Page 38 of Submissive Lies

“I feel so stupid,” I whispered, biting down on my lip. I fidgeted, embarrassed for having acted so flippant even though there was no way I could have known. I tried to think of an appropriate apology but couldn’t. Instead, I stared with eyes fixed on fingers that clenched the stem of my wineglass.

“Stop.” He gave my hand a gentle tug, waiting until I brought my face up. His gaze met mine, and he showed no sign of being offended by anything I’d said. Instead, his smile was a balm, doing all it could to soothe my distress. “Seriously, stop. I’m fine. It’s in the past. All good.”

While that calming look worked its magic, brushing away my anxiety, I forced myself to relax and not let this become more than what it was. I couldn’t—wouldn’t—let what had happened screw up our dinner. I took another sip of my wine and then noticed something that buoyed me more than his smile, or his words.

He was still holding me. He hadn’t let go of my hand.

“Where did it happen?”

He shook his head as if trying to push away a thought he did not want. His eyes clouded over, and then they weren’t focused on me or anything in the room, but somewhere distant, halfway around the world. His voice was as remote as his gaze. “Some place you’ve never heard of.”

“Try me.” I pursed my lips, chin thrust forward. My embarrassment over my comment about his getting out of the service still nettled. I wanted to show him I wasn’t completely ignorant of the military and the Gulf, and that just maybe we had something in common. If I could do that perhaps he wouldn’t judge me as harshly as I was judging myself right now.

His gaze refocused, returning from wherever his mind had pulled him off to. He blinked once, and then his attention was back to the here and now. I couldn’t tell if he took my statement as a challenge or not. If he did, he masked it well, only the slight narrowing of his eyes giving any indication of what he might be thinking. “The Al Nehardea Bridge.”

“You’re right,” I said after pausing a second to see if the name dredged up any memory. I shook my head. “I don’t recognize that name.”

“I’m not surprised.” He gave me a tight smile that was more sympathy than grimace. The clipped way he’d spoken the name, the hard snap he’d put to each syllable as if it was an affront to force them past his tongue made clear this bridge was a place he’d rather not have spoken of.

“It was just outside a city called Fallujah.”

“Oh.”

Yes. Oh. That was a name I recognized. My father had spoken of it. He’d almost been sent there but had retired before his unit had deployed. He knew people who had gone there, though. Fought there. Died there. I had read the news reports of the battles fought in the city.

I recognized Fallujah. It was a bad place.

“I know about Fallujah.”

“Really? And why would you know anything about Fallujah?”

A part of me knew I should be offended by that remark, but at the same time I knew why he would question it. It was not as if Fallujah was a common household name. And Steve had no idea of my background, or that of my father’s. I decided I should clarify.

“My father was a solider.”

“A Marine?”

“No. He was Army. A Major. He’s retired now.”

“Oh.” Steve drew the word out, contemplating my explanation. “All right. Makes sense. He served in the Sandbox?”

“Several times. First Gulf War. Then the invasion. He got out in 2003, right before Fallujah. He knew people who went there.”

Steve gave a slow, thoughtful nod, taking another sip of his scotch. “First Battle. I wasn’t there until the second in 2004.”

He pinned me with an assessing gaze. I tried not to shift in my seat or show any sign of discomfort under his scrutiny.

He cocked his head, exhaling a short huff. “You were an Army brat, weren’t you?”

“I am.” I lifted my chin, staring at him boldly.

“Fuck yeah.” The curse came out softly, but the satisfaction in his voice made clear what he’d said was an honorific. He contemplated me, taking another slow sip of his drink. As he lowered his glass, a smile of satisfaction tugged up the corners of his mouth.

The tone he’d used was the same I’d heard my father and his friends use when talking about their unit, or their men. It was a recognition of comradery, of a shared belonging to a fraternity of sorts. That Steve had addressed me that way puffed me up with pride. I shot him a grin that was no less cocky than the one he’d given me.

“So, what gave me away?” Curiosity imbued both his voice and the look he directed towards me.

“I saw the tattoo on your arm. I recognized the emblem.”

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