was okay. We failed him.” He rubbed his hand over his mouth. “We’re not supposed to be here right now. Some of our leaders think we should pretend those who die by their own hand do not deserve the honor of a memorial ceremony. But we’re here because we know better.” He swallowed a lump blocking his throat. More than once. “We’re here because we know that all of us have come home different. Maybe not as broken as Sloban was. But different. Changed.” He paused. “I’m tired of losing our brothers to an enemy we can’t see. I’m tired of saying good-bye to friends who made it through the war only to come home and face a different battle alone.” His eyes filled and he blinked the tears back. There were nodding heads in the crowd and still he kept going. Unwilling to break down in front of the boys. “I want you to look at the man next to you.” Awkward shifts in the crowd but no one moved. “Do it. Look the warrior next to you in the eye. Tell him you’ve got his back.” At the edge of the crowd, he saw Teague rest his hand on Foster’s shoulder. “I don’t want to do this anymore,” he said. His voice barely carried over the small group. “We can’t rest. We can’t stop. We’ve got to do better.” He paused. “Our soldiers deserve better.”

Reza stepped off the ramp. A hand clapped him on the shoulder. A gesture of sympathy. He swallowed roughly as Teague called for anyone who wanted to speak. A few soldiers stepped up, sharing their favorite memories of Sloban before the war had done something to the fun kid they’d all known.

“What’s the fuck is going on here?” Someone jabbed him hard in the shoulder.

Reza turned slowly, yanking on his emotions. Marshall. Who else?

Reza wasn’t in the mood to deal with his commander. Not at all.

“What’s it look like?” Reza said, offering a salute that was ignored. He dropped his hand.

“I thought I said no memorial ceremony.” Marshall looked ready to explode.

“No, you said you wouldn’t do a memorial ceremony. We decided to do one anyway.” Reza felt someone come to stand behind him. He hoped it wasn’t Teague. In his present condition, Teague looked ready to battle and Marshall was a likely candidate for an ass whooping.

“This borders on mutiny,” Marshall growled.

“Do you know how to spell mutiny?” This from Teague behind him.

Great.

Reza flexed his hands and widened his stance.

“Go fuck yourself, Teague,” Marshall said. “If you were a real infantryman, you’d have already commanded instead of hiding out on the staff.”

“Maybe there are limits to how many hairy asses I’ll kiss to make major. Feel free to continue for the both of us, though,” Teague said. There was no humor in his voice.

“You’re in charge of this ceremony?” Marshall said to Reza.

Reza lifted his chin and said nothing.

“You’re fucking pathetic, Iaconelli,” Marshall spat. “Sloban died because of you and you’re going to stand here and get all weepy and teary-eyed?” Marshall dragged one finger beneath his eye. “You’re a goddamned disgrace to the NCO Corps.”

Reza didn’t think.

His fist connected with Marshall’s jaw before he’d even realized he’d moved. Marshall caught him with a vicious left hook and the brawl was on. Teague tackled Marshall and even though Marshall had a good thirty pounds on him, Teague was willing to fight dirty. Reza got a couple of good shots in on Marshall before someone dragged him off.

Garrison. He should have known the fucking Boy Scout would break up the fight.

“Fucking stop, Ike.” Garrison shoved him back as Carponti yanked Marshall off. “Calm your ass down before you get court-martialed.”

“You messed up your hair,” Carponti said to Marshall. But despite the smart-ass comment, Carponti looked pissed and ready to fight. Reza took a single step backward.

Marshall wiped his lip then spat onto the concrete before he tried to take one last shot at Teague, who blew him a kiss. Foster knocked Teague back a step. “Cut the shit. Sir.”

Garrison broke the crowd up, effectively ending the memorial ceremony. Reza tried to melt into the crowd, not really interested in hearing Garrison’s lecture.

“You need to fucking stop, Ike.”

Reza hung his head, clenching his fists at his sides. Garrison had always been a Boy scout. Maybe that’s why he grated on Reza’s last nerve.

“I’m not really in the mood to listen to your preaching, Garrison.”

“I’m pretty sure I don’t give a shit.” Garrison stepped in front of him, forcing Reza to either take a step back or stand his ground.

He stood his ground.

“You need to stop drinking. You need to pull your shit together. Sergeant Major can’t protect you forever and you might have just cashed in your last favor with this little fiasco.”

“I’m really not interested in your opinion. And for the record, I’m not drinking. So stick that in your pipe and smoke it.”

“Do you realize what you just did? You gave that asshole a way to throw your ass out of the army. You’re a hell of a good infantryman. You’ve got more combat time than most of the leaders in this entire brigade. But none of that is going to mean jack shit if you get yourself court-martialed over some stupid captain running his mouth.” Garrison did something Reza didn’t expect. He gripped Reza’s shoulder.

It took everything Reza had not to pull away.

“I’ve heard all of this before. I’ve got things under control,” Reza said.

“Punching your company commander is your idea of control? How much did you have to drink before you came to work today, Ike?” Reza frowned, but Garrison continued. “There are a lot of people who would move heaven and earth to protect you but you’re out of favors this time. You have to get sober.”

He yanked away. “Fuck you, Garrison. I told you, I’m fucking sober.”

He heard the echo of another conversation. Another friend, worried about him.

Reza took a step backward, shaking his head. “I’m not drinking but shit, but I might as well.”

Garrison refused to relent. “Maybe you’re not but you’re still not one hundred percent. There are too many people who care about you for you to keep doing stupid stuff like this.” Garrison walked off, leaving Reza alone in the motor pool.

Hitting Marshall had felt good, damn good, and long overdue. But regret throbbed in his veins now that the adrenaline from the fight had worn off.

Garrison was right.

He’d just given Marshall a way to end his career.

He’d managed to stay sober. Mostly. And he’d fucked up.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. Sarn’t Major Giles needed him in his office.

The bitter irony rose up to choke him.

What was the point in staying sober when all he did was fuck things up anyway?

G
oddamn it Iaconelli, I’m fucking through with you.”

“Sergeant Major.” Colonel Horace’s voice had been calm. Dead calm.

There had been no emotion in his eyes at all when he’d handed Reza the paperwork advising him of his rights.

Reza twisted the cap off the bottle and slammed back another drink. So this was what falling off the wagon felt like. Again. Shame threatened to choke him each time Reza swallowed another hard bite of liquor. Officers tended to frown on assault. He grimaced down at the bottle held loosely in one hand, then stared at the form on his beat-up coffee table.

He hadn’t gone in to work. He’d thought about going out. Thought about calling up Teague and Foster and going out to wreck the town. But he was sober enough not to want to drag them down with him.

He kicked his feet up on the table and tossed back another pull from the bottle.

“I’m not going to make any decisions tonight, Sergeant Iaconelli.”

Fuck, the memories were in fine form tonight. He’d heard those words before. A different officer. The same disappointment. Three of his soldiers had died on the Thunder Run to Baghdad almost six years ago. The mission where he’d run out of ammo and water and waited for Claire to come and bail his happy ass out of a hot spot. The first of many rescues.

His commander had threatened to relieve him then, too. In the middle of the fight for Baghdad, Reza had been read his rights.

Man, Claire would kill him if she saw him tonight. He’d thought he could beat the alcohol all by himself. Tonight, when Colonel Horace had handed him his paperwork, he realized he was a fool for even trying. He fucked up fewer things when he was drunk.

Things didn’t hurt as bad when he was drinking.

If he closed his eyes, the green haze of looking out through his night vision goggles danced across his vision. Countless faces looked back at him.

He took another drink. Maybe rehab wasn’t such a bad idea if he was seeing shit while he was awake. Nightmares were one thing. Hallucinations? Yeah, that wasn’t fucking cool.

He held up the bottle. The clear liquid glittered from the single light in the kitchen. Two thirds of the half-gallon were already gone.

Fuck. Why couldn’t he just go to sleep and wake up Monday morning and face his fucking sentence? Office call first thing Monday morning. Because the brigade commander wasn’t going to make a decision while he was still furious.

Someone beat on the door.

He took a long drink, wondering if he’d locked the door behind him or not. Teague would just walk in.

The knocking came again, louder this time.

He closed his eyes, seeing the field of eerie green darkness. He opened them right back up again at the sound of more knocking.

“Fuck,” he mumbled, staggering to the door. He wrenched it open. It hadn’t been locked.

Emily stood on the other side.

He was always surprised by how different she looked in civilian clothes. A simple black long-sleeved t-shirt hugged her curves. Dark jeans that made him want to peel them down her hips. She looked elegant and put together.

She looked pissed off and ready to fight. A small frown gathered between her eyebrows as she took him in.

He held on to the door to keep from swaying.

“Obviously, you’re having a crappy night,” she said by way of greeting. She didn’t come in.

“I’m not fit company tonight.”

“I think we’ve had this conversation before. The one where you’re drunk and I’m an idiot for being here.” She folded her arms over her chest. “I’d like to skip it if it’s all the same to you. Right now, I’d like to make sure you don’t die in a pool of your own vomit.”

“I thought you were supposed to be looking for romance. Telling the hero you hope he doesn’t die in a pool of his own vomit isn’t exactly romantic.”

“Yeah, well, romance isn’t always hearts and flowers. Sometimes, it’s hard work.” She looked pissed, he decided, not just mildly irritated.

“So we’re having a romance?” He leaned against the door, something warm unfurling inside of him at the sight of her. Maybe he wouldn’t have to spend tonight alone after all.

“I don’t know what this is, Reza,” she said, her voice wavering. “But I’m worried about you.”

There it was. That tiny note of concern that broke a little piece of his heart. “You shouldn’t waste your time. I’ve been drinking since before you were born.”

“Now you’re just being an ass. I’m not that much younger than you are.” She shifted and folded her arms over her chest. “Can I come in?”

“No.”

She flinched at that single word. He hurt her. Good. He couldn’t deal with her tonight, no matter how well intentioned she might be.

He closed his eyes, willing her to turn around and walk away and let him drown his sorrows by himself. It was all he was good at.

He’d tried to do the right thing. He’d tried to make sure one of their boys was honored the right way.

Turned out, no one cared about doing the right thing. He still didn’t want her here. He wanted to get drunk and pass out and piss away his last weekend of his military career. It was over.

Because if she stayed, she might see the worst of him. The side of him he’d hidden away from everyone he’d ever cared about. There was a reason he’d never gotten attached but now this stubborn woman who’d run from the good life to join the army threatened to get behind the barriers he’d held in place through sheer orneriness.

And what an inglorious end his career had come to. No more war. No more retirement.

Just a whimper at the end.

Emily took a single step toward him, closing the distance between them. She lifted her hand, placing it over his heart. Her skin was warm, strong. She was tougher than she looked. He realized that now.

“Too bad,” she said softly. She lifted her chin, pressing her lips to the corner of his mouth. “I’m not leaving you alone.”

He had no intention of letting her in. She saw that clearly from the moment he’d opened the door.

Emily considered her options as she stood in his doorway, her palm burning where she touched him. She knew about addiction.

Right now, none of that mattered. What mattered was Reza was hurting. She’d never seen him as broken as he looked right now. He was a man who radiated strength, who was power and confidence.

And tonight, she caught a glimpse of the man he tried so hard to hide from her. More and more of the pieces fell into place, revealing a complicated man who hid so much more from the world than she’d ever realized.

All the pamphlets, all the research said she was supposed to force him to choose: his addiction or her. She was supposed to walk away and leave him, cutting him out of her life if necessary.

She knew about cutting people out of her life. She’d done so before and had no qualms about doing it. But the sudden thought of her life without Reza?

They weren’t going to have that conversation tonight. Not if she could help it.

And what if he chose the bottle instead? What if he wasn’t willing to give up the vice he turned to every time the world went to hell around him?

She couldn’t live like that. And she couldn’t stand there and watch him slowly kill himself either.

Her throat tightened. No, her life would no longer be the same if Reza Iaconelli wasn’t in it. But drunk or not, she couldn’t leave him alone tonight. Maybe that said more about her own personal weakness than it did about his.

Reza was worth fighting for.

“Let me in?” She hesitated. “Please.”

Reza sighed hard, lifting his hands to scrub his eyes with the bottle still gripped in his hand. “Fuck it.”

He turned and staggered back to the couch, sinking down into it and kicking his feet up on the coffee table, bottle cradled between his thighs.

Emily followed him in, closing and locking the door. He held the bottle out toward her. She shook her head. She wasn’t there for shots. She settled on water and curled into the other end of the couch.

Silence was heavy and thick between them. Beneath his unspoken anger, his pain was a palpable thing.

“So what happened?” she finally asked.

“Beat up my company commander yesterday. Got my ass handed to me last night by my brigade commander. Pissed off the one sarn’t major who still believed in me by disobeying a lawful order from a commissioned officer.” He raised the bottle. “Typical day at the office.”

“Why would the sergeant major be mad about that?”

Reza said nothing, refusing to look at her as he took another pull from the bottle. “You’re fucking adorable, you know that? You say sergeant major. Like the full word. Everyone else who has been in the army for more than a day says ‘sarn’t major.’ Not you.”

“And your point is?”

He leaned forward in a rush of energy, slamming the bottle on the coffee table before he twisted and faced her. “My point is that you have no idea what life is like in the brigade combat teams. The commanders and the sarn’t majors are the be all and end all. If Sarn’t Major Giles told me to pick up his dry cleaning, I’d do it. If he told me to take his daughter to the prom, I’d do it. And enlisted men don’t disobey orders. And we damn sure don’t beat the hell out of the men giving them.”

“These people aren’t God, Reza.”

He sneered angrily. “You don’t understand the power a brigade commander or a sarn’t major wields. They can save your life or ruin it. All with a word. One order. One directive.” He snatched the bottle back up from the coffee table and sank back into his corner of the couch.

“Why do I think you’re not talking about Colonel Horace?” she whispered, fear slithering up her spine.

“Maybe I am.”

“And maybe you’re not. What did Captain Marshall do to make you hit him?”

Silence greeted her question. It hung between them, heavy and filled with a thousand unspoken words.

It was a long time before Reza spoke.

“Marshall is just like his boss. Just a kiss-ass officer trying to make his own report card look good so he can get promoted and turn around and have someone kiss his ass. It’s how it works.”

“There are good officers out there. I’ve met some of them.”

Reza snorted. “You know who the good guys are? Guys like Teague. He’s a smart-ass who will tell you straight up that a plan is stupid. He won’t get promoted because of it. He can’t get a company to command because he hasn’t kissed the right ass. He went on the line for us yesterday so we could have the memorial for Sloban.” He pointed toward her with the bottle. “You think you know how the army works. You only know how you
think
it works.”

“I know how it’s
supposed
to work,” she whispered.

“And it doesn’t work anything like that.” Another pull from the bottle. He said nothing for a long moment. An impossible silence hung between them as a thousand emotions rushed across his face.

“I fucked up, Emily. Sloban is dead. Wisniak is in the hospital. Marshall is under investigation.” He took a long pull off the bottle. “My career is over. Maybe it should be.”

Emily scooted across the couch, sitting by his side. He kept his face covered. He didn’t acknowledge that she now sat shoulder to shoulder with him.

“They’re throwing me out of the army,” he whispered.

When he looked at her, his eyes were red and heavy lidded, his face flushed.

He hadn’t meant to say that. And the vodka had lost its appeal.

Her hand slid up his back and stopped on his shoulder. She rested her cheek against him. No questions. No nagging. He expected them. But she said nothing.

She simply sat with him.

And in doing just that one simple act, she broke him.

“Ah fuck, Emily. Why couldn’t you just go?”

“I wouldn’t be much of a friend then, would I?”

He shifted to look at her. There was worry on her face. Worry, but no judgment. “Is that what this is, then?”

“Maybe we should stop asking what this is and just accept that I’m here right now. Despite you being an ass.” She smiled weakly.

He wanted to reach for her but his bones were frozen. His body refused to obey the want pulsing through him. Because he knew he was going to screw this up, too. It was only a question of how much he was going to hurt her. “Maybe that’s more than anyone has ever done for me.”

She nuzzled her cheek against his palm. “That’s really sad, Reza.”

He shook his head. “Not really.” A slight frown but she didn’t pull away. “I’m not cut out for the role of significant other.”

“So you keep saying,” she said. “But you were doing well enough. Until tonight, anyway.”

“By getting half lit and pouring out my soul?”

“Consider it a bonding experience,” she said lightly.

The words he needed were there, just there. Everything. The violence of his father. His fear until he was big enough to take the man on. The pain of the beating when he realized he had to be bigger and stronger to beat the monster inside his dad. He wanted to tell her how the war had made him a man, a man he thought would do the right thing. The nightmares. The death.

A man who turned away from others’ demons because his own were too fucking much to deal with. Wisniak deserved his support. Instead, Reza had stood silently by while the younger man broke. He’d never really thought about things from Wisniak’s point of view. That the kid had wanted so badly to be a soldier, to not think of himself as a fuckup anymore.

Reza knew that kid. Because he’d been that kid, once upon a time.

And Reza had done nothing,
nothing
, to help him.

Blame and shame and guilt and fear twisted a furious, wild riot inside him.

And the words were stuck in his throat.

He wanted to lay it all out there for her, all the crazy, all the rage and the hate and the madness that threatened to smother him. But it was too much to ask of one person.

He looked away from the compassion in Emily’s eyes. It was too bright. He was selfish enough to want to keep her near him so that maybe, just maybe, he could sleep. Which was a completely bullshit fantasy. There wasn’t some magic formula that would keep the nightmares at bay. Hell, there wasn’t enough alcohol or pills that could keep the nightmares at bay.