TAG (4 page)

I pull his finger a little further, and his smile grows. “Ow, stop. You’re hurting me,” he puckers his lips and winks at me.

“Oh, look, it’s your right hand. You a righty?” I turn his hand over and see deep callouses bubbling on his palm. “Yes, you are. So, if I rip this thing off, you wouldn't miss it, right?” I turn his hand
back over
and glare into his beady eyes. He’s questioning my words. He’s unsure of my capabilities. And that’s fine. “Sound okay to you? Or are you going to leave and stop touching people?” His smile fades
and his eyes
widen. I release his hand and offer him a smart-ass smile. “Oh, and the tattoo means death. It’s a Maori Warrior symbol. They used to
eat their enemies once they slaughtered them. Cool, huh?”

I see his Adam’s apple struggle to move. He lifts his bag from the ground and nearly trips over his own feet, darting away.

I reopen my magazine to the page I was reading and refocus my attention on an article as I hear a soft chuckle coming from the other
side of me. I turn to see who was enjoying the free entertainment and
I’m faced with a man who looks to be either a wrestler or in the military—black shaven hair, stiff jaw and bulging muscles on every inch of his arms. His eyes are currently focused on a book, and I
suppose he could have been laughing at that, rather than me. But as I question it, his large shamrock green eyes lift and look right at me. A slight grin tugs on
the corner of his lips, and he winks so quickly I’m questioning whether it was me who might have blinked. Before I can react, he
stands up and walks away.

I swallow hard and refocus my attention on the magazine once more. Stupid attractive man causing a moment of feebleness. I didn’t react, though. He winked at me. I think. And I didn’t make a snide comment or scowl. Weakness.

I let out a few short breaths, regaining my composure. He’s
gone. It’s fine.

The boarding zones are being called, and I check my ticket again. Zone two.

After twenty minutes of watching the first class and business class passengers try to cut each other in line in order to race onto the sardine can faster, zone two is called out over the loud speaker.

I place my sunglasses back over my eyes and lift my bags over my shoulder. I hand the flight attendant my ticket and she looks at me for a moment before taking the crinkled piece of paper from my pinched fingers. “Ma’am, please remove your sunglasses.” What is with the prejudice against sunglasses? I pull them up over my head
and shove my hand out further, waiting for her to hand my ticket back. “Thank you for your cooperation, ma’am. Have a safe flight.” She hands
me my ticket and I pull my sunglasses back over my eyes. I hear the flight attendant huff with annoyance as I enter the jetway. Last time I checked, there weren’t TSA rules about wearing sunglasses in an airport.

I walk down the thin aisle in the middle of the plane, all the way to the back row where the scent of urine and shit wafts through the air from the bathrooms. Whatever. I’ll breathe through my mouth for the next several hours.

The plane fills in slowly, but when I hear the doors close, I
realize the two seats beside me are still empty. Could I be so lucky to have this row all to myself? Sweet.

I sink into the window seat, pull my headphones out of my bag,
and plug them into the armrest. This could almost pass as
comfortable.
I reach back into my bag and pull out a pill bottle, pop the cap off
and tap the container into my palm until two capsules roll out, then I toss them into the back of my throat and swallow hard, praying they take effect before takeoff.

My knees bob up and down as I try to relax the rest of my body, but as always, this isn’t working. If only I could knock myself out and wake
up in Boston, this would be so much easier. My hands are trembling under my clamped grip over the armrests, and I clench my eyes shut.
If I can’t see it, it isn’t happening
. I repeat my mantra a dozen
more times before the engines ignite, but it doesn’t work. I suck in spurts of air
to make sure I don’t pass out from forgetting to breathe, but the air feels so thick in my lungs, it’s hard to breathe. I forcefully blow it out and try to suck it back in harder. I should never get on another plane
again.

My seat sinks slightly, and I know someone’s next to me now. Great. “Hey,” a muffled voice blends in with the loud music booming in my ears. I ignore it, though. I’m not here to make
friends. “Hey. Can
you hear me?” The voice sounds again. I shake my head, giving this person the message that I’m not responding. Just as I’m satisfied with thinking they figured it out, something drops into my lap, compelling me to open my eyes. It’s a nip of alcohol. What the hell? I
look beside
me, making instant eye contact with the striking shamrock-green eyes that were looking at me in the airport. I pull the buds out of my
ears and quietly mumble, “Thank you.”

His top lip curls into a small grin and he leans his head closer to me. “I didn’t want to tap you or anything. Don’t wanna lose a limb
tonight.” His grin grows, unfurling a perfect smile. “That’ll help you make it through the flight.” He points to the nip. “I’m Tango. Yell if you need anything.” He presses his palms onto the armrests, preparing to stand up, but then shoots me another look. “Although, I
suspect you won’t know you’re even on this plane in a few minutes.” His smile returns and part of me wants to grab his arm and ask him to stay.

“Thank you,” I say again.

“No worries.” And with that, he quickly returns to his seat.

Wait. Come back
, a normal person would say.

But I’m not normal.

I open the nip and take a whiff, making sure it smells like vodka. It does. And with my confirmation,
I 
I down it with one swig. It only takes a couple of minutes before my eyes close and my mind shuts
off.

TANGO

MOVING ON
to bigger things. I have to keep repeating this to myself and maybe then I’ll believe it. Walking away from the people I love, knowing I’m not coming back is pretty fucking hard to wrap my head around. I mean, I know this could have been the case at any
point over the past six years, but now things are pretty much set in stone—pun intended. My family thinks I’m dead. It’s what they were told. And when someone in authority tells you a loved one
died, it’s
sort of believable. I sat in the black sedan that pulled up to my
parents’
house a few weeks ago. The black tinted windows concealed the truth: me, still being alive, so it was okay if I tagged along. I didn’t have to be there when it happened, but I felt like I deserved to
witness the pain they were being put through because of me.

I’ll never forget the one and only time I was one of the marines
giving the news. Since that day, a black sedan has always
represented
death to me. Regardless of the straight face we were trained to
maintain
when giving that type of news, my heart shredded into a million pieces and I didn’t even know the parents, only their son who I’d
fought beside. I offered to be the one to give them the news. It was the least I could do for him.

It was different watching two marines in dress blues step out of
the car and approach the front door of my childhood home. A white
glove pressed on the doorbell, the chime that would set off a world of pain in the two people I love the most in this world.

My mother pulled the curtain away from the window to see who
was outside. The curtain dropped from her hand quickly, but the
door opened slowly. I heard her yelling for my father.

The two of them stood side by side, clutching their hands over
their hearts as the men in blue bowed their heads out of respect.
Fuck. It
took so much out of me not to jump out of the car and throw my arms
around both of them. But it was either then or very soon. And if I
pushed it off, they would have suffered more.

My mother fell into my father, shrieking and screaming. I could
hear it through the closed window. “God no. Give me my baby
back.” Her anger quickly turned to the Marines. I couldn’t hear specifically what she was saying, but I’m assuming it was something along the
lines of, “This is your fault. How could you? Don’t ever come back to my door again.” It’s what my buddy’s mother said to me when I
gave her the news. I can’t say I blame her.

After minutes of condolences and getting punched in the chest
by my five-foot-tall mother, the men returned to the car, slipping
inside flawlessly without ever changing their expression. But I knew what they were feeling inside.

“Sorry man,” one of them said. Sorry doesn’t even begin to do this situation justice.

Two days after my funeral I joined a mercenary service in hopes of keeping my remaining time occupied in some way. I didn’t want to sit around, waiting to expire—it would have been too depressing.
Anyway, within a day of enrollment, Eli Tate contacted me,
requesting
my service. I accepted on the spot. This gig is high paying and I can send the money to my sister anonymously. It could pay for her
college
tuition. He told me I would start in two weeks. I’d fly out from Los Angeles on her flight and start the job in Boston when we landed. Since my truck had to be driven across the country anyway, I took a
week
and a half and flew around the states, scratching things off my
bucket
list. Nashville, New Orleans, Vegas, and I had to see the Statue of Liberty in New York at least once during my life. It’s probably good
my list was short, though, because I had to cut my two weeks to twelve days due to some YouTube incident she caused.

In any case, I keep telling myself that with each ending comes a
new beginning, good or bad. But I can’t forget that with each
beginning comes another end as well.

At least she’s a sight for sore eyes. I imagined someone more rough around the edges, unruly hair, no makeup, baggy clothes—an
overall unkempt look—a stereotype I guess I subscribe to regarding these types of self-proclaimed bad-girls. However, she couldn’t be further from this generalization, which immediately tells me she isn’t a self-
proclaimed anything. She’s likely a straight up badass with a bad attitude. Although, I can’t blame her after what I read in her file.

I probably shouldn’t be watching her sleep. I shouldn’t be wondering what music is playing through her headphones, and I
probably shouldn’t have given her that alcohol. By the size of her little frame, it doesn’t seem as though she’d be able to handle what I’m assuming is Valium and then the shot of vodka I gave her.

Well, at least if this job doesn’t end well, looking at her will make everything I’ll have to give up worth it. God, listen to me. I’ve been in that desert for too fucking long. I’m horny and I need to
focus on the issue at hand. Although, she is the issue at hand, so technically it’s okay to focus on her.

I pull out my phone and review the files once more. I wonder if she even knows what type of danger has been following her around for the past three years. She doesn’t seem like the clueless type, but
someone in her situation wouldn’t necessarily carry the confidence she seems to be portraying. This type of shit can make a person crazy. And for some reason, this makes me already like her. Because,
what I’ve seen should be making me crazy, but I haven’t let my mind take the best of me yet. At no point in the past six years have I given myself a minute to reevaluate the reasons I think I’m going straight to hell.

I can tell myself over and over that everything I did was for my
country. I can even believe it. But at the end of the day, watching too many pairs of eyes freeze over as their souls are sucked from their bodies never became easier. I’m not a murderer, but that’s how every person in Iraq and Afghanistan sees me. Yet, in the U.S., I’m a war hero. This is such a screwed up world we live in, and people
don’t understand how badly each of us Marines wants nothing more than world peace.
To Serve and Protect
—
the protecting part comes easy to us, but it’s the
serve
part that comes with loaded expectations.

CALI

The thump of the runway below the wheels startles me awake. My
eyes shoot open and I see a blur of pavement racing outside the
window. My heart slows and I have the urge to kiss the ground below
me. Maybe I should try to stay here in Boston for more than a few
months this time since I. Hate. Flying.

After the fasten seatbelt light goes out, I unclasp my seatbelt and step into the aisle. I open the overhead compartment and reach in for my bag. Things shifted during the flight and my bag has tumbled to
the back corner of the bin. Of course. I climb up on the seat while slinging my smaller bag over my shoulder and then pull the other
bag out of the
overhead compartment, letting it fall over my opposite shoulder
while hopping back down.

“That’s one way of doing it,” a now familiar voice says from a
row ahead of me.

I shrug my shoulders and shove my headphones into the side pocket of my bag. “Thanks again for—“