K. Bromberg: Sweet Ache

“Shh. Shh. Shh,” Pauly instructs our friends as he stands on his chair, holding up his own glass. “Tanner Thomas, we are so glad to see your ugly ass back in this shit hole we can’t seem to leave. I’m sure once you hand our asses to us time and again by getting the stories first, we’ll want you to leave, but for now we’re glad you’re here. Slainte!” As soon as he finishes the toast, the room around us erupts into cheers before we all toss back the whisky.

I welcome the burn, and before the sting even abates, my glass is already being refilled. When I look up from the glass my eyes lock on a woman I hadn’t noticed at the other side of the bar. The momentary connection affords me a glimpse of dark hair and light eyes as she lifts her drink and nods to me, but as soon as I register she’s doing it on purpose, someone moves and blocks my view of her.

But I keep my eyes fixed in that direction, wanting another glance of the mysterious woman. She doesn’t look familiar to me, but at the same time, something more than curiosity pulls at me. It’s been four long months—she could be anybody—but it bugs me that I don’t know who she is.

“Ready, Tan?” Pauly’s glass taps against mine, pulling me from my thoughts.

“Bottoms up, baby.” God, it feels good to be back in the swing of things. Listening to the guys’ war stories, getting up to speed on the shit that’s happened on the grassroots level that no one back at home has any clue about.

The whisky goes down a little smoother the second and third times while our crowd gets a little bigger as people are coming in after fulfilling their assignments. And each wave of people joining us ushers in another round of shots.

Maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s the familiar atmosphere, but soon I feel like I can breathe easier than I have in months. I think of Stella intermittently through the night, how much she’d have loved this show of unity between all these people competing for the next big story, and for the first time in forever I can smile at her memory.

“So, how long are you here for this time?” Pauly asks.

“I don’t know.” I blow out a long breath and lean back in my chair, my finger tracing the lines of condensation down the still-full glass of water in front of me. Whisky tastes so much better tonight. “This might be my last time—I don’t know.” My own words surprise me. A confession from the combination of the nostalgia and my own mortality examined through an alcohol-tinted microscope.

“Quit talking like that. This shit is in your blood. You can’t live without it.”

“True.” I glance across the room fleetingly while I nod my head slowly in agreement. “But, dude, a dog only has so many lives.”

“I guess that’s why I prefer pussies. They’ve got nine of ’em.”

“Christ, Pauly.” I choke on the words. “I prefer to eat it rather than live it.”

His arm goes around my shoulder as his laugh fills my ears. “I missed the fuck out of you, Thomas. Speaking of …” His hand grips me tighter before he lifts his chin to direct my line of sight. “The hottie at two o’clock has been eyeing you all night.”

I shrug the comment away, even though a small part of me—one that I’m not too happy with right now—hopes that he’s referring to the woman I’d glimpsed earlier. I’d told myself that she’d left. But secretly I’m hoping I was wrong. “I’m sure as hell hoping when you say ‘hot one,’ you’re referring to a woman and not an IED.”

“Cheers to that truth. Scary shit,” he says, again tapping his glass against mine, “and no, I’m referring to dark hair, great rack, killer body—”

“No, thanks,” I cut him off but my eyes dart to where I saw her sitting earlier and immediately chastise myself.

“You still seeing what’s-her-name?” he asks with the same indifference as I felt toward her.

“Nah …” I let my voice drift off, my thoughts veering to our last fight, when she accused me of cheating on her with Stella. “She took an assignment monitoring North Korea.”

“She thought you and Stella were messing around?”

The thought brings a bittersweet smile to my face. Memories of Stella and me, young and in love, flash through my mind. It feels like forever ago. Probably because it was. Two young twentysomethings on our first assignment with no one else to help occupy our time. Lust turned to sweet love, and then the slow realization that we weren’t any good as a couple. Then came an awkward phase in which we had to get over the bitterness associated with lust gone wrong, but through it all we really were a great team, reporter and photojournalist. But eventually, after enough time passed, we realized we were really good at the best-friend thing. We were inseparable for almost ten years, except for the odd assignment that parted us by pulling us to different places, and despite the introduction of significant others.

“Yeah, I get it. I’d probably think the same thing, but”—I shrug—“you’ve seen us together. Know how Stell and I were—”

“Mutt and Jeff,” he mumbles as we both fall into a short silence, thinking of her. “I’m sorry about what’s-her-name. I liked her.”

“No, you didn’t.” I laugh loudly because his statement is the furthest thing from the truth. He just nods his head in agreement—everyone knew they didn’t get along. “But thanks. I think it had run its course before she changed assignments. You know what relationships are like with what we do.”

“Man, do I know it. What am I on here? Wife number three? Four? You’ve got the right idea with the let’s-have-fun versus the let’s-get-hitched mentality … but, uh, she just looked over here again and, fuck me, I’d make her wife number five for the night if she’d let me.”

The deep belly laugh he emits pulls a reluctant chuckle out of me, and it takes everything I have not to glance in the woman’s direction. Resistance is futile. Eventually I give in to curiosity and glance up, planning to avert my eyes before she looks our way again.

Green eyes meet mine and her dark hair is pulled back into a messy knot that should look unkempt but makes her sexy somehow. When our eyes connect, her lips fall open in surprise before they slowly correct themselves into a soft smile. I nod my head at her acknowledgment and then casually look away, hating and loving the pang in my gut that stirs to life.

I’m a man used to living on instinct, and something about her—yet nothing I can put my finger on—tells me I should steer clear. So why the fuck do I glance back up to see whether she’s still looking? And why do I care?

“I’m sure you would,” I finally say in answer to Pauly, a little slow in my response.

“She’s hot. I mean, how often do we get someone that fine in this neck of the woods? Damn, dude, her eyes are back on you now. She’s seriously checking you out.” He snickers.

“Yeah, and she’s probably some sheik’s wife. No, thanks—I’ll keep the hand they’d cut off just for looking at her.” I toss my napkin on the bar at the same time the barkeep slides another round in front of us.

“Better your hand than something else,” Pauly deadpans.

“Got that right.” I laugh.

“I might take the risk for her.” I glance over and look him up and down. He can’t be serious. “Okay. Maybe not.”

“Maybe not.” I scrub my hand over my clean-shaven face, knowing the smooth skin will soon be replaced by the scruff that just kind of happens when you live here. “She one of us?”

“She’s been here about two weeks. Freelance, I think. Don’t know much about her, but heard she’s a loose cannon of sorts. Always off on her own, taking unnecessary risks and getting into people’s business. I’ve steered clear other than a nod in the lobby.”