The Last Hour (Thompson Sisters) by Sheehan-Miles, Charles (reading well .txt) 📕

Five minutes into the show I grabbed Ray’s hand, and I didn’t let go until the intermission. I never got so lost in the show that I didn’t feel him in the seat next to me. I was acutely conscious of the fact that every once in a while he glanced away from the stage, in my direction. When he did, my breath would catch. I didn’t understand why he affected me this way. I was lightheaded, almost drunk with sensation.

When the intermission came, he turned toward me and said, “Come here.”

“What?” I said, but I could feel my smile widening, impossibly wide.

Apparently he didn’t have the patience to explain, because he reached out, putting his hands on my waist, and lifted me right into his lap. I’m not a small woman. Yes, I’m thin. But I’m also six-two and have no problems hiking twenty miles up a mountainside. But he picked me up like I was a little girl. I let out a squeal and threw my arms around his neck, and then everything in my world narrowed down to that touch, the breath between us, and the urgent pressure between our lips. He had one hand fixed on my waist, the other in my hair, and my arms were thrown over his shoulders. I felt goose bumps on my arms, my whole body alive.

It was overpowering. Overwhelming. I was twenty-seven years old. I’d been with men before. I’d dated, at least twice seriously. But I’d never experienced anything like this. Right at that moment, it was as if every wall I had, every boundary, every defense, had simply stepped to the side, opening the gates to who knew what. If we hadn’t been in the theater I might have torn his clothes off right then and there. As it was, I was grateful, for once, for the semi-private box I’d resented in the past.

He broke off and spoke, his voice low, husky. “Is this going too fast for you?”

I met his eyes. “It’s not going fast enough.”

Ray’s eyes widened. “I’m liking that. You know I haven’t been with a girl in ... two years? At least.”

I leaned forward and bit his ear, then said, “I haven’t been with a girl in two years either.”

“Oh my God, that’s so fucking hot.”

“Let’s go,” I whispered.

“The show?” he said.

“It’s awesome. I have a box, we can come back tomorrow.”

Ray didn’t kid around. Too fast to even catch my breath, he had me on my feet and was grabbing our coats. We never even discussed the hotel he was supposed to check in to. I drove as fast as I could back to my apartment.

Shut up. Kiss me. (Ray)

In my dream, the lights are dim, not off, and I can see Carrie’s pale skin, almost translucent really. Her hips are straddling mine, and she slides the sweater dress up her hips, lifts it over her head with both arms, and I gasp as I stare at her perfect, beautiful body. She wears a black lace bra, which leaves nothing to the imagination, and leans forward, tracing her fingertips across my chest. The nails aren’t painful, but intense, drawing a line that seems to brand me.

My hand touches the scar on her side, four parallel lines, and I say, “It wasn’t a house-cat that did that.”

She grins, a fierce, hungry look, and says, “Right now, I’m the hungry cat.” Her lips curve upward as she says the words.

I like it. My hands are on her hips, her waist, her breasts, and even though I can feel the hazy reality of the dream, it still feels real.

I arch my neck as she brings her lips to my chest and bites; the sensation overpowers all thought. Then I grab her by the shoulders and roll her over. I’m on top of her, and with one yank I pull her panties off and throw them to the floor.

She lets out a cry as I enter her, and I whisper words without meaning, with too much meaning. Her legs wrap around me, her fingers dragging down my back, and she gasps in my ear.

But then I’m cold. Shivering. I’m standing on a trail on a mountainside, rifle slung over my shoulder, and I want to cry out, “Where’s Carrie?” because all around me are men, my men, Dylan, with his leg stained with blood and a fragment of bone poking through the mess of his thigh. Kowalski is just ahead of him on the trail, and he turns toward me, his face nothing but wreckage, and I can see his teeth because his lips are gone. He lifts his M249 machine gun over his shoulder like a toy and says, “Come on, Sergeant, they’re just ahead.” He turns away, and Dylan follows, and so does Roberts, shambling, his legs crazy wobbling because there’s hardly any skin or muscles attached to his bones. I want to cry, because I shouldn’t be here, I should be in bed with Carrie in her apartment in Houston, and instead, I’m stuck in this crazy horror show, back in Afghanistan with people I know are dead. Off to my right, a short distance away is Hicks’ fire team: Hicks, Weber, Reynolds and Gruber.

And then I hear Sergeant First Class Colton. Our platoon’s father, our disciplinarian, our hero, and he’s shouting ahead somewhere, “I got ‘em! Close up!” We’re running up behind him, somehow back on the trail leading to the village, and standing in front of Colton in ragged, dirty clothes is Carrie. Her hair hangs loose, dirty, unkempt, and her face is streaked with dirt and terror, eyes wide open.

Colton shrieks at her, and shrieks again and again, his voice accusing, blaming her for Kowalski and Roberts and Weber’s deaths. It’s obvious he’s gone nuts, his eyes slightly bulging, the rage on his face mirrored by the terror in hers as he lifts his rifle.

Staff Sergeant Martin shouts, “Colton, no!” and runs over, and