by Teagan Kade
CHAPTER TWO
GABE
I can’t stop thinking about Shannon on the way to the hospital, that slightly awkward smile, her even more awkward social manner. But it’s her body that’s really playing on my mind, those sweet curves begging to be touched, her mocha hair drawn up tight at the back of her head, her beautiful, plump lips on show.
You forget these small details when you’re on deployment, the subtleties, the smell. That’s what the game does to you. It makes you forget what a woman is like out of fatigues and camo, neither of which were designed to do any justice to the female form. But the way Shannon wore that dress, even though it didn’t really suit the girl speaking about her pet gecko or fondness for Peter Anderson films, was perfection. She doesn’t know how hot she is, but it wasn’t lost on me. Every poor fuck in that room was gunning for her, even if her friends thought they were stealing the show. Those social butterflies are not for me. I’m not looking for the next Kim Kardashian.
You shouldn’t be looking at all.
Maybe, but that’s the key word, isn’t it? Looking.
I wasn’t going to do anything, wasn’t going to act on my impulses even if my dick was doing a rain dance in my pants.
Yes, I gave her the impression I wasn’t interested.
Yes, I lied.
So what?
I’m not a liar by nature, but even if I wanted to go there, and the tent pole in my pants suggests I do, I couldn’t allow it, not after her.
Too much has happened. I’m broken in ways poor, innocent Shannon couldn’t even begin to comprehend. Frankly, she deserves better. She deserves the kind of adorable idiot who’s not going to bring baggage to the party.
I park at the hospital and head up to Oncology, a fancy name that more or less translates to ‘you’re fucked’.
I clear my throat in the doorway to Mom’s room. My brother Matt, sitting beside her, turns and stands, walking over. He closes the door behind himself and embraces me. “If it isn’t my shithead SEAL of a brother.”
I hold him away from me. “If it isn’t my ball-sack of a sibling. How the fuck are you?”
He looks wearier than I remember. “Good.”
I nod past the doorway. “And Mom?”
He hangs his head before lifting it to meet my eyes. “Not so good. She’s been asking about you, specifically your personal life, though we both know that is basically non-existent.”
I smile. “You’re not wrong. So, what did you tell her?”
He leans against the wall beside the door, shoves his hands deep into his pockets and shrugs. “She’s worried about you, bro. Truth be told, so am I.”
I roll my eyes. “I can handle myself. I’m doing fine.”
He taps against my chest with a fist. “You’re sure that’s not metal under there, that you’re not some fucking terminator, a cybernetic organism…?”
“…Living tissue over a metal skeleton,” I finish. “I’m not a robot. I concede I haven’t been around much, but—”
“You’re busy saving the world, ‘fuck yeah, America’ and all that, right?”
“Right. Country comes first.”
He glances down. “And what does your dick have to say about that? I bet it hasn’t been wet since senior year.”
I nod slowly, ignoring him. “Is she awake?”
“She is. I’m going to go grab whatever roadkill they shoveled off the floor for lunch in the cafeteria today. You want something?”
I tap my chest. “I’m a fucking robot, remember. Chow is for pussies.”
He salutes, backing away. “Yes, sir, Senior Chief.”
I’m shaking my head as I enter Mom’s room.
She smiles when she sees me. Her voice is almost as paper thin as her skin. “Gabriel.”
I don’t like people using my full name, but Mom gets a pass. She sure as hell needs one with terminal bone cancer.
I sit, waiting for the tiny plastic chair beside her bed to split in two under me. “How you doing, Mom?”
She attempts another smile, but I can see even this is a major effort. She’s lost more weight since I saw her last, little more than a skeleton sunken into the bed. I saw victims of chem attacks that looked just like this a few years back. I guess that’s basically what’s happened here—my poor mother pumped so full of poison it’s pushed the life clean out of her.
She doesn’t get to reply. Her eyes close, lips parted, as she drifts off.
I scratch the back of my neck, suddenly uncomfortable in this fortress for the sick. I’ll take an open battlefield over this shit any day of the week.
I sit and thoughts of Shannon start up again—the way she commented on my stupid gecko tattoo, the puzzled expression on her face when I told her what I do, leaving out the most important acronym. Matt was right about one thing. My cock’s been starved for attention for too long. Something tells me that sinking into Shannon would be heaven on earth, the tight, wet glove of her pussy drawing me in, my tongue toying with her nipples.
What about Triss? Have your forgotten about her already?
I haven’t. It’s hard to forget an ex when they had such an impact on your life, when you spent so much time together. You live under someone else’s skin for long enough and you can easily lose yourself. Maybe that’s happened. Maybe that was how the shitstorm started.
A mental block rises up. I won’t do it. I won’t allow myself to think about what happened to her. Point is, I’m not ready for another relationship, especially given everything going on with Mom. Besides, I don’t deserve another.
I shift in the chair but accidentally knock the table beside the bed.
Mom’s eyes flicker open. “Oh, did I go to sleep again?”
I wave it off. “It’s fine, Mom.”
Her eyebrows twine together. “No, no. You’re home, back from deployment. The least I can do is catch up with my eldest son.”
I take a glass of water and direct the straw in it between Mom’s lips. “Here, drink.”
Her cheeks hollow as she sucks, barely a mouthful of water passing through the straw. I place it back on the table and lean back in the chair. “Matt said you’ve been talking about me.”
Her hand shifts across the blanket. I take it, note how all I can feel is bone.
“Gabe,” she begins, “we’re just concerned about you. You’ve been away for so long, so caught up… I know it must be hard to adjust back to civilian life.”
I squeeze her hand. “Like I told Matt, I’m perfectly fine, Mom. You don’t need to worry about PTSD or anything like that. I’m good. I was down range for a long while, but now I’m home. I’m here for you.”
Her eyes become glassy. “Are you? I wish I could be around to see you settle down, Gabe.”
“Mom,” I protest, “you know I don’t like it when you speak like that. You’ve got to fight.”
She smiles again. “I’m not you, Gabe, or your father, rest his soul. My fight’s over, and so is yours. You’ve been away almost a decade. You’ve retired with an honorable discharge. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”
But she doesn’t know the full story, and I’m not about to tell her. I place my other hand on top of hers. “I know, Mom, and I’m going to make it up to you, make sure you are taken care of no matter what.”
“I only want you to be happy, Gabe. It’s my only wish.”
“Actually, I’m seeing someone, Mom.”
I don’t know why I say this. It just comes out.
Her whole face lights up. Her body straightens in the bed. “You are?”
Way to go, dickhead. How are you going to get out of this?
She tilts her head a little, her smile beaming. “Oh my. Are you… engaged?”
I know it’s wrong, that I should correct her, but I nod in response, can’t help smiling myself.
What the fuck are you doing?
I swallow hard wishing I could suck the words back, but it’s too late now, not after seeing Mom like this. So what do I do? I deepen the
fucking lie. “In fact, it’s going really well.”
“Oh, Gabe,” she beams, “I’m so happy for you. I want to hear all about her.”
You and me both.
“She’s…” Better start thinking. “…a local, a civilian, kind of quirky.”
“That’s wonderful. They do say opposites attract, you know.”
She’s in full-on mother mode now. “What does she do, your fiancé?”
That word really nails it. I have no fucking idea. My fake fiancée and I never discussed it. “She’s studying, for now.”
“Well, that’s okay. She sounds smart.”
I could tell Mom this mystery fiancée is a three-eyed dominatrix who gets her kicks ball-stomping and she wouldn’t give a damn. That’s the thing about Mom. You can get her on board almost anything if you press long enough. “She is,” I concede, trying to dream up a way to change the subject, but my stupid, sand-logged brain is unable to dredge anything up.
“What’s her name?”
Jesus. “Shannon,” I blurt back. She’s the first girl I think of.
“That’s nice. Is she pretty?”
Does the sun rise in the east? “Yeah, Mom. She’s real pretty—brown hair, blue eyes…”
Mom’s eyes widen further and I know a grand thought is incoming. “You have to bring her in, Gabe. I have to meet her.”
Fuck times two.
There’s no getting out of this now. I’ve dug myself deep and I’ve forgotten the damn shovel. My loose mouth has gotten me into trouble before, but never like this.
You sure about that PTSD, sunshine?
I silently groan at my impulsiveness. “I’ll bring her in soon, Mom, I promise. I just didn’t want to rush things.”
There’s the understatement of the year.
Matt’s standing in the door with a tray of what could well be dirt or some kind of mystery meat. It’s hard to tell. “Bring in who?” he asks.
CHAPTER THREE
SHANNON
I’ve learned to quietly loathe the bing sound that my computer makes whenever a message pops up onto my screen.
It’s from my boss, film producer extraordinaire Daryl Somerset-slash-douchebag of the year, but hey, the money here makes it worthwhile.
‘Those Paramount files good to go?’ the message reads, followed by a winking emoticon. God, he loves emoticons. I think I hate them almost as much as his leery, you-know-you-want-this grin.
I make final changes to the file and print it off, standing to knock on his door.
“Enter,” comes the reply.
Yes, sir, Your Highness.
He waves me in and motions for me to close the door. Behind his desk is a grand arch that overlooks the city. He’s got the best view on the entire floor.
My nose wiggles. There’s a strange smell I’m having trouble pinpointing.
Eau de entitled asshole?
Ah, yes. That’s the one. Manufactured by Harvard and too many hours spent at the rowing shed.
I place the files on his desk, standing back with my hands in front of myself like some kind of vagina shield.
He watches me with that slick smile on his face as he picks up the files and skims over them.
His eyes pop up back to me—to my breasts, at least. “You know, Shannon, you should really wear your hair down, and smile more. You’ve got a great smile.”
Two invisible strings pull the corners of my mouth upwards, but they’re struggling. I want to tell him he’s a sexist pig, but I go with, “I’ll keep that in mind,” speaking through gritted teeth.
I stand there quietly smoldering while he continues to review the files.
He looks up again, sliding the files away and leaning back into his chair, legs spread and hands behind his head. I think they call this a ‘power pose.’ It’s definitely not the kind of power I’m looking for. “The section on the royalty transfer is incomplete.”
Crap.
“Oh?” I question.
He swings back forward, nodding. “I guess it’s a good thing you’re pretty, right?”
I wish I had a pride of lions here now. ‘Attack!’ I’d bellow.
But no. All I’ve got are my wits, my patience, and a pencil-pleated skirt that my sleazy boss is X-raying through with his eyes right now.
He winks. “I’ll let you off this time, okay.”
Think of the money. Think of the money.
“Yes, sir,” I reply.
He rolls his eyes. “For fuck’s sake, lighten up, Shannon. Show me that sexy smile.”
The invisible strings go to work again.
Why do you put up with this?
I know the answer. Because it keeps my bank account healthy and I need the money.
He smiles back, his entire expression dripping with seediness. I always feel like I need a shower after being in his office.
“There it is.” He gestures to the door. “Now get your cute little butt back to work and fix up my files.”
I go to head out as quickly as possible.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” comes the call at my back.
I turn expecting to find him with his tiny penis out, but he’s holding the files.
“Sorry,” I mutter, reaching forward to take them. He holds onto them tight, the two of us caught in some weird office tug-o’-war.
He pouts, bottom lip extended. “You didn’t say please.”
Seriously?
“Please.”
He lets go of the files and I get out of there, closing the door quietly but wishing I could slam it through the wall.
I sit back at my desk and open the files back up, making the required changes. I can barely concentrate I’m so worked up. The big black clock on the wall doesn’t help. It’s running in another dimension, a really slow one, ticking and tocking and driving me insane.
I wait until just before closing to send the files through lest Daryl call me back in again. I let him know the hard copies are on my desk.
I’m standing when I hit ‘Send,’ my coat already slung over my arm as I half-pace, half-run to the elevators, making my escape.
I arrive home half an hour later to a seemingly quiet house apart from the lovebirds merrily singing down the back.
I drop my handbag and coat by the door, and head down to the sunroom at the back that has since become the home of my little menagerie.
My tarantula, Aragog, shuffles to the front of his enclosure, no doubt looking for today’s handout. I take a handful of crickets from the jar beside him and dump them in. “There you go, my little buddy. Enjoy.”
I move onto the lovebirds, Pikachu and Ash, opening their aviary and letting them take a shoulder each. I had their cage custom-made. It’s bigger than my bathroom, but they need the space. People don’t realize how intelligent they are, the human contact and interaction they crave. Dad understood. He had a huge aviary out in the backyard growing up, but the lovebirds don’t appreciate competition.
I hit stop on the radio beside the cage. The lovebirds like the classical channel, especially Beethoven.
I replace the cuttlebones in their cage and move onto Tripod, my three-legged squirrel. I can hear him scratching against the back door.
He wasn’t looking so good when I found him beside the road almost a year ago, set no doubt to become an evening meal for one of the larger animals in the area. I took him home and cared for him, even tried to set him loose, but he’s never left the backyard.
I open the door and take a wrapped chunk of Baby Ruth out of my pocket I’ve been saving for him. He swipes it away in seconds, moving down a step to nibble away at it. That’s the thing about squirrels. They are junk food addicts. They’ll beg, borrow, and steal if they have to. They’re like children. What they like to eat is not what they need, but I like to spoil him once a week.
I let Tripod in. Percy, my crested gecko, lumbers in behind him, both of them headed to the kitchen. He was mates with my Dad’s gecko Penelope, but Penelope passed a week after Dad did.
I don’t know if he’s ever gotten over it.
“Nice to see you too,” I tell her. “How was your day? Did you get called into the office by your chauvinistic boss?”
The lovebirds flitter away when the sugar gliders arrive, swooping down to take up their places, one burrowing down the front of my top to settle in my cleavage, peeping over my bra as I move through the house, my friends in tow.
People think I’m crazy for owning this many animals, but Dad had three times what I do now. It started after Mom died, the collecting. I guess he passed it down to me.
I reach down and stroke Percy, my thoughts turning to the gecko tattoo on Gabe’s arm. “You share a striking resemblance, you know. I think he’d like to meet you.” His eyes roll around, glinting in the light. “Maybe you’re good luck and maybe you aren’t, but rest assured I love you either way.”
Maybe you could love Gabe? You know, an actual human being instead of holding one-way conservations with animals all day.
I don’t know what I want. If I was to look at it from a purely superficial level, then yes, Gabe was attractive. The thought of those bulging arms closing around me, keeping me safe, his chin resting against my shoulder, his soft lips on the side of my neck…
Daydreaming will get you nowhere.
And then the Navy thing. That’s hot. I’ve never really had a thing for military guys, but the thought of Gabe sweating it out, running through water, has me heating up in naughty places. I could almost touch myself thinking about the kind of artillery he’s no doubt packing in those cargo pants, the long, thick butt of his cock.
Shannon!
I’m blushing as I stand at the kitchen counter. I’m blushing and—Lord, help me—getting wet thinking about it all, especially his eyes. If those eyes are the window to his soul, sign me up for the home tour.
The gecko tattoo was a sign. It has to be.
And yet you’re not going to call him, are you? You’re terrified.
I hand the sugar gliders, Buffy and Angel, a grape each. “What do you guys think? Did I dream it?”
No response. They’re too busy stuffing their faces. They’re teenagers—sleeping the day away to go crazy at night.
Percy rubs himself against my leg. “Don’t worry, Perce. You’re still my man.”