by Kelly Utt
Wait for Our Turn
A Past Life Series Short Story
Kelly Utt
Wait for Our Turn is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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2019 Standards of Starlight E-book Edition
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Copyright © 2019 by Kelly Utt-Grubb, writing as Kelly Utt. Originally published as Love Becomes Us and as When George Met Ali in the George Hartmann Series.
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All rights reserved. No part of this e-book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
www.standardsofstarlight.com
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Cover art by Elizabeth Mackey
Contents
1. Clarity
2. Transient Logic
3. Young Love
4. Necessarily Destiny
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About the Author
1
Clarity
It’s a bright October morning when I’m awakened by the overwhelming smell of pumpkin spice. That’s right. Pumpkin spice. It smells horrible, like it’s been festering. Or maybe it was homemade, poorly. The aroma is burrowing its way deep into my nose and mouth. I’m still trying to orient myself, so can’t be sure, but I think it’s beginning to make my eyes burn. I scan the room quickly to try and identify the source of this most unwelcome attack on my olfactory organs. Nothing makes sense. The place is small. I think I’m in an apartment. Or maybe a dorm. I’m in a tiny bed that looks like it barely sleeps one person, yet I’m hanging onto an edge as if someone has been here with me. I’m completely naked and, without having had any say in the matter, my manhood is standing up at attention. I’m laying under a dingy comforter that has a cartoon kitty printed across the top. It’s tacky, but at least I have something to cover myself with. The room is hot like an oven. I don’t think it’s all that cold outside. The mystery person responsible for the aggressive pumpkin spice must also be blasting the heat. It’s all too much. Finally, my eyes rest on an open closet chock full of trashy party dresses and female U.S. Air Force uniforms. Ah, yes. Now I remember.
Stephanie Skogg. She’s been working in the supply room here on base in our nation’s capital for the past few months. Until last night, we had exchanged nothing more than pleasantries when I’d check equipment in and out. I have a strict policy about not being intimate with women I don’t know during one-night stands and, as usual, I’ve kept to myself for months. I think it’s a bad idea to pick up strange women in general, but my Uncle Liam has always stressed upon me the additional vulnerability we active-duty servicemen face. He’s nearly two decades older than I am and he’s been in the Air Force almost that much longer. He has been around long enough to see opportunistic women looking to get pregnant and secure a cushy ride via a military man. He says it’s especially dangerous when working abroad, since foreign women might have their sights set on a path to American citizenship. It’s a sad story: a military man meets a foreign woman and falls in love, then she divorces him unceremoniously once she and her extended family members are legally settled in the United States. I’ve been around long enough to see it play out myself. Start to finish, the whole dramatic episode happens faster than you’d think. I have absolutely no interest in that racket.
As sometimes happens though, I was feeling the itch to get a woman’s body into my hands. It doesn’t matter how busy I stay or how much I try to focus my mind on other things. Masturbation only holds me for so long. I have a ravenous sexual appetite and sometimes I need to devour a soft, sensual woman to stay sane. I haven’t met anyone I can envision myself in a serious relationship with yet, so from time to time, I tend to get between the sheets with a woman I know casually. Typically, this means a woman from work. I figure they’re safe bets. They go through the same Air Force-mandated testing for STDs I do and they have their own financial and job security. Stephanie Skogg is being reassigned to the Middle East next week and, I don’t know, I just sort of decided to have sex with her before we parted ways. She was game. We talked about it rationally and came to an agreement before hitting a bar on Dupont Circle last night and getting wasted. The experience was about as romantic as it sounds. I couldn’t bring myself to look her in the eye while we were having sex and I don’t want to hang around her place now. Last night was simply a way to meet a physical need.
I frantically check the nightstand beside the bed for evidence of a discarded condom as my pulse begins quickens. Nothing. Instead, my hand lands on a solitary picture frame haphazardly placed under a purple lamp shaped like the same cartoon kitty that adorns the bedding. The photo is of a young couple, their faces beaming with delight as they stand in front of a roaring waterfall. It reminds me of a stereotypical honeymoon picture taken during a once-in-a-lifetime excursion in the wilderness of some touristy island country. The guy looks like your garden variety, high society frat boy. I’m surprised he isn’t wearing boat shoes. I squint hard to focus my eyes. Yeah, that’s Stephanie alright. My foggy mind is working to process the situation when she bounds into the room with two full cups of coffee sloshing around, one in each hand.
“Hey, you,” Stephanie says as she walks towards me enthusiastically. Her bleach-blonde hair is tucked behind an elastic band and she’s wearing thick glasses that make her look a little cross-eyed. She must have been wearing contact lenses at work. Her skin looks paler than I recall and it’s blotchy.
“Hey,” I manage, wondering how I will make my exit without hurting her feelings.
“I made us some coffee,” she proclaims as she sits down clumsily on the bed beside me, spilling a few drops on the sheets.
“Thanks,” I say as I grab a cup and take a gulp. I immediately realize my mistake when the spice flavor begins its overwhelming assault on my mouth and throat. Where did she even get this stuff in liquid form? I cough, spitting some coffee back into the mug.
“Sorry,” she says sheepishly. “I made it too hot, didn’t I?”
“It’s okay,” I offer as I use my wrist to wipe my mouth. Temperature isn’t the problem.
“I’m always messing up the coffee,” Stephanie continues. “Sometimes I wonder why I even try.”
“It’s okay,” I say again, already uncomfortable with the amount of reassuring I’m doing.
“I could make us some breakfast,” she suggests. She sounds excited about the idea.
“That’s nice of you,” I return. “But I have to head out. Busy day today.”
“Are you working on a Saturday?” she asks.
“No, not work,” I reply. “I have some other things to take care of.”
Stephanie grimaces and leaps off the bed as fast as she plopped down on it. At least this time, she manages to keep the coffee inside her mug.
“Figures,” she says angrily. “Nobody ever wants to stay and hang out with me the morning after. It’s wham, bam, thank you, ma’am, and then they’re out of here. I must drive people away. Is that happening to you? Do you want to get away from me?”
I’m not sure how to respond. I don’t want to reinforce all this self-deprecating talk. It’s pitiful, really. Stephanie would probably be much more attractive with higher self-esteem. But I want to get away from her. As fast as possible.
I’m regretting my decision to sleep with her in the first place. What was I thinking?
“Hey,” I say, changing the subject. “Who is that with you in the waterfall picture?”
“What?” she asks nonchalantly.
“The guy,” I say, pointing to the framed photo.
“Oh,” Stephanie replies. “Well, that’s... Aaron. My husband.”
“Your what?” I ask, setting my mug of nasty coffee on the nightstand and draping the comforter around my waist as I jump out of bed. “Your husband?”
“Yeah,” she replies, her voice sounding shaky.
“You’re married?” I ask.
“Uh huh,” she confirms. It looks like tears are welling up in her eyes, although it’s hard to tell for certain what’s happening on the other side of those ultra-thick glasses.
“You’re married to that guy? Right now?” I ask in disbelief.
“Yeah,” she says.
“Are you two separated?” I ask as I quickly gather my clothing from the floor.
“No,” she replies again. “He’s active duty, too, and stationed in South Korea. We haven’t seen each other in seven months.”
“What the hell, Stephanie?” I ask. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I knew you wouldn’t want to be with me if I did,” she says, actively crying now.
“Damn right, I wouldn’t,” I stammer. “You’re someone’s wife. What is wrong with you?”
She’s definitely sobbing now. Large tears stream down her face and her nose runs as she raises her upper lip awkwardly and lets out a screechy whine. It’s not attractive. She seemed so much more put together at work. And believable. I had no idea I was jumping into this hornet’s nest. I tell myself to focus on the situation at hand.
“Look, Stephanie,” I begin. “I was intoxicated last night and I don’t remember everything that happened. Where is the condom we used?”
“Why?” she asks through tears.
“Because I want to see it,” I insist.
“I don’t know where it is,” she whines.
I’m losing patience quickly. This is a disaster. I need to find that condom and make sure everything stayed put. I think I’ll even run some water through it to check for holes. Fathering a baby with Stephanie Skogg is completely out of the question. I try my best to remain calm.
“I’ll look for it then. Maybe it fell down,” I say as I search the area below the nightstand. The floor is cluttered and gross. I find old granola bar wrappers and balled up tissues, but no discarded condom.
“George?” she asks. I don’t like the way my name sounds when she says it.
“Yeah?” I reply.
“I don’t think we used any protection.”
“What?” I ask, desperately. “Are you kidding me right now?”
“We were both drunk,” she begins. “I remember you getting a condom out of your pocket, but then saying it would probably feel better without it.”
“Are you serious?” I ask again. “That doesn’t sound like me. I always use protection during encounters like this. I take the matter very seriously.”
“Oh, I see,” she says sarcastically. “I’m an encounter now. Like an exhibit at a zoo.”
“Come on,” I clarify. “You know what I mean. We talked about this yesterday afternoon before we decided to go out together. Don’t play the victim now.”
“No, I get it,” she replies. “I’m nothing but a piece of tail to you. Plain and simple.”
Stephanie Skogg is testing my good nature.
“What you are is a grown woman who agreed to a no-strings-attached night of drinking and sex. I didn’t push or coerce you. I thought that was clear. What wasn’t clear was the fact that you are married. If anyone is a victim here, it’s me. What is Aaron going to say when he finds out?”
“Oh, poor you,” she says, mocking me.
I take a deep breath and try again.
“Stephanie, I always use a condom. Every single time. I know I must have used one with you last night. Even intoxicated, I wouldn’t skip it. How about the bathroom? Might it be in there?”
She shrugs callously and waves me toward the tiny room as she sits back down on the bed, pulls her knees to her chest, and wraps her arms tightly around her legs. She looks like a pouty child sitting there. I need to get into the bathroom to put my clothes on, anyway. When I do, I close the door behind me then let the dingy comforter I’m using to cover myself drop to the floor. The bathroom is dirty, too. Piles of Stephanie’s long hairs line the edges of the floor, blobs of toothpaste in multiple colors are caked to the inside of the sink, and a glittery, purple vibrator shaped like a large penis sits on the side of the bathtub in plain view. The phallus has residue on it that looks like it’s been there a while, so I’m guessing she doesn’t wash it between uses. This must be an apartment off-base. I can’t imagine anyone keeping a dorm room on-base this disgusting.
I rummage through the trash can, past strings of used dental floss and plastic applicators for tampons. No discarded condom. This whole scene is making me nervous. I get the feeling Stephanie is up to something. I continue my search, rifling through stacks of dirty clothes on the floor. No condom. I try the linen closet. I scour plastic baskets full of expired, crusty lotion, and several more dildos. No condom. Running out of options and growing increasingly concerned, I open the medicine cabinet above the sink. My eyes land on a plastic sandwich bag with a tissue that appears to be wrapped around something. I open it up and, finally, find a discarded condom hidden inside. The ejaculate is pretty fresh, so it must be mine. I thank God and everything holy, then quickly get dressed and plan my exit. I have no idea where I am or where my car is, but I can figure all of that out once I’m safely away from Stephanie and enjoying some fresh, clean air. I’m holding the sandwich bag out in front of me as I exit the bathroom.
“Stephanie,” I begin, trying to keep my composure. “Is this mine?”
“I don’t know,” she mumbles, rocking back and forth and hiding her mouth behind her knees. I wonder if something actually is wrong with her.
“Stephanie,” I try again, louder this time. “Is this the condom we used last night? I have a right to know. Answer me, right now.”
“Yes, okay?” she asks, sounding like a delinquent schoolgirl who has been called to the principal’s office. “It’s yours. Congratulations. Are you happy now?”
I take a deep breath, feeling both relieved and disturbed at the same time. “I’m many things right now, but happy isn’t one of them,” I say.
“Well, whatever,” she adds, turning her nose up at me.
“Why did you have this in a sandwich bag in your medicine cabinet?” I ask, almost afraid to hear the answer. “I mean, you have to admit that’s odd.”
“Just leave me alone,” she says.
“Yeah, that’s not going to happen until you tell me why you had the condom full of my semen stashed away in your medicine cabinet.”
Stephanie sits silently and doesn’t seem like she will tell me anything more. I mentally run through the most likely scenarios here. I’ve been trained to think this way, which helps. But I’m perplexed. Although I hate to go there, I can’t help but wonder if she planned to use the contents of the condom to impregnate herself. Why else would you keep semen? Maybe Aaron is shooting blanks, and she figured she’d get pregnant with my kid and tell him it was his. I’m sure there’s a country song that goes something like that. Visions of Stephanie Skogg inserting my semen into her vagina with a turkey baster fill my head and make me shudder. I don’t know if that’s actually what she had planned. But what I do know, for sure, is that my life won’t unfold like a Jerry Springer episode. I’ve got to get it together. Without saying another word to Stephanie, I put the bag of semen in my pocket, pick up the rest of my belongings, and walk briskly away.
A cold breeze hits my face as the door closes behind me. I feel like I’ve narrowly escaped untold horrors. I’m grateful to have made it out unscathed.
I pull my mobile phone from my pocket and dial before even trying to figure out where I am. He picks up after one ring.
“Good morning, buddy,” my uncle says cheerfully. “What’s up?”
“Hey, Liam,” I say. “I’ve gotten myself into a bit of a predicament. I need you to come get me.”
2
Transient Logic
By the time Liam arrives, I’ve walked almost three miles. I recognize the familiar chug-a-lug sounds of his old truck before I even see it. When he isn’t traveling, my uncle likes to spend Saturday mornings working on his red and white 1975 pickup, affectionately called Ruby. He has a brand new truck sitting in his driveway, but he gets a kick out of tinkering with the old one. Old Ruby is warm and welcoming this morning. I gently pull her big, silver door handle, then climb in and slide onto her smooth leather passenger seat.
“Where to, buddy?” Uncle Liam asks.
“To my apartment so I can take a shower,” I reply. “I feel disgusting.”
“On the way,” Liam confirms.
I reach up and angle the rear-view mirror my direction long enough to wipe my face and smooth the short hair on top of my head. Liam turns the radio on and whistles along as he drives. He keeps his window down far enough to enjoy some fresh autumn air without letting it get too cold in the cab. It’s a perfect kind of day. There’s an energy that comes with the change of seasons which always invigorates me. Liam is feeling it, too.
“Are you going to ask me where I’ve been?” I inquire.
“Nope,” he replies.
“I appreciate that,” I say. “But do you want to know?”
“If you want to tell me, then absolutely,” he returns. “You don’t have to though, George. You know that. I’ve got your back, one hundred percent. I don’t need to know the details.”