Little Hand Grenade

"For the last time, I'm not paying for your phone, you're just on my phone plan," I said, exasperated. Vanessa was pitching a fit in the middle of the store, demanding to pay for her own things. "You will pay me, and then I will pay the phone company. It's cheaper that way. Plus, I can creep on who you call every month." I flinched, expecting her to give me a dead arm, but she only gave me a very stern look before looking down at her new black iPhone.

"Thank you," she said finally. "Where is Jack? I need his assistance." The day off in Phoenix was being used to fully integrate her back into civilian life, and she was doing just fine. After our drinking experience last night, there was a new, personal connection between us. She walked next to me in a fashion that spoke more of friendship that guardianship. She was definitely still guarding me though. Depending on which side the foot traffic was going, she would hover around me to keep them a reasonable distance away. It didn't seem like she was aware she was doing it.

"Why do you need Jack?" I asked and still felt offended that she didn't trust me enough to dress her.

"You still blush when I change in the bus, so..."

"You're supposed to change behind closed doors!"

"Irrelevant. Where is he?" The twitch at the corners of her mouth said that she was trying not to smile and laugh at me.

"You think it's funny, don't you?" I accused, pointing a finger at her. "He's around here somewhere. Let's go into some stores and look around until we find him."

She followed me out of the store, inspecting her phone and the sparkly case she decided on. It surprised me that she would choose something so flashy, but when I asked, she said, "it sparkles" and left it at that as if it answered everything.

Nothing had changed since Vanessa became my body guard except for one thing: fans kept their distance outside of shows. We went into a department store that caught her eye, and I noticed a small cluster of girls watching us intently. When I smiled and waved at them, they took it as permission to come closer. This captured Vanessa's attention and she went into "soldier mode", as I liked to call it, and stepped in front of me.

"Sorry," said the girl in front immediately. "We were, uh, wondering if we could meet Alex." She scanned each girl up and down, and stepped aside, saying nothing. The few steps she took to give them a reasonable amount of space to stand suddenly made me nervous. Yes, Vanessa was only five feet away, but what if one of these girls was armed? What if the whole conspiracy that someone wanted me killed was real and they disguised my potential murderers as my fans?

Fortunately, these were real fans. They wanted autographs, pictures and hugs. They wanted to see if my gunshot wound was healed or not. Simple curiosity led them to ask about Vanessa.

"Is she your girlfriend? Everyone says so," said the shortest girl, and quickly added, "She's really pretty."

"No, she's not," I answered, and it was all I could do not to smirk at Vanessa, who was surely glaring at me. "She's my body guard. She is pretty though, isn't she?" This time I did look up, and her glare was very piercing.

"Stop kissing ass, we have to go," she said stiffly, breaking up the group of fans and taking her spot at my shoulder. Her expression softened a little when they waved goodbye to her too, but her irritation quickly returned. The poor rack she looked through in the jeans section was the victim of her wrath, slamming each hanger as hard as possible to the side as she looked at the pants.

"Do you even know what you're looking for?" I asked her, starting to look through the ones she had passed over.

"No, they all look the same! This is why Jack needs to be here."

"Why are you so upset? Is it because people think you're pretty?" I asked, confused why a girl would dislike being called pretty.

"I already know I'm pretty, I don't need any confirmation from you or anyone else," she snapped, and paused to look at a pair of jeans that were dark and fashionably torn up. "I'm not an object. What do you think of these? I like these." Just like that, any trace of anger, irritation and grumbling was gone. It was like she rode on a mood swing attached to a jet pack. I couldn't keep up with it.

We made our way to the dressing room, and found a shirt she liked as well and she disappeared into one of the stalls.

* * *

I didn't like this feeling. I didn't like how my little pride monster puffed up its chest when Alex said I was pretty. The last time I felt this way, it ended in blood and ashes. Literally. There was no denying, however, that after successfully drinking with him last night, things between us improved. It was less professional, and due to the nature of this job, it couldn't be professional. People needed to think I was a regular part of his life, and for a moment I thought maybe I should pose as his girlfriend.

No, I thought immediately. As much as I want to get to the bottom of this fiasco, it isn't worth getting anyone hurt. If my presence is keeping the killers at bay, then he will have to deal with my presence until I root them out. I quickly threw off my clothes and put on the new ones. The shirt I picked had a flannel design, and there was a snap on each sleeve that would keep them rolled up, and it was different shades of purple. The jeans were torn up nicely, and tapered at the bottom so I could fit my boots over them. Jack talked me into keeping my hair down these days, and it was the next order of business. He complained that my ends were split. Where was he, anyway? I took a deep breath and stepped out of the stall. Alex leaned against the wall patiently, and the uncomfortable feelings returned.

"Well? Is this an acceptable combination?" I asked, feeling my back stiffen, my feet stand shoulder-width apart and my arms folded behind me. He lifted an eyebrow and stepped over to me calmly. Gently, he separated my arms and set them at my sides. His foot nudged each of my legs until I stood hip-width apart instead, and set his hands on my shoulders and pressed until the muscles I didn't know I was flexing relaxed.

"There. Now you don't look like a robot," he said, stepping back. "You should take up yoga or something. You still look stiff." His phone went off in his pocket and checked the message. "Jack is back at the bus. Our hairdresser is here, and it looks like he shopped without you." He turned his phone so I could see the screen, and it was a photo of Jack with bags hanging from his arms, a couple suitcases and a woman with him. Jack's ability to make my day better was frightening. He was so thoughtful.

"Alright, let me change back."

The rest of the afternoon was spent cutting and styling my hair, and Jack testing my fashion sense by telling me to choose outfits from the clothes he purchased. It was exhausting. My hair hung all the way down to my elbows when it was pin straight and the makeup felt heavy on my face. Sweat began forming on my forehead after changing for the hundredth time, and finally Jack was satisfied.

"I also got you a couple dresses, but you don't need to try those on yet," he said, standing and walking toward me to give me a one-armed hug. "You did good. We have a big party to go to tonight, so choose wisely." With a pat on the shoulder, he pranced off to go charge his phone.

Quietly, I folded my new clothes and packed them into the suitcases neatly. Alex had remained silent, only smiling or laughing at Jack's comments, during my mini fashion show. It was eerie. Alex always had something to say.

"So um, what kind of party is this? Should I be armed?" Another smile and more silence. "Alex. What kind of party is this?"

"It's a small get-together. A hundred people or so. Nothing to worry about."

"I'm bringing my AK-47. I packed it, you know. I bought it before I left."

"WHY DO YOU HAVE A GUN?"

"I'm not going to get raped," I said seriously. "It's...a taboo problem in the military. Luckily for me, every man knew I wouldn't hesitate to fill him with lead if he came within a foot of my person for any reason other than saving my life."

"Wait. Aren't women in the military supposed to be...I don't know, tough? I don't want to sound like an asshole," he said, his voice clearly distressed about his wording on the subject. "I feel like they would beat the shit out of the guy."

"When the guy is six feet tall and over two hundred pounds? When he's your commanding officer? When you know he'll make you drive the lead Humvee through enemy territory, or threaten to make every hour of service a living hell, if you tell him no?"

"Well, yeah...that's terrible," he said solemnly. "Did you know anyone?" How did he live with so many emotions for so many people in so many different situations? It must be tiring to care so much.

"Yes."

"Did you do anything about it?"

"No." His face broke into a combination of disgust and disbelief. It stung, coming from him.

"Why?" He bored the question straight into my skull. "Why didn't you do anything? You eventually made it to a high enough position. There must have been something you could do."

"Add it to the long list of guilt." I sat down on my claimed cushion on the sofa.

For a moment, I was back in Afghanistan. Sand and dirt clung to my uniform and my hands were filthy. An IED had gone off and I was flung fifteen feet from the initial explosion, by complete chance of the way the wheel hit it. My friends were in that Humvee. Medics surrounded them now, lifting their bloodied bodies onto stretchers as other soldiers cleared an area for the helicopter to land. A gust of icy wind from the mountains made the day as cold as the single dead soldier who had tried to grab me before the bump tossed me out.

"You don't have to blame yourself," Alex said softly, taking the spot next to me. I stared at my clean hands, resting in my lap. "Look at me. It's not your fault."

"But a lot of it is," I confessed, refusing to look at him. Looking at him only made me feel as guilty as ever. "A lot of it is." Was it because he was trying to justify my actions that I felt I needed to convict myself of them? Was it because I couldn't lie to him? But why? Why did I care at all what he thought of me? Every day since I flew home, I have felt the need to be in his good graces. I kept asking myself why, but it all came down to the same conclusion: I liked him. Only a little! He was quirky, and he questioned me. He wouldn't listen to me most of the time. He irritated me and I liked him for it? Well. This would give me something to think on for the next few weeks.