by L. A. Witt
That caught me off guard. “Jokes about what?”
“About . . .” He closed his eyes and sighed. “Okay, when we pulled you onto the boat, priority one was getting you warm, right? I was the biggest guy there, so . . . I was the one to warm you up.”
My throat tightened. He didn’t have to spell out how he’d done that. In fact, somewhere in my rattled brain were vague flashes of being wrapped up in a bear hug—a naked bear hug—with him. I’d thought it was a dream or something, but apparently not.
Chris shifted nervously. “The thing is, you were . . . not quite conscious, but not quite out either.”
Something in the pit of my stomach turned to ice. Oh no. Oh fuck. We were trained to deal with hypothermia. Knew it could make people delirious. Throw in a head injury and a latent crush on the man nakedly warming me up, and . . . Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.
I squeezed my eyes shut. “What did I say?”
He gave a quiet little laugh, but the nervous sound told me I was very much on the right track. “You . . . Well, I don’t remember exactly what you said, only that you tried to kiss me.”
“I . . .” Panic surged through me. This was not something any Sailor would live down. An openly gay Sailor with a few possibly homophobic coworkers? I knew better than most people just how unforgiving that environment could get when a gay man lost his filter and let something slip. It didn’t matter how drunk, battered, semiconscious, delirious, feverish, or otherwise fucked up—just hint at being into one of your straight coworkers and you’d better learn to sleep with one eye open.
I was mortified, and I was fucking scared. I didn’t have any coworkers who I’d expect to get violent, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t.
And then there was Chris.
My best friend. My one confidante at this command. My straight best friend who would now get endless shit from our coworkers. And what did he think of me now? He’d always been totally comfortable with me, never batting an eye at me being gay, but would that change?
I covered my face with both hands and groaned. “God, I feel like such a tool.”
“Why?”
Dropping my hands, I turned to him. “Dude, I made a pass at you!”
“While you were out of your head, yeah.”
“Still!”
“Hey.” He gave my arm a nudge. “You know me better than that. You really think I’m gonna let that—or anyone else giving us shit about it—get to me?”
I wanted to say no, but staring at the sand, I said, “Did I ever tell you why I never drink with my coworkers anymore?”
“Um. No?”
I swallowed. “Because on my first deployment, we all went out boozing in Hawaii. I got absolutely blackout fucking hammered. When I woke up . . .” I shuddered hard, the memory bringing acid to the back of my throat. “I was in my rack with a black eye and bruised ribs.”
Chris sucked in a sharp breath. “What the hell?”
I stared down at my hands, willing them to stop shaking. When that didn’t work, I started wringing them so at least the movements were deliberate. “Turns out I made some dumb comment to one of my guys. It wasn’t even anything really offensive from what I heard—I guess I just let it slip that I thought he was hot.”
“And they beat you up?”
I nodded. “After that, I promised I’d never get drunk around people I worked with again.” I laughed bitterly. “Guess I never took hypothermia and a concussion into consideration.”
“That isn’t going to happen to you. The guys here, they’ll bust our chops and that’s as far as it’ll go.”
Why don’t you sound so sure?
I kneaded the bridge of my nose, giving me an excuse to avoid his gaze. “Being out in the Navy kind of sucks sometimes. There’s always straight guys who get all bent out of shape over it, and even the ones who are cool with it don’t necessarily want to hang out with me.” My voice was shaking, but I was too nervous to do anything about it. I dropped my hand. “I don’t find people like you very often, you know? Straight guys who’ll chill with me like they would with anybody else. And I’m fucking terrified that what I did that night is going to jack shit up between us.” Immediately, I cringed, squeezing my eyes shut and cursing under my breath. As if things weren’t already going to be awkward from here on out.
Chris was silent. My heart pounded harder with every second he didn’t respond. Not far from us, the tide lapped at the beach, and I begged the temperamental seas to reach out, grab me, and drag me and my shame down to Davy Jones’s locker where we belonged.
Finally, Chris spoke, his voice soft. “You’re worried I’m going to beat you up because you were out of your head, didn’t know who or where you were, and got flirty with me?”
Face burning and stomach roiling, I nodded. “I mean, not that you’d beat me up. Just . . .” I chewed my lip. “You’re my best friend, man. I don’t want to lose that because of something I did while I was fucked up.”
“You won’t.”
I eyed him skeptically.
“It isn’t going to make shit weird between us,” he said with conviction.
I searched his eyes, wanting to believe him, but still not convinced.
“I know you were out of it that night.” There was suddenly an undercurrent of something in his voice. Nerves? What the hell? “I’m not going to hold anything against you that you said after a goddamn boat slammed you in the head. But also . . .” It was his turn to avoid my eyes.
I stood straighter. “What?”
Chris looked out at the ocean, fixating on it like it held all the words he needed. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you this a long time ago. And I don’t even know why I didn’t. I . . . really haven’t told anybody. But . . .” He closed his eyes, pulled in a deep breath through his nose, and murmured, “I’m gay too.”
My jaw fell open. “What?”
“I’m . . .” He faced me. “I’m gay, D.”
I stared at him. Chris? Gay? The man I’d been . . . The guy I’d . . . Chris? “Are you serious?”
Chris nodded. It was always hard to tell because of his complexion, but I was pretty sure he was blushing.
“You never . . . I had no . . .” I sputtered, shaking my head. “Really?”
He laughed shyly. “Is it that hard to believe?”
“Only because I’ve known you this long and never suspected anything.”
He chuckled again, but then the humor faded. “I’m sorry I never told you. And I don’t know if that makes this whole situation better or worse, or—”
“Don’t. Seriously, don’t worry about it. I know it’s tough to come out, even to a friend.”
“Still.” He blew out a breath. “Anyway. So . . . there it is. You don’t have to worry that you hit on a straight guy.”
“Oh. Wow. I . . . had no idea.” This changes everything. And nothing, but also . . . everything.
He tilted his head. “So, are we, um, still cool?”
“Of course we are.” I stepped closer and hugged him tight, and he hugged me right back. As much as I was glad he’d told me—and still shocked because oh my God—there was a whole new breed of apprehension gnawing at me. I was no longer afraid things would get weird between us because he was a straight guy I’d deliriously hit on.
Now I was terrified they’d get weird because he was a gay guy I wanted so bad it hurt.
It was a good thing I’d warned Dalton about our shipmates, and not just because it had given me a chance to come out. As much as I’d expected them to give us both shit, I hadn’t realized just how relentless they would be.
They’d been giving me hell since a few days after the incident. The moment Dalton came back to work, it became nonstop. They were just fucking around and didn’t mean any harm, and I’d sure as hell given them shit for things too, but they couldn’t have known what nerves they were stepping on every time they asked one or both of us how long we’d been dating on the sly, who was the “man” in the relationship, and if it was
true that once you went black you never went back.
Technically it was all sexual harassment, and technically they could all be in deep shit for any of it, but as with anything relating to Navy politics, there was what was on paper and what was in practice. On paper—harassment. In practice—well, it depended on how much paperwork, headache, stigma, ostracizing, and sandbagging a person really wanted to deal with. Considering all the scrutiny Dalton was under right now, and how badly we both needed to get promoted, we’d agreed this was a “pick your battles” moment.
Our shipmates were good about backing off if one of us was obviously not laughing about it—the “once you go black” one had lasted all of two days before everyone had caught on that neither of us thought it was funny. A few dirty looks established some you just went too far boundaries, but for the most part, we didn’t have much choice except to let it roll off.
Still, within the confines of the shit-talking Dalton and I both tolerated, the jokes were as steady as the tide. Usually just a one-liner here or there. Maybe “that’s what your man said” instead of “that’s what she said.” Sometimes subtle, sometimes not, but the constant undercurrent of snark didn’t seem like it was going to stop anytime soon.
It wouldn’t last forever. We both knew they’d eventually find something else to play with, and there’d be some other target. Such was life among Sailors, especially MAs. It was like being on a playground, except we were all adults and actually knew how to swear.
One of the worst parts—besides seeing Dalton so uncomfortable and embarrassed—was that I knew everyone was watching us for anything they could use for a joke. Now I was more self-conscious than ever of the glances I’d steal at Dalton. It was easier when the sun was up because I could hide behind my wraparound Oakleys. Once it was too dark to justify wearing them, I had to be extra careful. The longer, brighter days of spring and summer couldn’t get here fast enough.
It also didn’t help that being back at work meant being back in uniform. Dalton wasn’t armed up yet, but he still had on his uniform, police belt, and vest. God, he was hot. And God help me if anyone—especially him—knew I thought so.
Every time someone commented, Dalton’s cheeks glowed bright red. I didn’t know if it was better or worse now that he knew I was gay too, or if that made any difference at all, but he was mortified.
“They’ll get over it,” he’d assured me as we’d walked into the building earlier. “All it’ll take is one person doing something dumb at a bar, and they’ll forget all about us.”
Us. I flinched every time he said that. There wasn’t an us except in their jokes and in my mind, and it killed me to have to remember that all the time. It made me wish I could tell them to back off without anyone acting like we were being too sensitive. And maybe we were. Maybe I was. Maybe I didn’t want to explain that I was afraid of Dalton finding out how many times I’d replayed that moment on the boat in my mind. It was stupid—hell, it was downright pathetic—but I’d grabbed on to what he’d said and the way he’d looked at me, and I’d tucked them into a corner of my brain so I wouldn’t forget. It was the closest I’d ever get to him actually making a pass at me, so I’d take what I could.
Part of me wanted to tell him. Just get it out there that I wished he’d meant it. But I wasn’t holding my breath on that because I’d damn near puked just working up the courage to tell him I was gay. Admitting I had a thing for him? Probably not happening anytime soon.
We strolled into the main office, and I knew the instant I saw Grey and Chambers that they’d been waiting for us, jokes at the ready.
“So, spill it,” Chambers said.
“Spill what?” Dalton grumbled. “My coffee in your lap?”
Grey clapped him on the shoulder as Dalton walked past. “Naw, man. What did you guys do for Valentine’s Day? Anything special?”
Oh fuck. Had that been this week? So much for hoping they’d forget about us anytime soon.
“Eat a dick, MA3,” Dalton muttered.
“What?” The asshole smirked. “You guys are such a cute couple. I’m just asking if—”
“‘Cute couple’?” Chief Lasby’s gruff voice made everyone freeze. He stepped into the doorway, cover tucked under his arm and a scowl set firmly on his ugly mug. “Someone want to tell me what’s going on in here?”
“Uh.” Grey cleared his throat and stood. “Just shooting the breeze, Chief.”
“Uh-huh.” Lasby glared at me, then Dalton. “Ingram. Taylor.” He gestured sharply down the hall. “I need to talk to you two. Now.”
We exchanged uneasy glances, then got up and followed him. No one else said a word.
The HPU building had a generic office, and it was closer than his office back at the security building, so Chief pretty much claimed it as his own. He directed us inside and shut the door.
He didn’t order us to attention, but I instinctively went to parade rest. Beside me, Dalton did the same. Hands clasped behind our backs, shoulders back, chins up, we didn’t make a sound.
As he always did when he wanted to make someone uneasy, Lasby stared at us in painful silence for a long time. Long enough it always made me wonder if I was supposed to say something. Except I knew damn well he’d bite my head off if I spoke without being spoken to. So, like Chris, I stood straight and quiet, waiting for whatever had pissed Lasby off.
After several centuries of tense silence, he finally spoke. “You boys want to tell me what all this shit’s about?” He glared at us in turn. “All this shit I keep hearing about you two . . .” His nose wrinkled for a split second before he spat out, “Being a thing and getting ‘lovey-dovey’ while MA2 Taylor was hypothermic?”
I swallowed, not sure what to say.
Dalton’s boots creaked like he was shifting his weight. “I was delirious, Chief.” Dalton’s tone was flat and professional. “I didn’t know what was going on or where I was, and apparently I made a pass at MA2 Ingram.”
I gritted my teeth. It was the truth and we both knew it, but admittedly, it stung.
“I don’t remember what happened, Chief,” he went on, “but it was on me. Not MA2 Ingram.”
“MA2 Taylor was understandably delirious, Chief,” I said. “He was in a state of severe hypothermia, and he was barely conscious at that point.” He had no idea what he was doing, or how much it’s killing me that it wasn’t real.
The chief’s eyes darted back and forth between us. “I don’t think I need to spell out to either of you gentlemen that you’re both in precarious positions. You’re second-class petty officers who’ve been in longer than some first classes.”
We both winced. As if either of us was unaware of the fact that we’d been lapped by some younger Sailors. There were even chiefs who hadn’t been in as long as we had.
“So,” Chief Lasby went on, “I would suggest the two of you keep yourselves in line and focus on your careers. You’ve each got two advancement cycles left before you hit high-year tenure, which means neither of you can afford less than flawless evals, never mind any black marks.”
I clenched my teeth.
“I don’t want this”—he gestured at each of us, lips curling in disgust—“killing your careers.”
Yeah. Sure you don’t. Your motives are obviously a hundred percent altruistic.
In a low growl, he went on. “And whatever is or isn’t going on between you, I don’t want that shit flying around my HPU. I can’t tell you what to do in your off time, but as long as you’re on duty in my harbor unit, I better not hear another goddamned word about this bullshit. Not from you and not from any of them.” He pointed sharply in the direction of the main room where our peers were probably still shooting the breeze. “Shut it the fuck down. Am I clear?”
“Yes, Chief,” we said in unison.
“Get out of my office.”
We left without another word. There were too many people in the main room, so I headed for the locker room. Dalton did too. I didn’t know if he was avoiding them or stick
ing with me—or maybe both—and I didn’t ask.
As soon as the locker room door thudded behind us, we both exhaled. We wandered into the alcove between a bank of lockers, and for the longest time, neither of us spoke. He was probably doing the same thing I was—mentally debriefing. Replaying everything Chief Lasby had said to us. Wondering how much was homophobic bluster and how much could actually hurt us.
Thing was, even if we were together, Lasby couldn’t discipline us for dating. DADT was history, and Dalton and I were peers. Neither of us had any kind of authority over the other. We were both enlisted. There were other couples on this base, even within our command. Whether Lasby liked it or not, he couldn’t order us not to date.
But whether we liked it or not, there were other ways a supervisor could fuck with us. It wasn’t unheard of—or even that uncommon—for perfectly squared away Sailors to get dinged on their evals for bullshit like unsatisfactory leadership and a bad attitude when their only sins were having political views that clashed with their superiors. A female Sailor who turned down a highly inappropriate—and impossible to prove—sexual advance from a superior could find herself struggling to get even a passable eval. God help her if she started dating someone else.
At one of my previous commands, my supervisor had been barely subtle enough—just enough to avoid any actual consequences—about being a racist fucking bastard. How could we prove our evals were racially motivated when he had documentation to back him up that me and two other Sailors had been occasionally late, moderately insubordinate, and completely unmotivated? The fact that he’d never written up our paler peers just meant that on paper—which was where things counted in the military—they’d never done anything wrong. In the end, I couldn’t prove a thing, I didn’t get promoted, and nothing ever happened to him.
Chief Lasby didn’t seem to be a racist, but he was sure as shit a homophobe, and I knew all too well he could use his prejudices against us. Just the fact that he thought we were dating was more than enough to stain his views of us. Since he was buddy-buddy with MA1 Anderson, who would be writing our evals . . . Yeah, Chief Lasby’s opinion of us did fucking matter.