by Layla Reyne
“That’s okay,” Luther said, emerging from the kitchen. Holding a large rectangular sheet pan aloft, he rounded the table to stand beside Holt. “You can go out with cake.” He slid the pan onto the table, the three-layer cake on it looking decadent with its cream cheese frosting, dusting of walnuts, and “Good Luck, Madigan” in orange-piped frosting, set off by two green-frosting clovers. Luther grabbed Holt in a playful headlock and knuckled his head. “Happy last night in the desert, kid.”
Brax clapped and cheered with the others and pretended not to feel the cavernous hole opening up in his chest. Failed. Pretended not to notice Marsh’s hand on his knee beneath the table, offering silent comfort. Failed again. He lowered a hand and tangled their fingers, clutching tightly. Marsh was losing his best soldier and protégé. Brax was losing his best friend. But he had another now and had Holt to thank for that too. It was hard to see any of that right now, though. All he saw was the dark abyss that lay ahead.
Fuck, he’d been in the army fifteen years before he’d met Holt Madigan. He’d had his share of tough moments while deployed—losing his first love, losing his mom, losing soldiers—and he’d carried on, never questioning his purpose and commitment. But this loss, this feeling like his heart was being cut from his chest, was like nothing he’d ever felt before. It made him seriously consider requesting his own discharge papers, except he was two years from his twenty… and sixteen years older than Holt.
Impossibilities…
“Carrot?” Holt’s voice, laced with wonder, drew Brax back from the edge of misery. “We never have carrot cake.”
“Special occasion,” Luther said.
Holt’s gaze, however, remained locked on Brax. “How did you know?”
“Might’ve asked Hawes.”
Holt’s smile widened, his chin dimple deepening. “Thank you,” he said, but there was a gleam in his eyes that hadn’t been there a second ago. It nicked another of Brax’s arteries, threatening to bleed him dry.
Why had he thought this going away party was a good idea?
Because Holt deserved it. Because he’d come so far from the soldier hiding under the bed. Because Holt had saved him. Because there was another conversation they still needed to have.
He cleared his throat and forced words out. “Cut your cake, Private.”
The party swung back into high gear. Holt and Luther handed out plates of cake while Teague dealt another game of hearts. Once Holt had lost three more hands and the cake had been demolished, the party began to wind down. Luther and Teague were the first to depart, owing to the need to be up early for breakfast. They gave Holt big backslapping hugs and wished him well. As the soldiers from Holt’s units were lining up for hugs, Marsh pulled Brax aside.
“You gonna be okay?” he asked.
Brax unwrapped another candy and popped it into his mouth. “I’m fine.”
Dark eyes rolled. “That’s an even bigger lie than the one you fed Ayers last year to get on that op.”
There was a downside, of course, to having close friends. They got to know you too well. Brax ran a hand over his head and clicked the candy against his teeth. “Okay, I’m not fine, but I knew this day would come. This was the reason I wanted on that op. To make sure he got home.”
If the tears in Holt’s eyes hadn’t killed him earlier, the sympathy in Marsh’s would. Marsh clasped the side of his neck with a strong, calloused hand, the hold sure and comforting. “You need me, you know where to find me.”
“Thank you.”
Brax looked on as Marsh joined the goodbye line, and when it was his turn, Marsh spoke quietly to Holt, then hugged him hard. That hug only bested by the one Bailey gave Holt. Those two had stepped off the plane together, but where Holt had decided to return home and serve out his time in IRR while getting a degree, Bailey had re-upped for at least another couple of years. Holt walked Bailey to the door, and Bailey handed him a sheet of paper that brought a huge smile to Holt’s face. Holt tucked it in his jacket pocket, then hugged Bailey one last, long time.
“Good time tonight?” Brax asked, once it was just the two of them back at the table.
“Yeah.” Holt dealt out two rows for double solitaire. “Unexpected. You have something to do with that?”
Brax shrugged. “What’d Bailey give you?”
Holt let his dodge go and pulled the sheet of paper out of his pocket. “I told him sort of what I was thinking for a tattoo sleeve, and he came up with this.” He handed the paper to Brax. “It’s amazing.”
Brax gasped. The design was unique, beautiful, and scary all at the same time. It would look incredible as a sleeve on Holt’s arm. “I had no idea he was this talented.”
“I want to get it done before I go home,” Holt said, with all the naïveté of someone who’d never gotten a tattoo before. Especially not one this intricate. “I heard there’s an amazing artist stateside, near the base.”
Brax knew the artist in question, and he was exactly the right choice for this work. “Wynn Keller. He did mine. He was in the service then. But this”—he slid the paper back across the table to Holt—“is more work than you have time for at base. Get him to do the line work, then finish the rest at home. It may help, actually, to have it started while you’re a soldier and finished as a civilian.”
Holt smiled softly. “I like that.”
“Are you excited about going home and being a civilian again soon?”
Holt returned Brax’s earlier shrug. “Yes and no.”
“Tell me about the no part.”
“I don’t know what it’s going to be like back there. Without them.” He fumbled a card, and Brax knew without asking that Holt was talking about his parents. “I don’t want to fall back into the place I was in when I left.”
Brax continued to play, hoping the normalcy of the activity would give them both some comfort, especially for the frank advice he needed to give. He’d avoided the topic so far, too caught up in his own grief and wanting Holt to enjoy his last night with friends, but time had run out. He needed to make sure Holt was ready and that Holt knew his promise held, no matter the distance.
“I’m not gonna lie and say it’s going to be easy. Reintegration is hard. That’s why you’ve got a few months on base, stateside, before you head home.”
“You mean they’re not just trying to get some extra hacking out of me?”
Brax chuckled. “That too, but it’s also to teach you coping mechanisms and set you up with a peer support contact. Too many soldiers ignore the offer of help.” He reached out and covered Holt’s hands. “Please don’t, Holt. I can’t be here and know you’re suffering an ocean away.”
“You’re talking about PTSD?”
Brax nodded and withdrew his hand. “The nightmares don’t stop when you leave the desert.” Too often Brax woke up from them, more often the past five months. In his recent dreams, he was always falling, and his arms were empty when he hit bottom.
Holt clasped his cards, failing to hide his shaking hands. “But the peer support contact they give me won’t be my best friend. They’re not going to be the person who saved my life.”
Brax laid down his own cards and stood. Rounding the table, he knelt in front of Holt like he had that night five months ago. “You saved mine too. And the best friend part, that’s not gonna change, no matter where we are.” He laid his hands on Holt’s knees. “I will always protect you, even if I can’t be there for you in person. Though, honestly, I’m not sure how much help I’d be this many years in.”
Holt picked up Brax’s hands and held them in his. “So I’ll go first, then, and I’ll be there for you when you get out. I won’t let anything happen to you either.” He tugged and Brax went into his arms, the hug as tight and as fierce as the one Brax had held him in the night they’d saved each other. “Deal?”
A light sparked on the other side of the abyss. “Deal.”
Chapter Five
Six Months Later
Brax kept his promises. He�
�d promised himself he always would the day his dad had left. He and his mom had gotten by all right, but ten-year-old Brax swore he wouldn’t be the kind of man who went back on his word.
I won’t let anything happen to you.
A promise he’d made to a terrified giant of a man almost a year ago. A kind-hearted, quiet soldier—a hacker—who had no business being on the front line. No business being trapped in a crumbling building as RPGs and AR fire exploded around them.
They’d survived that night together. Become closer friends for it. A friendship that had continued over emails and messages the past six months, Brax still in the desert, Holt on base stateside, finishing his active duty service before entering the IRR and heading home to San Francisco.
Except Holt wasn’t in San Francisco.
He was in DC, in one of the town’s most popular gay nightclubs, his face bright red and his brown eyes as wide and as terrified as they’d been the day he’d stepped off that plane in Afghanistan.
I’ll protect you.
A man of his word, Brax slid off his stool and wove through the crowd to where his soldier stood frozen, partially blocking the entrance. Club-goers skirted around him like cars around a construction barrel in the middle of the road. The orange plaid flannel, unbuttoned over a ribbed white tank, only cemented the image.
Brax raised his voice to be heard over the thumping music. “Private!”
Holt spun. “Cap?” His smile grew big, and he launched himself at Brax. “Oh, thank God.” He wrapped Brax in a fierce hug so tight it might have startled someone who wasn’t used to them. Make them fear they were about to be crushed. That was not what Brax feared as he reveled in the much-missed embrace.
Six months was too fucking long. And to think, he’d tried to avoid this. He hadn’t wanted the reminder, would probably wish it away again in an hour, but right now, he was content. He was whole again. But while the stream of people entering the club could careen around one barrel, the two of them together were blocking too much of the road, and they were taking a jostling for it. Stepping out of Holt’s embrace, Brax tugged him toward the bar, away from the door and away from the DJ and her wall of sound at the opposite end of the space.
“What are you doing here?” he asked once he could do so without shouting. “You’re supposed to be in San Francisco.”
“Got held up a couple days on base, then my flights got all screwed up because of the weather. I’m stuck here overnight. Why are you here?”
“Brass called me in for a meeting. Tweaking the orientation program.”
“They’re not pulling you off, are they?”
Brax dipped his chin and ran a hand over his head. “No, they want me to update the SOPs for all the bases and run a training course for the other orientation officers.”
Holt shoved his shoulder. “That’s amazing, Cap. Congrats! Why didn’t you tell me you were going to be here when we talked on Tuesday?”
An email had arrived for Brax that first Monday after Holt had left Camp Casey. Same bat time, same bat channel? It was the ass-crack of dawn for Holt in the States on the East Coast, but he’d been there every Tuesday the past six months, on email or online chat, whichever program was fastest that day. Including the Tuesday earlier that week.
“Plans weren’t final yet,” Brax told him. “And you were supposed to be home. I didn’t want to interrupt or delay you.”
Because Brax was afraid if he did, if he ran into Holt here, he would never be able to get back on the plane. That his feet would stay planted, his heart an anchor he couldn’t budge.
Holt drew him into another fierce hug. “Fuck, I missed you.”
The anchor dropped. “I missed you too.”
“Hey, Daddy, can I get in on this action?”
Holt froze, and his gulp was so loud next to Brax’s ear that Brax almost laughed out loud. “Follow my lead,” Brax whispered, then shifted to Holt’s side, leaving an arm slung over his massive shoulders. The guy who’d approached them was cute, like a petite version of Ricky Martin, and had Holt not shown up tonight, Brax might have taken him up on the offer. He’d gone to the club to cut loose a little, to be himself for a night in a space that was safe, before he had to put the uniform back on tomorrow and tuck this part of himself away. Except Mini-Ricky’s eyes weren’t on him. They were roaming over Holt in a way that made Brax’s hackles rise with unchecked possessiveness. “The boy and I will let you know if we’re interested.”
“Whatever, Daddy.” The twink turned back toward the dance floor, shaking his high and tight ass and shooting an impish grin over his shoulder. “Come find me.”
“The boy?” Holt squeaked.
“Don’t ask.” Brax slapped his back, then dropped his arm, missing the contact instantly but needing to get some distance before the anchor became completely immovable. “Come with me.” He led them to the bar, and as they waited for the bartender to return with two beers, Holt rolled up his sleeves, revealing unmistakable ink.
“You got the tattoo done?” Brax said. “Wynn?”
“Oh yeah!” Holt abandoned his shirt sleeves and shrugged out of the flannel altogether, down to his tank. Every head at the bar turned their direction. Holt, however, was oblivious to the attention, too excited to show off the new ink. “Just the line work, like you suggested.”
He offered his arm to Brax, who took it lightly by the wrist, enough to twist and examine the tattoo sleeve. Even without color, the design was exceptional. The outline of teeth and jaws curved around Holt’s arm as if tearing the skin away to reveal the muscle underneath. Brax wanted to ask what was behind the design, but he was afraid of the answer. Afraid it would make it harder to leave. He added it to the list of Holt Madigan-labeled questions that still kept him awake at night.
“Awesome line work,” the bartender said as he dropped off their beers. “You want me to take that shirt for you?”
Holt grinned and handed it over. “Thanks, man,” he said, likewise oblivious to the bartender’s naked interest.
“Wynn does good work,” Brax said.
“He does.” Holt picked up the bottle, then almost spat out his first sip, his gaze drawn to the number the bartender had scribbled on the napkin beneath it. He glanced up, eyes darting around. Face heated, he took a long pull from the bottle. Maybe not so oblivious anymore. “Wynn gave me the name of someone in San Francisco to do the fill.”
“Good.” Eager to rescue Holt from the attention—for both their sakes—and to ask a question he desperately wanted the answer to, Brax led Holt away from the bar to a quieter, dimmer spot against the wall. “So, I get why you’re in DC, but what are you doing here?” He gestured around them at the club.
Holt’s blush deepened, and he drained the rest of his beer.
“Come on, Private. Don’t get bashful on me now.”
“Remember our first lunch, our conversation about how the hot chick talk never did anything for me? And we couldn’t really have the hot guy convo at camp either.”
Neither topic had come up again, both of them steering clear. “I remember.”
“Well, I thought…” Holt mimicked Brax’s earlier gesture, waving a hand at their surroundings.
“You thought you’d come here and see about the latter?” Brax chuckled and took a sip of his beer, nursing it slowly. “What did you do? Look up DC gay bars on the internet?”
Holt shook his head. “Hawes gave me a list. This one’s down the block from my hotel.”
And of course it would be the one Brax frequented when he was in town.
“What did Hawes say about this plan of yours?”
“He started giving me pointers, in graphic detail, so I hung up.” Holt braced an arm on the wall and turned into it, hiding his flaming face.
Brax drank his beer and ran a hand back and forth over his mortified friend’s back.
“I just wanted to try.” Holt angled his face enough for Brax to see and hear. “I don’t want to go home a virgin.”
Brax�
��s hand froze between tense shoulder blades. “What?”
“You heard me. I’m a fucking twenty-three-year-old virgin. Well, not fucking, which is kind of the fucking problem.” He buried his face in his arm again with a muttered, “Fuck.”
Fuck was right. Brax needed to leave. Needed to take his hand off Holt’s warm, solid back and run straight for the door before Holt noticed the erection straining his zipper. But he couldn’t leave. He’d made a promise, and Holt needed his protection now more than ever—from everyone else in this club who had no doubt also popped a chub the moment Holt had walked in. And if they hadn’t then, they certainly had when he’d stripped off his flannel.
Fuck.
Option one: Get Holt out of there. Brax stepped closer and leaned a shoulder against the wall near Holt’s arm. “There’s no ticking clock on your virginity,” he whispered low. “You don’t have to do this tonight.”
“I know that.” Holt straightened, then turned and slumped back against the wall, the movement bringing him close enough for Brax to smell sweat and fancy hotel soap. “I just… I just want to feel that spark with someone.” He tilted his empty beer bottle toward the crowded club. “I thought this was worth a shot.”
Translation: Holt hadn’t felt that spark with him. Brax doubted the implication was intentional, but it cut like a knife all the same.
Brax drained the rest of his beer and debated his options again.
Stick with Option one: get Holt out of there, then go lick his self-inflicted wounds elsewhere. Option two: Do what he’d come to do tonight—cut loose a little—and have fun with his best friend doing it. An unexpected gift, an opportunity he couldn’t be sure he’d ever get again, seeing as he was back on a plane to a war zone tomorrow. His and Holt’s lives were headed in opposite directions, but tonight they were both in the same place, in a safe space where Brax could be himself and Holt could explore. Try to find himself too. Extra safe with Brax watching over him, a buffer from the Mini-Rickys of the world.