Текст книги "Semper Fi"
Автор книги: Jane Harvey-Berrick
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Jane Harvey-Berrick
Semper Fi:
The Education of Caroline
This is the story of The Education of Caroline now told from the point of view of Caroline’s lover, US Marine Sebastian Hunter.
* * *
Sales of Semper Fi support these charities
Felix Fund
www.felixfund.org.uk
&
EOD Warrior Foundation
www.eodwarriorfoundation.org
Both charities support the brave men and women who work or have worked in bomb disposal.
Series
The Education of Sebastian (Education Series #1)
The Education of Caroline (Education Series #2)
The Education of Sebastian and The Education of Caroline (Education Series combined edition)
The Traveling Man (Traveling Series #1)
The Traveling Woman (Traveling Series #2)
Roustabout (Traveling Series #3)
Standalone Titles
The New Samurai
Exposure
Dangerous to Know and Love
Playing in the Rain
The Dark Detective
At Your Beck & Call
Summer of Seventeen
Lifers
Dazzled
Slave to the Rhythm (coming soon)
One Careful Owner (coming soon)
Semper Fi: The Education of Caroline
Copyright © 2015 Jane Harvey-Berrick
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you do, you are STEALING FROM CHARITIES. I only distribute my work through iBooks, Amazon, Nook, Kobo and Create Space. If you have gotten this book from anywhere else, it is a pirate copy, it is illegal, and you’ve really spoiled my day. Just saying.
Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
All rights reserved. Jane Harvey-Berrick has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved; no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. Jane Harvey-Berrick has asserted her moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 2015
ISBN 9780992924645
Harvey Berrick Publishing
http://www.janeharveyberrick.co.uk
Editing by
Kirsten Olsen and Alana Albertson
Cover design by
Hang Le / www.byhangle.com
Cover photograph by
Michael Anthony Downs / www.michaelanthonydowns.com
Cover model Derek Pristou
Formatted by
Christine Borgford / www.perfectlypublishable.com
Table of Contents
Semper Fi
Other Titles by Jane Harvey-Berrick
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
More About JHB
More about Felix Fund and EOD Warrior Foundation
Acknowledgements
Bonus Chapter ~ NEW!
To men and women who served their country, and the families who support them.
JANUARY 2012
I was dreaming about her again.
That was nothing new. I dreamed about her most nights. I tried to wash away the memory in whiskey. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes I woke up in bed with a woman I didn’t remember meeting, let alone fucking.
Give me a combat situation and I was a good little Devil Dog, but in the underbelly of a soft city, I was a misfit. And I couldn’t give a shit.
But when real life decides to smack you between the eyes, you don’t have any fucking choice.
You learn a lot in the military. Well, I thought, being an adult, it would be a good career move to have somebody inspect me every day to make sure I put my pants on the right way and had my shoes on the correct feet.
I did get to be a real Marine while I was out in Iraq. I was still with my Unit then, still with my buddies. I spent most of the last two Afghan tours in mud-built villages trying to persuade the tribal elders to side with the allies; maybe it helped make a difference. Now I’m stuck in the armpit of Europe on a chickenshit assignment, supposedly doing MSG guard duty at the Consular Agency in Geneva, all because my last CO in Paris was a dickless dumb-ass.
So I fucked his wife.
Funny enough that’s a big no-no in the military—the kind of thing that can get you a court martial followed by a dishonorable discharge. Like I give a shit.
I know how that sounds, because being a Marine is about having to trust your life with the guy who’s got your back—so fucking his wife kind of puts a downer on things. And usually I don’t go near married women—not anymore. But they both deserved it. Long story short: the no-ball pen-pusher didn’t want anyone to know his wife was screwed by a noncom, so he had me reassigned. Mostly I did PR which I hated. I was shit at it, too. Too much time having to smile. But I did work with some journos flying out to Afghanistsan, getting them prepped for a war zone.
There are worse places than Geneva. There are worse countries. I’ve seen a few of them. But there comes a point when you’re so fucking bored that you bore yourself thinking about how bored you are. I’d reached that point five months ago.
I’d even thought about getting the hell out of the Marine Corps and doing something else with my life¸ although I had no clue what. But I’d re-upped, so I had another two years to go. The only glimmer of light was that in Spring 2012 they needed more US-born interpreters in Afghanistan. And for this billet, I’d get a huge bonus. But it was more about getting the fuck out of Cuckoo Clock-land.
I’d put my name out there again, so who knows.
This was my tenth year in the Marines. It had been an interesting life up until Paris two years ago. I’d found that I was good at languages—which was a big fucking shock to actually be good at anything when my parents had only ever told me that I was a fuck up since birth—and I’d been promoted through the ranks. I’d been proud of being a Sergeant and had even thought about trying to get my degree so I could progress further and become an officer. And then Paris had happened. For the last two years I’d been kicking my heels in one miserable office job after another, although I’d made Warrant Officer—just to get me out of their hair, I think. But now I’d got a new CO, so there was a chance I’d get moved on to something useful soon. This guy was in the oxymoron that is Military Intelligence. I’d met him briefly when he was out here for a few days. Nice wife. Blonde. Not my type.
At least I had some leave coming up.
My buddy, Ches, had asked me to come stateside and see his family. I was tempted, but since an incident with his wife’s best friend, as well as the friend of her best friend … I wasn’t as welcome as I might have been.
I was toying with the idea of taking off on my motorcycle and seeing some of Italy. I’d never been, although it was somewhere I’d wanted to see ever since. There was a guy I’d met when I was a kid. He was Italian, from Southern Italy, and he’d taught me more about what a father should be than my own asshole dad. Papa Ven was such an amazing guy—and I’d fallen in love with his daughter, as well. But that’s another story—no fairytale ending either. So Italy was somewhere that I’d wanted to visit for a while, and now the border was just a few miles away. What the hell. I had nothing better to do.
Well, I did have one offer that I was considering. I’d spent last Christmas in the Swiss ski resort Klosters, with Benita from Düsseldorf. I had an open invitation to visit. I don’t normally do reruns, but did I mention I was bored? And I hadn’t been laid since Christmas—it was nearly fucking Easter. Well there was that one night with Dorota from Poland who had some business at the UN. She was only in town for one night. Classy chick. Nice ass.
My cell phone rang, interrupting my memories of that one wild night. Polish chicks knew how to have a good time.
I glanced down and was surprised to see that it was my new CO calling.
“Sir?”
“Hunter, quick sit-rep. Something’s come up that could be your ticket out of Switzerland. I’ve got a job for you—shipping out to Afghanistan. Not sure of the date, but could be in about three weeks.”
I took a deep breath, feeling a shot of adrenaline wake up nerve endings that hadn’t been used for a while.
“Thank you, sir. That sounds interesting.”
“It’s not a done deal—about 70/30 right now. I see you’ve got some leave. I suggest you use it up as soon as the current PR briefing is finished. But don’t go too far—no more than a couple of hours from Ramstein. No Stateside trips, Hunter. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. I’ll be in touch.”
The call ended abruptly. I was going back to Afghanistan. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that, but it was what I’d been trained for.
I stared over the rooftops of Geneva towards the lake. It was peaceful here—the polar opposite of where I’d being going next.
I sat for some time before I realized that I’d spent 20 minutes just looking out at the water.
I liked my apartment: it was fairly basic but nobody came here except me. It was in an older part of the city where the architecture looked more Italian than Swiss. The cobblestone street was narrow and quiet. I liked the peace. After you’ve shared a tent in 120oF heat with 19 other sweaty, stinking guys, you’d want peace, too.
It was owned by an old lady named Madame Dubois. She was always trying to introduce me to her granddaughters, but apart from that she didn’t bother me.
Today’s lesson in sheer fucking tedium was an ear-achingly dull hostile environment briefing—my fifth this month. It was part of my ‘rehabilitation’ after Paris. I don’t know how it was supposed to rehabilitate me. I mean, what part of sending me to Switzerland was supposed to teach me to keep my cock in my pants when it came to the CO’s wife? My new boss was 3,000 miles away. With his wife. I’d need fucking super strength sperm to cause any trouble from this distance.
Today I was training journalists—foreign correspondents—to prepare for an assignment in Afghanistan. I was working with a British team: Major Mike Parsons and a Lieutenant Tom waste-of-fucking-air Crawley. I’d learned some new words since I’d met Crawley: ‘wanker’ was one; ‘tosser’ was the other. Both worked.
Parsons was okay except for the fact that he hated me. Probably because I always showed up late. I think he knew why I’d gotten this assignment, so he never gave me much shit about it. If he’d been my CO, he’d have handed me my ass, and I wouldn’t have blamed him. But we were only allies—civility was an optional extra.
As I pulled on the jacket of my uniform, my attention was caught by the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s that was still next to my bed. Yeah, a quick hit of that might actually get my ass moving and make the morning’s mind-numbing monotony more bearable.
Might.
I was forty minutes late, which was pretty good for me.
Crawley was droning on about some tedious shit that even had the journos present yawning their heads off.
Parsons didn’t look happy when he saw me. Guy had a broomstick up his ass like the rest of the Brits when it came to punctuality. Yeah, well, it was probably an army thing. I was a Marine. Big difference.
“Thank you, Tom. We’ll take a short break in a few minutes, ladies and gentleman, and meet back here at 1100 hours. Refreshments will be served in Les Nations lounge. And we’re very glad to have our colonial colleague Warrant Officer Hunter join us.” He stared at me coldly. “I’m sure his insight will be invaluable.”
Wow, wounded by sarcasm at close range. The Brits sure fight dirty. Next it’ll be harsh language.
But my timing was pretty good—coffee break already.
I hightailed it out of the hotel, knowing that if I stayed I’d be asked a shitload of dumb questions. I’ve had some journos come onto me, acting like they’re my best friend in the hope that I’ll dish the dirt. They must think I’m a fucking moron if they think I’m going to trust them after five minutes. I usually prefer to get kissed before I get screwed.
It was all I could do to drag my weary ass back in that seminar room after the coffee break and hope that my brain didn’t completely atrophy before the afternoon pastries. The Swiss French made awesome cakes.
“Just a quick roll-call before we go on,” said Major Parsons, “now everyone is here…”
Yeah, yeah I can take a hint. Jeez, he’d be hurting my feelings in a minute.
“Elizabeth Ashton?”
“Present and almost correct.”
“Telek Burczyk?”
“Tutaj.”
“Henri Ducat?”
“Oui.”
“Ricardo Esteban?”
“Si.”
“Heinrich Keller?”
“Jawohl.”
“Marc Lebuin?”
“Je suis présent.”
“Lee Venzi?”
A woman at the back raised her hand but didn’t speak. I glanced over.
What the fuck? No fucking way!
My heart started pounding and I was having trouble breathing. That woman. That woman. No fucking way! The woman who’d torn out my heart and danced all over it. The woman who’d told me she loved me, then disappeared without a backward glance. Ten years ago. What the fuck was she doing here? And what was with the new name?
“You’re Lee Venzi?”
I must have spoken out loud because everyone was staring at me. I rearranged my face back to boredom. Inside I was anything but. My heart was shuddering and beating so fucking hard I thought it would break out of my chest.
It took every ounce of self-control that I’d learned over the last ten years to keep standing and not completely lose it and run out of the room. My mouth was dry and I felt a cold sweat break out all over my body. Adrenaline was burning through me and I couldn’t tell if it was fight or flight.
I wanted to run.
I wanted to hit something.
I was frozen to the spot.
My hands were shaking so badly, I shoved them in my pockets and tried to concentrate on getting air into my lungs.
How could it be her? After all these years? How could she be here?
I thought I was having an out-of-my-fucking-mind-out-of-body experience. I fought to breathe normally, all the while thinking I was having a fucking heart attack.
My body was shaking so hard I thought it must be obvious. This was worse than a goddamn RPG attack by the fucking Taliban.
What was she doing here? Was it some sort of set up? Did she know I’d be here? No, not possible. She looked so shocked to see me. Shit, she hadn’t changed. She looked exactly the same as the day she walked out on me.
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Breathe, you dumb grunt, breathe.
I stared out the window, but it wasn’t Geneva I was seeing—it was Ocean Beach, Point Loma, San Diego. I was 17, and Caro was 30 and married. She was so fucking beautiful, wearing that yellow bikini, her skin all golden from the sun.
I blinked, trying to clear the image, but it was as if the whole summer we were together was nailed to my brain and playing relentlessly like a horror film where you know someone’s going to get the guts ripped out of them. Yeah, that was me. I was the one who got ripped to pieces. And as for her? She got to walk away and start a new life.
Bitch.
Why the hell did she have to come back and haunt me now? The ghost of fucks past.
How was I going to get through the next day-and-a-half of this screwed up briefing? I was sweating just thinking about being in the same room as her. I needed to get out. I could leave, say I’m sick. The way my body was responding, nobody would doubt that I was completely fucked.
Crawley continued his mindless lecture. It was an almost pleasantly dull rumble in the background. Mentally, I was ten years and 6,000 miles away.
God, she’d been so beautiful—the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. If I was honest, no one else had come close since. Well, fuck. She’d fooled me. I thought I was something special. Along with my belief that the world wasn’t completely shit, she’d taken my virginity. Or I’d given it. Willingly. I thought we were in love. Really got that fucking wrong. At least I knew that she hadn’t gone back to the asshole she’d been married to at the time.
I risked a quick look.
So fucking beautiful. She wasn’t looking at me but I had to turn away again—it hurt to see her face, to see her sitting in the same room as me. But I couldn’t help noticing she was slumped in her seat and her cheeks were flushed. I’d have given my left nut to know what she was thinking.
Crawley droned on.
“Because most attacks occur upon reaching home, always ensure that you can drive straight into your garage or compound, and secure the door or gate behind you.”
I could hear the British woman whispering something that made the other journos laugh. Crawled-up-his-ass Crawley didn’t like that.
“This is serious, madam. What I tell you today may save your life.”
The British woman inflated immediately. Fuck, her tits were enormous—and not in a good way.
“Listen, sunshine, you may think you’re something special with a weapon of mass destruction dangling between your legs, but let me tell you a thing or two: I’ve been to the frontline of every war since Uganda in 1979, before you were bloody well born.” She started ticking them off on her fingers. “Angola, Croatia, Rwanda, Bosnia, Iraq, Kuwait, Afghanistan, and … bloody hell, places you’ve never even heard of. And this woman,” she pointed her chin at Caro, “has been in more hot spots than you’ve had hot dates.”
Of course. Lee Venzi. She’d changed her name, which was why I hadn’t recognized it when Parsons gave me the list of journalists attending the course. She’d been Carolina Wilson then, my Caro. I’d never known her maiden name. I’d read some of the articles and assumed this Venzi character was a guy—probably ex-military. But now I knew the truth: it figured. Caro had grown up around military bases and spent her whole married life with Captain Cocksucker. She knew military.
I wasn’t happy to hear that she’d reported from dangerous places, but what the fuck was I expecting? This pack of journos was all heading for Afghanistan. I glanced over again, but turned away the minute she looked towards me. I couldn’t give her a way in or she’d fuck me over again.
Shit. Was I really that weak?
I tried to keep my eyes off of her, but every time they were magnetically drawn back.
Focus, you pathetic fucker! Translate the National Anthem into Pashto, if you have to! Don’t look at her.
By lunchtime, I was so fucked. The second Parsons called a break, I was out of the starting blocks like a goddamn sprinter.
I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing: I just knew I couldn’t go back to that briefing; I couldn’t see her and not touch her. I was a fucking lunatic. I hated that woman. She destroyed my life and hadn’t even looked back when she walked out on me, leaving me behind with no clue how to find her.
And the worst of it was I’d believed that she loved me. Some fucking fairytale. But I’d believed her, and I’d waited for her. My fucking father had driven her away. Because I was 17 and underage, he’d threatened her with a statutory rape charge—unless she left quietly. But after three years, the Statue of Limitations freed us. I thought she’d find me when I was 21. I’d believed it every day for three long years. But she never came. I never heard from her again. And she was a journalist—how fucking hard would it have been for her to reach out to me?
I stormed down the street, ignoring pedestrians who jumped out of my way for fear of being mowed down.
And then I found myself heading for my favorite bar. Appropriately enough it was named L’Antidote. I really fucking hoped it would live up to its name tonight.
The room was long and thin, with almost no daylight. It was as close as the Swiss came to a dive—damn near perfect.
I headed inside and saw Jean-Paul the bartender. He nodded at me and poured a whiskey without me even having to ask. I tipped it straight down.
“Laissez la bouteille.”
He raised his eyebrows but pushed the nearly bottle towards me and left it, as I’d requested.
After my third shot, I started to pull myself together, disgusted by being such a pussy and running out.
Fuck, I used to be good at my job. You know, actually cared about it. Paris changed all that. My CO had hated me from day one. He tried to bully me and constantly belittled me. I found out he was a buddy of my old man. Figured. Then the asswipe CO got my promotion to Warrant Officer blocked. Bastard. I’d fucking earned that promotion, and what he’d done to me could be a career-ender. So I decided if my CO wanted to screw around with me, I’d screw around with him—or rather, his wife. That was easy. Getting caught was harder because he was so fucking unobservant. She was definitely the brains in that marriage.
He got the message eventually. Found his wife with her mouth wrapped around my dick. That was a good day. By that point I didn’t give a shit what happened to my career.
I guess someone higher up the chain of command smelled a rat, because out of the blue I got my promotion and was sent to Geneva.
To Caro.
No. Not to her. This was my chance to make her pay, to take what had been mine, and leave her wanting. Yeah, the chance to leave her in the dust—that’s what I wanted; that’s what I needed.
I took another shot, just me and a close relative of my good friend Jack Daniel’s for company.
By 6PM, I was well on my way to being completely wasted. I only knew it was later when the bar started filling up with office workers. They must have sensed I wasn’t in a friendly mood because they all gave me a wide berth.
I wondered what she was doing. She’d looked pretty cozy with that French journalist, Lebuin, sitting next to her. Fucker was practically drooling over her, all smiles and Gallic fucking charm. It made me want to punch his guts out through his backbone.
I tried to think of something else, but every time I came back to the look of shock on Caro’s face when she saw me. Not pleasure—shock.
I emptied another shot down my throat, enjoying the increasing numbness that it gave me.
“May I sit?”
I looked up slowly. For a second I thought it was her—the long, chestnut hair was so familiar. I remembered that hair sweeping over my chest as we made love in the sand dunes. Not love—sex. Get the fucking facts straight. But this woman’s eyes were blue.
I shook my head to clear it, then waved at the seat.
“Merci.”
I grasped the bottle of whiskey as if I was afraid she’d steal it.
“You like to drink alone, perhaps?”
I shrugged, and she turned to Jean-Paul to order herself a glass of white wine.
Yeah, buy your own drinks, lady. I’m not interested.
I looked at her again. She was attractive, dressed in a skirt suit, high heels, with long, tan legs. For a moment I could imagine those legs wrapped around my waist.
She saw the direction of my gaze and smiled.
“Or perhaps you prefer some company? I’m Gabri.”
She held out her hand and after a second’s hesitation, I shook it.
“Sebastian.”
“American?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“No, no. That makes me feel old. Please, you must call me Gabri.” She paused. “So, why is a handsome young soldier drinking alone? It is either money or a woman. I do not think it is money.”
Her tone annoyed me, and I turned to glare at her.
“And why is an attractive woman talking to strange men in bars? It’s either business or pleasure. I don’t think it’s business.”
“Touché!” she said laughing lightly, then ran her hand over my thigh. “I am French, not Swiss. It is always pleasure with us—even in Geneva.”
She leaned forward and I caught the smell of her perfume. It was strong and musky—nothing like Caro. My stomach churned and I stood up suddenly, taking her by surprise.
“You’re right, mademoiselle. It is a woman. It’s always a woman—the same fucking woman.”
She rested her hand lightly on my arm. “Perhaps I can make you forget her?”
I laughed harshly. “Yeah, good luck with that. I’ve been trying for ten fucking years.”
I pushed past her, amused by the look of disappointment painted on her face.
When I hit the fresh air outside, I nearly staggered. Fuck, I was trashed.
I could have hailed a cab, but I didn’t live far, so I wandered home, occasionally cannoning off lampposts that seemed to leap into my path. Goddamn if I wasn’t seeing double.
I don’t remember getting up the stairs or falling asleep fully dressed.
The alarm scared the crap out of me when it went off at 5:30AM. I ended up diving onto the hard floorboards, thinking it was a fucking mortar attack.
I sat up slowly, rubbing my hip where I’d hit the deck. I always set the alarm early so I could go for a run before whatever drudgery the US Marine Corps was doling out. But this morning there was no chance of that. I just about made it to the bathroom before I threw up.
I splashed some water on my face, which made absolutely no fucking difference, and then drank straight from the faucet.
I crawled back into bed for another two hours.
When I woke up for the second time, there’d been no miraculous cure—I was still hung-over as fuck, and the room stank of whiskey.
Revolted, I pulled off my rank uniform and stood under the tepid shower for as long as I could stand it.
After I’d shaved, and managed not to cut my throat, I glared at my Charlies—the formal Dress Blue uniform. They looked like I’d slept in them. I had a clean shirt, but there was no way I’d have time to get the pants and jacket dry-cleaned.
Sighing, I pulled on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and went to ask Madame Dubois for use of her ironing board and iron: desperate times called for desperate measures.
She took one look at my pathetic condition and took pity on me.
“Les hommes ne savent pas repasser!” she insisted, wagging her finger at me and pulling my uniform out of my hands.
I wasn’t going to argue if she was going to offer to iron for me. When she finished I smiled and thanked her.
“Vous êtes un jeune homme espiègle!”
She waved me off with a smile. If I’d kissed her on the cheek, she’d have taken out her teeth and whistled.
Yep, I still had it; gran-mère was hot for me.
Clean in body if not much else, I headed to the hotel for the second day of the briefing. It began much like the first—I was late, and Parsons was pissed. I’d eaten a roll of mints before I walked in, but I was pretty certain he could smell whiskey on my breath. Hell, if the room didn’t have air conditioning I’d be sweating whiskey.
I tried to keep my eyes off of her, but it was an impossible task. After the first hour, I wanted to tear out my eyeballs and use them in a pinball machine.
When it was time for my language session, I knew I had an hour with Caro. I didn’t know why I didn’t combust on the spot. Except she seemed uninterested in looking at me. How fucking ironic.
I went through my usual spiel for the Afghan tour: how to introduce yourself (differently for men and women), how to give your job title, the agency you worked for, and nationality, in Pashto and Dari. And I always threw in a useful passage from the Qu’ran for emergencies.
This shit could save lives, so it really pissed me off that Caro wasn’t paying attention. Shit, she could end up smeared all over a Kabul street if she didn’t take it in.
“Perhaps Ms. Venzi can answer that question,” I said, nearly choking on my tongue as it wrapped itself around her name.
“Excuse me? Um, what was the question?” she stammered.
Fuck, I couldn’t look at her—it was too much. I was only human.
Shit! Shit! Shit! What could I tell her that she might actually remember; that might be useful?
Inspiration struck.
“A typical reply to a question an Afghan can’t answer would be for him to say, ‘because the sky is blue and the sea is green’,” I said by rote, risking another glance at her.
She looked annoyed and my heart punched against my ribs.
I had to get out. I needed to get out.
I don’t remember anything about the last 45 minutes of the seminar. As soon as Parsons cleared his throat, signaling the end, I was on my feet.
But before I managed to leave the room, Caro spoke to me.
“May I have a word, please?”
I almost skidded to a halt, afraid to turn and look at her, afraid of how I’d feel to look in her eyes again. All my plans for ignoring her were shot through and shredded; and all it took was one glance from her.
“I’m rather busy, Ms. Venzi,” I coughed out.
“Too busy to say ‘hello’?” she snapped.
God, she was so beautiful.
And then I realized I hadn’t answered her.
“Yes, I’m too busy for that,” and I ran.
Fucking pussy! Candy-ass chickenshit fucking pussy!
I couldn’t go back, but I couldn’t kid myself anymore either. I wanted her. Badly. And maybe, if I had her one more time, I could stop thinking about her. Maybe if I fucked her hard, I could exorcise her ghost once and for all. Maybe revenge was what I needed.
Maybe.
On impulse I stopped and bought some condoms from a small pharmacy. I got a semi just thinking about using them with her. I knew I wasn’t making any sense—I hated her and she hated me—but I couldn’t help myself.
Jesus, just seeing her, and I was suddenly 17 again.
How the hell was I going to make that fucking fantasy happen? I’d barely spoken to her for the last two days.
I needed to talk to her, but I needed to get her alone.
I wandered through Geneva, trying to work out what I was going to say to her, how I’d get to fuck her. We used to have this amazing chemistry. We’d just look at each other and get turned on. I wondered if it was still there.
My steps slowed as my thoughts grew heavier, remembering everything that had passed between us, the plans we’d made. Fuck, we’d talked about it all: living together, marriage, kids. I’d wanted it all with her—and I thought she’d wanted it with me.
I realized I’d stopped walking and was standing outside a jewelers. One of those small, unassuming, family-run places that you could still find in the old part of Geneva.
My eyes were drawn to a display and I found myself staring at rings. One of them caught my attention—a smallish but pretty single diamond mounted on a gold band. The breath left my body as I imagined how that would look on her small hand, with those delicate fingers that used to touch…
This was seriously fucked up. I needed to walk away, fast. But I couldn’t. Instead, I went inside and was soon talking to the sales assistant, an elderly man who looked like a gnome. He was showing me the ring and placing it in a dark blue satin ring box, and I was handing over my credit card for €2700.
