Page 1 of Service and Sacrifice
One
Amanda
Amanda leaned against the side of the carshe’d borrowed from a neighbor and watched carefully as the numbersticked up in the pump display. Her palm was slick against theratcheted handle as she slowed the dispensing rate, then slowed itagain, waiting until the total hit the even twenty bucks she had inher wallet. She’d retrieved the money and just returned the nozzleto the holder before turning to twist the gas cap into place whenshe heard the hum. Or felt it, really.
A throbbing thrum of something tickled thesoles of her feet; then the racket grew louder, sending tinythrills of shivery sensation up her legs and into her belly. Itseemed to echo off every building around, the sound folding back inand on itself until there was nothing except this primal thunder.The first bikes appeared moments later, and she steadied herselfagainst the car door as she watched the double line of vehiclesslow, signal, and swoop into the station. They split into a patternonly they recognized, machines and men pulling up three and fourdeep on every pump.
She looked left and saw a pair of bikes hadappeared just in front of the car, unsmiling men staring at her.Not a glare, nothing overtly threatening, but more as if she didn’tmatter. As if her existence factored so little they scarcelynoticed her except for the fact she stood beside the only pumpblocked by a car. She glanced right and found two more bikes ashort distance off, barely giving her enough room to back up andleave. She nodded her thanks, getting one chin lift in responsebefore she clambered into the car.
Then right back out, because she still hadthe money clutched in her hand. She stared at the two men in frontof the car, but they were no longer looking at her, heads turned totalk to each other, pointedly ignoring her polite wave. She lookedthe other direction and held up her hand, pointed at the money,then at the door of the station. Chin lift guy shook his head andmade a shooing motion with one hand while the man next to himlaughed, lips splitting in soundless humor at her predicament.
“Park, then pay.”
Amanda shrieked and whirled, one hand comingup to cover her throat in a useless defensive move. One of theother men had dismounted from his bike and was standing right infront of her. A black bandana was wrapped around his head, and darksunglasses kept his eyes from view as he leaned in aggressively andrepeated himself. “Park.” He shoved his hand towards the store,pointer finger extended. “Then pay.”
He smelled of oil and gasoline, and faintlyof an attractive something she couldn’t define. Wide shoulders andmassive arms strained the seams of the jacket he wore, foldscreased into the elbows telling of long hours of wear. With ashort, untrimmed beard and a tattoo crawling up the side of hisneck, he looked every bit the kind of terrifying man she’d avoidedall her life.
Amanda Stewart didn’t go for bad boys. She’dnever once walked on the wild side. Married at eighteen to her highschool sweetheart, she lived a safe and sane, and predictable life.Her family had moved on, parents retiring to warmer states and herbrothers scattering to the winds, but she still lived in the sametown where they’d all grown up. In fact, other than a rare trip,she’d never ventured outside the state where she’d been born andwas so okay with that even her siblings laughed at her.
She might have carefully crafted her life asbest she could, but everything else was in disarray. Almost fiveyears ago her husband had come home unexpectedly, his travelunscheduled, all their future plans waylaid by an enemy sniper inthe mountains of Afghanistan. Amanda had sat stiffly on the firstpew of the same church where they’d married, and then again in afolding chair next to the raw earth mounded beside a freshly dughole, accepting the condolences of their friends and family, hiscommander, and a few of the men who’d walked so many milesalongside him. The sun was past zenith when the startling booms ofthe salute rang out and had dropped to kiss the horizon beforeshe’d given in to the urging of her brothers and swayed to her feetto toss in her handful of clay. Folded flag in her lap, she hadn’tbeen refusing to leave so much as she just couldn’t imagine goinganywhere else.
A year later, their house had gone back tothe bank, because without the active duty pay, she couldn’t affordit. She’d held on to the car, scrimping and scraping money togetherevery month for the too-large payment, while she’d bounced amongher dwindling friends from couch to guest room—and for a short timebefore she’d gotten a small efficiency apartment, to the back seatof the car. Not that anyone knew about that last bit, because she’dbeen determined to not let anyone pity her.
But now even the car was indanger,because the transmission had threatened to giveout last week. The shop owner was an old classmate, and he’dpromised to hold the car for another month to give her time to payfor the repairs, even after he’d told her the vehicle wasn’t worththe cost.
It didn’t matter to her, because Martin hadpicked it out, had loved it, had wanted it. And what Martin wanted,he got, in so many things. Beautiful, faithful wife, check.Ostentatious house, absolutely. Impractical car, you got it.Military career always volunteering for dangerous missions,outstanding choice, sir, there you go.
So here she was at nearly thirty, borrowinga car to drive to her low-wage job at the big-box store one townover. Still pinching pennies because putting more gas in the carmeant fewer groceries in her already skimpy pantry. In so many waysshe felt like life had passed her by, misplaced in the wake ofyoung love and stability, of service and loss.
And the man standing too close, who lookedangry now, was terrifying. “Jesus, lady, you deaf or something? Weneed that pump.” He reached up and took off the sunglasses, tuckingone temple piece into the neck of his shirt, exposed now becausehe’d unzipped his jacket at some point.Probably when heteleported over here. His green eyes were flat and cold, filledwith a heavy dose of the don’t-give-a-shit attitude she was sure hehad been born with.
Wordlessly, Amanda held out the money, notcertain what she hoped to accomplish with this mute appeal. Maybeto have him back off, or understand, or see how frightened she was,fingers shaking so the bill looked nearly ready to take flight.
“Yeah, I get that you gotta pay, lady.Just—” He gestured behind him again, towards the front of the shop.“Park first.”
She looked to the side. There were bikeseverywhere, scattered in groups and wavering lines across theparking lot, and she didn’t see a way to drive past them to theslotted spaces in front of the store. Glancing behind, she saw theother two bikes had rolled closer, and she felt a wave of panicwhen she realized she was effectively blocked in. She whirled andshoved the money at him again, fist clenched to hold the tremblingat bay.
He stared at her a moment, crinkles in thecorners of his eyes becoming more pronounced,gazenever leaving her face. Then he turned his head toshout over his shoulder, “FNG.” Curls of hair escaped from the backof the bandana, dark blond and thick.
That acronym, thattitle,was familiar. Martin and his friends had joked aboutthe scrubs in their platoon, the newbies, fresh off the farmsometimes: Fucking New Guy. Amanda studied the patches on the man’sjacket and saw another thing that felt familiar. A militaryinsignia that matched the memorized one worn by Martin in his dressuniform. “Oorah,” she whispered, and he whipped his head back toher. “Thank you for your service, Marine.”
This time, instead oflady, she earned, “Ma’am. My duty and honor.” SomethingMartin had said in response to people at diners or grocerystores—she looked around—or gas stations, when they’d interruptwhatever he and she had been doing to offer their thanks.
Duty and honor. She scrubbed at hernose with the back of her wrist, then absently looked down and rana thumb over the tattoo on the underside of that wrist. Right overwhere her pulse was strongest, where the skin was weakandthe blood ran hot. Where the blade had missed theintended target, her eyes blinded by overflowing tears.
The man reached out and cradled her hand inhis, and she looked up to see the top of his head fringed by moreof those curls. Chin angled down, he was studying her tattoo, andany question of whether he knew the meaning was gone when he liftedhis face to hers. Eyes narrowed, he stared hard at her a minute,and she realizedat some pointhe’d startedexamining her tattoo by touch, moving along her skinsothe pad of his thumb now traced the scar.
“Brother?” The lifting sound at the end toldher he was guessing the who but knew the what and why, and she tooka breath because it had been a long time since someone had justknown like that. Since there’d been a nearly wordlessunderstanding.
“Husband.” She swallowed around the wordsthat wanted to escape after, forcing them down before they gotfree.Lover. Best friend.Soulmate.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” He gave her wrista squeeze, then retained his hold, keeping her in place. He foldedher fingers around the bill and told her, “Don’t worry about thegas. It’ll be on me, ma’am. Where was he?”
“Helmand.” If this man had served overseas,he would know that name—and from the grimace on hisface,she knew she was right. “Thank you.”
“How long?” A man stepped up behind him,andover hisshouldertheMarine gave a brusque order. “Put her gas on the card, man, mytab.” Then his intense eyes were back on herandshe stared at him as he repeated his question. “Howlong?”
Amanda closed her eyes. “One thousand, eighthundred, and twenty-six days.”
