Seeking Her

9

I WATCHED KELSEY dance with another local guy from the group she’d come with, and she was a force to be reckoned with. I didn’t know how anybody said no to her. She closed her eyes as she danced, and she was magnetic as always—­drawing more than just my stare.

I turned, tearing my eyes away, and realized where I’d been left. Alone. The bartender came up, mixing a drink, but looking at me in question.

I opened my mouth.

I thought about ordering a beer. Would a beer really be so harmless? As long as I stayed away from the strong stuff . . .

No.

Goddamn it. No.

I shook my head at the bartender. “I’m good. Thanks.”

And then I shot out of there, needing to put as much distance as possible between me and the bar.

I chose a spot in the first room, where I entered the building. It was a little more low key, and I figured I could just station myself there for the rest of the night. I was close to the exit if I needed some air, but it was also a prime spot to wait for Kelsey.

With distance from the bar and from her, I was able to think a little bit more clearly. Though that didn’t make what I should do any more evident.

I hadn’t left myself with many choices.

I was still thinking about them when Kelsey came barreling by a few minutes later. Bracing a hand on the wall as she walked, she looked upset, so I followed. Ahead of me, she stumbled out onto the street, sucking in air like she’d just run a marathon. Then she doubled over and was sick on the street.

Fantastic.

That was one way to help me stay away from her.

Except . . . damn it.

I stepped up and pulled the hair back from her face. It was the least I could do. When she looked back at me, though, she gave me a look that said I was the last person she wanted to see.

“You okay?” I asked.

“I’m fine.”

She pushed away from me, her hair slipping through my fingers as she tottered out into the street.

“Where are you going?”

She didn’t look back at me as she answered, “Away. Just away.”

She walked down the middle of the street, her hands out at her sides like she was prepared to catch herself if she fell. Follow at a distance? Or stick with her?

Like there was really a choice there.

“Hold on,” I said, jogging to catch up.

As I overtook her, coming to a stop in front of her, she perched her hands on her hips. “Seriously?”

I pulled my lips into a thin line, understanding her incredulity. I couldn’t believe I was doing this myself, but something about the image of her walking away from me had snapped something inside. I’d had enough of watching her from a distance.

“I’m not letting you walk around by yourself.”

Never mind that I couldn’t.

She crossed her arms over her chest, and her surprise melted into agitation.

“I told you, I’m fine.”

I didn’t believe her. Hadn’t for a while now.

“Bad things happen every day to ­people who are fine.”

And didn’t I know it. You don’t go into the military expecting to escape unscathed. Hell, a part of me had always thought I’d be one of the ones to never come home. The reality had been much worse.

“Listen, I get the whole protective thing,” she said. “It’s what guys like you do. And don’t get me wrong, it’s kinda hot.” That should not have made my blood rush faster. “But I don’t need a babysitter.” I barely contained my laugh. “So put the knight-­in-­shining-­armor fantasies on hold for the night.”

I channeled my laugh into a roll of my eyes. I was no knight. And between the two of us, she was the one covered in armor.

“And I already told you that I don’t care what you think you need.”

I was paid to ignore that.

“So, what? You’re going to follow me whether I want you to or not?”

I smirked, because the universe definitely had a sense of humor. It was a dark one, sending me of all ­people to look after a girl like her, but it was a sense of humor all the same.

“That’s exactly what I’m going to do. Someone needs to get you home.”

She scoffed and skirted around me. “I’m not going home yet. So run along and find yourself another damsel.”

I took a frustrated breath and hid it behind a smile. She reminded me so much of myself, it was like looking in a mirror. A mirror I wanted to shatter. She walked away, and I called out after her. “You’re a real piece of work.”

I’d thought the same thing about myself on a daily basis once upon a time, until I’d had enough to drink to stop caring.

She spun around, walking backward, with a giant smile. She stretched out her arms displaying how much she didn’t actually give a fuck and said, “You bet I am.”

It would have made a great exit if she didn’t stumble on her next step. I darted forward, but she caught herself on her own. Without sparing a look at me, she continued forward, walking a little faster.

Knowing it would drive her mad, I caught up and fell into step next to her. She glared at me and tried to walk faster, but my legs were longer than hers. For a moment, I thought she might run just to leave me behind. Instead, she asked, “What’s your name?”

Not what I expected.

“You waited long enough to ask that.”

In fact, I was damned surprised I hadn’t given myself away already and called her by name.

She shrugged. “Names aren’t exactly the important bit in places like this.” She waved a hand back in the direction of the bar we’d left. “And, honestly, I couldn’t care less.”

“So, then, why ask? If names aren’t important and you don’t care?”

“Well, first, we’re no longer in said bar. And second, you’re following me, and I’m asking questions to fill the silence, because otherwise things will get awkward. And talking keeps me from thinking about how you’re probably a serial killer, hence the whole following thing.”

Well, at least she wasn’t completely oblivious to her safety. Though, if I did mean to harm her, asking my name wasn’t going to stop me.

“From a knight in shining armor to a serial killer.”

She bounced one shoulder in a shrug. “The nice-­guy bit could be an act. And you definitely look like you could be dangerous.”

I was. And not just because of my training. Kelsey might be wild, but the old me still could have put her to shame. And if I fell off the wagon, I could easily drag her down that road with me.

“Are you always this honest?” I asked.

“Not even close. It’s the alcohol talking. Totally powers down my filter.”

Good to know.

“I’ll tell you my name if you’ll tell me something about yourself.”

I had only facts on a paper and observations that I tried incredibly hard to keep from morphing into the worst assumptions.

“Like what?”

“It doesn’t matter. Something else honest.”

She paused for a few moments, her steps faltering. She veered sideways, her shoulder brushing my arm. I held out a hand ready to catch her if she fell, but didn’t touch her yet.

“Honestly? . . . I’m tired.”

I laughed. I asked for honesty, and I guess I got it.

“That’s because it’s almost dawn.”

“Not that kind of tired.”

“What kind of tired, then?”

“The bone-­deep kind. The kind of tired that sleep doesn’t fix. Just tired of . . . being.”

For a few moments, I was shocked into silence. I’d known there was something more going on in her head. I’d wanted to crack open her facade and find the truth beneath it. But I didn’t feel any better having my suspicions confirmed. In fact, I felt infinitely worse, sickened by the worn look on her face and frustrated by my inability to fix it.

“You don’t show it.” Not to most ­people anyway, but I was the one person who saw when no one else was looking.

“I don’t show much of anything.”

Damn. For all my desire to unravel her secrets and excavate her issues, I wasn’t sure that I wanted to know now. I already felt too much for someone who was supposed to be my unbiased mission, and knowing what hurt her would only dig me deeper.

“I bet that gets tiring, too.”

She sucked in a breath and raised her chin like she was going to nod, but then she stumbled, one of her heels sticking between the cobblestones. I caught her up to my side, squeezing her a little closer than was probably necessary.

How drunk was she now? She had to be sobering up.

“How are your cheeks?”

She blinked a few times, and the fist at my shoulder uncurled, fingertips pressing into my muscle.

“Can you feel them?” I added.

When she still didn’t react, my traitorous hand drifted up, and I brushed my fingers across her cheek.

“They, um, just feel a bit heavy is all.”

I stared into her eyes, wondering if I might find some of those secrets I craved and dreaded, there in her gaze. As it turned out, it didn’t matter whether she was dancing or smiling or frowning, she was still magnetic.

And I didn’t want to resist it anymore. But I had to.

I made sure she was steady on her feet and then let go.

“Your turn,” she said.

“My cheeks feel fine.”

She shook her head, smiling. “I meant your name.”

I kept walking, determined to just get her home.

“Most ­people call me Hunt.”

Everyone called me Hunt except my family. I don’t know why I hadn’t just told her Hunt straight out. Maybe I wanted her to know some of my secrets, too.

“Should I call you that? Am I most ­people?”

I fisted my hands in my pockets and picked up my pace. “Honestly, I have no idea what you are.”

And it was driving me crazy.

We didn’t talk much after that. She turned at random, and so did I, trying to subtly steer us in the direction of her hostel in the central part of Budapest.

Around sunrise, we hit the Danube, which meant we were close.

I didn’t realize she had stopped until I’d already passed her. I stopped and looked back at her. She was holding her breath, gazing at the sunrise with renewed energy.

She pointed south. “There’s a club a little ways that way that’s open until six.”

She needed to rest. And so did I. And I was scared of what I might let myself do if I went to a club with her. “I think you’ve partied enough tonight.”

God, I sounded like such a buzzkill. But it was true. If she hadn’t managed to chase away her demons for the night, more alcohol and dancing wouldn’t help. She just needed to sleep it off.

She didn’t answer me. Instead, she stepped out into the street and crossed toward the river. She hadn’t even bothered to walk at a crosswalk. I glanced around, checking for cars. There was one coming, though still far away.

“Where are you going?”

She turned, walking backward again in the same way she did when she’d nearly fallen earlier. “Absolutely no idea.”

I heard the thrum of an engine, and knew that car was getting closer, moving fast.

I ran for Kelsey, who was now just standing in the street. I dragged her up onto the sidewalk, my heart beating a little faster.

“Are you crazy? Don’t walk across a fucking road without looking where you’re going!”

She jerked away from me. “Relax. I’m fine. There’s no one out this time of morning anyway.”

The car stole past, a sleek black sports car. Two-­seater by the look of it. I tried not to look smug.

Kelsey’s lips puckered. “You don’t have to say it.” She started jogging toward the river. “I’m a piece of work. Got it. But you know what?” she shouted louder. “I’m so good at it.”

I followed close behind. When she started slipping off her heels, I wasn’t sure whether her feet were hurting or if she was planning to dive into the Danube. She lifted her arms into the air and screamed into the early morning air. A nearby group of birds took off into the sky, and she sucked in a lungful of air.

I watched her, fascinated. She was trying to get out from under the darkness, that much was clear. She stands out in a crowd but, I wondered, how much more radiant she could be if she managed to get free from her demons.

“You’re ridiculous,” I said.

“Correction: I’m fun.”

She took off running, and I dragged my ass after her, a smile creeping onto my face. I was imagining what it would feel like to catch her, winding my arms around her waist and pulling her back against me, when she abruptly slowed to a stop.

I came up behind her, and one look told me where we were. I still bought guidebooks in every country, though I’d yet to have much use for them. I knew from my current book that this was the Shoes on the Danube Promenade.

“It’s a Holocaust memorial,” I told her. During World War II, a group of Jews, including some from the resistance, had been lined up by the river by a militia and ordered to take off their shoes. Then they’d been shot into the river. In memory of them, there are dozens of iron-­cast shoes mounted by the water on the promenade.

She sucked in a breath, and that light she’d been trying to reclaim, that girl that had screamed at the top of her lungs just for fun, faded away.

Tragedy does that.

War does that.

I’d gone into it fully prepared to give up my life in the process. But war never gives you what you’re prepared for. It takes pleasure in being unpredictable. No one ever expects to be a sole survivor. When things go wrong, you always expect that you’ll go with the rest. Better to be gone in an instant in one well-­timed blast than to fade away slowly.

I knew—­logically, I knew—­that those iron shoes were old-­fashioned styles that were over half a century old. But when I looked, they all seemed to morph into the familiar marine-­issue boots of the unit, the family I’d lost.

War changes. It’s fought with different weapons, in different places, by different ­people.

But it never gets any less ugly.