The Missionary (25 page)

“I pray…” Wren wiped at her eye with a thumb, at the wetness leaking down that still refused to be the tears she needed to shed. “I pray, Stone. But God doesn’t do anything. He doesn’t take away the memories.”

“You know how many nights I laid awake in bed, unable to sleep for the dreams? Unable to focus on anything because the nightmares didn’t stop when I was awake. They didn’t stop, you know? They just became memories. I’d lay in bed and watch the moon move over the horizon, praying, begging to God to take the memories and give me five
fucking
seconds of peace. Sometimes I think I believe in God because I’ve seen His presence, but I don’t always
believe
like other people at church, like Nick believes. I’ve seen good things. I’ve seen the sunrise on the wide open ocean from the deck of an aircraft carrier, and that…that’s glorious. Sunsets in the Alps. A full moon on fresh snow. People banding together to help each other, doing selfless things, acts of courage and heroism. I’ve seen men who should be dead get up and walk away and kiss their wives and kids, and the only explanation is that God protected them. I’m still alive, and I’ve had some ridiculously close calls. Felt like God protected me when I should have died. So I believe in God, I believe in His existence. He’s real. That’s a fact as immutable as sunrise and sunset and the basic physics of the universe. But sometimes, I don’t understand Him. I don’t get why He lets such horrible shit go on in this world He created. Why good things happen to bad people, and vice-versa. Those questions people struggle with all the time, you know? I struggle with them, too, just like everyone else.

“Except…for guys like me, who’ve seen the most vile things humanity can offer…those questions are worse. And I don’t have any answers, Wren. I’ve never found any answers. I learned to sleep at night, over time. I try to accept that what happened, happened, and nothing I do can change it. I accept that I saw what I saw. I did what I did. I pulled the trigger. I have to own that. I have blood on my hands, Wren. So much. I can’t ever escape that. Even though the men I killed were all awful, evil men, drug dealers and killers and rapists—bad guys—they were still people. They may have had wives or kids, a mother. A father. Someone who would miss them. I ended them, ended that. And I have to live with it. The times I failed, the missions we fucked up, the bad guys who got away, I have to live with that too.” Stone’s voice quavered, and Wren didn’t dare look at him. The torment in his voice was too raw and personal. “I helped people. That leavens the guilt. I saved people. I saved entire fucking villages. Towns. Killed the cartel kingpin and freed them from his tyranny. Stopped the terrorist from making more car-bombs and killing innocent people. But…it’s all there. And you have to get up every day and live your life and not let it define you, not let it drag you down.

“Does belief in God help, all the time? No. Not really. He won’t take the memories away, in my experience. But it helps to believe that there’s a plan I’m too small to see. A plan I can’t understand. A purpose to things. Maybe that’s just blind, a salve to my conscience like the bitter, jaded nonbelievers say. But it helps, and I’ll take all the help I can get. It helps to believe in something bigger and stronger and smarter and more powerful than me, that there’s purpose in the death of guys I cared about. Brothers, men I loved like family. Dozens, Zane, Benny, Hector, Billy, Connor.” He spoke the names like a litany. “Adam. Shiny. Bradshaw. Sue. Fucking Sue, a boy named Sue. His dad named him after the Johnny Cash song, for real. Sue was a nasty ass bastard, mean as a snake. But he was loyal to a fault. Acted like he didn’t like anyone, but he loved us all. Got killed saving us all. A grenade landed at our feet, and Sue? He didn’t even hesitate. Picked it up and threw it, but it was too late. It went off a foot from his head. Blew him to fucking pieces. There’s got to be a greater purpose to that, right?”

Wren heard him swallow hard, breathe in and out deeply, deliberately. She still didn’t look up at him, kept her eyes on the wall, on his hand clenched into a fist beside her. She reached up and felt his jaw, smooth and freshly-shaven, felt his cheek. Wet.
 

And that broke something open inside her. Let the dam open. It was a hiccup at first, a tear down her cheek. The hiccup turned to a sob, her lip sucking into her mouth, her throat scraping.

“Yeah, babe. I know.” Stone brushed her cheek with his thumb in small, slow circles.
 

Her eyes burned, her chest ached, her throat hurt. Everything came apart, then. Opened up, somehow, a geyser of everything she’d held in, trapped inside her for days and weeks. The tears she refused to cry for herself in the darkness. While she was running, dodging Cervantes and his men. All of it came up and out.
 

Sobbing wasn’t really the word for it. It was something beyond sobbing. It was the sound of a soul being shattered, of terror and pain finally being given true vent. Wren couldn’t breathe for the wracking, wrenching sobs being torn up from within her. It was physically painful to let it out, to feel the horror. She delved deep, felt it all over again. Felt the hard fists bashing against her cheek, the kick to her ribs. The examination, being sold. Watching that girl being gagged as she went down on Miguel. The apathy in her eyes.
 

Death. So much death. The crack of pistols, the chainsaw ripping of AK-47s. The wet
thunk
of bullets hitting flesh, ending lives. So much blood. Cut throats, pierced skulls.
 

The kick of the gun in her fist, over and over. Watching, almost from outside of herself, as she blasted Cervantes again and again. Rage taking over, but unable to banish the guilt, the horror. His eyes, she saw his eyes, over and over. Every night, she saw Cervantes’ eyes as he died, the confusion as he felt himself dying, the way his mouth gaped and worked like a fish out of water. The pool of blood spreading, spreading.

“Am I—am I a bad person? For killing Cervantes?” The question had haunted her for days. “Am I going to hell? I killed him, Stone. I shot him, so many times. I couldn’t stop. It was like watching someone else. I know he deserved it, but does it make me like him, for killing him?”

“No, babe. It doesn’t make you like him. It doesn’t make you a bad person.” He leaned away and met her eyes. “Am I a bad person? I’ve killed more people than you can imagine. All of them were bad guys, but I still killed them. How do you justify that? You can’t dwell on it. You have to just—I don’t know…accept it, I guess. He was evil, Wren. You know he was. And really, it was self-defense, and defending me. That’s the best justification I can give you. I can’t deal with the guilt for you, but I’ll be with you the whole way.”

“Where were you?” Wren demanded. “Why didn’t you come for so long? I can’t sleep, Stone. I can’t eat. I can’t do anything. I need you. You make it so I can breathe.”

Stone sighed. “I’m sorry. I just…I needed my own time to—to deal. I’m no good to you if I’m a mess too. I needed some space to figure my own shit out. I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Wren cried silently, then. She held onto Stone and felt his shirt growing damp beneath her cheek. When she was finally able to stop the flood, she was wrung out and limp.
 

“I don’t think I can move,” she mumbled.

“So don’t. Let’s just stay here, like this.” He sounded sleepy himself. “Will you get in trouble if I stay here with you?”

Wren managed a shrug. “Class…in the morning. Nine.”

“No problem.”

Stone helped her into bed and she drifted, slept without dreams. At some point, she felt Stone kick the blankets from underneath their bodies and pull them up, and she burrowed closer against him.
 

She woke up in the dim gray pre-dawn with Stone spooned against her. She felt lighter, cleaner, rested. Not totally okay, but better. And Stone was there with her, holding her. His palm was flat on her belly, just beneath her breasts. She felt something hard against her spine, and she felt her heart lurch and her body tighten at the knowledge of what it was. She placed her hand on his, threaded her fingers through hers, and listened to him breathe, wondering how to classify her relationship with Stone. Were they together? Would he make love to her? Would he bring her to his place and show her more of who he was, tell her more about himself, share his life with her?
 

“You’re thinking too hard, babe,” he mumbled.

“You and me…what are we?”

Stone shifted his hips, stretching, then seemed to realize that he was pressing himself against her and pulled away. “Sorry, I—”

Wren wriggled against him. “Don’t be sorry. I didn’t mind.”

“What are we?” Stone’s fingers flexed against her belly, then slid upward, just slightly, brushing the underside of her breasts. “We’re us. We’re together. If that’s what you want, that is.”

“Of course I do.” She moved his hand higher, cupping her breast with. “I want this.”

“Wren…” he groaned, clutching her gently, moving his hand so his palm scraped over her nipple. “What about your roommate? I’m not sure a dorm room is the best place, or that now is the best time. But I want it too.”

“My roommate is never here. Her boyfriend has an apartment, and she’s there pretty much all the time. She only comes here to study sometimes in the afternoon between classes.” She shifted her body, pressing her ass up his hardness. “Stone…please.”

He writhed with her, groaning and breathing against her bare shoulder. “I want it to be right. To be perfect. I want to go on a date with you. Take you home to my place and take all night with you. I don’t want to be rushed, or have to worry about being interrupted.”

“I feel like I’m going to explode,” Wren said, breathless. “Like everything is…on fire inside me. Building up and ready to go off. Crying last night helped, but I need this with you too. I don’t want to wait. I can’t wait.” She moved rhythmically against him, sliding her lace-clad backside against the rough fabric of his jeans.

Stone massaged her breast, even as he protested. His fingers twisted her nipple, gently pinched it, then his whole hand engulfed the weight of her breast. His hips moved with hers, and his lips pressed helpless kisses to her shoulder. Each time his lips touched her skin, Wren shivered, gasped. She took his hand again and guided it down, down, between her legs.
 

“Just touch me. Give me something.” She slid his fingers under the elastic of her panties.
 

Stone kissed her neck, under one ear, then her jaw. He took long, slow, deep breaths, growling slightly on the outbreath. He traced circles on her inner thigh, then pushed his fingers between her legs, found her entrance and slid his touch inside her, then stopped. “What about—”

She put her hand over his
.
“I’m fine,” she assured him. “I promise. Totally fine. I won’t be fine if you stop, though.”

“You make it hard to do the right thing,” Stone said, stroking her with gentle, probing fingers.
 

“The right thing is us. The right thing is to be with me, to make me happy.
This
makes me happy.” She tilted her head back against his shoulder, turned her face to kiss his jaw. “We’ll do all that. We’ll have romantic dates and we’ll make love by candlelight or moonlight or whatever, wherever. But nothing about us is normal. And I need this with you, right now. Make me feel good.”

“Wren…Jesus help me. I can’t resist you.”

“Don’t. If we’re together, then why do you have to resist me?” She twisted in his arms. “Everything we went through together…what did it all mean if you’re back to trying to stick to some preconceived notion of the right thing, regardless of what I want? Just be with me, take me. Don’t make me beg you. Show me you want me as much as I want you.”
 

“God, do I want you.” Stone brushed her flyaway, tangled black hair to either side of her face
.
“I just—you deserve more than rushed, desperate moments. You deserve time and attention and perfection.”

Wren slipped out of bed, locked the door, and then stood in front of Stone, staring down at him. “Then give that to me. Nothing else matters to me, right now.” She pushed her underwear down and stepped out of them, crawled over the bed and lay down on her back beside him. “Just this matters.”

Stone’s eyes raked over her, and then she watched as the last vestige of hesitation fled from his features. He rolled to his side, leaning on one elbow, and kissed her lips. Tentatively at first, slow and tasting. Wren pulled at his neck, lifted up to deepen the kiss. She peeled his shirt up over his abs, and he shifted to let her tug it away, and then he dipped in to kiss her once more. Aggression tinged this kiss, finally. She moaned in relief as he began to devour her lips, and his hand scoured her ribs, drifted up over her breasts and nudged her erect nipples with his thumb, one and then the other.
 

His tongue slid between her lips and touched her teeth, found her tongue.
 

Now her hands explored, traced the lines of his abdominal muscles, the scars of his still-healing gunshot wounds on his side and thigh. This all felt so familiar, yet not. That one night in the hotel in Manila seemed like a distant dream, with so many nightmares rampaging between that one sweet night and this morning. She found the button of his jeans, and slipped the cold circle of metal through the loop. The engorged hardness of his manhood spread the zipper apart, and she lowered it the rest of the way, then slid her fingers around the waist of his pants, pushing them down. He lifted hips, and she pushed the denim over his knees, and they used their toes together to shed them the rest of the way, kicking them off the bed from beneath the blankets. Now, only a thin barrier of cotton separated Wren from what she wanted. She made short work of his underwear, and now he was naked with her.

Sunlight streamed through the fourth floor window, showing a blue, cloud-free sky. Warmth suffused Wren as Stone’s hand roamed her body, sliding over her hips, down to her knees, over her thighs and up between her legs, which she spread apart for him, welcoming his touch eagerly.