I don’t need this, they need me.
I come from a lineage of fighter pilots, its in my blood.
The sky is where I belong, flying through the clouds, protecting my country.
I might be cocky, but I have a reason to be.
“Sounds about right.” I thumb toward Colby. “What about this guy over here. What’s everyone saying about him? Manly with a feminine voice?”
“Fuck off.” Colby punches me in the arm and shakes his head. He doesn’t have a feminine voice but it’s fun to fuck around with him, especially since he’s so quiet all the time.
Hardie props himself up on his elbow and says, “They think he’s one of those guys you don’t fuck with or he’ll snap and go on a punching rampage.”
We’re supposed to stay quiet during this time, never really drawing any kind of attention, but I can’t help it, I let out a deep laugh. A punching rampage, yup, I could easily see that.
Whereas I’m more outgoing, Colby is reserved, doesn’t talk much, observes more than anything, always taking in every scenario, it’s like he doesn’t know how to turn the military in him on and off. There’s times where you can relax and just be a human again but Colby doesn’t seem to have that trait.
“I’m not going to snap,” Colby says tersely.
Chuckling, I pat him on the back. “Try saying that next time without the foam forming in the corner of your mouth.”
He rolls his eyes and turns away from us.
“Oh great, you’ve upset him,” I chastise Hardie. “Now I’m going to have to spend the rest of my night talking to his back instead of his pretty face.”
“You’re fucking ridiculous,” Colby says with a shake of his head.
“See,” I point to Colby’s back while talking to Hardie. “All night long.”
We spend the next hour getting washed up and eating our meals while some try to nurse their wobbly legs. Some of the guys still pass their hands over their heads, trying to get used to the haircuts we’ve been forced to have, some guys try to grab a wink of sleep before we’re barged in on and asked to get ready for another bout of marching.
Staring up at the green tent with a patched-up hole, hands behind my head, I say to Colby who’s only inches away, “What made you want to be a fighter pilot?”
Without even having to think about it, Colby answers, “My grandpa. He was one and told me all about his glory days up in the sky. I knew that’s what I wanted to do, to follow in his footsteps.”
It’s not the first time Colby has mentioned his grandpa, it seems like he’s played a huge part in Colby’s life.
“What about you?” he asks.
“It’s what I’m supposed to do,” I answer, knowing the real reason that rests closely behind the truth I just announced. It’s not one I’ve shared with anyone, one that I’ve kept close to my heart since the moment I realized it. I’ve kept the real reason on lock down in fear my dad would find out.
“You said your dad was a pilot?”
I nod. “For twenty years.” And my brothers are pilots, uncles, my grandpa was a pilot. It isn’t an option in the Sheppard household of what you want to do with your life, it’s an obligation you have to fulfill.
“Is he retired now?”
“Yup.”
And that’s the end of that conversation. Silence falls between us, the subtle sounds of some of our fellow cadets sleeping ring through the air as well as the shifting of sleeping bags.
Basic military training, it’s only the beginning of this life-long journey, what lies in front of me is a world I never thought I wanted, but one I’m ready to be a part of.
“Stryder Sheppard.” Standing in my dress blues, I pivot toward my cadre, arms swaying to the perfect height, my march on point, my father standing a few feet away, watching . . . analyzing.
Two of my commanding cadets flank each side of me and present me with my cadet boards, signifying my entrance into the cadet wing. I made it through basic and now I’m entering as a fourth year into the academy, a rigorous class schedule ahead of me.
I stare ahead at my dad, in his dress blues, looking prestigious with all his chest candy decorating his uniform. For a retired airman, he still is in shape, could hold a candle to any of the cadets on this field, and I hate that. I wish he was out of shape, I wish he was a contradiction to everything he represents, but that wouldn’t be Tyler Sheppard, no, he’s precise and polished with everything he does and says . . . at least he is when he’s not behind closed doors. Always putting on a show, that’s his game.
“Congratulations.” I shake hands with both my fellow cadets and then go to the end of the line, watching closely as Colby receives his cadet boards as well, pride beaming from him as his shoulders are set high, a lightness to the dark scowl he usually wears.
This is his first step into the academy he’s worked his ass off to get into. There is no doubt in my mind that this is a moment he won’t ever forget.
After the ceremonies, I briskly walk over to my father where he holds out his hand to me. Knowing it’s all for show, I take it in mine and give it a firm shake.
There is no smile, there is no pride coming from him, just an expectation. I can check off one of the boxes in the long list of to-dos he’s laid out for me.
Leaning in, quietly he says, “Don’t fuck this up.”
Ahh, words of wisdom.
No congratulations, no job well done, not even a how are you doing?
Just a terse don’t fuck this up.
I’m not surprised.
I answer back with a shake of his hand. “Yes, sir.”
He nods and then spins on his heel, leaving me behind while others who were lucky enough to have their family members attend, take pictures and beam about how much stronger their kids look.
Shaking off the lackluster moment with my father, I turn to find Colby talking to a man in a wheel chair, a nurse next to him. I study the interaction for a few seconds before making the connection. That must be Colby’s grandfather.
And fuck, the old guy looks damn proud of his grandson.
I want to be jealous, but knowing Colby’s past, fighting through basic with him, I just nod my head and smile. Colby deserves this moment with his grandfather.
* * *
**COLBY**
“By golly, look at you.” He tugs on Darlene’s arm—his nurse—and says, “Do you see my boy, look at those shoulders in that uniform. He’s a real looker, isn’t he?”
“Gramps,” I chuckle, “Be cool.”
He leans forward. “Bet all the lady cadets have their eye on you.” He winks obnoxiously.
“Christ.” I drag my hand over my face.
“Oh come on, I can’t rib my grandson on his day of acceptance into the cadet wing?”
“No, you can.” I look around. “Just keep your voice down.”
A hearty laugh comes out of my grandpa as well as a brisk and sharp cough. Over the last year it seems like he’s aged ten years. Not even letting it get to the point of a fight, my grandpa sold his house and put himself into a senior living center. When I asked him if he was okay with that, he said why wouldn’t he be okay with being doted on all day.
Growing serious, Gramps says, “You look good, Colby, proud.”
“I am.” I take in a deep breath, laughter and comradery surrounding me. This is what I wanted when I first decided to join the Air Force, I wanted a place where I could belong and so far, I’ve never felt more a part of something in my entire life. I feel fulfilled and fucking excited for what’s to come. I can’t wait to dive into classes, to take my first trip in the glider, to try out for the Wings of Blue, the parachuting team at the academy. I’m bound and determined to soak up every last moment while I’m here, preparing myself to get into flight school so one day, I can fly a fighter jet.
When I glance around, I see Stryder looking off into the distance. I noticed his dad was here and I watched their interaction which probably lasted no more than a few seconds. Stryder wasn
’t lying when he spoke of his dad in such a negative light. Just from the brief snapshot I caught of them, I could see the tension between the two, the hatred Stryder has for his own father, there was no hiding it.
Hating that Stryder is all alone, I call him over. “Stryder, over here.” I nod with my head.
He spots me and jogs over, making it in a few steps.
Lending out his hand to my grandpa, he says, “You must be the infamous Gramps.”
Gramps takes Stryder’s hand in his and nods. “At your service.”
“It’s nice to meet you, sir. I’ve heard nothing but amazing things about you.”
“That’s right you have.” He winks at me and then let’s Stryder’s hand go, giving him a once over. “You know, you might give my son a run for his money when it comes to the ladies.”
Laughing, Stryder squeezes my grandpa’s shoulder and says, “Sir, with all do respect, your grandson doesn’t hold a candle to me in the looks department.”
Gramps looks me up and down and then Stryder. Shaking his head, he leans toward me and says, “I’m afraid he might have you there, son.”
Stryder’s head falls back as he holds his stomach and laughs. Over these last few weeks, I’ve been able to gauge Stryder for the type of guy he is, always putting on a show, always laughing and joking around, but under all of the easy-going façade, his heart is a hardened stone. His ambition is low, his will to work automatic, and mainly he’s just going through the motions with no real passion behind his movements. The only time I see a hint of willingness to put an effort in is when we’re talking about flying and our dreams to become fighter pilots. That’s when I see it, the same kind of passion I possess.
“I think I like your grandpa, he’s a good man.” Once again, Stryder shakes his hand and then says, “I think I’m going to head up to the dorms. It was nice meeting you . . . Gramps.”
Gramps nods his head and says, “It was a pleasure meeting you, Stryder.” Pointing his finger he says, “Watch my grandson’s six, work hard, and make sure this guy has some fun on occasion.”
Stryder walks backwards when he says, “I can try, Gramps, but I make no promises. Catch you in the dorms.” He waves his hand and takes off.
Gramps still has his eyes on Stryder when he says, “That boy is hurting, I just hope it isn’t for long.” Letting out a long breath, he turns to me and grips my arm, bringing me down to eye level. Grabbing my cheek, he looks me in the eyes and says, “This is the beginning, Colby, the first stepping stone to your dream. Don’t lose focus but also don’t forget to have fun and if you meet a girl who rocks your world, let her.”
I chuckle, my Gramps the ever romantic. “No distractions, Gramps.”
“Sometimes you can afford them.” He winks and then hands his phone over to Darlene. “Would you mind taking a picture?”
“Of course not.”
I stand next to my grandpa, chest puffed, his arm around my waist, my hand on his shoulder and I smile, knowing fully well this picture is going to be shown all around the senior community when he gets home.
I say my good byes and watch as my grandpa is wheeled off the field, happier than I think I’ve ever seen him.
If you meet a girl who rocks your world, let her.
I shake my head and chuckle. Never going to happen. I have one goal and one goal alone, I’m going to become a fighter pilot and nothing and no one is going to stop me from reaching that goal.
To be continued . . .
* * *
THE UPSIDE OF FALLING is a contemporary, military romance releasing June 21st, that will pick up during Colby’s final year at the academy and his life after. This emotionally charged book full of heart-stopping romance will be the first book in a duet. THE DOWNSIDE OF LOVE will be releasing two weeks later on July 5th and will feature one hell of a TWIST you will never see coming.
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About the Author
Author, wife, adoptive mother, and peanut butter lover. Will dance for laughs, won’t eat anything spicy because you asked, but will squeeze boobs in replace of a hug. Grew up in Southern California, lived in New York, and now resides in Colorado with my wife, our son, two dogs, three cats, and my multiple book boyfriends. Loves love, anything romantic, and will die if I ever meet Tom Hanks. Yay, books!
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Penny Reid
Cletus and Jenn's story continues.
Copyright © 2018 by Cipher-Naught
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Part 1
Richard Badcock and the Serenity of Good Layers
*Jennifer*
There’s no faking quality.
A thing was either high quality or it wasn’t.
And I was convinced Mr. Richard Badcock’s organic, free range eggs were the highest quality anywhere in Green Valley, east Tennessee. Perhaps the whole of Tennessee. Maybe the southeast USA. For that matter, quite possibly in the entire universe.
They were the platinum-diamond-Nobel Prize of eggs. Some were narrow, some were wide; some had sage green shells, robin blue, tawny brown, or snow white; some were even speckled. But all his eggs contained firm whites and the most gorgeous orangey yolks, brighter than orange sherbet—don’t get me started on the yolks!—that I’d ever seen in all my years of baking.
I didn’t take to broadcasting this much, mostly because folks already thought I was a little off, but I didn’t think anything I made tasted as good if I didn’t use Richard’s eggs. My creations lacked a richness, a texture, one I could only achieve with Badcock eggs, and that was fact.
Which was why I was currently up to my eyeballs in despair.
“What do you mean you don’t have any eggs?” I looked behind Mr. Richard Badcock, searching his huge gated lawn and fancy hen house in the distance.
It had gables, eves, a white gutter, and even an actual picket fence.
My gazed shifted back to the man, moved over this new Mr. Badcock who had never been anything but kind to me in the past. I had no idea why he was behaving this way, but I couldn’t spare a thought to that. I was too much occupied by the great egg-dearth of the decade.
“Just what I said, Ms. Sylvester. I’m plum out of eggs.” His voice was firm, hard, and—if I wasn’t mistaken—laced with distrust. “But if you want some fresh chicken, we just butchered last—”
“I can’t put a chicken thigh in a custard, Richard!” I wailed, unashamed in my anguish, my teeth chattering in the early-January cold snap. “It’s not a gelatin. Fat and meat and bones won’t do me any good.”
Mr. Richard Badcock sighed, his eyebrows tenting on his forehead in an arrangement of both compassion—finally—and helplessness. “I am very sorry, Ms. Sylvester. If I had some eggs, I’d give them to you.”
“I’m sorry too, but this doesn’t make any sense. You must have a hundred chickens back there, and—”
“We have sixty-one chickens.” He sniffed, looking down his nose at me, once again hostile. “Unlike some folks, we believe our hens need space, autonomy, greens, and serenity to be good layers.”
Good lord, now I’d offended his serene egg-laying chickens.
“Of course, Mr. Badcock.” I tried to make my tone conciliatory. “And I can’t tell you how much I just love—and I do mean love—those eggs. Which is why, please pardon my outburst, I am feeling a great deal of desolation at the prospect of baking without your superior product.”
His shoulders relaxed, apparently mollified, and he quit peering at me, instead sighing for maybe the tenth time since I showed up. “Ms. Sylvester, there ain’t nothin
g I can do. I am sorry. But we had two unexpected—and very large—orders late last night. I’m cleaned out for at least two weeks, and—”
“Two weeks?” I clutched my chest and shrieked, completely beside myself.
He sighed again, taking off his hat and wiping his brow with the back of his flannel covered forearm, saying nothing. His old brown eyes moved over me with a look that seemed speculative, and I got the sense he was having himself an internal debate.
Meanwhile, I was going to cry.
I could feel it. The twinge in my nose, the sting behind my eyes, the tremor of my chin. But I couldn’t go two weeks without Badcock eggs. I couldn’t. Folks would remark. They’d notice. We’d be asked if we’d changed our recipes, and not for the better. Once, I’d gone three days without the eggs and the church choir near pitched a fit about my coconut custard pie.
“It’s fine.” Mrs. Seymore—the pastor’s wife—had said to my momma. “But what I don’t understand is, why didn’t Jenn make it? We specifically asked for Jennifer’s coconut custard pie.”
My momma had hemmed and hawed and, in the end, she’d lied. She told them an under-baker had made it, and had eventually given it to them for free.
The thing about the church choir was, it didn’t take much to get them to sing, if you know what I mean. In fact, one might even say they were gleeful about spreading unhappy news.
Therefore, once I did have the eggs, I made coconut custard tarts with shaved coconut and dropped them off—in person—to the Saturday choir practice.
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