Hell Bent (2 page)

We reached the point where we lived in opposite directions.

“What’s your name?” the ninny asked.

I figured I owed her that much. “My friends call me Susie,” I said and waited for what I knew was coming next.

“Can I call you Susie?” she asked, just as I’d expected.

“I guess,” I allowed grudgingly. “Are you gonna tell?” I demanded.

She crossed her heart and said, “No, cross my heart, hope to die.”

“You tell, and that will come true,” I growled, and she looked appropriately intimidated.

J
ust like in Casablanca
, that was the beginning of a beautiful friendship—between me and Milly. We’re both twenty-two now, and both nurses. Somewhere along the way, I forgot she was a ninny, and she overlooked the truth that my family lived quite meagerly compared to hers. She never brought up that her mother was a big shot, and she never asked what my parents did again…and for that, I was grateful.

I still call her ninny now and again, but it’s with affection, and she’s so used to it now that it feels almost natural. Milly even chose me to be her Maid of Honor over her older sister, Madison. They’re not too close, not as close as Milly and I are, plus Madi is a busy lawyer and lives in New York—she can’t be here for all the pre-wedding preparations.

Somewhere in my drawer, I still have that pair of pink striped socks, washed numerous times but no less tainted with my six-grade embarrassment… I saved them, bloodstains and all. I look at my reflection again in the dressing room mirror, the hideous green emphasizing the freckles that have since decreased across my nose, each the same size as when it first appeared.

Suddenly, I know without reservation that I will wear those socks beneath the pea-green dress. Milly will have a fit, but she won’t dare call me on it. She can’t risk what I might do in retaliation.

I smile and realize I now kind of love the dress. Any chance to poke fun at the mighty Sabrina Hamilton and her sanctified family is rare, and this one will not pass me by.

I lift my skirts and look down at my knees, the fine web of scars still faintly visible from the skating mishap. They were the first of many, and over the years, fate has somehow converted me from a tomboy who liked to make other people hurt, to a caring young woman who now wants to heal.

Perhaps it is because Milly got sick a few short years after we met, with a disease that can lie dormant for years and then suddenly come to life and take hers. I want to help the ninny with the white roller skates. I want to find a way to keep the disease dormant. I want to protect her, and so I have become a nurse.

For now, though, I have to get this pea-green creation off and into the hands of the seamstress for alterations. I have to find a dress for this evening—for Milly’s engagement party. Everyone knows they are engaged, but people in Milly’s mother’s circle don’t miss opportunities to throw parties and get presents.

She is marrying Cameron Watson, or Cam, as we call him. Leave it to Milly to find the right man with the right name and the right family. Cam is the son of James Watson, a member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Commandant of the Marine Corps, to be precise.

The funniest part about this—to me, at least—is that the cold-hearted Sabrina Hamilton, who has stayed single all these years since Milly’s dad died, has recently married the aforementioned James Watson, Cam’s father. I’m pretty sure she did it for political reasons, but I don’t care about all that.

For a long while, the two parents were dead set against Milly and Cam marrying each other, since they were step-siblings and all, but my fiery friend and her fiancé stood their ground, and I was so proud of them. How could Sabrina and James forbid the two lovebirds to get married, when this was the real deal, real love, whereas theirs was a marriage of political gain, for sure? True love prevails, it always does.

I wonder if I can stomach the crowd who will be at the party. I never have been very good at rubbing elbows with the wealthy, most of whom haven’t earned it. It sort of eats at me that they can be rich and stupid, while smart, yet poorer people, fight for their very existence. Milly is okay, but her mother, the senator, is another story entirely. Cam will have his hands full, though I suspect he knows that already.

“
C
am
, I will be honored, buddy.” I smile and shake his hand.

“Hey, I know asking you to be my best man might not be what you dream of, but I’m telling you. I will make this as painless as possible.”

I can tell Cam is trying not to say something and to make the best of an awkward situation. I feel a nagging dread at what he might be hiding. It has to be the maid of honor. She must be hideous.

I nod in apparent agreement, and with as much enthusiasm as I can legitimately feel. This isn’t the first time I’ll be best man, and it probably won’t be the last. I think it has something to do with the military uniform I used to wear, which supposedly looked ‘dashing’ on me, but now…well, he’ll have to settle for a tux rental.

“I know what you’re thinking, Bryce,” Cam offers up. “You’ll have to chauffeur around the maid of honor, and before you even ask, no she’s not a dog. In fact, I think she’s kinda cute in several different ways…” He lets the sentence hang.

Okay, now we’re getting to the hidden part. Suddenly, visions of a skanky version of Godzilla in purple Spandex flood my consciousness. God, don’t let her be one of those women who cover body odor with cheap perfume.

“What does ‘several different ways’ mean?” I’ve heard this sort of thing before. It generally is a way of saying she is, in fact, a dog, but has a nice personality or knows how to drink like a fish but not puke on my shoes.

“You’ll see,” he answers. “She’s an original.”

I roll my eyes and groan inside. Yup, just like I thought. Well, it will only last a couple of days—the engagement party and the day of the wedding should do it…and maybe a rehearsal. How bad can she be?

Cam is really excited, I can tell. He’s a blinker. The more excitement he feels, the more frenetic the blinking becomes. It feels familiar because I sort of have the same kind of thing, except that I juggle coins in my pocket. I usually try to keep it to two quarters…passing them over one another using my thumb and middle finger while keeping my hand in my pocket. It’s a nervous habit I picked up from my grandfather. I could always tell when Granddad had thinking to do…his hand was in that pocket, and the regularity and frequency of that clink would give you a clue as to the seriousness of his contemplation.

“Susie has been friends with Milly since they were kids,” Cam is saying.

Susie? What kind of cutesy name is that? Well, at least she’s Milly’s age, which means she might have enough fashion sense not to be in the Spandex league.

“Susie?” I ask, dreading details about my upcoming nightmare.

“Yeah, that’s what Milly calls her. I’m guessing it’s short for Susan. It fits her, though.”

I contemplate this for a few moments. What does a “Susie” look like? Sounds like a pastel-filled cream puff. She probably wears layers of make-up, carefully applied to make it look as though she is wearing none at all…but eventually that stuff seems to grow into a layer of skin on its own. I like the natural look, good or bad, but this “Susie” is just something I’m doing for a good buddy and certainly not future dating material. It’s not like I need to settle down with anyone any time soon. What’s more important than my freedom? I shrug and change the subject.

“So, do you have season tickets?” I ask, but Cam’s head is off in cream-puff land so I let it drop and just walk companionably beside him, listening to him go on like a thirteen-year-old girl about to go to her first school dance. Is this what love is like? I don’t think I want any part of it.

“Hey, man, I gotta run,” Cam is saying. “Remember the party is at the Grand Hyatt. Nineteen hundred hours on the nose, got it?”

I feel a sense of relief that this is about to be over…well, at least half of it. “No problem, buddy, I’ll be there.”

Cam waves and literally
leaps
—and that’s the only word I can use to describe what he does—across the street, dodging cars and making for his Cherokee. Cam’s family has money, lots of it, yet he keeps it pretty low key. That’s easy to do when you’re in the Corps. Everyone wears the same clothes, carries the same gear…that is, until you open your mouth. Cam can’t hide his education, breeding, and all that calm assurance that his future is already set. He doesn’t have to worry about anything.

I respect Cam for living the simple life—I’m the same way. We’ve been best friends for over six years now, and our bond has only gotten stronger since our last tour. I’m two years older than him, my thirty to his twenty-eight, but we might as well be twins, we’re that close.

I walk away, smiling. I like challenges. I like to know that when I wake up every morning, the day is going to be different and only as good as I choose to make it. If I set myself up the night before with a dozen tequila shots, it’s going to be a shitty day. If I keep my head and don’t drag home some purple-headed female, I have a chance to improve it.

Dad doesn’t get that. He’s part of that generation who graduated high school, got a good factory job, and waited for retirement. He refused to let Granddad help him. Why, I don’t know, except that I think it had to do with Granddad being controlling and Dad wanting to prove himself. Unfortunately, my father didn’t make it big like Granddad. His choice of a lifestyle would fry my brain.

It’s why I joined the Corps. I love the Corps. Damn! If I’d been just a step to the left, I’d still have my toe. People don’t get that a fuckin’ simple thing like a big toe can take you out of action. For christsakes…let them try to walk a straight line or keep from falling on your ass on the run without one! So, here I sit, discharged out of my tour but still behind a fuckin’ desk! I can feel the anger stiffening my shoulders and know I have to shrug it off.

I want more. I want things movin’, happening. I’m not the desk type. Don’t know what I want, but damn sure I’ll know it when I see it.

Cam and I are lucky to be alive, I guess. All of our squadron buddies are gone. The thought churns my stomach, still. I suspect that feeling will never go away. For a while, Cam was much worse off than I was—he had survived a severe brain injury. I had some broken bones that healed, some burns that were covered by skin grafts, nothing to cry forever about. And I lost that god damn toe.

We both gained some nightmares about that day, that’s for sure. I try not to think about it, and I know Cam’s the same way. He blamed himself for a long time: he was our First Lieutenant. But I made him get over it. It was no one’s fault that fuckin’ IED went off undetected.

The Lucky Inn Bar and Grille down the street looks inviting. Time for a quick beer before I go change and trade flutes of bubbles with the Spandex skank who belongs in Kiss. Oh wait, she might not be in the Spandex league. God, I hope not.

I
am dreading tonight
,
damn
! Why does everything with Milly have to involve dressing up and phoniness? I would be so much happier at this dinner if I could just wear my jeans. It’s not like all those people won’t be going home afterwards, peeling off their cocktail dresses and pantyhose, and sinking with a sigh onto their sofa in a t-shirt and sweatpants.

Slipping off the Hush Puppies I wear to work, I head to the tub and snap in the drain plug. One of the luxuries of this old apartment is the claw foot tub—big enough for a small army and it holds the heat forever. I turn the taps, and the water floods the tub bottom. The steam feels good upon my face. I toss in a handful of lavender bath salts; it’s a restful scent that always calms me down. Who says the good life has to cost a bunch?

My cell is screaming—I have chosen the most aggravating tone I can find. Phone calls are never good news and there’s no reason to try and tinkle them into your life with sugar plum fairies.

“Susie, you won’t be late, will you?” Milly isn’t even waiting for the obligatory hello.

“Late for what?” I can almost hear her eyes rolling in exasperation.

“This is no time for jokes! I’m so nervous. Do you like my dress? I mean, really, really like it?”

She is so vulnerable. A lifetime with a mayor, then a state senator for a mother, will do that to you. I know there was more to it than that, though. A girl who loses her dad and knows her own future is at stake…well it’s enough to make anyone vulnerable and even pathetic…if you’re Milly, that is.

“Yes, your dress is fine. You will look fine. The party will be fine…as long as the fiancé-to-be shows up.”

“What do you mean?” There is terror in her voice. “Why wouldn’t he show up? Do you know something I don’t?”

“Milly! Get a grip! He will be there, and everything will come off just like in a fairytale.”

“I like fairytales,” she is saying wistfully.

“You always did,” I point out as she is sighing. “I will see you there.”

“Susie? You won’t be late, will you?” She is clinging to me again and even though I expect it, sometimes it gets on my nerves.

“That depends. What does the best man look like?”

There is a momentary silence at the other end, and I can feel the groan surfacing in the throat.

“You mean Bryce? Oh, he’s fine. He’s actually kind of cute, in a proper sort of way.”

This just reinforces my dread. He is going to be one of her very proper, very boring, very stupid, in-your-face rich friends. I feel like I’m going to be sick.

“Oh, great. Put me next to you, please, at dinner.”

“Susie, I can’t. The table settings are already there. Can you just this one time not make a fuss? For me? Please?”

Sighing, I know I will regret this but agree, and she is finally off the phone. Heading toward the tub, I am dropping my clothing along the way and slide into the hot lavender water. Immediately diving beneath the surface, I consider the option of drowning myself, if only temporarily, if that’s possible. I really am going to hate this party.

T
he Grand Hyatt
is everything they always are. There is the gloved attendant, waiting to park my ancient VW. There is disdain on his face as I am handing him the keys, almost as if he wants to hold his nose. He gingerly dangles the key ring from his fingertips, pretending like they are soiling his gloves. I love this reaction, it’s part of what I live for.

The doorman does his thing, and I enter the marbled lobby. It feels like a mausoleum with all the statuary and columned portals. I never want to have anything in a place like this. Give me a park or a remote meadow with Baltimore orioles clinging to fence posts. I’ll take the wind and the rain over air-conditioning and marble fountains any day.

I see the head table at the far end of the room. Damn, I think I can see Milly, and there are two men next to her; one is definitely Cam but he’s blocking the second. I can only see a pair of long legs.

Breathing deeply and counting backwards from 20,000 (this is something I do to get through unpleasant experiences), I start winding my way amongst the linen-capped round tables topped with crystal and silver flatware. Crap! These strapped heels are going to land me flat on my ass! At this point, I’d even settle for a pair of rusty, three-time hand-me down adjustable roller skates. At least no one will be surprised when I take a header.

Milly is spotting me now and waving me closer. The urge to be sick builds down my throat and into my gut, but I bravely put on a good show. I force a smile and try to modify my walk. I’m pretty sure I look like a drunken egret on these five-inch heels.

She is saying something in that practiced voice that mimics a cross between Katherine Hepburn and Shirley Temple. Her arm is outstretched to pull me closer, and Cam leans forward and kisses me on the cheek. As he stands back, the man behind him is revealed.

I want to close my eyes. Perhaps this would be a good time to faint?

I hear the name…”Bryce,” is what Cam is saying…I think. The man steps around Cam, and I see now that he is at least two inches taller than Cam and wonder how it was that I didn’t see his head over Milly’s fiancé.

A hand is before me and I take it, looking upward and into his face. A pair of the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen is checking me out, mocking me. I feel like I want to slap his impudent face, but then for some reason, I don’t. I sort of like the perusal and for a moment I have the feeling in my tummy that the fantasy of kidnapping pirates used to give me.

He is holding my hand longer than necessary, but I’m not feeling aggravated. It’s not a sort of sticky, clinging handhold; it feels more like a caress, and I just about stumble when his index finger strokes the inside of my palm. Sensual shocks are exploding somewhere I don’t care to think about, but there is no way in hell I’m going to pull my hand back.

“Why don’t you stand next to Bryce in the receiving line?” Milly suggests, and I know it’s not really an invitation, but a direction.

I nod, oddly anxious to be a good egg, and move to stand next to Bryce. His skin is darkly tanned and stark against the white collar of his dress shirt. My knees are becoming more of a problem than the heels. I want to collapse beside him and kiss his knees. What the hell? I’ve never had that particular thought in my head before. How did it even form?

I vaguely realize that the ‘receiving’ part of the receiving line has begun, and while no one knows me, they are smiling and nodding in my direction. I exercise the woman’s prerogative and don’t hold out my hand…too many germs and sweaty palms. Okay, so I admit it. My own palms are the sweaty ones. I pretend to look forward down the line at the upcoming guests but realize that I can look upward and see his profile at the same time.

I remember Milly going on about this Bryce being an injured Marine, and I surreptitiously try to assess where his injury might be. There’s nothing obvious. My stomach clutches as the thought that maybe he’s impotent explodes into my hormone-saturated brain. Hell no. Life couldn’t be
that
cruel. At this moment, though, even
I
am not wicked enough to study that part of his physiology. I will let this be the mystery of the evening, the contemplation of outcomes that keeps me interested enough to stay until the music begins and I can sneak out. Even though I am not looking for a man in my life, I decide to humor myself—I like to make up these sorts of games…my own version of free entertainment.

Bryce is talking to me, I’m fairly sure of it. It’s all a sound blur. I see his eyes upturned in question and say, “Beg your pardon?”

The perfect teeth form a smile, and he says, “Are you comfortable enough in those shoes to get through this?”

How the hell does he know? Oh, of course, the egret thing. I must look like a fool. I nod nonchalantly as though this is my daily footwear, and I see a glint in the green orbs that tell me he is reading through my bullshit response. I love it. Finally a guy in Milly’s circle that isn’t a phony!

Cam is passing down the handshakes, and Bryce is carefully handing them again, past me and on to somebody I think is Cam’s father, a.k.a. Milly’s stepfather. It’s like Bryce is able to read my mind. Looking up, I see him glance at me from the corner of his eye, that mocking glint acknowledging my gratitude. For some reason, this pisses me off. I can take care of myself. The next hand is being passed over me, and I reach out and grab it. Unfortunately, it belongs to an ancient woman with paper-thin skin, and in my determination, I am setting her off-balance. In slow motion, I see her beginning to topple over, when Bryce competently steps forward and sweeps an arm around her to steady her. As I watch, he leads her to a nearby table and eases her into a chair. The muscles in his sculpted jaw are jerking somewhat as he comes back to the line. I can recognize pissed off when I see it.

My feet are killing me, but I will be damned if I am going to give in.

Bryce is speaking again. “Why did you do that?”

“Do what?” I decide to play the innocent.

“Right,” he mutters.

I drop the pretense. “Hey, I don’t need you to look out for me!” I spit out in a whisper.

“Like hell, you don’t,” comes the response, and I feel myself getting hot…and yet I’m not. At least not like when I get pissed at Milly or somebody at work.

“I can take care of myself,” I add for good measure.

The muscle in his cheek is jerking again. I notice a small tattoo, just below the line of his collar. I can only see it when he bends forward toward someone who is short. It’s some sort of symbol in red and black.

I am entirely too interested in this Bryce. I can’t seem to take my eyes of his hands, though. Long, tanned fingers molded of muscle; I am imagining them cupping my breasts and probing me. A gush of warmth rolls over me, and once again, I want to find a chair or at the very least, sit here on the spot.

I can smell his cologne. It must be saturated with pheromones because it is definitely having an effect on me. All I can think about is tearing off this hideous dress and laying my bare breasts against his chest. Here I go, dirty thoughts again, like I’m some seasoned pro. I can literally count the guys I’ve been with on one hand. What is happening to me? Oh, shit…it’s the swash-buckler syndrome again! I try to conjure what Maureen would do in this situation, and all that comes to mind is to flash my eyes. I am trying to summon up a little flash, but Bryce is looking at the person next in line and my efforts are wasted. I will have to practice with this.

The last person is in front of me now, so the line is finally falling apart and people are drifting to find their seats. As promised, Bryce is seated next to me, and once again I feel mesmerized by those hands. I kick off the shoes beneath the draping tablecloth and can’t help but part my legs a bit. Out of the blue, his hand is on my lap and I feel faint. I look down and see that he is laying the linen napkin across my thighs. Does he know my legs are craving his touch? Is he doing this to make me crazy?

His face is blank, even innocent. No way, this guy knows what he is doing. I clamp my knees closed quickly, and the movement catches his attention. His eyes are grinning, even if his mouth is firm. Damn him! He is not supposed to read me like this!

Milly really screwed me this time. I have no defense against this. This guy is playing me, and I can’t bring myself to call him on it. Not when it feels this good.

Cam is standing, and then Bryce stands and lifts his champagne goblet. Thank God I don’t have to stand like the men…I can’t even find my shoes with my toes. I’m doomed to sit here, like I was in that sand burr bush so many years ago. Once again, I have a thorn in my ass.

Life is repetitive, if nothing else.