Page 3 of Warrior's Walk

“Tamara. Let me guess, you’re Army, aren’t you?”

“What gave me away?” I ask, looking sheepish. It’s all an act. Of course, I’m Army. The base is less than ten minutes down the road. Every man and woman in a fifteen-mile radius is Army.

“You’ve just got that look,” she says, teasing her bottom lip with her teeth. “Is that your unit or squad?” Tamara looks over my shoulder at the guys.

“Yes ma’am, my battalion.”

“Oh, does that mean you’re Airborne?”

Tamara knows a thing or two about the Army herself, it seems. “That’s right, eighty-second, at your service.”

She does this little giggle thing that all girls do when they want to look cute. “Let me ask you a question,” she starts. “What would make you want to go and jump out of a perfectly good airplane? Are you a daredevil?”

Tamara’s got this twinkle in her pretty brown eyes, like she gets off on the fact that I might be a bad boy. I’m not. I hate to disappoint her, but I’m not the bad boy she’s hoping for. Thrill seeker? Yes. Adrenaline junkie? Most definitely. But a badboy? Nope. I’m as easygoing and rule-abiding as they come. My mama raised a good boy.

I lean in closer, catching a whiff of her sweet perfume. “You know that feelin’ you get when you ride a roller coaster and your stomach flips over?” She nods, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Or when you meet a cute guy at the bar, and you can’t help but stare at his mouth as he talks because you just want that first kiss so damn bad?” Her eyes grow round and she licks her lips. Tamara is definitely staring at my mouth now, just like I’d hoped. “And when you finally taste his kiss for the first time, all those butterflies take off in your stomach, making you feel all tingly and electric?”

“Yeah,” she breathes, leaning closer.

“Well, that’s why I jump out of airplanes. To chase that feeling.” Smirking, I pull back, not giving her the kiss she’s seeking. Gotta keep ‘em on the hook a little longer. Tamara sports a pretty little pout. “So, tell me, darlin’, what feelin’ are you chasin’?”

She doesn’t answer, just wraps her manicured hand around the back of my head and pulls me in, planting her lips on mine, bold as can be.

“Do you want to get out of here?” She sounds all breathy, clearly turned on from the kiss. “My apartment isn’t far from here.”

“Well, what kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t escort you home?”

“I’ve got my car,” she points out.

“That’s all right. You lead and I’ll follow, just to make sure you get home safe.” Total fucking lie. If she doesn’t invite me in, I’ll be pissed. Well, disappointed, for sure.

True to her word, she doesn’t live far, and I pull into the lot and park beside her. I hurry to grab her door for her, and sheleans against the side of her car, snagging the belt loops on my jeans to pull me in close for a sweet kiss.

“Listen, just so we’re clear, there’re no strings attached here. No expectations. I don’t want to be that kind of guy,” I lie. “But in less than a week, I leave for the other side of the world.”

“Well, in that case,” she smiles, “let me give you a proper sendoff.”

Hell yeah. Tamara definitely didn’t disappoint.

“Dorothy,I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore,” Biddell had joked with all seriousness when we stepped off the plane in Kandahar.

That was six months ago, and it still rings true. The desert is no joke. Everything out here is trying to kill me. The sun, the sand, the wind, and the fucking insurgents. Did I mention the snakes and scorpions? Even on base, I have to watch my step. The food and the stench will kill you faster than a Russian assault rifle.

This place…it’s kinda bleak. I’ve felt a heavy fog of depression creep over me slowly these past few months. It’s not just the weather and the landscape, either; it’s the mood. There’s no morale here, and everyone seems subdued, washed out. There’s no color, no joy, no break. Every week I cross off another block on my calendar, counting the days until my deployment is over. Sometimes, there are moments where I can forget, even for a handful of minutes—like when we play hacky sack using someone’s sock filled with dry rice, or just hanging out with the guys during our downtime, joking with each other like we used to back at home.

I miss going to the bar with my buddies. I miss shopping at the PX for food I actually want to eat. Hell, I miss my mama. I used to think Ft. Bragg was a suckhole, but I’d give just about anything to go back right now. On the weekends, we used to play a pickup game of softball. The other day I caught myself thinking about trees. I miss seeing green trees and grass. I miss the seasons of North Carolina, watching the leaves turn orange and red and gold, and feeling the air turn crisp and thin.

“What the fuck even is this shit?” Ormen asks, stabbing the brown, puck-shaped lump on his plate.

We’re gathered around a folding table in the mess tent. “The meat identifier is brown gravy, so it must be Salisbury steak?” I guess.

“You call that gravy? It’s gelatinous,” Warren complains, scrunching his nose.

“Shit, I’m starving. You gonna eat that or not?” Biddell asks.

To think, we used to complain about the food at the DFAC. I’d gladly eat that dog food again. Compared to the crap they serve here? That shit was gourmet.

I’ve actually lost weight. I can tell from the way my pants fit.

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