“Dude, don’t be a dickhead. You’re hammered. Get in the cab with us.”
“Fuck you,” I mumble.
“You first, asshat.” Derek is laughing at me, but I’m too dizzy to care.
"Oh, be nice to your friend," The Rack says. "Can't you see he's pining over a girl?"
Derek laughs. "Sweetheart, that's not pining. He's gonna stumble home and f**k her sideways."
I blear at the girl, wondering if I'm that obvious. "Shuddup, Derek," I slur. "'Sides. I'm pretty sure that's all it is. Fuckin'. Just f**kin'. No love. Just sex."
"See?" The girl slaps Derek's shoulder. "He's pining. He loves her, but she doesn't love him. I'm a bartender. I know that look. Now, get your friend home, and then take me to your place."
Then I'm stumbling outside into the bitter Iowa winter, hunching against the driving wind. I'd forgotten it was winter, for a minute. I've been in the desert so long I find the chill unbearable now. Before I shipped out, I'd have been out in this in a T-shirt, playing tackle football with Derek and the guys. This little flurry storm wouldn't have stopped us from playing ball. We never even bothered with coats until it was single digits.
I'm sliding into the cab, The Rack next to me, her slim, soft arm pressing against mine. I mean, I know she's going home with Derek, and I've got Lani waiting for me, but I'm drunk and I don't mind her proximity.
"You smell nice, like vanilla," I say.
Oops. I hadn't meant to say that. Kind of a creeper thing to say. Fortunately, the Rack is amiable enough and experienced enough with drunk people to not take me seriously.
"Thanks," she giggles, and her boobs bounce pleasantly. I try not to stare.
I focus out the window on the shards of snow whipping past, the trees and the buildings of suburban Des Moines. She giggles again at something Derek says, and now that I don't have her bouncing tits to distract me, the sound of her giggle is actually fairly obnoxious, but I can't place why. Something about it irritates me, rubs me the wrong way.
Oh, god, I'm entering the dickhead phase of my drunk. I sigh at myself and concentrate on trying to see single objects rather than double.
We pull into Lani's apartment complex, and I hand Derek a couple of random bills from my pocket to cover the bar tab and the cab fare.
"Thanks for the ride," I say. I wink at them, or try to. I think I actually just closed both eyes.
Derek laughs. "Yeah, dude, no problem. Get some sleep. We'll hit the gym tomorrow."
I nod and extend my hand. Derek slaps my palm and grabs my hand as if we're about to arm wrestle, and then lets go. I get out and stumble to the door, peering unsteadily at the number to make sure it's the right one. It is, and I go inside, finding the apartment dark and silent. There's a single candle burning on the kitchen counter, one of the crazy scented ones Lani likes so much. Cherry butterscotch buttered coconut rum, or some stupid shit like that. I blow it out, because Lani tends to leave them lit all night, which is a fire hazard, even though she acts like it's not.
I lean against the counter, breathing in the scent of extinguished candle. I've always wished they'd make a candle that smells like a blown-out candle. The clock on the microwave says one-fifty-five, and I know it's probably unlikely that I'll see any action with Lani tonight. She's a receptionist at a doctor's office and has to get up pretty early to be at work, so she goes to bed early. It doesn't bother me, usually, since I'm an early riser myself, having been in the Marine Corps for such a long time. But tonight, I'm horny. I'm worked up.
Now that I'm home and away from the familiar comfort of the bar, being drunk is a little unpleasant, dizzy and disorienting. I want to sleep, but I know I won't be able to. I want to make love to Lani, but that's not going to happen, either. She might wake up, she might even respond enough to let me do what I want, but she won't really wake up, she'll just move a little, make some partially fake moaning sounds, and then go back to sleep.
I crack open a Dr. Pepper from the fridge, grab a box of Cheez-Its, and plop in front of the TV, grabbing the remote and flicking it on. I click through channels aimlessly, munching and sipping, stopping on a few minutes of Purdue-Clemson game, but it doesn't hold my interest. A few more channels, and then I land on CNN, coverage from the war. I try to change the channel, but it doesn't happen. My finger won't press the button.
I see the flashes, the tracers, hear clip footage of the hack-hack...hackhackhack of AK fire, and suddenly I'm transported, kneeling beside an open door, M16 tucked into my shoulder, kicking as I blast triple bursts at a red-and-white-checked keffiyeh visible on a rooftop.
My head aches, my chest clenches, and my fists tighten until I hear the plastic remote cracking in my hand, and then the segment ends and a commercial for Tide detergent shakes me out of it. I flick on the TV and scan the DVDs on the shelf, but nothing seems interesting.
There's an Xbox, here for when Lani's younger brother comes over after school on Thursday afternoons. Some games, mostly sports, a role-playing game, and then the latest Call of Duty. I haven't played that one yet. We don't get the new games over there very often. I pop it in and change the channel to the correct TV input. The opening screens cycle, and then I'm in, quick play option. It's scarily realistic. The sounds are dead on, filtered through speakers, but enough to crash into my head and call up the real thing.
I'm racking up kills like crazy, biting it and respawning, and the controller is slippery with sweat and I'm leaning forward, teeth grinding. Certain parts are realistic, others aren't. The sounds are the most realistic.
I feel small soft hands on my shoulders, sliding down my arms to take the controller from me. I let her take it.
"Hunter? What are you doing, baby?" Lani's voice is muzzy with sleep.
I turn away from the TV and look at her. She's so beautiful, wavy blonde hair sleep-mussed, blue eyes squinting at the light. She's wearing one of my T-shirts, a Slipknot concert shirt, and it comes to mid-thigh, her small, perky br**sts poking the cotton.
"Got back from the bar with Derek and couldn't sleep," I say.
"I never felt you come back to bed."
I shrug. "I didn't. I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep."
She circles the couch and sits next to me. "Isn't that game a little...difficult for you to play?"
I don't answer right away. I shrug, eventually. "Yeah, guess so. Just curious."
"You okay?" she asks.
I hesitate, then decide now isn't the right time to address what's on my mind. I'm half-drunk, and she's half-asleep. "Nah. Just coming down and getting tired."