Tragic Desires by A.M. Hargrove

herself. You’ll see when we get to the house. I have lots of pictures of her.”
    Nodding, I say, “This sounds more like she was in the Witness Protection Program , then. Keeping to herself. Was she suspicious of anyone?”
    “Maybe. I just always thought she was too protective. But thinking back, she could’ve been suspicious.”
    “Think about things she told you. Clues to what she might’ve been hiding.”
    After a few quiet moments, Gemini says, “I don’t think there’s anything. I’ll keep thinking, but the only things she would tell me were to be very wary of men.”
    “Bingo. Go on.”
    “Just things like not to trust any men. That they were only after one thing. I just thought she was talking about sex.”
    “Anything else ?”
    “Yeah. She told me to keep to crowds. And never walk alone. Like I said, I just thought it was basic safety stuff that all moms told their daughters.”
    “Makes sense.”
    “Once, when I was pretty young, I came home from school with one of those beanie dolls. They were the thing back then. She went psycho on me … kept wanting to know where I got it. It was some kid’s birthday and she gave all the girls one and the boys got something else. Anyway, my mom went bat-shit crazy on me and I remember crying. She scared me so much.”
    “Okay, that’s completely irrational behavior. She had some deep secret she was hiding and we need to get to the bottom of it. Can you think of anywhere she would hide something? Did your mom work?”
    She’s rubbing her hands together now, as if cold. Without thinking, I put my hand over hers, and what feels like electricity shoots up my arm. What the hell was that? Her movements still, and then she surprises me by latching onto my hand.
    “I’m really scared, Drexel.”
    Her voice is so soft. I give her hand an encouraging squeeze and say, “Don’t be. I’ve been in way worse shit than this.”
    “Tell me?”
    Great. I fucking opened the door on this one. This isn’t something I want or need to discuss. It’s nothing but bitter memories all the way around, but I have to tell her something to ease her mind.
    “ I told you I was in the Special Forces. Afghanistan. Iraq. We were sent in to do a lot of dirty work. Infiltrate terror cells. Find and destroy them after we got what we needed. They operate like well-oiled machines, with far-reaching tentacles. We would gather intel in ways you don’t want to know about. Once, we were hiking out of a zone that we’d been watching for weeks. We found ourselves outnumbered and surrounded. Bastards are deceptive. They act like farmers, moving from one village to the next, but beneath their tattered clothing, they’re armed to the teeth. Sometimes strapped with explosives. It’s hard to see because they wear payraan tumbaan , loose-fitting pants and tunics, so they can hide just about anything underneath. You can’t trust anything you see out there and your nerves are constantly on edge. Luck was on our side that day when another team came to our rescue. They were in range when they got our call. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here today.”
    “How long were you there?”
    “Too long and not long enough.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “I know. You can’t.” I won’t say anymore because there’s just too damned much.
    “Were you ever scared?”
    “Every day. But you learn to live with it. You learn to control it. If you don’t, it controls you and you die.” Her hand squeezes mine, as if to offer a bit of comfort. Oddly, it does.
    “I guess I need to grow some nads, then, huh?”
    The humor in her question hits me and I laugh. “Yeah. I guess we all do.”
    “Oh, I’d say you already have some.”
    Hmm. I’m not sure how to take that comment. It falls somewhere between her thinking I’m tough or I’m hot. Or maybe I’m overthinking things … or imagining what I want her to think. She’s certainly gotten under my skin. Or maybe I should say she’s gotten to my dick,