The Devil's Right Hand - J. D. Rhoades [43]
“The booze. It helps blot out what happened, but the only way to get to that place is to get too plastered to think. And it doesn’t last. You sober up eventually. And you’ll still have the dreams.”
“You don’t know me. You don’t know shit about my dreams." Her voice shook.
“I think I do,” he replied. “You’re back there on that roadside. Staring down the barrel of that gun. And you’re not just afraid you’re going to die. You know it. You’ve just seen someone you know, someone you’ve lived and worked with, cut down. And you’re next. You know you are. There’s no way you’re going to survive. Am I right so far?” She was looking at him with an expression of pure panic on her face. Her breath was coming in short gasps. He couldn’t stop himself from going on. “You push it down, pretend it doesn’t bother you because that’s what it takes to do your job, but it keeps coming back at you. Whenever you stop for a minute, whenever you let down your guard, whenever you lie down at night, you’re back there again. On that roadside.”
Marie’s face went slack. Keller snatched the glass from her limp hand, catching her as she slipped off the chair towards the floor. He guided her down to the carpet. Her body shook feverishly.
“G-g-god,” she whispered against his neck. “I was s-s-so scared!” He wrapped his arms around her. She clutched him back with the hysterical strength of the drowning. She sobbed into his chest like a child, her whole body convulsed with grief. He pulled himself up to a sitting position against the recliner and rocked her gently, stroking her hair with one hand. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “I know. I know how it feels. It’s okay.” He held her like that for a long time as she cried herself out.
Gradually, as she ran out of tears, she quieted. Keller became uncomfortably aware of her body pressed against him. Her breasts pressed into his chest. He became even more aware of how her hands had stopped clutching at him and had become gentler, almost caressing. She turned her tear-streaked face up to him. Her lips were slightly parted and her eyes were glazed. Her hand dropped lower, finding unerring proof of the effect she was having on him. She moaned. The edge of hysteria in her voice made it almost into a whimper.
Keller swore to himself. He had experienced this himself in the aftermath of combat, a surge of pure sexual heat that was the body’s response to nearly being snuffed out. It was as if the genes within the body, realizing their fragility, desperately tried to take one last chance to reproduce. He knew that what she was feeling had nothing to do with him. He could have been any warm male body. It was wrong to take advantage of her in the aftermath of her emotional catharsis, he knew that. But her lips under his were warm and yielding, tasting slightly of the whiskey. Her hand stroking him was gentle but insistent. He reached down and pulled her hand away. She made a petulant sound and tried to grab him again. He pinned her hand and gently kissed her on the forehead. She looked at him for a moment as if he had lost his mind. Then she leaned her head against his chest and her body relaxed. She fell asleep as quickly as if she had been blackjacked. Keller sighed. He shifted her body slightly to try to get his arms under her. He stood up, with difficulty, cradling her in his arms. He carried her into the bedroom and laid her on the bed. He found a blanket in the closet and threw it over her. She grumbled a bit in her sleep, but pulled the blanket tighter around her. He stood by the bed for few moments, watching her breathe. He thought about Angela’s words to him.
You think it’s your job to rescue the world, she had said. So now you’ve found yourself another damsel in distress. He sighed and shook his head. He walked back out into the living room and stretched out on the couch.
It was dark when he awoke. He sat up, checked his watch. 11:30. He heard the sound of the shower running. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. His back felt cramped from sleeping on the couch. He hadn’t