The Blood of Patriots

Chapter 8: Exposure

I wake at first light, brown hair in my face and Oz asleep in my arms. This had been my hope for many years. I wait several minutes. Maybe the world will end and I can at least die happy.

It doesn't, and I don't.

The sound of men talking downstairs brings back the reality of yesterday in sharp detail. If I ignore them, I find that I'm happy laying here with her. If I listen, a growing sense of distrust makes her proximity uncomfortable.

I hear Kip laugh. How often does she sleep like this with one of them? It doesn't matter. My point is that she doesn't need me, not physically.

We still need to talk about my involvement in that other thing. But I need time to let the firestorm heat up or die down. Tomorrow morning, when I get to work, I'll probe my government contacts—check in with them to see if I can assist in any way. Until then, I'll stay as far away from Oz and her friends as I can get.

I ease myself out of bed. She doesn't move.

I shower, shave, and dress as quietly as possible. I cover her gently with the blanket and watch her sleep. I don't think I can do this anymore. When I get home, I'll ask her kindly to leave. That won't be easy.

I head downstairs where I find Dad cooking breakfast for Joe and Kip—pancakes and bacon.

There are blankets and pillows on the couch and in the lounge chair. Oz did that for them. She knows where we keep the extras. Good thing I didn't start a fight last night. I would have been kicked out of my own house.

"How's Zee?" Joe asks without looking up from his newspaper. "Is she up?"

"No."

He wears a drab green military t-shirt and boxers. His arms are thick. As if there was any doubt, he has a Special Forces tattoo on one bicep.

I pour a cup of coffee and check my cell for messages. I'm not leaving it behind today.

"That's unusual," Joe says. "Usually she's kicking us to wake up."

"I know that's right," Kip says. He wears long plaid drawstring pants and a long-sleeve thermal undershirt. He's thinner than Joe, but his shoulders are still broad and muscular.

I check the weather on my cell while Dad sets a plate in front of Kip.

"So, you guys were in the army with Oz?" Dad asks.

Joe grunts and folds the newspaper to a new page.

"Sort of, sir," Kip says. "She was in army intel. Joe was Fifth Special Forces, and I'm a Marine. We met up in Baghdad. We've been together six years now."

There's no room at the small kitchen table so Dad sets my plate on the counter beside me.

The weather forecast has changed again, per usual. Today's high will reach the mid-seventies with clouds moving in this afternoon. There's a high-wind warning, but the chance of tornadoes has been completely discounted. That's great news.

They're still calling for heavy snow on the backside tomorrow, which is also good. These types of storms usually don't bring ice, and that's our nemesis. The front should be here shortly before sunset. Already it's fifty-eight outside.

I take the sweater off my shoulders and toss it on the couch.

"You're dressed awful funny," Dad says.