Havoc by Angie Merriam Page B

parents’ money away, and a disgusting
tendency to hump anything with a pulse.” Haven's eyebrows rise.
Whether it is in surprise of my description or of the fact this was
the first time I stepped up to say something about someone in the
group is unsure. My strong distaste for the jerk cut through and
escaped. I know better than this. Hell, I have to stop behaving
like this. Sir silently demands an apology with his facial
expression. He’ll get it. But, it won't make what I said any less
factual. “Sorry, Sir.”
    “You will learn their faces. You will learn
their names. Most importantly, you will learn their skills and what
they can do for you. They will help create the evidence to support
your new back story. As of today, you are the daughter of an old
Navy friend of mine who passed away. You’re here to explore and
think before you decide on college—or whatever you want to do with
the rest of your life. It's enough to get the ball rolling and keep
questions, especially from Leighyani and Howard, down to a minimum.
I'm sure this has been a bit much for you to process, so I'll give
you some time now. Take a breath. Refresh your plate. When you feel
comfortable, begin to make yourself known.” Sir rises to his feet,
whiskey glass now empty. I know where he is headed. “If you'll
excuse me.”
    And when it's just the two of us once more,
Haven's dark-brown eyes relax. Her body language echoes the
sentiment. For what has to be the first time since we've walked
through Mindy's front door, she looks like she might actually
believe she's going to be OK, that she might be able to survive.
This is good. This is a great. We may have a long way to go, we may
have a long uphill journey to push through, but at least now I know
she's got some sort of faith she can do it. And if she's got that,
that's more than enough for me and my heart.
     
     

85 Days Till Deployment
    A steady stream of screams flows out of a
pair of hefty lungs, shooting me into a panic, my knife gripped in
my hand, ready to attack an intruder. My eyes quickly adjust to see
no one is in my bedroom but me and Haven, who has gathered herself
close the headboard.
    She looks terrified but not of me. It's like
she doesn't realize where she is, and that twinge in my chest
returns. What the fuck is that? Acid reflux? Sitting up with my
arms draped on my gathered knees, I watch her cycle through the
emotions of horror, relief, excitement, resentment, fear, and
confusion. This is the fifth time in three hours she's shot up
screaming like that, drenched in a wicked, cold sweat. Each time, I
alert myself with the same amount of attention, each time prepared
for someone to break in and try to take her away.
    I thought sleeping on the floor would help
give her the space she needed to rest. I thought letting her feel
safe by me being on a sleeping bag on the floor would provide a
measure of comfort, yet every time she screams, I feel like I'm
wrong. I hate being wrong. I'm never wrong. I'm never this confused
or conflicted. It's making me feel like I'm waning in my own skin.
Helpless.
    There's a light knock on my door. Sir.
    Reluctantly, I rise to my feet, pull my black
tank top down, and shuffle over to the door, cracking it open to
see his judgmental face beginning to wear thin.
    Not speaking to him, I stand with my entire
body at attention, both hands behind my back.
    “Clint, I know she can't help it–”
    “No, Sir.”
    “But have you considered the option of maybe
giving her something to help her sleep?”
    I have. The thought of drugging some poor
girl who only God knows what she's been through just doesn't sit
right. In fact, it makes me want to punch a hole through my door
just to ease the tension of that thought, even if it's just for a
moment.
    “I don't think it's a good idea, Sir.”
    “And letting that poor girl scream helplessly
is?” His point is valid. “I understand what you think drugging her
might do. Might make the nightmares worse. Could risk