The jangling ring of the phone woke me up a few hours later. "Hello?" I rubbed my face and tried not to yawn.
"Are you okay?"
I frowned and rubbed my face again. "Sir?"
"Yes. Are you okay?"
I could hear the sounds of people behind him. He was in a store or something. "I fractured my foot, sir."
He muttered something. "What'd they do?"
"Put it in a cast. How'd you get this number, sir?"
"Are you on Quarters?"
"No, sir. Don't call me again."
"Remember the arrangement we made?"
"Arrangement, sir?"
"For the weekend." He sounded a little bit nervous about saying it out loud.
I gave the wall a paint-blistering glare and sat up. "Fuck you, sir."
"You belong to me, private." His voice was pitched low, husky and fervent.
I met that pronouncement with dead silence.
"And I belong to you."
The tears gathered in my eyes. It felt like my heart was breaking all over again. Gawddamn that bastard. "Don't do this to me, sir. I'm not a toy."
"I need you."
I felt like whimpering. My head pounded. "Stop it, sir." I was ashamed of my breathless, broken voice.
"I can't. Meet me, like we agreed."
"I can't do that, sir."
There was silence for a few moments, then he took a deep, shuddering breath. His voice was as broken as mine. "I understand."
I swallowed the lump in my throat and called myself all kinds of stupid. I would never know what possessed me to give in. "I can't drive, sir. I broke my right foot."
"Oh." He thought for a few moments, I could hear his wheels grinding, even over the phone. "Be in the parking lot in twenty minutes. You pick the spot."
"Sir, that's dangerous, there's people everywhere."
"I trust you, private," he murmured, then quietly hung up the phone.
I found myself in the back corner of the parking lot, by the dumpsters, on the pretext of taking out trash. The Porsche wheeled through the lot, cruising slowly. It passed me once, then drove around again. The door swung open just as he stopped. I slipped inside, scrunching down uncomfortably, and slammed the door shut behind me. He jolted the car with too hard of a tromp on the gas. I had to wait about twenty more minutes before he let me sit up.
The drive to the cabin seemed to take longer this time. Perhaps it was the anticipation. Perhaps it was the anger. Perhaps is was the fact that my foot was killing me and the Porsche didn't have enough leg room to get comfortable in with that damned cast.
He parked the Porsche in its usual spot and shut off the engine. I stared at the dashboard and he stared grimly through the windshield. Neither of us moved for an endless minute. The tension was thick as the proverbial pea soup until it almost choked me. I threw the door open before I suffocated and maneuvered my legs out. I fought with the crutches until the Major came around and tried to help me. Then I fought with him over the damned crutches.
The tug-of-war irritated him if his expression was anything to go by. I wasn't that happy about it myself. "Knock it off, Wright. Give me the crutches."
"I don't need your help, sir." I jerked at the crutches. He yanked them out of my hands and threw them across the grass behind him.
"Shit. Give me your arm, I'll help you onto the porch."
"I'd rather--"
He caught my wrist and pulled me out of the Porsche. It was either move with him and stand on my good foot or fall at his feet. I teetered for a moment, then found my balance well enough to start jerking on my wrist. He ignored that and used his leverage to haul me against his chest and wrap his arms around me. My nose slapped into hard muscle and his cheek tucked against my hair.
Before I could make heads or tails of that, he let go and fetched my crutches. I eyed him suspiciously for a moment before accepting them. What was the man up to? I tucked the padding under my pits and hobbled across the yard to the porch. Negotiating that was a nightmare; the boards were uneven. He hovered behind me the entire way, something that I found wildly irritating.
We both reached for the doorknob at the same time. I slapped at his hand. "I'm not broken! I can get out of a fucking car and I can open a fucking door without you breathing down my neck, sir!"
"That wasn't very ladylike." He might have been telling me the color of the grass with all the inflection he used.
I picked the couch and sprawled on it, dropping my crutches on the floor without a thought for them. I stuck my cast onto the arm across from me with a grimace and let out a sigh all the way from my toes. He took a seat in the chair near my feet so I couldn't avoid looking at him if my eyes were open. With all the thoughts of the hurt I'd felt in the last week marching inexorably around in my head, the last person I wanted to look at was him. Shutting my eyes was too cowardly, so I settled for staring directly at him.
"How is your leg?"
"It hurts, sir. What the fuck did you think it would feel like?"
"Are you in a bad mood or is it just me?"
I glared at him and crossed my arms under my chest belligerently. How stupid a question was that.
"Look, Wright, I know I said some things that hurt, but I did what I thought was best. We are in deep kimchi over this, soldier. Mendez knows. Someone else will figure it out."
"No one told you to call me, sir."
"I can't stay away from you, Wright. I'm not going to drag you down with me."
"Fuck." I shoved my face into my hands and rubbed it. He brought me all the way out here to tell me we were in trouble. I already knew that. "It's too late for that, sir."
His hand swept over my hair and cradled my jaw. I jerked--I hadn't heard him move--and yelped in pain. "Wright, you need to be more careful."
"I already figure that out, sir." I hated that pouting sound I made. I wanted to snatch the words back.
"If I kissed you, would you bite my tongue off?"
Startled, I met his eyes. I shouldn't let him. "No, sir." Shy. I sounded shy, that was worse than pouting. The smile flashed through his eyes, but I didn't see it on his mouth. His lips slipped below my line of sight and onto mine.
I didn't know what to believe anymore. The perfectly orderly world I'd crafted for myself had spun topsy-turvy and he'd made things even worse. Everything he'd done so far belied that morning in his office. Even his tongue tracing the seam of my lips screamed that he'd lied. But, I didn't trust him. What if those words were the only truth he'd told me? What if he was just using me?
I swallowed the lump in my throat and turned my head away from him. I was no one's whore. "I have to go to the latrine, sir."
"Wright?"
"Latrine, sir."
He heaved a sigh and pulled himself away from me. I closed my eyes. "Wright?" His voice was as heavy as my heart. "Do you trust me?"
Why did he have to ask that? If I told the truth it would hurt him. If I told a lie it would hurt me. He was making me choose. I pushed myself upright, swinging my legs carefully to the floor to buy some time. I maneuvered my crutches into position and hoisted myself to my feet. The dizzying rush of pain from my foot gave me a moments reprieve. But only a moment. I stared him square in the eye, planning some prevarication. I couldn't lie, even if it hurt him, I just couldn't lie to him. I didn't want to see the havoc my honesty would create, so I beat an ignominious retreat to the bathroom.
You can only dwaddle in a bathroom so long before someone comes pounding on the door. Reluctantly, I flushed the toilet and drew out the act of washing my hands. I could hear him breathing on the other side of the door, feel the caged animal pacing through the thick wood. My tiger was aroused.
I hobbled through the door, refusing to look at him. His eyes slid over me, demanding contact. I watched the floor instead, delicately picking my way to the couch again. I should have stayed in the barracks and nursed my broken heart. I should have done anything else but this.
"Wright."
I decided to demand that he take me home. Maybe I could even get up the nerve to embarrass myself and tell the colonel that I'd fallen in love with a member of my chain of command and sincerely needed to move before there was any trouble.
"Wright."
I looked up, finally gathering courage. I had never seen such naked fear and pain on anyone's face before. He looked like I felt. Hollowed and haunted, his eyes searched mine as if he were looking for a pardon the moment before the execution of his death sentence.
"Sir?"
"I need you, Wright."
What woman could resist that? Certainly I couldn't. Not that and not from him. But the awful fear of manipulation was a pretty strong fighter. Need or need to play with? I rubbed my face, anything to avoid looking into his eyes. "Don't do this to me, Sir."
"Shit."
