Toward the Sound of Chaos (15 page)

“I’m
s . . . sorry. I don’t know why I’m crying. He was a scumbag, the worst of men
. . . the things he did.”

“Shh,”
I whisper in her ear, smoothing the hair back from her face. “You don’t have to
explain to me.”

“He
beat me, Jake.” Her cries grow louder, but if I squeeze any harder I’m pretty
sure she’ll break. “He beat me . . . in front of my son . . .
his
son.”

“He’ll
never lay another hand on you,” I whisper, and I hold on, because even the
strongest of women just need someone to hold them from time to time.

After
a while, Elle quits crying and relaxes back into my embrace. Her fingers
absently stroke the scars along my forearm, and I want so badly to pull away
because she’s already had so much ugly in her life.

“Why
haven’t you found a woman to love yet, Jake?”

I
stiffen. Her question catches me off guard. I don’t know how to reply to that.
I have found someone, but she deserves better than to spend her life with a
freak.

“I
like being alone.” That was a lie. “
Who in their right mind would have me?”
is what I want to say, but I don’t. I don’t tell her how much I loathe myself,
or that I wish I was dead, or that at night I lie awake wondering if this was
part of Aasif Bashir’s plan in disfiguring me—that he’d hoped that one day I’d
roam the earth a free man and yet never know the freedom of a woman’s touch
again.

I
don’t tell her that I hate being alone because I can never shut off the voices
or quiet the sounds of war that ring in my ear long after the dust has settled
and the blood has dried. I attempt to fill the void with distractions: Nuke,
Ellie, Spencer, pouring myself into something physical until my limbs shake
from misuse, but it doesn’t mask the stillness. That’s always waiting for the
moment I shut everything off. And it never becomes any less haunting.

“I
hate it,” she says, as if she’s echoing my thoughts. “Being alone. When you
climb into bed and everything’s so still you could hear a pin drop? There’s
something in that silence that screams all my greatest fears.”

“What
are they?” I say, too quickly.

“My
fears?” she asks with a sigh. “That I’ll be alone forever. That Spence will
grow up and leave like all kids do, or that he’ll enlist and my life will be
filled with endless days and nights of that sound. Of nothing.”

I
feel like she just cracked open my skull and pulled the words from my head, but
two hearts as lonely as ours? Well, that’s a dangerous thing. Deep down I know
as much as she does that I’m no good for her, and yet I’m still too selfish to
push her away.

“You
shouldn’t be alone,” I whisper.

“Neither
should you.” She leans back into my embrace, and I kiss the top of her hair
because I never dreamed I’d be lucky enough to do that again to any woman, let
alone to this angel who came crashing into my life and made all the pain that
came before her seem worth it.

I
survived war, I survived torture at the hands of the Taliban, but I won’t
survive Ellie Mason, not with my heart still intact.

***

After
Elle leaves, I head to the market to pick up some groceries. It’s just on dusk
when I place the paper sacks in the trunk and Nuke and I swing by the Pier Park
Fountain. The area is cordoned off with police tape, and though it was bustling
with townsfolk only eight hours ago, it’s eerily quiet tonight. Before long,
the police will be knocking on my door. It makes sense. Elle will be their
first port of call, but we’ve set some tongues waggin’ around this town these
last few weeks, and I’d bet my last penny they already have me lined up in
their sights.

Course
it don’t help that I know how to fire a rifle and hit a long-range mark from
four thousand miles away. It’s only natural I’d be a person of interest, but I
didn’t do this, so I don’t know why my hands start to shake on the wheel, or
why my breath comes in heavy pants as I stare at the fountain now drained dry
of all its water.

Nuke
whines and places his head in my lap, and I just sit there, shakin’ like a
leaf. Before long, the windows fog with my breath and I turn the dial and blast
the AC, but it don’t stop the sweat from beading on my forehead or unease from
prickling down my spine.

I
was with Elle last night, and I may have wanted to, but I couldn’t have done
this. I’d remember killing a man on US soil.

I
didn’t do this
.

I
repeat the words over and over in my head, but after a while, even I stop
believing them.

Jake

Two
years ago

I
stare down the barrel of an AK47 at the man I’m instructed to kill. Aasif
Bashir tells me to pull the trigger. I don’t argue. Arguing means pain. If it
meant death, I might have kneed Bashir in the nut sack to speed things along,
but all it means is one more scar to add to the collection, one more scream to
get their dicks hard, and I’m tired of being Bashir’s plaything. I’m tired of
the pain.

I
try not to look at the target, but a voice inside my head screams for me to see
because that’s the price I have to pay for taking the easy way out. His
children, two boys both no older than ten, are held by Bashir’s men. They
whimper, begging in both Pashto and broken English for their father’s life. I
meet the man’s pleading black eyes across a dirt floor and mudbrick courtyard,
and I pull the trigger. I wait for the kick back, the sound of the bullet
firing through the barrel and the metallic
ping
of the empty shell jumping
out of the ejection port and hitting the ground.

But
the shots don’t ring out and reverberate through my skull. The kickback doesn’t
jolt through my aching body. The bullet never left the chamber because the
magazine is empty. It’s something Bashir likes to do—toy with us like that. He
holds a gun to your head and pulls the trigger. Sometimes there’s a bullet with
your name on it, and sometimes there isn’t. Either way, he just laughs and
leaves someone else to clean up the mess.

I
roar and toss the gun to the ground, charging toward Bashir. He catches me
around the waist, his other arm coming up to grab me by the throat, sinking his
fingers in. He could crush my windpipe with the smallest movement of his hand,
but though he keeps a firm grasp on me, it isn’t enough to keep me from sucking
in breath. I collapse forward, unable to stay upright on my emaciated frame any
longer, and I weep against his shoulder.

A
gun goes off a few feet away. The ringing in my ears drowns everything out, but
my eyes aren’t so lucky. Crimson blooms on the man’s white kameez. There are
four new holes in his chest. He slumps back against the wall, leaving a thick
smear of blood and tissue behind as his body settles in the dust. The children
scream, but they’re silenced with hard slaps to the face.

I
struggle against Bashir, but I’m weak. My head pounds from the harsh bite of
the sun on my skin after so long spent cooped up in the dark, and my legs fail
me. I fall to the ground, grabbing onto the barrel of Bashir’s gun and thrusting
it against my forehead.

“DO
IT!” I roar. He says nothing, but his hand pats my head as if I were a small,
mewling child asking him for more supper. “KILL ME!”

He
chuckles and wrenches the gun out of my grasp, signaling to his men to escort
me inside. As he does, he aims at the youngest of the boys and fires, shooting
him in the head. He doesn’t even pause to see where the boy lands—just keeps on
walking. His brother is silent. Fat tears slide over his face. His body
trembles, but he doesn’t make a sound, and I can’t look away because the last
trace of faith in humanity has been ripped away from me in this God-forsaken
courtyard.

I
gave in; I let them win. I pulled the trigger, and though it might not have
killed the man, it destroyed me. To this boy and his brother, I became the
enemy. I became the monster.

My
captors haul me to my feet and push me past him. He doesn’t reach out or beg
for my help the way his father had. He knows there isn’t any to be found. I
can’t help him. I can’t help anyone right now, and no one else is coming for
the two of us because they’re already dead.

Jake

N
uke
nudges my arm with his wet nose, and I work to steady my breathing as rain
beats down on the roof. I dreamt of the boy again, only this time instead of
dark olive skin and hair as black as midnight he’d been fair, with
whiskey-colored eyes like his mamma and a shock of blond hair so bright you
couldn’t lose him in a snowstorm. My hands shake, and I’m fixin’ for a drink,
but I can’t go to that place tonight. I can’t be numb now, or maybe ever again.
I have a lot of shit to work through. I probably shouldn’t have punched my
shrink in the face, ’cause I could use someone to talk to right about now.

Nuke
sits up on the bed and barks. “Yep, I heard you the first time.” He paws at my
chest. “I’m breathin’. What the hell do you want from me, dog?”

Woof
.

I
lean up against the headboard and focus on taking calm, even breaths. He licks
my face, and I scratch his ears and turn on the light. Headlights wash over the
ceiling, a car door slams, and a gentle
tap, tap, tap
comes from my
front door. I know who stands on the other side of that stained glass. There’s
only one woman who’d be visiting this late.

Nuke
barks and jumps outta bed, and I follow because I can’t well hide out in my
room when she’s bangin’ down my door.

I
pull on a pair of sweats and hurry down the stairs. The banging grows louder,
more frantic. I open the door to find a dripping wet woman, and every part of
me turns hard as steel. Except my resolve. That bleeds away to nothin’ like the
rain trailing down her soaked skin in rivulets and pooling on my front porch.

“Hi,”
she says, breathlessly.

“What
are you doing here, Elle?”

She
stares up at me through long, wet lashes. “I had to see you.”

I
inhale sharply and grab her arm. I want to push her away and pull her closer.
Both are very dangerous things. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Ellie
places her hand against my bare chest. I glance down at her small, freezing
fingers laid flat against my scars. It’s been a long time since any woman has
touched me like this. “I couldn’t stay away.”

I
swallow hard around the lump in my throat and she launches herself at me,
jumping into my arms so I have no choice but to cup my hands under her ass
while she wraps her legs around my waist and brings her soft lips down on mine.

“Jesus.”
I break the kiss. “You shouldn’t be here, Elle. This isn’t smart for either of
us.” Even as I stand here tellin’ her what a bad idea this is, I can’t keep my
hands from wandering. I massage her ass, spread her cheeks apart, and curse her
for wearing them jeans. I’d give anything to slip beneath the wet fabric and
lay my hands on her milky white skin.

“Please
don’t make me go,” she whispers against my lips. I groan. Tellin’ her to leave
is the very last thing I intend on doin’. With her legs wrapped around me, I
walk us through my house and up the stairs. I know these steps like the back of
my hand because I’ve spent nights countin’ every crack in the floorboards
between my room and the grand sweeping staircase.

I
ease her down on her feet, before the bed and take a step back. I want this,
God do I want this, but I’m terrified. Elle’s eyes roam over me and she takes
in a deep breath, and I won’t lie—it hurts like hell. I don’t want pity, and I
don’t want the woman I care about looking at me like a monster just sprouted
from my back. She reaches out a hand and trails her fingertips over my scarred
flesh, feeling the hard, ugly edges. I flinch a little, and she pulls away as
if she’s been burned.

“Did
I hurt you?” she whispers.

“Angel,
it hurts just looking at you.”

She
smiles and continues her exploration of my body, openin’ old wounds with every
scar she touches, and yet it’s as if she’s tenderly sewing them shut at the
same time. I haven’t felt the touch of a woman for a very long time, and never
again did I think I would, especially not one as perfect and kind-hearted as
this.

“What
did they do to you, Jake?” Her eyes are bright with tears, and I grab her hands
and hold them flat to my chest.

“I
don’t want your pity, Elle.”

“You
think that’s why I’m here?” she says, staring up at me with those incredible
eyes. “You think that’s all this is between us?”

“I
thought about it.” I nod. “I can’t see much other reason that a woman like you
would want someone like me. I’m a freak and a drunk, and you? You’re so goddamn
beautiful it hurts.”

She
takes a step towards me and presses her finger to my lips to keep me from
talking. “You’re not a freak, Jake. If you only knew how beautiful you were.”

I
scoff and she sharpens her tone.

“I
mean it. You don’t see what everyone else sees—”

“Everyone
else sees a lie,” I snap.

“I
don’t. I see you, and only you.” She pulls off her T-shirt. It lands on the
floor with a wet thud, and she stands at the end of my bed, shivering in a
black lace bra and jeans, her fingers struggling with the button on the wet
denim.

I
cover her hand with my own. “What are you doing, Elle?” I reach out and tuck a
strand of wet hair behind her ear. My fingertips trace the curve of her neck
all the way down to her collarbone where she places a soft hand over my scarred
one and squeezes. “If you give yourself to me, I can’t promise I’ll give you
back.”

Slowly,
Ellie peels the sodden jeans down her legs and steps out of them. She stands
before me in her bra and matching panties. “I’m countin’ on that, Jake Tucker.”

She
unfastens the clasp on her bra. Full, lush breasts fall free, and I swallow
hard. I could cut diamonds with my cock right now. The wisp of fabric falls
away and she looks at me with wide, pleading eyes. I trail my fingertips down
between her breasts and watch her nipples form hard peaks and her skin break
out in goose bumps. I palm one fleshy globe, marveling at how soft she is, how
perfect. Such a contrast to my puckered, pockmarked skin. I pull away but she
grabs my hand, pressing her lips to the back of it. I cup her cheek. It’s cool
from the rain outside and it tempers my burning skin.

“Please
Jake?” Her voice catches. “Please?”

I
draw her toward me, relishing the feel of her soft breasts, her hard, pebbled
nipples against my chest. “You’ll be my ruin, angel.”

I
lean down and kiss her, slide my hands into her hair and force her to open
further to me, but she pulls away.

“Let
me touch you.” Her voice is small, as if she’s afraid I’ll tell her no. The
idea of refusing her such a simple thing hurts my heart, and as much as I hate
it, as afraid as I am of her rejection once she sees up close how horrifying I
am, I nod my acquiescence.

She
reaches out her fingertips and runs them over the scar on my left pectoral
muscle. I try my best not to flinch. Her gaze meets mine; there’s no pity left
in it, just curiosity, desire, and the barest hint of challenge.

I
clench my jaw and look away. She presses her lips to the scar in a soft kiss.
Her hands follow my disfigurement from clavicle to neck where she places
feather-light kisses over my skin and down along the pitted and angry flesh of
my left arm.

It
itches. I want to tear at it with my blunt nails, but I hold perfectly still,
my hands clenched into fists, my teeth slammed together so tightly that no
breath could pass between them. Elle’s hand slides down my forearm, glancing
over the crisscrossed network of alive and dead flesh. She pries my clenched
fingers apart, traces the hard ridges of my palm, and weaves her tiny fingers
between my own, bringing them up to her lips.

She
releases my hand and touches the brand at my waist before gliding around the
back of me. Softly, she kisses my ribs, my shoulder blades—the places she can
reach—and the long stripes of scarring across my back where they beat me bloody
with a copper pipe.

I
shiver as she presses her bare breasts against my back, and her arms come
around my front. Her hand rests over my heart, and we’re still, her heart
thundering against my back, mine pounding against her fingers. She holds me. I
swallow my fear, and some tortured part of me still tethered to Bashir, to that
desert, breaks free. I never expected to feel a woman’s touch on my ruined body
again. I never expected to let anyone get close enough, and yet here she is,
kissing my scars, touching me as if I am someone she both desires and
cherishes, and I don’t know how to deal with any of it. I don’t want to be made
weak in front of her, but I don’t have another choice. She breaks down all of my
defenses; she breaks me in ways that they hadn’t ever been able to, and in that
moment I both love and resent her for it. I clear my throat and turn to face
her. Tears stream down her face.

“Don’t
cry, angel.” I lean down to kiss the saltwater from her cheeks. An indelicate
sob escapes her throat, and I slide my hand into her hair as my lips find hers.
“Don’t cry. Just let me have you, just this once, please?” I hate the weakness
in my voice, the vulnerability, the ache in my heart and the longing I feel for
her touch.

I
lift her and place her on the bed. I may feel like Frankenstein, as if I’m
pieces of a man all stitched together though none of them fit quite right, the
edges are too jagged, too large, too damaged and too ugly, but she doesn’t see
me that way. Those whiskey eyes are wanton, filled with longing just for me, so
I push those dark thoughts from my head as I hook my fingers into the sides of
her panties and peel them off.

Elle
has a scar that runs across her lower abdomen. It’s neat, and thin, and not at
all like any of mine. She flinches when I touch it.

“Caesarean,”
she explains. “Spence didn’t want to come out.”

I
press my lips to it. “It’s beautiful.”

She
laughs, but when I shoot her a stern look she quickly shuts up. I lower my face
to her pussy and inhale her sweet, musky scent. “You’re perfect, Elle.”

I
trace a finger over the soft flesh, enticing her to open wider for me. She lets
out a shuddering breath as I gently tease her lips apart and slide my fingertip
over her clit. Her body jerks involuntarily.

Darting
my tongue out, I taste her—rich and sweet.
So fucking perfect
. I’d meant
what I said before about not being able to give her back. Even if she can’t
live with my demons, she’s mine for tonight at least, and I intend to savor
every second, every sigh, every taste, and every wanton glance.

I
bury my face in her and lap at her pussy until her legs shake and her hands
thread into my hair and she comes, squeezing her thighs against the sides of my
head. I have a brief moment of panic, of claustrophobia, but it’s overcome by
the sound of her cries.

A
beat later, she relaxes and I wipe the moisture from my beard with the back of
my hand. I love that I can smell her, taste her still on my tongue as if she
were a dessert made specially, just for me.

For
a moment I just watch her bathing in the afterglow. Her cheeks flush pink, and
there’s a dusting of sweat across her breasts. I want inside her so badly that
it becomes a palpable ache. My balls throb and my chest tightens. I stand at
the end of the bed, glancing down at her, my cock straining against my sweats,
and I have no idea what to do with myself. I don’t wanna fuck this up; she’s
too important.

She
opens fever-bright eyes, her pupils dilated, a lazy grin spread across those
beautiful lips. I’m in pain, so much fucking pain just looking at her, wanting
her and yet so afraid that I’ll be rejected that all I can do is stand stock
still and inhale deep, shaking breaths.

“Hey.”
Ellie sits up, gingerly reaching out to touch me.

I
flinch. I
always fucking flinch
. Jesus. I’m screwing all of this up.
She’s gonna realize what a freak I am, and the best goddamn thing that ever happened
to me is going to leave.

“Did
I do something wrong?”

“No,”
I say gruffly; it catches her off guard. I rake my hands through my hair.

“Please
don’t shut me out.” She reaches out to grab hold of my wrists, gently pulling
them away from my head. Her soft skin sweeps over the scars on my wrists, and I
clench my jaw because this hurts too. Everything hurts. I’m a bundle of seared
synapses and raw nerves, and setting myself alight would be easier than letting
her see how fucked up I truly am.

“Let
me in, Jake,” she whispers, softer this time. I open my eyes and stare down at
her, the beast raging within me and every muscle in my body fighting to stay
and wanting to flee.

“You
should leave,” I whisper.

Her
brow creases, and tears prick her eyes but they don’t fall. Instead, she blinks
them away and traces the scar over my chest. With a single glare, she meets my
anger and frustration head-on. “You should make me.”

“I
should,” I agree. We both know I won’t. I want this too much, want her too
much. “I could hurt you, Elle.”

“You
could, but you won’t.”