by L. A. Witt
I continued walking, not feeling the least bit guilty about how I’d addressed him. It wasn’t like I made a habit of that shit—I was practically born with a sense of military bearing. You didn’t grow up in a house with two active-duty parents and not develop a deep-seated respect for rank.
So I decided I could be forgiven for some subtle disrespect toward an MA1 who’d very nearly killed my best friend. He was lucky a little side-eye and a snide tone was all he was getting from me.
After I’d finished doing turnover, I went into the main office where we all hung out between watches. It was half office, half break room—desks and computers along the walls, a large table in the middle, and a fridge and coffeepot by the window that overlooked the harbor. Since the rest of my section had gone up to the Navy Exchange in search of dinner, and the other section was out on patrol, it was deserted except for—
I did a double take. What the fuck was MA3 Rhodes doing back in uniform?
“MA3.” I blinked. “I didn’t think you’d be back at work yet.”
She looked up from making a cup of coffee, and shrugged. “I didn’t get hurt. Just some wicked hypothermia. I’m on light duty until I get a psych eval, but yeah, I’m here.” She didn’t sound happy about it. I didn’t blame her.
She wasn’t carrying a weapon, of course, and being on light duty meant she wasn’t going out on the water. Dalton would be under the same restrictions once he came back, and there’d be a psych eval for him too. Odds were good neither of them would be off dry land for several months at least. Up to a year, depending on how the Navy handled things.
As I started pouring myself some coffee, I said, “Friend to friend, are you doing okay?”
She pressed her lips together and stared at the floor, chipped purple mug held tight in both hands. “I’m good. Or . . . will be. Anyway.” She shook herself and paused for a sip of coffee. “I’d be a lot better if Chief wasn’t being such a dick.”
I bristled. “What’s he doing?”
She exhaled so hard, her shoulders sagged. “Trying to act like I’m the one who fucked up.”
“He . . . Come again?”
Rhodes pressed her lips together for a second, her expression tight with barely contained rage. “I swear to God they’re more worried about me losing Taylor’s rifle than the fact that I kept his ass from drowning.”
I had to replay her comment in my head three times before I was sure she’d said what I thought she’d said. “What?”
She scowled. “They’re all pissy about me going in the water instead of tossing in a life ring, and threatening to hem me up for losing Dalton’s rifle. I mean, what was I supposed to do? It was already ruined as soon as it went in the water, and it was going to pull both of us down if I didn’t take it off him.” She threw up her hands. “I guess they don’t like the idea that someone could find it and . . . I don’t know, copy it? Like it’s not easier to just pull the schematics off the internet and build it from scratch instead of prying barnacles off one that’s been marinating in saltwater. But now they have to send divers in after it and replace it because even if it does work, it’s evidence now. And—”
“Hold up, hold up.” I inclined my head. “They should be pissed at Anderson. You didn’t just toss a gun in overboard for kicks.”
“I know, right?” she growled. “But that’s an expensive gun, and going in after it is expensive and moderately dangerous, so . . .” She growled a few curses.
“For fuck’s sake. If you hadn’t taken it off him, they’d be sending in divers to recover more than a goddamned gun.”
We both flinched. I hadn’t even thought before I’d said it, and now that the words were out, I was cold all over. Rhodes looked like she was going to be sick. And that cold in my veins was quickly replaced with hot fury. She was the reason he had survived. Quite possibly the only reason. And they were threatening her over protocols and a fucking rifle?
Before I could go off on a tirade, though, Rhodes released a long, tired sigh. “How is he doing, anyway? I mean, he’s been texting me, but . . .” She bit her lip.
“But what?”
“Well he’s . . .” She hesitated. “Like, he’s coherent, but either his autocorrect is turned off, or . . .”
The pieces clicked, and I nodded. “Yeah, the concussion fucked him up a bit. The doc thinks it’s temporary, though.” God, I hope it’s temporary.
“Good. I’m glad. I . . .” She lowered her gaze and fidgeted.
Silence stretched out. She obviously had something on her mind, so I nudged her gently. “Come on. Spill it.”
“Well, I . . .” She kept her gaze down, and some color bloomed in her cheeks.
“What’s up?”
Rhodes took a deep breath. “Is it true what I heard from Powers?” she asked in almost a whisper. “That Dalton, like, tried to kiss you or something on the boat?”
Heat rushed into my face, and I cleared my throat. “He was delirious.” Every time I had to clarify that—to myself, mostly—it stung a little more.
She scowled. “Damn. I was hoping it was just a rumor.”
“What? Why?”
“Because you know how everyone is in this command.” Rhodes rolled her eyes. “They’ll never let either of you hear the end of it.”
My stomach roiled. “Fuck. You don’t think anyone will get violent, do you? Toward him?”
“No, no. I think people are more worried that you will. Getting hit on by a gay guy and all.”
I grimaced. She was right about our shipmates probably not letting it go. Back in Norfolk, a buddy of mine had been involved in rescuing some people after a small vessel had capsized. One of the women he’d pulled from the water had glommed onto him, flirting shamelessly and trying to get in his pants right there on the boat.
We all knew it was because she’d nearly drowned, and we’d all known his obvious hard-on had just been a physical reaction to a woman’s hand on his junk. Survivors grabbing onto rescuers and temporarily falling in love with them was as close to normal as anything was in those situations.
That hadn’t stopped people from ribbing him about it relentlessly until he’d transferred to a ship. From his social media posts, I gathered someone had passed the rumor on to his new command, and though the jokes weren’t quite as often, it wasn’t unusual for someone to take a potshot at him about damsels in distress.
I could only imagine how much worse it would be for me and Dalton because we were both men. Especially since nobody knew we were both gay. And that made me feel even worse. Dalton was out and proud. He was going to get endless shit for making a pass at a straight guy, while I’d probably get a mixture of jabs and sympathy. If they only knew.
I winced at my own thought. It was bad enough I’d never come out to Dalton. I didn’t even know why I hadn’t. He was my best friend, and we’d been pretty open about everything else, but I’d never been able to show that card. And now he was going to get shit for coming on to a straight dude.
I wouldn’t tell Dalton about what was coming from our shipmates. Not quite yet. I’d give him a heads-up before he came back to work, though. No way in hell would I let him be blindsided by that shit, especially since he might not remember what had happened.
Right now, though, he needed to focus on recovering.
Rhodes left to drive up to the security building for something, and I sat at the table with my coffee, a couple of Twinkies from the communal cabinet, and a maintenance request form. The boat we were using while the little one was out of commission had some odd noises coming from one of the engines. Might’ve been nothing—boats were always rattling and clicking and grumbling—but with our tiny fleet already being down another boat, I wasn’t taking chances.
At the other end of the hall, the locker room door thudded shut, and some boots headed in my direction. I turned to see who was coming—more out of bored curiosity than anything—and did my second double take of the night. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Dalton smiled, but it didn’t look like he felt it. He gestured over his shoulder. “Just came by to get some shit out of my locker.”
“That all?”
He dropped his gaze and the smile vanished. What was he doing here? He was in civvies, but still—wobbly as he’d been lately, he had no business coming to work. And the way he avoided my eyes made the hair on my neck stand up.
“How did you even get here?” I asked.
“Patrol dropped me off.” He motioned toward the door, still not looking at me. “They’re waiting outside, so I gotta go in a minute.”
“Okay.” I rose and stepped closer. “What’s up, though?”
He sighed, running his hand through his short hair. “Lasby called me down to his office. Said he wanted to talk to me about what happened.”
“Yeah? What did he say?”
Dalton avoided my gaze for an uncomfortably long moment. I was about to prod him, when he blurted out, “I think they’re investigating me and Rhodes along with Anderson.”
My blood turned as cold as the calm water outside. “You’re shitting me.”
Sighing again, Dalton pressed his shoulder against the wall, and it suddenly seemed like that wall was the only thing keeping him from sinking to the floor. He had more color than the night we’d pulled him out of the ocean, but there were dark circles under his eyes and his cheeks seemed gaunt. How the hell much damage could a man rack up in less than a week? I could’ve sworn he’d slept, but looking at him now . . . Had he?
He scratched his neck. “Chief told me there’s going to be an investigation. Which . . . no shit. But he wants me and Rhodes to play it like Anderson was totally doing the right thing by going out to help that other boat. And . . .” He closed his eyes, releasing a breath like it was just too hard to hold on to. Finally, he muttered, “Lasby’s trying to protect his golden boy, and he’s going to throw us under the bus to do it. If we don’t agree that Anderson was in the right—”
“But there’s no way an investigation will show you or Rhodes being the negligent ones.”
Dalton scowled. “No, but I don’t trust anyone running this investigation any farther than I can throw them.”
“I don’t see how you or anyone else could be blamed for anything, though.”
“Not that it makes a difference. They’re in charge. They’re running this whole fucking thing, and even if Lasby can’t punish us on paper for letting Anderson take his own fall, there are things he can do.” Dalton sounded more tired and demoralized than I’d ever heard him. “Fuck. Why do I get the feeling the worst of this hasn’t even started yet?”
I didn’t respond.
Because damn if I didn’t feel the same.
After a few days on medical leave, I was getting stir-crazy from taking it easy. Chris was working, and my roommate was too, and I was fucking bored. Being agitated about the investigation wasn’t helping, and I didn’t think I’d ever been this restless in my life. I needed to get the fuck out of the barracks.
I still hadn’t been cleared to drive, but I was steady enough to walk to the Exchange and grab a cab to take me off-base to meet a friend. I had the driver take me past the main gate, and he was annoyed when I handed him my credit card, but he took it without saying anything. I felt like an idiot too. I had plenty of cash in my wallet—I was just too rattled from the other day at McDonald’s and the fact that numbers and words were still getting scrambled in my brain. At least a credit card just meant a signature. No counting out cash. No fighting through my new dyslexia to enter my PIN. A squiggle that sort of looked like my name and we were good.
As the cab drove off, a familiar beat-up black Toyota pickup took its place. The driver rolled down the window and barked something at me in rapid-fire Spanish.
I smirked. “What’d you say about my grandma, pendejo?”
My buddy Diego laughed and motioned for me to get in. When I was in the passenger seat, he leaned across to give me a gentle hug and kiss my cheek. “How you feeling?”
“Like I got run over by the patrol boat.”
He laughed, but his eyes were full of sympathy as he returned to the driver’s seat. “So you want to go down to the pier and ride the new roller coaster?”
I flipped him off. “Puto.”
“That’s cold, amigo!” He laughed again and put the truck in gear. “Why did I let you talk me into teaching you to swear in Spanish?”
“You tell me.”
As we rolled away from the gate, he stole a venomous glance at the base in the rearview before focusing on the road again. With NAS Adams fading behind us, he glanced at me, this time serious and with concern etched all over his face. “So what happened, anyway?”
I took a breath and explained everything. The parts I could remember, anyway.
“Dios mío.” His brown eyes were wide now. “I thought that getting-run-over-by-the-patrol-boat thing was a joke.”
“Well it didn’t run me over. It just . . . smacked me upside the head.”
“Shit. And the water is fucking cold this time of year.”
“You don’t say.”
“Doc say when your balls will come back down?”
“Shut up. Unless you’re volunteering to check?”
We exchanged glances and chuckled. Not too long ago, he would’ve volunteered, and I would’ve let him. Things had mostly cooled between us, though, and I liked that we could still joke about it without getting awkward.
“So, you’re on the mend, right?” Diego’s usually playful voice was laced with real concern. “You’ll be okay?”
“Yeah, yeah.” I waved a hand. “Just some medical leave until my head’s back on straight, and then I’ll be on light duty for a while. Mostly I’m just bored.” I paused. “It gave me an excuse to hang out with Chris, though, so I guess there’s that.”
Diego glanced at me. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Doc said someone had to stay with me for forty-eight hours. Make sure I didn’t keel over or something. Since Chris was with me at the ER, he took me home and just didn’t leave.”
When Diego glanced at me this time, he was grinning, if a bit nervously. “Damn. You should get smacked over the head more often.”
I laughed, face burning. “No kidding. Too bad the guy’s straight.”
“Yeah,” he said with a quiet chuckle. “Too bad.”
He continued down the road toward his place, and I let myself steal a few glances at him. Even if we weren’t still hooking up, I wasn’t exactly above checking him out.
I’d met Diego last year at the High-&-Tight, the gay bar just off-base. He was a bartender there, and he was smoking hot. The accent had grabbed my attention, the stunning brown eyes and beautiful smile had reeled me in, and the tanned, sculpted body had finished the job.
Sometimes I missed hooking up with him. The sex had been spectacular—filthy, athletic, bruising—but I wasn’t big on casual sex and Diego absolutely did not date military men. After a couple of months, we’d decided to cool it, and it had been almost six since we’d screwed around. Well, aside from the New Year’s party at the High-&-Tight a month ago, but in my defense, he’d been dressed like James Bond. Slicked-back hair, tux, and all. Fuck yeah, I’d hooked up with him that night.
But besides that, we were just friends now. That didn’t mean I wasn’t still attracted to the man.
Fifteen minutes after he’d met me outside the base, Diego pulled up in front of the house where he rented a room, and I followed him up the walk to the back door.
It was basically a studio apartment that had once been a rec room. He got a good deal on it, and as long as he helped out around the yard and the rest of the house, his landlady cut him slack if he was a few days late on the rent. “You want something to drink?” he asked.
“Nah. I’m good. Thanks.” I paused. “So what’s new at the club?”
He gave an unhappy grunt, and as he hung up his keys by the door, he muttered, “Same shit, different day.”
“Yeah?”
I took a seat on the couch. “Tell me.”
Diego crossed the room and flopped down on the other cushion. “Well, a couple nights ago there was this guy who thought he was all that . . .”
I struggled to focus on what he was saying, which was weird because I fucking loved listening to Diego talk. He was funny and animated, and he swore enough in both languages to make most Sailors blush. The gorgeous Mexican accent didn’t hurt, either. The way some sounds were sharper and others were smoother—I could listen to him for hours. His voice was low and a little raspy too, like he’d smoked at some point in his life, and it was sexy as hell. Especially since he’d talked dirty in bed like no man I’d ever been with. Even when he was saying something completely benign, it was hard not to hear him whispering, Holy fuck, you feel good, or, Shit, yeah, you make me crazy—or even better, when it was all Spanish and gasping—while we’d fucked.
Today, even that hypnotic voice and sexy accent couldn’t keep my train of thought on the rails. Nothing could. This wandering-brain thing had been happening almost constantly since the other night, and it scared the hell out of me. It also bothered me that he wasn’t making my pulse race like he usually did.
Probably because I still felt like shit from the other night. Nobody was piquing my libido’s interest because my libido was pretty much MIA.
Then why were you looking at Chris like that yesterday?
The thought made me shiver, and I shifted on the couch to try to hide it from Diego.
Chris had spent part of yesterday afternoon stretched out on my roommate’s bed while we’d watched a movie. My head hadn’t wanted to focus on the screen or follow the plot, so that was the excuse I’d used to steal glances at him.
Okay, so maybe my libido wasn’t completely MIA, because there’d definitely been a stir of something every time I’d looked at him. Not enough to make me think I was ready to get on Grindr and start hooking up with anyone—still not that recovered yet—but enough to send some blood rushing south.