I can feel my blood begin to boil as I struggle to keep my temper in check; “You can’t be serious,” I mutter to him through gritted teeth; “I don’t need a bodyguard.”
Hudson shrugs nonchalantly, that smug look never leaving his face; “Well, agree to disagree then.”
I can feel the heat rising in my face to match the growing volume of my voice; “I’m serious, Hudson, I’m not doing this. I’ll call Dona-”
“Donald agrees with me, actually.”
Dammit; this is a setup. Donald’s not worried about something happening to me, he’s worried about me going off his by-the-book script and doing something to shake up the campaign in a way he can’t control. Hudson might think he needs to “protect me” or whatever, but I know the real reason for all this is so Donald can have someone babysit me.
Fuck that.
I’m out of my seat and storming across the room before Hudson can put down his stupid kids drink. At the front door, I feel his strong hand grab my arm, pulling me around. “Relax, Reag-”
“Do not tell me to ‘relax’!” I hate when people say that to me.”
“Fine, don’t relax then;” His voice is stoney, even though he’s still got that stupid smug look on his chiseled jaw. “Look, where are you going?”
God, the nannying starts already.
“Home, Hudson. I’m going home.” I yank my arm out of his grasp and turn back towards the door.
“I’ll drive yo-”
“I’m taking the train or a cab like a normal person.” I spit at him.
“Fine, I’ll meet you there then I guess.”
I freeze; “What do you mean?”
He frowns; “Didn’t Donald tell- Oh. Fuck.” He chuckles and looks at the floor, a lock of his dark hair falling over his face. He runs a hand up through it and pushed it back as he raises his eye to look at me with that smug grin I’d just started to forget about; “Well, if you were mad before, you’re gonna be fuckin pissed now.”
I shake my head; “Hudson what the fuck are you-”
“I’m moving in, Reagan.”
My jaw drops.
“I mean my place would be better, and safer, but Donald and I both thought there was a snowball’s chance in you agreeing to that one, so your place it is.”
That smug prick is grinning at me like this is hilarious; like HIM of all fucking people moving into the guest room of MY apartment is the funniest Goddamn joke in the world.
I don’t even respond, I just turn on my heel and march out of the restaurant; guess I’m just fresh out of punchlines.
4
Hudson
P A S T
I’m back in the broiling heat, the shrieking chaos and the pure, undiluted hell on Earth of war - back in Helman Province; back in Afghanistan. My back’s to the wall, my pulse racing in my ears like a goddamn jet engine as I count to three before whipping around the corner and firing. The gun jolts in staccato, hammering pulses through my shoulder as I focus on the shelled-out office building where they’ve taken defensive positions. I barely even hear the mortar warning through my com before the Humvee forty feet to my left just fucking erupts in fire and light, and I can fucking feel the hot flash of death cross my face.
I’m screaming as I run, ignoring everything in my earpiece and barely registering the singing sounds of bullets flying around me as I pound the turf as fast as I can towards the raging, burning hull of the truck. I’m ten feet from it, the heat almost unbearable when I can hear Logan’s voice barking in my ear; ‘NOT Bryce’s Humvee.’
Yeah but who’s-
Later, I’ll swear to everything in this world and the next that I could hear the fucking bullet the second before it tore through my shoulder. I’m down, face-down in the dust and ash as more metal screams over my head, and all I know in that moment is that despite every thought I have on freedom, and my country, and about good triumphing over evil, if I die there, in that fucking desert, I’m going to have words to say to whatever God is waiting for me on the other side.
P R E S E N T
I grunt and blink the sweat out of my eyes as I swing again, feeling the rivulets of moisture drip down my face and neck to dribble down over the ink and scars of my bare chest. The air burns in my lungs and my arms are one fire, but I just keep swinging; always swinging. The glove connects with the bag, every muscle in my arm screaming in pain and triumph at the perfect hit and the aching, numbing soreness I know will follow. Some guys when they got back, they drank or fucked it away; like I used to. Other guys like Bryce took it worse and turned to self medication, and the whole dark, broken dream that comes along for the ride with that. The fucked up part is, the pain never actually goes away. You can numb it a million different ways with drugs and sex and whatever else you can think of to distract you from the fact that part of your soul is missing, but it’s always there, right below the surface.