Page 1 of Rebel (Devil’s Boneyard MC #14)

Rio

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, making my skin crawl. I stood at parade rest, and stared at the blank wall behind Lt. Col. Harrison’s empty chair. Two minutes till the meeting. Two minutes of pretending I wasn’t about to shatter into a million fucking pieces. The office smelled like pine cleaner and stale coffee. Military efficiency. No room for mess. No room for the mess they’d made of me.

The door opened with a metallic click . I snapped to attention, keeping my eyes fixed on a spot on the wall, listening to the soft squeak of polished shoes against linoleum. A chair scraped back.

“At ease, Private Taylor.”

I shifted my stance, feet shoulder-width apart, hands clasped behind my back. Not quite at ease. Not quite anything, anymore. Harrison shuffled papers on his desk. He was a small man with wire-rimmed glasses and a permanent frown. Twenty-five years in the Army had filed him down to the essentials -- no excess fat on his body, no excess emotion in his voice.

“The two men who assaulted you are in custody,” he said without preamble.

My jaw locked tight. Assault. A sanitized word. Clinical. What they did wasn’t assault. It was destruction.

“Private Ellis and Sergeant Denton will face court-martial proceedings for sexual assault, administering a controlled substance without consent, and conduct unbecoming.”

I stared at the wall. Blinked. Tried to match his detached tone with dispassionate thoughts. Fragments of memory hit me hard -- hands holding me down, the taste of something bitter, the ceiling spinning.

“Do you understand what I’m saying, Private?”

“Yes, sir.” My voice sounded strange, like it was coming from somewhere else. Some other woman’s mouth.

He glanced up at me, then back down at his papers. “Good. Now, regarding your status.”

Here it came. The real reason for this meeting. Not justice for me -- bureaucracy for them.

“The medical board has reviewed your case,” he continued, flipping to another page. “Based on the evaluation by Dr. Hayes and the subsequent psychological assessment, they’ve recommended a medical discharge.”

The bubble in the paint seemed to grow larger, swelling until it was all I could see. Medical discharge. Two words that erased my years of service. Years of busting my ass, of being the best fucking soldier I could be.

“Sir, with respect --” My voice cracked like glass.

“This isn’t a negotiation, Private.” He looked up, his expression softening for just a second before hardening again. “The board’s decision is final.”

I swallowed the argument rising in my throat. What would I say anyway? Please let me stay in this place where I was drugged and raped ? Please let me walk past the barracks every day where it happened ? Please let me salute men who think what happened to me was just a party that got out of hand ?

“The discharge will be processed as honorable,” Harrison continued. “You’ll retain all benefits associated with your service, including education benefits and VA healthcare.”

His words filled me with bitterness. I’d worked so hard for it to fall apart like this. He made a note on his paper. “You’re required to meet with a counselor before separation. I’ve scheduled your appointment for tomorrow at 0900.”

My eyes narrowed. “I don’t need a counselor.”

“It’s not optional, Private.” His tone left no room for argument. “It’s part of the discharge protocol in cases like… yours.”

Cases like mine. Like I was a file to be processed and shelved away. A problem to solve. I wondered how many other women had stood where I was standing, hearing the same clinical words, feeling the same rage burning in their bellies.

“How long?” I asked.

“For the discharge? Two weeks, give or take. You’ll be placed on convalescent leave effective immediately. Your CO has already been informed.”

Two weeks. Fourteen days, and I’d be a civilian again. The thought should have brought relief. Instead, it felt like one more thing being taken from me without my consent.

“And them?” The question slipped out before I could stop it.

Harrison paused, pen hovering over his papers. “Private?”

“Ellis and Denton. What happens to them?”

He removed his glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose. For the first time, he looked directly at me. “That’s not your concern anymore, Private.”

Something inside me snapped like a rubber band pulled too tight. “Not my concern? They drugged me. They --” I stopped, throat closing around the words I couldn’t say aloud. “And it’s not my concern?”

“I understand you’re upset --”

“Upset?” I laughed, a harsh sound that scraped my throat raw. “No, sir. Upset is what you feel when the mess runs out of chocolate milk. This isn’t upset.”

“Private, you need to control yourself.” His voice hardened again, the momentary glimpse of humanity gone.

“Or what? You’ll discharge me?” I took a step forward, fingers uncurling from behind my back. “Too late.”

Harrison stood, placing both palms on his desk. “That’s enough. I understand this is difficult, but this behavior only confirms the board’s decision.”

I felt it then -- the rage I’d been holding back for weeks, rising like floodwater, threatening to drown me. My hands shook. My chest heaved with each breath. For a horrible moment, I thought I might lunge across the desk and show him exactly how “upset” I was.

Instead, I forced myself back into parade rest. Stared at the wall.

“The counselor will help you process these emotions,” he said, sitting back down. “Dr. Winters is very experienced with… trauma cases.”

Trauma cases. Another neat little box to put me in. I didn’t respond.

Harrison sighed, shuffling his papers again. “You have an exemplary service record, Private. Before this… incident. It’s a shame to lose a soldier with your potential.”

The compliment hit like a slap. My potential. Like it was something I had misplaced, not something that had been stolen from me while I was unconscious.

“What if I refuse the discharge?” The question was hollow, and we both knew it.

“You can appeal, but I wouldn’t recommend it.” He slid a folder across the desk toward me. “The process would extend your time here by months, and given the circumstances, the outcome would likely be the same.”

Given the circumstances. More soft words for a hard truth; no one wanted damaged goods around. I was a reminder of something ugly, something that wasn’t supposed to happen in today’s Army.

“Take the folder, Private.”

I stepped forward, picked it up. It was heavier than it looked. Inside would be forms to sign, benefits to claim, a neat paper trail documenting the end of everything I’d worked for.

“Report to Building C, Room 112 tomorrow at 0900 for your counseling session.” He made one final note in his file. “After that, you’ll meet with Sergeant Mills to begin out-processing.”

“Yes, sir.” The words were automatic, empty.

“You’re dismissed.”

I snapped to attention, saluted, and executed an about face, my movements wooden and precise. Military training was good for something at least -- it taught you how to keep moving when everything inside you had stopped.

“Taylor.” His voice halted me at the door. I didn’t turn around. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry this happened to you.”

For what it’s worth. Nothing. It was worth nothing.

“Is that all, sir?”

A pause. “Yes. That’s all.”

I closed the door behind me with a soft click , stepped into the hallway, and kept walking. One foot in front of the other. Left, right, left. Simple. Mechanical. My body remembered how to move even if my mind had fractured into a thousand sharp-edged pieces.

Two weeks. Then I would never have to see this place again. Never have to walk these halls, salute these officers, pretend I still belonged in this world of order and discipline that had failed to protect me when it mattered most.

Two weeks to figure out what the hell came next when everything I’d planned for was suddenly gone.

Two weeks to become someone else. Someone who hadn’t been broken.

I made it to the women’s restroom before I threw up, my knees hitting the cold tile floor, my breakfast burning its way back up my throat. When there was nothing left, I sat back against the stall door, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and stared at the ceiling.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, just like in Harrison’s office. The same sterile white light everywhere in this place. No shadows allowed. No place to hide.

I laughed until I cried, then cried until I couldn’t anymore. Then I got up, washed my face in the sink, smoothed my uniform, and walked out with my spine straight and my chin up.

Just another day in the United States Army.

Just another soldier following orders.

Just another woman learning justice was never meant for people like me.

* * *

The counseling room looked exactly how I expected. Beige walls. Generic landscape print that someone had ordered from an office supply catalog. Two chairs facing each other, close enough for “connection” but far enough apart to avoid discomfort. A box of tissues positioned within easy reach. I’d been in this room before, even if I’d never stepped foot in Building C, Room 112. The Army loved its templates -- same layout, different base. Same bullshit, different day.

I arrived fifteen minutes early, military habits dying hard. The door was unlocked, so I went in and chose the chair facing the exit. Always have an escape route. That was something the Army had taught me, something I actually planned to keep.

The overhead light hummed. The constant drone set my teeth on edge. I crossed my ankles, uncrossed them, then crossed them again. My uniform felt too tight across my shoulders, even though I knew it fit perfectly. Everything felt wrong these days, like my skin didn’t belong to me anymore.

The door opened at precisely 0900. Military punctuality. The counselor walked in carrying a leather portfolio and a coffee mug with the Army logo. Of course.

“Private Taylor?” He extended his hand. “I’m Dr. Winters.”

I stood briefly, shook his hand with the exact pressure and duration that was socially acceptable, then sat back down. “Sir.”

“You don’t need to call me sir.” He smiled, settling into the chair across from me. “Doctor is fine, or James if you prefer.”

I didn’t respond to that. Kept my expression neutral as he flipped open his portfolio and clicked his pen. Another bureaucrat with forms to fill. Another box to check before they could wash their hands of me.

“I understand you’re being processed for medical discharge,” he said, glancing at what I assumed was my file. “How do you feel about that?”

Straight to the point. No warm up. No gentle lead in.

“Fine.”

He looked up, studied my face. “ Fine is a word people use when they don’t want to say how they’re really feeling.”

I shrugged. “It’s a word people use when their feelings aren’t relevant to the situation.”

“Your feelings are very relevant here, Private Taylor.” He glanced down. “May I call you Rio?”

“It’s my name.”

He smiled again, patient and professional. I hated it. Hated the way he looked at me, like I was a puzzle to solve in the fifty minutes we had together.

“Let me explain the purpose of this session,” he said, setting his pen down. “This isn’t therapy, though I would recommend ongoing therapeutic support after your discharge. This is an exit assessment to help determine what resources might benefit you as you transition to civilian life.”

I tapped my foot against the floor, a quick staccato rhythm. “I know what resources I need.”

“And what are those?”

“My discharge papers and my last paycheck.”

Dr. Winters leaned back slightly. “I understand your frustration with the system --”

“Do you?” The words came out sharper than I intended. “Because I don’t think you do.”

“Why don’t you tell me about it?” His voice remained even, professional. Like he heard women like me every day. Maybe he did.

I shifted my gaze to the corner of the room, focused on the place where the walls met the ceiling. A tiny crack had formed there. Something structural giving way under pressure. I knew the feeling.

“There’s nothing to tell that isn’t in your file.” My muscles coiled tight, ready to flee even though I hadn’t moved. “Two soldiers drugged me. They raped me. They’re in custody. I’m getting discharged. End of story.”

“That’s the event,” he said softly. “I’m asking about your frustration.”

My jaw clenched so hard I thought my teeth might crack. “My frustration?” I let out a humorless laugh. “My frustration is that I’m sitting here having to explain my frustration when it should be fucking obvious.”

He didn’t flinch at my language. Just nodded like I’d said something profound instead of cursing in his pristine little office.

“It should be obvious,” he agreed. “And it is, to anyone who’s paying attention. You’ve had your career taken from you because of someone else’s criminal actions. That’s a profound injustice.”

I hadn’t expected him to say that. The acknowledgment knocked something loose in my chest, something I’d been holding tight. I reeled it back in quickly.

“Yeah, well.” I shrugged again. “The Army’s gonna Army.”

“What does that mean to you?”

I sighed, the sound harsh in the quiet room. “It means the machine keeps moving. People get ground up, spat out, and the gears keep turning. I’m just another cog that didn’t fit right.”

Dr. Winters made a note. I wanted to snatch the pen from his hand, see what he was writing about me. What box he was putting me in.

“Let’s talk about your plans after discharge,” he said, looking up from his notes. “Do you have somewhere to go? Family? Friends?”

“I’ve got plans.”

“Would you share them with me?”

I tapped my foot faster, shifted in my seat. “I’m going to travel. See the country. Figure things out.”

“That sounds very open-ended.”

“That’s the point.”

He nodded, made another note. “Do you have a support system in place? People you can reach out to if things get difficult?”

“I don’t need a support system.” The words came out automatically, defensive. “I’ve been taking care of myself since I was sixteen.”

“Everyone needs support sometimes, Rio.”

“Not me.” I shook my head, dismissive. “I’m good on my own.”

Dr. Winters took a sip of his coffee, watching me over the rim of his mug. His eyes were kind in a way that made me want to look away. I didn’t want kindness. Kindness made things harder.

“The trauma you experienced --”

“Don’t.” I cut him off, my voice hard. “Don’t call it that.”

“What would you prefer I call it?”

I blinked, caught off guard by the question. No one had asked me that before. “I don’t know. Just… not that.”

“Okay.” He set his mug down. “We can find different words.”

An uncomfortable silence settled between us. The humming light seemed louder suddenly. My foot kept tapping, tapping, tapping. A physical outlet for the anxiety crawling through my veins.

“You said you’re going to travel,” he said finally. “Any particular destination in mind?”

Safe territory. I relaxed a fraction. “Heading west first. Maybe California. Then wherever I feel like going.”

“How will you support yourself?”

“I’ve got savings. And my discharge benefits. I don’t need much.”

He nodded. “It can be helpful to have a routine after leaving military service. Many veterans struggle with the lack of structure in civilian life.”

“I’m not most veterans.” I shook my head. “Structure is the last thing I want right now.”

“What do you want?”

The question caught me off guard again. What did I want? Freedom. Space. Distance from everything that reminded me of what happened. But deeper than that -- what did I really want?

“I want…” I hesitated, uncertain. “I want to feel safe in my own skin again.”

The admission hung in the air between us. I hadn’t meant to say it out loud. Hadn’t even known I was thinking it until the words were already out.

Dr. Winters didn’t rush to respond. He let the statement exist, giving it weight.

“That’s a good goal,” he said finally. “And a challenging one.”

I looked away again, uncomfortable with having revealed too much. My gaze drifted back to that crack in the corner. “Yeah, well. One day at a time, right? Isn’t that what you people always say?”

“Sometimes clichés become clichés because they contain truth.” He reached into his portfolio and pulled out a pamphlet. “This has information about VA services, including counseling options across the country. Wherever you end up, there will be resources available to you.”

I took the pamphlet without looking at it, folded it, and tucked it into my pocket. I’d probably throw it away later, but refusing it would just prolong this conversation.

“I also want to give you this.” He handed me a business card. “My direct line. If you find yourself needing to talk, I’m available.”

“You do this for all your exit assessments?” I raised an eyebrow, skeptical.

“No.” His honesty was surprising. “But I think you’re at a particularly vulnerable juncture, whether you want to acknowledge that or not.”

I stiffened. “I’m not vulnerable.”

“Everyone is vulnerable at some point, Rio. There’s no shame in it.”

“Save the greeting card wisdom for someone who cares.” I regretted the words immediately but couldn’t take them back. Couldn’t soften them.

Dr. Winters didn’t seem offended. “Anger is a normal response to trauma --” He caught himself. “To what you experienced. It’s protective. It keeps the deeper pain at bay.”

“Are we done here?” I sat forward, ready to leave. “You’ve assessed me. I’m fine. Can you sign whatever you need to sign so I can go?”

He studied me for a long moment, then nodded. “I can sign off on your assessment. But I want you to consider something.”

I waited, impatient.

“Running from place to place won’t help you outrun what happened. Eventually, you’ll have to stand still long enough to face it.”

“Is that your professional opinion, Doctor?” My voice dripped with sarcasm.

“It’s my human experience.” He closed his portfolio. “And yes, also my professional opinion.”

I stood, smoothing the front of my uniform out of habit. “Well, thanks for the assessment. And the life advice.”

He stood as well, extending his hand again. “Take care of yourself, Rio. And remember, reaching out for help is a sign of strength, not weakness.”

I shook his hand briefly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

I wouldn’t. Or at least, I told myself I wouldn’t. But I took his card anyway, slipping it into the same pocket as the pamphlet.

At the door, I paused. Something made me turn back, though I couldn’t have said what. “When does it stop?”

Dr. Winters looked up from gathering his things. “When does what stop?”

“The feeling that they’re still…” I couldn’t finish the sentence.

His expression softened with understanding. “It changes. With time, with support, with work. It doesn’t disappear, but it transforms into something you can carry without it crushing you.”

I nodded once, a sharp dip of my chin. Not a thank you, not quite an acknowledgment. Just a motion to end the conversation.

I left Building C with my discharge paperwork signed and my head high. The Georgia sun hit my face, warm and bright, a stark contrast to the cold fluorescent lighting inside. The air smelled like pine trees and diesel fuel -- the familiar scent of an Army base that had once felt like home.

Two weeks, and I’d never smell it again. Two weeks, and I’d be free. Free to run as far and as fast as I wanted.

Dr. Winters was wrong. I could outrun this. I could outrun anything if I just kept moving.

I had to believe that.