“Laissez la bouteille.”
He raised his eyebrows but pushed the nearly bottle towards me and left it, as I’d requested.
After my third shot, I started to pull myself together, disgusted by being such a pussy and running out.
Fuck, I used to be good at my job. You know, actually cared about it. Paris changed all that. My CO had hated me from day one. He tried to bully me and constantly belittled me. I found out he was a buddy of my old man. Figured. Then the asswipe CO got my promotion to Warrant Officer blocked. Bastard. I’d fucking earned that promotion, and what he’d done to me could be a career-ender. So I decided if my CO wanted to screw around with me, I’d screw around with him—or rather, his wife. That was easy. Getting caught was harder because he was so fucking unobservant. She was definitely the brains in that marriage.
He got the message eventually. Found his wife with her mouth wrapped around my dick. That was a good day. By that point I didn’t give a shit what happened to my career.
I guess someone higher up the chain of command smelled a rat, because out of the blue I got my promotion and was sent to Geneva.
To Caro.
No. Not to her. This was my chance to make her pay, to take what had been mine, and leave her wanting. Yeah, the chance to leave her in the dust—that’s what I wanted; that’s what I needed.
I took another shot, just me and a close relative of my good friend Jack Daniel’s for company.
By 6PM, I was well on my way to being completely wasted. I only knew it was later when the bar started filling up with office workers. They must have sensed I wasn’t in a friendly mood because they all gave me a wide berth.
I wondered what she was doing. She’d looked pretty cozy with that French journalist, Lebuin, sitting next to her. Fucker was practically drooling over her, all smiles and Gallic fucking charm. It made me want to punch his guts out through his backbone.
I tried to think of something else, but every time I came back to the look of shock on Caro’s face when she saw me. Not pleasure—shock.
I emptied another shot down my throat, enjoying the increasing numbness that it gave me.
“May I sit?”
I looked up slowly. For a second I thought it was her—the long, chestnut hair was so familiar. I remembered that hair sweeping over my chest as we made love in the sand dunes. Not love—sex. Get the fucking facts straight. But this woman’s eyes were blue.
I shook my head to clear it, then waved at the seat.
“Merci.”
I grasped the bottle of whiskey as if I was afraid she’d steal it.
“You like to drink alone, perhaps?”
I shrugged, and she turned to Jean-Paul to order herself a glass of white wine.
Yeah, buy your own drinks, lady. I’m not interested.
I looked at her again. She was attractive, dressed in a skirt suit, high heels, with long, tan legs. For a moment I could imagine those legs wrapped around my waist.
She saw the direction of my gaze and smiled.
“Or perhaps you prefer some company? I’m Gabri.”
She held out her hand and after a second’s hesitation, I shook it.
“Sebastian.”
“American?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“No, no. That makes me feel old. Please, you must call me Gabri.” She paused. “So, why is a handsome young soldier drinking alone? It is either money or a woman. I do not think it is money.”
Her tone annoyed me, and I turned to glare at her.
“And why is an attractive woman talking to strange men in bars? It’s either business or pleasure. I don’t think it’s business.”
“Touché!” she said laughing lightly, then ran her hand over my thigh. “I am French, not Swiss. It is always pleasure with us—even in Geneva.”
She leaned forward and I caught the smell of her perfume. It was strong and musky—nothing like Caro. My stomach churned and I stood up suddenly, taking her by surprise.
“You’re right, mademoiselle. It is a woman. It’s always a woman—the same fucking woman.”
She rested her hand lightly on my arm. “Perhaps I can make you forget her?”
I laughed harshly. “Yeah, good luck with that. I’ve been trying for ten fucking years.”
I pushed past her, amused by the look of disappointment painted on her face.
When I hit the fresh air outside, I nearly staggered. Fuck, I was trashed.
I could have hailed a cab, but I didn’t live far, so I wandered home, occasionally cannoning off lampposts that seemed to leap into my path. Goddamn if I wasn’t seeing double.
I don’t remember getting up the stairs or falling asleep fully dressed.
The alarm scared the crap out of me when it went off at 5:30AM. I ended up diving onto the hard floorboards, thinking it was a fucking mortar attack.
I sat up slowly, rubbing my hip where I’d hit the deck. I always set the alarm early so I could go for a run before whatever drudgery the US Marine Corps was doling out. But this morning there was no chance of that. I just about made it to the bathroom before I threw up.
I splashed some water on my face, which made absolutely no fucking difference, and then drank straight from the faucet.
I crawled back into bed for another two hours.
When I woke up for the second time, there’d been no miraculous cure—I was still hung-over as fuck, and the room stank of whiskey.
Revolted, I pulled off my rank uniform and stood under the tepid shower for as long as I could stand it.
After I’d shaved, and managed not to cut my throat, I glared at my Charlies—the formal Dress Blue uniform. They looked like I’d slept in them. I had a clean shirt, but there was no way I’d have time to get the pants and jacket dry-cleaned.
Sighing, I pulled on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and went to ask Madame Dubois for use of her ironing board and iron: desperate times called for desperate measures.
She took one look at my pathetic condition and took pity on me.
“Les hommes ne savent pas repasser!” she insisted, wagging her finger at me and pulling my uniform out of my hands.
I wasn’t going to argue if she was going to offer to iron for me. When she finished I smiled and thanked her.
“Vous êtes un jeune homme espiègle!”
She waved me off with a smile. If I’d kissed her on the cheek, she’d have taken out her teeth and whistled.
Yep, I still had it; gran-mère was hot for me.
Clean in body if not much else, I headed to the hotel for the second day of the briefing. It began much like the first—I was late, and Parsons was pissed. I’d eaten a roll of mints before I walked in, but I was pretty certain he could smell whiskey on my breath. Hell, if the room didn’t have air conditioning I’d be sweating whiskey.
I tried to keep my eyes off of her, but it was an impossible task. After the first hour, I wanted to tear out my eyeballs and use them in a pinball machine.
When it was time for my language session, I knew I had an hour with Caro. I didn’t know why I didn’t combust on the spot. Except she seemed uninterested in looking at me. How fucking ironic.
I went through my usual spiel for the Afghan tour: how to introduce yourself (differently for men and women), how to give your job title, the agency you worked for, and nationality, in Pashto and Dari. And I always threw in a useful passage from the Qu’ran for emergencies.
This shit could save lives, so it really pissed me off that Caro wasn’t paying attention. Shit, she could end up smeared all over a Kabul street if she didn’t take it in.
“Perhaps Ms. Venzi can answer that question,” I said, nearly choking on my tongue as it wrapped itself around her name.
“Excuse me? Um, what was the question?” she stammered.
Fuck, I couldn’t look at her—it was too much. I was only human.
Shit! Shit! Shit! What could I tell her that she might actually remember; that might be useful?
Inspiration struck.
“A typical reply to a question an Afghan can’t answer would be for him to say, ‘because the sky is blue and the sea is green’,” I said by rote, risking another glance at her.