Free Playing For Keeps by Liz Matis Page B

body. Her clothes are damp with sweat and blood. Beads of perspiration drip from her forehead, mingling with her silent tears. She tries to stand, but col apses from the effort. So sleepy. Did they drug her? Her eyes begin to close.
    The door crashes open. The stream of sudden light hurts her eyes and she flinches. Two men are shouting at her in Arabic. Kicking her. Spitting on her. What did they want? If they would talk slower she might be able to understand. Her hair is pul ed and she is lifted off the ground. She makes out the word kil , then whore. Oh God, this is it. A whimper escapes from her mouth.
    Time unbearably slows, as the cold hard metal of a gun presses at her temple.
    “Please.” A click of a gun. Just a click. The men laugh as they roughly shove her to the dirt floor.
    Samantha shot up in bed, her breaths coming in short gasps. Moments passed before she could take a deep calming one. She can stil taste the metal ic bitterness of blood in her mouth. She looked around, the light from the bathroom confirming she was safe, far away from the hut where she was held captive. The same nightmare. Only it real y happened.
    She eased out of bed, and staggered to the bathroom to splash cold water on her face. Avoiding a look in the mirror, she grabbed a towel, and dried her face with trembling hands. From experience, she knew sleep would elude her for the rest of the night.
    Samantha walked back into the room and reached for the remote on the nightstand. She turned on the television to drown out the echo of the men’s laughter stil fresh in her mind.
    Nothing on. She opened the door to the hotel refrigerator. The words of the veteran reporter sounded in her mind as she stared at the little bottles of liquor. Instead, she grabbed a bottle of water and guzzled it like she hadn’t drunk for days. Like those two days in the stifling hut.
    Restless, she paced the room. Maybe the gym was opened 24/7. A nice demon-run on the treadmil might help take the edge off. She threw on her shorts, running bra, and then added her tracksuit. Grabbing another water and her gym bag she headed out.
    Before opening the door to the gym, Samantha heard the clank of weights hitting steel and the blaring of a television. Seemed she wasn’t the only one who couldn’t sleep. She pul ed the door open and almost turned right back around at the sight of Ryan’s inviting backside as he changed weights. She didn’t know whether to be annoyed or glad for the company. She decided on annoyed, it was far less dangerous.
    “Don’t you have a curfew?”

    He stood up and turned towards her, smiling like the wolf from Little Red Riding Hood. “Couldn’t fal asleep. That kiss got me al riled up. You?”
    “Can’t stay asleep.” Please don’t ask why.
    Ryan’s hand swept the room and he nodded at the equipment. “What’s your pleasure?”
    Samantha laughed. “More like torture. Dim the lights and we’re on the set of a Vincent Price movie.”
    “Yeah, but instead we self inflict the pain.”
    “I think that makes us crazier than him.” She walked over to the treadmil and put her water bottle in its assigned place. She looked up at the television, where CNN’s Anderson Cooper was reporting from Iraq. Two Marines dead. Looking away, she said a silent prayer and wished none were from the outfit she’d been embedded with. Tears wel ed. She couldn’t escape the pain anywhere. Not in her apartment. Not on the road. Not in the gym, and certainly not in her sleep.
    The flipping of channels sounded before she heard Letterman’s Top Ten List.
    How could he know how much the newscast upset her? Did he see her tears?
    “Thanks.”
    “Want to talk?” Ryan sat down on the weight machine across from her.
    Did he want to talk about Iraq? The kiss? Both were off limits. “No,” she stated firmly.
    After dropping her bag on the floor, she stripped off her tracksuit. Ryan returned to form and gave a long drawn out whistle. Samantha shook her head.