Page 82 of Red Rooster

17

Rooster had become a pro at locking down extraneous thoughts while he was awake. If it wasn’tprotect,procure, orplan, it had no place in his brain.

But he couldn’t guard his dreams, and scenarios – fantasies, he guessed; mostly nightmares – drifted up to the surface of his consciousness when he slept. No matter how he tried to shield himself, the dark corners of his mind were something against which he couldn’t defend.

It was getting worse.

More frequent.

Like tonight. They watched oldFriendsreruns while Red sat on the end of the bed and Rooster carefully combed the black dye into her hair. No matter the city, no matter the TV station selection,Friendshad always been a constant, and Red knew the dialogue by heart; she laughed before each joke was delivered, parroted the lines she liked best. And something small, and fragile, and better left unexamined inside him fractured as the vibrant red of her hair disappeared under foam and shadow.

She rinsed the dye – he heard her quiet sigh as she glanced at her reflection in the bathroom mirror – and they climbed into their separate beds.

“Night.”

“Night.”

Like always. Click of the light switch, enfolding darkness.

Rooster wasn’t sleepy, strung tight with nerves, too aware of her quiet breathing on the other side of the room. He shut his eyes and concentrated on his own breathing, slowing it, forcing regular, deep inhalations. It would pass, he knew, whatever it was that nagged at him. In the morning things would be back to normal, and he wouldn’t feel guilty for things he hadn’t done, hadn’t even thought.

Your daughter.

He didn’t want to think of her like that. For other people to think it.

That was wrong of him. But…

He heard the rustle of sheets in the next bed; his eyes popped open and he watched Red sit up, a shifting of layered shadows in the dark. The light clicked on and he blinked against it, grimacing.

By the time his vision cleared, she’d moved from her bed to his, perched on the edge right by his hip, her hand on his shoulder. The lamplight caught her hair, sleek rivers of copper, and auburn, and fire over her shoulders.

“What?” he asked, but her eyes were wide, and dilated, and his heart was pounding against his ribs, and he already knewwhat. Already wanted it.

Her hair teased along his ribs, his arms, his throat as she leaned over him, close enough to feel her breath against his face, low enough that her tank top gapped in the front, and he saw the curves of her breasts. Her lips pressed to his, soft and slick with chapstick, warm as a banked fire.

He lifted his hands to push her away…and buried them in her hair instead, spearing his fingers through the heavy silk of it.

She moved against him, sinuous as a cat. “Please, Rooster,” she whispered against his mouth. “I’m not a little girl anymore.”

And she wasn’t; it was a woman’s body pressed to his, soft, curved, ready.

She drew back a fraction, her hand on his chest, over his wildly thumping heart, and smiled down at him, nervous but certain. Asking. “Roo,” she murmured.

And her head exploded in a burst of red mist.

The sound followed a fraction of a second after, the concussive blast of an IED. Her body fell on top of his, headless, gushing blood from the neck. The shrapnel peppered his side, hot, brilliant pain as it tore through flesh, shredding muscle, imbedding in bone.

He screamed and rolled over, trying to shield her. But it was too late, and his left side wouldn’t hold him, buckling at every joint. He fell face first on top of her, hot sand, and hotter blood filling his mouth. Above him somewhere were screams, shouts, the staccato crack of M4s returning enemy fire. The distant thump of helo blades chopping at the sky, but too late. All of it, always, too late…

Her voice in his ears: “Rooster.”

“Rooster.”

“Rooster!”

He woke with a gasp to find that he lay curled up on his side in his hotel bed. On his good side. The lights were on, and Red knelt beside his head, her hair black – because he’d dyed it. Because she hadn’t climbed over him and kissed him. Hadn’t been killed by a makeshift bomb.

It had been a nightmare.