Page 15

"So this isn't because I called you gay?" she says.

"Jesus fuck, Rachyl. I told you, just because I'm not into you that way doesn't mean I'm..." The words catch in my throat.

She turns around and looks straight at me, waiting for me to finish. I cringe. It feels like chewing on glass.

"...I'm fuckin'gay."

"It was an honest question. Not an accusation."

"God dammit," I mutter.

"So you're not running away?"

"No!" I blurt. "A three-year contract. It's not like I'm shipping off to fuckin' Mars or something. I'll be back, okay?"

Crunch, crunch. Shards in my throat. I'm a piece of shit coward that knows full well I have no intent of coming back.

Rachyl hops down from the lamp and comes up to me. She's giving me that hard look again. "Alright," she says, finally. "Well, goodbye, then. Nice knowin' ya."

Then she turns and starts to walk away.

"Seriously? So that's it?" I call after her.

She stops, and for a moment I expect her to absolutely drag me. But she just turns around, a sweet smile on her face and a shimmer in her eyes, and pulls off her headphones. She thrusts them and the old CD player into my hands.

"Here. Something to remember me by."

I stare at the Sony DISCMAN. She's had the thing since I met her, before it was cool to be into '90s tech. All the kids used to make fun of her for using it instead of the latest iPod.

"You're not giving this to me," I call after her.

"Take it, asshole! You'll be bored as shit there, I'm sure."

"I have a fucking smart phone!"

She's at the edge of the parking lot, at the rim of white light from the overhead lamps. She stops and spins around.

"Jackson!" she shouts. "I hope you'll be brave enough to tell the truth someday, before it's too late."

And then she's gone.

Rachyl's departing words thump the inside of my head like a hammer. I try to open my eyes, but even the darkness of the brig adds to my pounding headache. The 'ol ass-whooping hangover. As usual, it's not my first rodeo, but I can't remember the last time I've had it this bad. My face is throbbing and hot, especially my right cheek and eye, and I know they must be swollen as hell. My hands are clamped to the wall behind me, and I only have a few inches of movement. The taste of blood lingers in my mouth, and it stings like a motherfucker when I lick my lips.

Son of a bitch...

I have no idea where Dustin is. The cat sniper—I've learned that her name is Sylla—had us separated after we were caught, and I can only guess he's taken the same beating. It's a fucking horrible feeling to know your actions have led to someone else getting hurt, especially someone depending on you to keep them safe. Yes, Dustin is a grown man who didn't ask for my protection, but I can't help but feel responsible for his safety.

I've spectacularly fucked everything up. Seems like I'm always fucking everything up.

My mind drifts, trying to escape this killer headache by way of distraction, but nothing but bad memories are coming up. And just like an addict getting a little taste of their poison, it's impossible not to dive deep once that dark door is opened.

The rattle of distant gunfire sounds like a snare drum over the rap intro ofIn the End.I've listened to this old Linkin Park album more times than I can count, and yet I haven't gotten sick of it. The trench is cold and damp, dug hastily at the edge of the forest by the opposing force and held by them until our unit had cleared the area in our push to retake the nearby town a few days ago. We're waiting for instructions to come in, and it's been a few hours. Not much to do but sit. Most of the guys are on their phones, the glow of their screens lighting their faces in the darkness. Clarke is stretched out on the bare soil beside me, hands folded over his chest as he snores softly.

The familiar smell of a Chesterfield cigarette drifts over me, and I feel my heart pick up its pace a little.Finally, he's back. I was starting to get a little worried. McScott grips my shoulder as he drops onto the space on my left. I glance up at him and pull down my headphones. He exhales a cloud of smoke and jabs two fingers and his cigarette towards Clarke.

"Bloke could kip through a bloody earthquake." He leans in and whispers to me in a low voice. "How much did he drink?"

"No fucking idea," I reply. I don't tell him that Clarke managed to convince me to join him in sharing yet another bottle of magically procured liquor.