A/N: There's quite a bit of action in this chapter, and not of the guns and explosions variety, if you know what I mean (wink, wink). I figured it was about time, but we all know I can't have them happy for too long. Just a warning. Enjoy! Oh, and I couldn't find a proper video for this chapter, so you'll simply have to trust me when I tell you that it's beautiful.
Inspired by Sam Phillips and many hours with a yoga mat.
XII. Out of Time
Listen to the scream of our desperate dream
Did we say forever and whatever did we mean?
When David Webster returned to the war, he wasn't completely surprised when he was met with contempt. The men he had once served with were worn out. They were the Battered Bastards of Bastogne, full of stories and a new sense of life and death. He was just another GI with a clean uniform and a clean bill of health. It didn't matter that he was a D-Day vet. No one seemed to care. Even Lorena was aloof to his return.
Her ebony hair was unwashed and there was a sheen on her face from weeks of fighting. Yet, a brightness that hadn't existed before he left surrounded her like a halo and she was a light spot in the middle of the bleak French city. While her sunnier disposition was different (profoundly so), there were a few things that hadn't changed. Lorena still stood perfectly straight, as though someone was pulling a string too tight, and she still spoke with a clipped tone. And, of course, she still didn't like to be touched… at least, not by him. Captain Ronald Speirs, on the other hand…
"So, what have you been up to?" he asked quietly, upon noticing the charged air between the correspondent and the CO.
"Nothing I can't handle," she said before lighting up a cigarette from a crumpled pack.
"Well, I figured that, but Speirs? Really? Is it just me or you a glutton for punishment?"
Lorena laughed bitterly. "It's just you."
As far as Lorena was concerned, she was taking her life back. The abuse had consumed her mind for years. It turned her against people, away from human contact of any kind. Handshakes gave her panic attacks. Any embrace made her nauseous. The therapist she had gone to see told her that phobias such as hers had to be met head on and that the only way to overcome it was to simply fight through the anxiety. But with every touch and every look, she felt the judgment and the pity; she saw it plainly. Ron was the only person she knew that didn't care. He had no reason to, and because of that, she was drawn to him, like a mosquito to flesh in the dead of summer. Of course, Lorena knew that it would soon end. The war would be over and he would return to England to his wife and child, and she would return to Atlanta or Boston, but with a new sense of freedom. She would not shrink, nor would she hold her head up too high as not to get hurt. She would just be…
"Is this the company CP for Easy?" a voice said from behind them.
Lorena turned to look into the face of a young man. She had heard from Nixon about a West Pointer coming to join the ranks, a Lieutenant. By the bars on his collar and the trepidation in his tone, he appeared to be the one. At first glance, Lorena thought he was sort of like a lost puppy. Then he looked at her, at the war correspondent patch on her shoulder, and back at her again. She no longer saw a puppy, but instead, an attack dog. In his eyes, she was dangerous, and in her eyes, he was on the defensive.
Lipton, who was sprawled out on a couch with a blanket and a mug of Army tea, waved a weak arm in the direction of one of the mismatched chairs. "Yes, have a seat, sir."
The kid's dark eyes focused in on Lorena, dissecting her as she once did to others. She stared back at him, unafraid and full of contempt. "Lorena Hollis, I presume," he said.
"Carlyle," she corrected. "I haven't used Hollis since the trial."
"My apologies, ma'am."
"Accepted, Lieutenant."
Webster leaned in and whispered in her ear. "Did it get cold in here?"
"Be quiet, David or I'll box your ears."
Ron came bustling in again, his arms filled with clocks and various knick-knacks. He had been "collecting" things to send back to Bea throughout France, hoping that she could sell them and she'd eventually be secure enough that she wouldn't need him or his Army paycheck to support her child. In six months time, if his figuring was on point, Bea wouldn't need him. In six months time, Lorena would be his.
"Captain Speirs, sir, this is Lieutenant Jones," Lipton began, wrapping his shaky hands around the warm mug of coffee.
"Listen," Ron said, although the cigarette between his lips made him nearly impossible to understand, "for Christ's sake, will you go in the back and sack out? There's some beds back there with fresh sheets. Lorena, talk to him please. Or, hell, write him a quick letter. Maybe then he'll listen."
"I will, sir. I'm just trying to make myself useful, sir," Lipton said, wincing.
Winters and Nixon walked through the shattered doors of the company CP, their helmets tucked under their arms in an eerily similar manner. They looked dour and as forlorn as the weather outside. Lorena could smell the dissatisfaction.
"Regiment wants a patrol for prisoners. Since the river's the main line of resistance, we're going to have to cross it to get to them," Winters said, rubbing his hands together in both an effort to keep them warm and to keep from punching the tattered walls.
"What do we need to do?" Ron asked.
Lorena noticed that a strand of his dark, unruly hair had fallen from its usual place and brushed against his forehead. She fought the urge to reach up and fix it for him, because she loved nothing more in the world - besides her mother's marinara sauce - than running her fingers through his dirty hair.
"There's a three-story building on the enemy side, up the embankment. We know it's occupied. You can have fifteen men. Think very hard about who you want to lead the patrol. We need a lead scout, a translator. I've got the entire battalion on covering fire. It's tonight. 0100."
Lorena watched the men around her. Jones, the mistrusting creature, swallowed hard at the word "lead," as though Ron or Dick would allow him to command their men, the ones they had both been through so much with. Webster, on the other hand, lowered his head. He spoke German fluently - she had begged him to teach her more than once - and would most likely be first choice to be translator for the patrol. It was the last place David wanted to be. He had studied literature at an Ivy League school. He was the sensitive, bookish type who had volunteered for the paratroopers to avoid being drafted into a regiment with boys who also didn't want to be there. Because of this, it made it difficult for the others to sympathize with him. But Webster never stared at Lorena's scars. Not at the thick ones that blemished the skin of her neck or the delicate ones above her brow. Not at the ones on her hands (and there were many) or the ones on her wrists, even though they suggested more than any of the others. Jones, though, stared and Lorena didn't take kindly to people gawking at her with such disapproval. She would side with Webster in an instant
"Speirs, I want this one to be as fool proof and as safe as possible," Dick said.
"Yeah, don't take any chances on this one," Nixon added. "We're too far along for that. That goes for you too, Carlyle."
"Of course," she said with a nod before moving over to where Ron stood, speaking in hushed tones to Lipton. "Permission to go on the patrol, Captain."
"Can't you sit pretty with the rest of the battalion? Take it easy for a while?"
"Are you babying me, Ron? If you are, must I point out how ridiculous that is?" Her words were teasing, but her tone was sincere.
"I'll let you know later," Ron said, his eyes sparking like firecrackers.
Lorena's heart raced but her face remained unreadable. She walked into a back bedroom where her things had been placed and her typewriter had been set up. She sat down at the wooden desk and a wave of inspiration came over her. Her fingers flew to her bag, pulling out several sheets of paper, which she feed into the machine. Lorena cracked her knuckles once, then reached out to touch the keys like Beethoven to a piano. Before she knew it, her hands were making a melody of clacks and dings: music to her ears.
Lorena had no idea how much time had passed since she began working. She had gone into a trance, one that was broken by three quick raps on the old door. Nixon stood in the entryway, raggedy face and all. He looked like hell, but she wouldn't dare tell him that. He probably would have said the same about her.
"Got good news for you, sweet pea," he said with a grin.
"What is it, sugar plum?"
"There's hot showers and clean uniforms. Vest will be bringing yours in, but don't put it on just yet. The officers are going to have at it, then the enlisted guys, and once they're all done, you've got the place all to yourself for at least thirty minutes. You're welcome, by the way."
Lorena's mouth dropped in awe. "Thank you very much, Lewis. How did you do it?"
"Well," Nixon said with a obnoxious smile, "one of the guys setting it up was from Boston and guess where he and his brothers and his father worked?"
"Let me guess, LC Glass Company?"
Nixon laughed. "You've got it, and they all kept their jobs through the Depression. While all his buddies were getting canned - his words, not mine - he was enjoying the life of a working man."
"And not singing, 'Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?'"
"Exactly. Anyway, it shouldn't be too long. Oh, and if you could find your boyfriend and let him know about it, that would be a big help. I can't seem to track him down."
Lorena sat up straight against the back of the chair. "Who?"
"Don't play dumb with me, Lorena. If you see Speirs…"
She nodded and Nixon turned with a smile. Two people, so far, knew about her and Ron, but Lorena wondered how many more of the men were aware of their tryst. She felt both worried and exhilarated, as a part of her, the Sicilian part, liked the risks associated with the affair. In fact, it made her feel strangely alive.
Lorena stood and made her way to the front room in hopes of finding Ron there, but there wasn't a soul in sight. She searched the other bedrooms, the kitchen, the dining room, but the only living things were a few mice that survived whatever the Germans had done to the building. Lorena shrugged her shoulders and left the headquarters to wait her turn.
A man was dead, a non-com named Bill Kiehn. He was simply at the wrong place at the wrong time, carrying a sack of potatoes across the street. Wrong place, wrong time. Lorena filed that away with a million other things, including a sign outside of the shower that read: "You are now under enemy observation. Minimize exposure." Minimize exposure In a shower. Was that meant to be ironic? Was that the Army's attempt at humor? She also tried to remember exactly how the water felt as it hit her skin, the heat from the water mixing with the cold of the dirt and grime. Lorena wore nothing more than her bra and rayon panties, and with every curtain closed, the steam became trapped in the dark shower, leaving her with the memories of the country club's sauna and the Saturday afternoons that she wasted in her untroubled youth.
She was lost again, in another world, until she heard a voice call her name. Quickly, she wrapped her arms around her, shielding herself from the eyes of an unknown soldier. Her head whipped around quickly; her short, wet locks sticking to her face.
"Who is it? Where are you?" she said, panicked. If she had to, would be able to break his nose. Hit heel of hand upward against nose. Run like hell. Or bring the man to the ground. Knee or foot to groin. Kick him while he's down. Run like hell. Or blind him temporarily. Index finger and middle finger to eyes. Knee to groin. Run like hell.
"Lorena, it's just me," the voice said again, though that time it was more familiar. A thick band of light where the curtains parted revealed Ron Speirs' face and a devilish smirk.
"You scared me half to death. What are you doing here?"
"I haven't showered yet. I wondered if I could join you," he said.
There was a huskiness to his voice that made Lorena quiver. Were she not standing underneath a torrent of hot water, she would have been covered in goosebumps. She forced herself to be a lady.
"Are you insane? Do you have any idea what will happen if we're caught?"
"You care?"
Lorena opened her mouth. Yes, you imbecile, you do. Lie. "No."
Ron smiled and stepped into the large, makeshift shower. He closed the curtain tight behind him before turning to take in the figure before him. He had seen her in her under things once before, but he had been careful not too look too hard that time, after she told of her unborn child and her pain. This moment was different. She wasn't fighting him or his touch any more.
Lorena stood, tense, as Ron came up behind her. He placed his hands at the base of her neck and slid them through her hair. She leaned into his touch with a sigh and her arms fell to her sides, repeating a mantra silently. This is not Parker. Give this a chance. This is not Parker. His fingertips trailed lightly down her arms, then her sides, then her back. Ron could feel the scars that criss-crossed all over the warm, smooth skin of her back, where Parker Hollis must have whipped her with a belt or some other thing that left deep gashes in her freckled skin. Anger tore through him, burning through his body as if there was liquid fire in his veins. He wanted to scream, to yell, but instead, he bent his head forward and placed his lips against her neck.
Lorena gasped as Ron began to kiss and nip at her neck and soon her bare shoulder. His naked torso was pressed against her back and she could feel the muscles tighten. She couldn't move and didn't dare to in case he took it as a sign of her wanting him to stop, and as he brought his hands forward to place them on her hips, stopping was the last thing she wanted him to do. Lorena whimpered as his tongue darted out to taste the water on her skin and, without hesitation, she turned to face him.
Ron stared down at her, worried that he had done something wrong, but when she raked her nails down his chest, he smiled. He met her eager lips without force, allowing her to take control. The water beat down on their heads and shoulders and rushed down their faces, adding to the heat. Lorena pulled back, but only for a second, before she dragged her mouth along Ron's rough jaw. She stood on the tips of her toes to reach his earlobe.
"We don't have much time, but I want this. I want you," she whispered. Her teeth grazed the cartilage and she bit down, pulling slightly. Ron groaned against her neck and he tilted his hips to touch her, allowing her to feel how much he wanted her too. He reached up and took one of her large breasts in his hand before kissing her hard on the mouth again.
"Ma'am," a loud voice said from the other side of the green curtain. "Ma'am, it's been thirty minutes. I can't give ya any more than that."
Lorena and Ron parted reluctantly, their breathing labored and ragged. "Okay, just one minute," she said, her voice hoarse. Lorena glanced up and caught Ron's eyes in the dark. "I'm sorry," she mouthed before the water ceased.
She walked over to the other shower head where an Army blanket hung to be used as a towel. She wrapped the fabric around her and popped her head out of the curtain. "Excuse me, may I have another one of those for my hair?" she asked with a strong New England inflection.
"Sure, Ms. Carlyle," the man said, his own Massachusetts accent strong in the three words.
Lorena extended her hand gracefully and smiled. "Thank you." She took the towel and the uniform he also handed her and quickly disappeared behind the curtain. She returned to Ron, who stood in naught but his Army-issued boxers and bare skin. For the first time, she got a chance to see all of him at once. If only the idiot outside had been struck down by German artillery…
"Do you have clothes somewhere?" she whispered.
"Yeah. Right outside, hidden. I'll let you get dressed in peace."
"No, no. Don't bother. Your hand was on my breast not one minute ago, I don't mind if you see me naked."
Despite her nonchalance, Lorena still turned and face the opposite direction of him. She could feel Ron's eyes on her, watching. He was damning the little man just as much as she was. She donned her uniform and dried her hair the best she could with the makeshift towel, then gave Ron a little salute. Lorena left the wet material on a table, took her old helmet from it, and walked back to the company CP.
Whatever it was she was meant to remember, it was long gone by the time she got back to her room.
There was a spring in Ron's step and he could feel it in every inch of his body. Lorena's voice, a soft purr with just a hint of southern charm and a robust dose of northern frankness, repeated the same three words in his head. I want you. A heat the size of a forest fire tore through him. He had never been as ardent with Bea, not even after her doctor had given them the green light. It had been gentle and sweet and so unlike him. He tried telling himself that it was all because she was pregnant, but even if she hadn't been, he was sure that he would have had to treat her like a delicate flower. Not that he blamed her. She was a delicate flower, but she needed someone who wouldn't be constantly afraid of hurting her.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught his own reflection in the window of a shop. At first, he didn't recognize the man staring back at him, the idiot with the smile on his face. Once Ron understood that it was his own grin, it grew until he laughed. Not a snort, but a laugh. With a deep breath, he composed himself, then headed off to meet Winters, though, he knew only a few feet away, an black-haired bella donna wanted him.
Lorena stopped mid-sentence to answer a knock at her door. She whole-heartedly hoped it was Ron, wanting desperately to finish what they started, so when she saw Vest, mail-sorter extraordinaire, her face fell.
"Sorry to interrupt you, Lorena, but there's a letter here for you," he said, handing her a thin white envelope.
"Thank you," she said, taking it carefully and eyeing the Massachusetts address.
Vest hurried away and Lorena quickly shut the door. A smile grew as she flipped the envelope over, but once she flipped back to see the return address again, it quickly faded. Eugene Griffith. Lorena's chest felt heavy. Eugene was the Carlyle family's lawyer. He had defended Lorena during the trial and was typically the bearer of bad news. If Lorenzo had been found dead, it would most likely be Eugene's, not Charles', responsibility to tell her. With a deep inhale and a fast exhale, she tore the envelope open and pulled out the single piece of cream-colored paper. Lorena's eyes went wide and she forgot how to breathe. The room began spinning. The letter fell from her scarred hands and drifted to the floor as Lorena fell with a hard thunk against the dusty wooden floor.
Lorena, several weeks ago, your dear father fell ill with pneumonia. Until recently, he appeared to be out of the proverbial woods, but, quite suddenly, he took a drastic turn for the worse. I am terribly sorry to tell you that he did not make it. He passed on comfortably in his sleep and is now joined with your loving mother once again. I must request that you return to Boston at once so we can discuss the future of LC Glass. With Lorenzo missing, I am afraid that you are next in line to inherit the family business. My deepest condolences, Eugene.
Lorena, at the age of twenty-five, was an orphan and the only Carlyle left standing.
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