When pacing the room got old he climbed in his car and called her again as he drove to Redmond Medical center. No answer. He pulled into the parking lot, saw that her car wasn't there. Strange. She said she'd be here--was expecting him to come see her--he wondered if he knew her well enough to peg this as unusual behavior. Cause for alarm. He reached up to pull a cigarette from behind his ear but he'd forgotten to place one there. When he plucked the pack from his glove department he found it completely empty. A slight sheen of sweat broke out across his forehead.
He climbed from the car and stared up at the building, realized he was standing right where he had been the first day he came back to Reno. Right before he ever laid eyes on Madison. He walked calmly toward the building, the heat of the day and the glare of the sun increasing his anxiety. He stared up at the sky and the blue reminded him of the shade of the skies of Iraq.
He wavered on his feet. "Shit," he cursed to himself.
He began to think as he walked, and soon he wasn't walking at all. He got a whiff of something; fertilizer or fresh mulch he wasn't sure which, but that was all it took to remind him. It all came slamming back, the stench. Iraq had smelled like feces day in and day out due to the ever burning garbage pits located on the outskirts of the base. Memories of the smell brought recalled memories of the thick, stifling air. The heat. Doing patrols beneath a sun so hot it had felt like the exposed parts of his skin were baking.
He remembered kids that would trail beside them while they were on patrol, running alongside the road where he and his partner soldier--usually Archie--walked, flanking tanks or convoys. He saw images of the kid who'd been strapped with C-4, and who hadn't known or forgotten how close he had to get to blow up more than himself. He and Archie had watched him explode, shielded their faces against a thick spray of shrapnel and sticky flesh and blood.
"Dammit," he cursed to himself. He felt weak, hot. His phone vibrated in his pocket. He fished it out and held it to his ear.
"Diesel," her voice came through, and it didn't sound like her; there was a rasp, a weakness there that wasn't usually present in the honey tones.
"Madison? What's wrong?" His mind was clear instantly, and he was already heading back to his car. He'd been right. Something was wrong.
"4263 Bayer, call the--" and the call ended. He called the police and relayed the message before he stabbed his key into the ignition and sped from the parking lot.
~~~
His mouth was warm on her clit, a vacuum, his tongue was a piston of wet thrusts inside of her, and she arched on the bed, her hands gripping the wood dowels of her headboard. She spread her legs wider, urged him on. He looked up at her with that sparkle in his eye, his blond hair shining in the sunlight streaming through the blinds.
"You're killing me," she said. He was, after all. She'd already come two times, anymore she thought she might pass out from the pleasure. "Diesel, really, I can't take it anymore, put it in!"
