Page 41 of Finally Mine
“Seeing anything?” Aldo asked into the radio.
Static and squawking. “Nah. Just a goat herder with a livestock traffic jam.”
Neither Aldo nor his passenger relaxed until the truck in front of them shifted into gear. “All clear,” the radio squawked.
“You are too trying to jump her bones,” Oluo accused, picking up the thread of conversation where it had dropped. It was something they all excelled at after a few weeks of having normal, mundane tasks interrupted by threats and adrenaline.
“Okay, so maybeeventually—”
“Aha!”
“I don’t want to get in her way for a while. I want her to find the life she wants without building it around some—”
“Dumbass lieutenant?” Oluo supplied helpfully.
“I was going to say devastatingly handsome, romantic leading man.”
Oluo grunted, not sounding particularly impressed.
“She deserves this chance to be on her own,” Aldo pressed.
“Of course she does. But what if she meets some guy while you’re rolling around the desert for six months?”
“Five,” Aldo corrected her. He was counting not only the days but the hours. “And I just want her to be happy.” He’d die of a smashed-to-pieces heart. Or he’d wallow in self-pity for a year or so before swearing off women permanently and becoming some kind of mountain-dwelling hermit.
At least that was the plan.
“I don’t know,” Oluo teased. “Good-looking girl like that isn’t going to stay single for long.” Oluo knew what she was talking about. She came out to her parents at age eleven, insisting that her feelings for Miley Cyrus were not merely friendly. She’d been with her girlfriend, a kindergarten teacher, for four years.
“Gloria deserves a man who is going to look at her like she is the best thing in his life for the rest of hers,” Aldo said, gripping the wheel.
“Well, shit,” she laughed. “Never would have taken you for a softie. Maybe she’ll wait around for your dumb ass.”
She landed a punch on his shoulder.
And the world went to dust.
Pressure, a wave of it crushing his body against itself. Red and brown, swirling in front of him as his empty lungs begged for air. There was no sound, just a dull roar from far away. Nothing but pressure and dust.
He couldn’t tell where his body ended and the desert dirt began.
Was that gunfire? Why couldn’t he fucking move?
Move, Moretta! Move your fucking lard ass.
Was he dead? Fucking damn it all to hell! Had he died without getting another kiss from Gloria Parker?
“Gloria.”
“Stay with me, man. You hear me?”
Gunfire. Screaming. So much dust. And there was red, red, red everywhere.
He was moving. At least he thought he was. And then there was pain. Worse than the crushing pressure. Tearing, shredding, stabbing. His lower body was on fire. He couldn’t pinpoint a location as it raced through him, lighting up nerves.
“Medic! I need a fucking medic!”
He couldn’t move. Couldn’t open his eyes.
