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  He turns around to face me. His short hair is spiked in different directions. It’s a mess, a hot mess. His skin has a glow, giving the appearance of a good night’s sleep. “All set in the bathroom?” he asks, his voice croaks, an after-sleep sound that shouldn’t be turning me on.

  I nod my head and plop down at the edge of the bed to pull my boots on. He walks past me but stops at the corner where the wall meets the bathroom. “Everything okay? You seem kind of quiet.”

  “Just not a morning person.” But I am the type of person who falls for the wrong people.

  “There’s a shock,” he laughs. With that, the bathroom door closes and the water squeals through the pipes. He’s in there . . . naked, and it’s all I can think about. I’m fucked.

  I whip my phone out and shoot Sasha a text:

  We’ll be driving through Western Texas. Let’s meet. I’ll call you when I’m close. I think I’ve fallen for my bodyguard. I know. It’s a long story, and I think he has a girlfriend. I need you to slap me.

  XO - Cali

  I see the little dots flickering under the message I sent, telling me she’s responding. Her response is taking forever, considering how nimble those little fingers of hers are on a keypad.

  OMG, Cali. I am going to slap you. You just made my day. Can’t wait to see your stupid ass.

  Luv Ya - Sasha

  The bathroom door opens and Tango comes out, dragging the scent of some amazing man shampoo. His hair is wet and glistening under the dull orange light above. I need that slap now. And hard.

  “Ready to hit the road?” he asks.

  “Yup.” I pull my elastic out of my damp hair, hoping to let it dry before I lean on it in the truck. I can see my falling black waves catch his attention as his mouth parts slightly and his chest pauses between constrictions. He has a girlfriend. He shouldn’t be looking at me like that.

  He clears his throat and grabs both of our bags.

  “I can grab mine,” I say, taking my bag from his hand. I walk ahead of him, leading the way back to the front office. The office is locked, being so early in the morning, so Tango drops the key in the mail slot.

  Once in the truck I prop my feet up and pull my sunglasses down over my eyes, which has become my now normal position. It annoys him, I think. But I’m not sure I really care about that right now.

  Before putting the truck in drive, I can see Tango looking at me from the corner of his eyes. He slaps his hand over my knee and says, “Get your feet down. You’re scratching up the dash.”

  I turn my head to the side before moving. I give him an unfazed, emotionless look. “Sorry,” I mumble.

  “I know what will cheer you up,” he says. I refocus my attention out the windshield. No, you don’t. Well, unless you tell me you don’t really have a girlfriend texting you, telling you she loves you. Or I’d settle for the truth—being that you’re using me to find my dad as a way of saving your life. Besides that, nothing will cheer me up right now. “Let’s grab a coffee before we hit the road.”

  I guess that does make me a little happy. Why can’t I just be in a relationship with coffee? Coffee doesn’t bring drama.

  “Oh, by the way, since we’re moving onto what could be a death mission, I want to stop in Pecos on the way,” I say.

  “What’s in Pecos?” he asks.

  “A friend I haven’t seen in a while.”

  “Hmm. A boyfriend?” He looks a bit taken aback as he clears his throat, seeming nervous for a response, which is ridiculous since he likely has a girlfriend.

  “No. She is my childhood friend.”

  His voice rises into a higher pitch, “Oh nice. That sounds like a good idea. We’ll be around that area at about six-thirtyish tomorrow night according to the GPS on my phone.” There is a large amount of pavement we have to hit before then. I better wait on giving her a time until we’re closer.

  “Would you care if it had been a boyfriend?” Why did I just say that?

  He pauses for a moment, obviously putting some thoughts together. “It’s a free country,” he says with an impish grin.

  He pulls off into a gas station to refill the tank and I jump out and head for the bathroom. When I return, he’s leaning up against the truck as a faint smirk plays across his face as he reads something on his phone. I can guess who he’s talking to—although his expression doesn’t change when he notices me coming closer.

  As I reach for the door handle, he gently grabs me by the back of my arm and turns me around. “What’s the matter with you?” Hmm. You’ve been hitting on me for the past week and I just found out you have a girlfriend.

  “Absolutely nothing. I just didn’t want to interrupt your conversation with whoever you were talking to.”

  “I wasn’t talking to anyone. I was reading something funny on Twitter.”

  “Mmhm,” I say. “Can I just climb into the truck, please?” He backs up and lets me by.

  I whip the door open and slam it after I’m in. “Hey, easy on the door,” he says through the cracked opening of the window. “These mood swings of yours are kind of giving me a headache. Did I do something to piss you off?” he asks.

  “Let me just make something clear, Tango: I’m not a home wrecker. So whatever this is, was—” I point back and forth between us. “It needs to stop.”

  He looks bemused by my comment, but I try to avoid his face altogether. The flirting games are just games with him. I might look tough from the outside, but my insides are weaker than tissue paper. It wouldn’t take much to tear me in half.

  I feel the truck shake around as he screws the gas cap back on the tank. He rips the receipt from the pump and hops into the truck. He slides his key into the ignition but doesn’t turn it. Instead, he turns to look at me. “I understand if I’ve come on too strong, and I apologize from the bottom of my heart if I’ve acted inappropriately in any way with you. But, I’m not sure what your home wrecker comment meant?”

  Oh fuck. I shouldn’t have said anything. Now we can sit awkwardly and uncomfortable for the next however many hours we have to be caged together like this. “I’m sure you have a girlfriend or something, so I don’t understand why you’re saying nice things and acting all friendly to me.”

  He doesn’t respond, he just faces forward and turns the key. We slowly pull out of the gas station and back onto the country road that leads to the highway, and it doesn’t take long before the silence becomes overwhelming. This is my fault. I should have just kept my mouth shut. I reach my hand out to turn up the volume on the radio and he places his fingers over mine. The feeling is electrifying and cruel. It’s warm but cold. It makes my heart swell, and it makes my heart hurt. I have feelings for him, but I hate that he’s made me feel anything at all.

  “If you saw my text message last night, you should have just asked me about it,” he says.

  So now this is my fault? If I had confronted him sooner, I wouldn’t have to admit that he’s the same as every other asshole in this world. Like everyone else, it seems he thinks it’s okay to hurt people. Maybe he didn’t kill my sister, but he made me feel something, and I haven’t felt a goddamn thing in so long—so fuck him.

  I lean over and pull my headphones out of my bag and shove the adapter into my phone. I search for the loudest and heaviest music I can find and press play. The sound consumes me. It vibrates through my body and it makes my head numb inside. It’s too loud to think, and it’s too loud to feel anything other than the bass.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  TANGO

  A GIRLFRIEND? A wife? I laugh silently at the thought. I had a feeling she looked at my phone last night. That would explain her bipolar mood a little more. If I had a girlfriend, I would have been laid at some point over the past four years. Being in the desert for so long makes you realize how lucky you are to experience those moments with a woman. Before I left for my first tour, I’d sleep with any chick who approached me, which was a lot. But I’m over that. I just want to feel something that lasts for more tha
n a few minutes, and she makes me feel something when I’m not even touching her. It also doesn’t help that she’s so beautiful when she’s mad.

  However, if she wants to play this silence game, I can play it too. She’s waiting for me to admit something that she made up in her head, so I’m putting the ball in her court, because her assumptions couldn’t be further from the truth. She has to break at some point.

  CALI

  We drove straight through lunch, and I know it’s because he’s waiting for me to say something to him. But I refuse to say anything. I can skip a meal if he’s waiting for me to tell him I’m hungry. Besides, silence is a brutal force. That and it’s my only tactic right now. I know muteness can drive a sane person crazy, although I do feel the slightest twinge of guilt for playing this game with a sick man.

  Another hour has passed, and it’s nearly four. I think the silence is finally getting to him. An exaggerated sigh escapes from the corner of his mouth. He’s definitely breaking. I feel the truck shift and turn as he pulls off to the side of the flat and barren highway. Dirt sprays along the outside of the truck as we come to a complete stop, and he throws the shifter into park while slamming his head back against the seat. He takes a breath and his lips part slightly. He releases a loud painful sounding cough and opens his window. Sweat beads up on his forehead and he wrings his hand around the back of his neck. I can feel a struggle within his movements and guilt is hitting me with full force. I consider breaking the silence, but his eyes close and then so do his lips. He blows his pent up air out of his nose and looks over at me. His eyes widen, giving me a look like he wants me to say something. But even if I were to talk, I don’t think I have anything to say. “This silence is killing me. There, I lose. You win. Now what?”

  I shrug my shoulders, which makes him angrier. I want to make this better, but I don’t know how. He was lying to me and I can’t just forget that because he’s sick. He knew how much trouble I have trusting anyone, and he played me like a fool. He doesn’t push for me to say anything, though. Instead, he shifts the truck into drive and shoots us back onto the highway.

  TANGO

  I consider telling her. It would break through this uncomfortable silence. I haven’t quite felt ready to tell anyone why I don’t have a family right now. The vivid memories I seem to relive way too often are enough to kill me. But my time’s running out, and if she doesn’t already hate me after assuming I have a girlfriend, she’ll probably hate me when she finds out what I put my family through.

  And with that thought, maybe I should hold off a little longer. I can’t stand the thought of making this any worse.

  CALI

  We have gone almost an entire day and a half without speaking much. We checked ourselves into separate hotel rooms last night, but they adjoined of course, since I need to be babysat and all. We’ve been living off of gas station junk food, but I’m not weakening. I can keep going like this. It’ll make it easier anyway, not talking, not growing more attracted to him—definitely not hearing his voice or another compliment come out of those perfect lips.

  The only thing I am thankful for is that we just passed a sign that says forty-five miles to Pecos. I pull out my phone to send Sasha a text:

  Where do you want to meet?

  -Cali

  Churro grill, which is off the highway, hidden from non-locals. Should be a safe zone.

  -Sasha

  We’ll be there around seven, seven-thirty.

  -Cali

  Now I have to figure out how to communicate this without speaking. There still appears to be steam spouting from Tango’s ears and I can’t quite understand what he has to be mad about. He’s the one who caused this awkwardness. I never came onto him. I didn’t comment on his good looks. And although I haven’t admitted my deepest thoughts to him, I think he’s the most attractive man I’ve ever laid eyes on, and I would do anything to touch him. But that’s not a possibility. I will not be a home wrecker. Sick or not, he’s an asshole if the thought even crossed his mind.

  The road we’re on is leading up a steep mountainous landscape overlooking hundreds of miles of farm and greenery. Nothing else. Wherever we are seems so peaceful and subdued, and it reminds me of a home I once knew when I was a child and had nothing to do but run around and be free. I would do anything to have a piece of that back.

  The truck swerves off the road once again into another cloud of dust. We’re stopped on the side of a lookout point at the edge of the cliff, and for some reason, I’m thinking he hasn’t stopped to check out the view. Maybe he’ll finally admit to having this girlfriend of his. Maybe the guilt finally broke him.

  Before I have another second to think, my door swings open and he reaches over me and unclips my seatbelt. I’m pulled from the truck, and I don’t fight him. I’m too tired to keep this game up.

  He lets me down on the small patch of grass near the ledge. His hands find my shoulders and he bends over a bit, lowering his head to my level. His eyes are steady on mine. I won’t blink. I won’t let him think he’s getting in my head, even though he has taken over almost every one of my thoughts during the past week and a half. It’s been less than two weeks and this asshole has mind-fucked me. Clearly, he is my match, because normally, I’m the one causing the mind-fuck.

  One of his hands releases from my shoulder and he reaches down into my back pocket. He pulls my phone out and throws it through the truck’s open passenger window.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” I grunt.

  “No phones. No nothing. Just us. You and me.”

  “Just do whatever you’re about to fucking do. Throw me over the ledge if that’s what you want. Don’t drag this out. I’ve had enough.”

  He takes his phone out of his pocket and throws it into the truck too. “The text message you saw last night was from my sister, Chelsea.”

  “You said you had a sister, not have.” What the hell? “So, when were you lying, then or now?”

  “Neither.” He turns away from me, sucking in every bit of fresh mountain air his disintegrating lungs can consume. His hands grip into his hips, and he turns back to face me. “We’ve all seen our fair amount of shit, Carolina. I’ve seen so much of it and somehow survived it. So you want my fucked up story? Here it is: I was discharged from the Marines—the only thing I’ve ever been good at. I was given two months-ish to live, as I told you. Rather than returning home to large celebrations, only to die two months later, I decided to have my family notified that I had died in the field. It was a really shitty decision. But it’s not something I can undo. If they found out I was lying, I could land a lot of people in trouble. Luckily, I’m assuming it won’t be an issue in a few weeks. I will be dead, and they won’t know the difference. I wanted them to think I died a hero, rather than as a sick man. But I don’t feel like a fucking hero. I just feel like a sick man. Everything I may have done overseas doesn’t matter now.”

  I feel like I should be surprised by this, but it makes total sense to me. “This is why you’re a mercenary?” I confirm for my own benefit.

  “It’s the only job I was allowed to have. I didn’t want to sit around waiting to die. You know?” A crazed look swims through his eyes and he places his hands behind his neck. “Anyway, my family buried an empty coffin. I watched fifty people cry harder than I’ve ever thought possible. I watched my father shovel dirt and pour it over the coffin he thought my body was in. I watched my sister pass out from hyperventilating while standing over a six-foot-hole. I watched as my mother had to be held up by two people just so she could say her final good-byes to me. I watched this from a car in the shadow of my supposed death.” He swallows hard. He’s swallowing his pain. And I’m swallowing his pain with him. He sighs heavily up toward the sky. “The only thing that was in that coffin was my identity. I’m not allowed to go back to Michigan or any of the surrounding states for the rest of my life.” Michigan? He said he was from Missouri. I guess that isn’t important. “The only good thing that came out
of that was hearing the words spoken in front of my gravesite. I was loved, Carolina. God dammit, I was loved so fucking much. I was able to hear those words. I know what I meant to my family. And I can die knowing my life wasn’t in vain. Whether I died in a hospital bed from cancer or an IED blew me to smithereens, I was their hero. I was their fucking hero. But I was selfish for claiming to have died in Afghanistan, especially when I watched so many of my brothers die in action. It was a stupid decision that I made two days after finding out I was dying, and ironically, now I have to live with it until I actually do die. So if that’s the reason you want to give me the silent treatment—that, I can live with. That I deserve. But thinking I was trying to make you a home wrecker—that, I can’t live with.”

  I’m trying not to cry, and I’m trying to put all of these mixed up pieces together in my head. “Your sister knows you’re alive?” I ask.

  “She was on some trip with her friends. It was fate, I think. I literarily ran into her in Nashville a couple of weeks ago. I was state hopping, enjoying what little time I had left. There are things I wanted to do before I die, ya know? But running into her in a bar, it was too random to be random, so I have to think a higher power wanted us to find each other again.” He bends over and picks up a rock from the sandy gravel. He smoothes it between his hands, squeezing it, holding it, crushing it. “I kept all information at a minimum, and I made her promise to never tell a soul. She was angry with me at first, but I told her there were reasons for this that I just couldn’t explain. She used to hear that kind of stuff from me all the time, so she at least pretended to understand. Chelsea and I were so close growing up. There’s only an eleven-month age difference between us. We had all the same friends and because my birthday was in September and hers was in August, we were in the same grade, the same classes. She begged me not to leave her that day we ran into each other. The only compromise I could make was to buy a pre-paid phone and give her the number.” He looks over to his truck. “She sends me a message every night, telling me she misses me and loves me.” He looks back over to me. “I never respond. I’m trying to save her from the pain she’ll deal with when I’m actually gone in a few weeks. But knowing that someone still loves me has gotten me through these past couple of weeks.” His eyes glaze over with a blank look. I can see he feels similar pain to me, and I think he realized this days ago. “So no, Cali, I don’t have a girlfriend or a wife.”