by Cd Hussey
When I step out of the bathroom, he is standing buck-naked and holding the whiskey bottle and two plastic cups filled with amber liquid. "I'm not putting clothes back on," he tells me.
I look him up and down. That's fine with me. I feel a bit self-conscious about my own nudity, which is ridiculous given my previous obsession with fitness (and quite frankly, I leaned out quite a bit after Jim left). I purposefully push it aside. I'm so ready to return to the confident, sometimes cocky, woman I used to be.
"Naked shots then?"
"Fuck yeah." He hands me a plastic cup. We tap "cheers" and down the liquor in unison. I lick the drops from my lips as he pours me another, and then sets the bottle on the dresser.
"What now?"
He winks. "No pants party."
"Didn't we already have a no pants party?"
"I'm all for a continuation." His grin spreads wide and I snort a little as I giggle. "Although I did grab my laptop. In case we just wanted to watch some movies."
"Do you need to conserve the battery? Since the generators are out and all…"
"I have a backup." Of course. "Besides, I have faith the maintenance crew will get some semblance of power back on in the next twenty-four hours."
The laptop gets set up and Avatar plays in beautiful colors and images on the screen, but we never actually watch any of it. The next several hours are filled with enthusiastic conversation rivaling the hours I spent gabbing with friends as a teenager. It the perfect blend of story swapping and genuine interest in each other's history and views. I learn all about Trey's military days and a youth spent on his family's Oklahoma ranch, and how at one point he wasn't sure whether to become a bull-rider or join the Marines.
He seems equally as interested in my history, though it's far from interesting. An only child with a privileged upbringing in a wealthy suburb of Kansas City, my father was an engineer, eventually becoming the VP of one of KC's numerous engineering firms, and my mother never worked. Unless you count organizing neighborhood committees and working on her tan.
My life followed a perfectly traditional path. College at KU including membership in a sorority, a great first job at Hughes & Ralston, the majority of my twenties living in a downtown loft and partying way too much… I met Jim at a KU Alum gathering, moved to Lawrence, and the rest is history.
Our histories couldn't be more different, but we're both mid-westerners, and somehow seem to have quite a bit in common. It's midnight before we've exhausted the bottle of Glenmorangie and the conversation.
Trey lies on the mattress, propped on one arm and I'm nestled on that shoulder. The fingers of his other hand slowly interlace with mine. My buzz is making my blood travel languidly through my veins, and I can feel myself dozing off. But like any good two-year-old, I fight it. He's warm, and comfortable, and smells so damn good. I don't want the evening to end.
I tell him.
"I'm pretty sure it's already tomorrow," he replies.
"You know what I mean. I had a really good time." I marvel at how large his fingers are as they delicately trace the edge of my palm. "Thanks."
"For the no pants party?"
I snicker. Our clothes never did return to our bodies. "No."
"For the amazing sex?"
"No. Well, yes, but no. For being such a good listener and for letting me unload my pathetic tale."
"Any time. And the only thing pathetic about your tale is your ex-husband. In fact, I'd be more than happy to kick his ass if I ever meet him."
The visual of Trey using Jim as a punching bag makes me smile. "God, you'd kill him."
"That could also be arranged."
I have a brief, morbid fascination with the idea, and giggle. Then I realize who I'm nuzzled up against. "Wait, you're joking, right?"
"Of course. I've never killed a civilian."
I twist to look at him. "But you've killed before?"
He meets my gaze, his expression serious. "I did three war tours, remember?"
"Right."
"I assumed you knew that. War is never a pleasant thing, but I am a soldier."
"I know. It's just weird to think about."
"I'm sorry, Andrea. It's part of who I am. It's part of war."
"I'm not judging," I say quickly. I don't like hearing him apologize for himself. "You're one of the most kind, patient, understanding, open minded men I've ever met."
"Thank you. I try. It isn't always easy."
"Oh, I don't doubt your badassery for a second. I mean, look at these guns." I roll to my side and squeeze his bicep.
He continues my momentum, arranging me until I'm straddling his hips. The tip of his cock brushes against my opening and I'm instantly turned on. Apparently, so is he.
He pulls me in for a kiss. "Do you realize how fucking sexy you are?"
"Hmm, I think the absence of women in this place is clouding your judgment."
"You think that's why I find you attractive?" He does not look pleased.
I try to shrug it off. "I'm sure it doesn't hurt."
"Well, you're wrong. Just like you're wrong there aren't available women in Afghanistan. Just because there are few females at Merritec doesn't mean they aren't available outside the compound."
My stomach knots. "Ah."
He squeezes me. Well, my ass to be exact. "Is that a touch of jealousy I hear?"
I manage to scowl at him and he nips at my chin.
"Completely unneccessary."
Like a Cirque du Soleil acrobat, he flips me onto my back in one smooth motion, and then nestles between my legs. I'm too startled to scream.
"You have nothing to be jealous of," he says. His eyes scan my face. "Please don't doubt for a second that I've been attracted to you since the moment I saw you. And know that I'm honored to be the man that's going to remind you that you are a beautiful, smart, sexy woman. That you aren't obsolete. That your infertility does not define you, and it certainly doesn't diminish your appeal. That your husband—"
"Ex-husband."
"Ex-husband…was a fool to not appreciate what he had. Don't doubt for a second that I relish being that man."
"So, you're saying you don't mind being my rebound?"
"Fuck no. I'm honored to be it. Besides, it's not like I'm being totally selfless by making love to you. Like I don't get anything out of it. Because trust me, I do." For emphasis, he grinds his erection into me.
"Let me get this clear. I can use you as much as I want, any time I want, for anything I want?" I'm so wet, just tipping my hips allows him to slide into me.
Bliss covers his face. "Please," he purrs before consuming me with a kiss.
We make love again for the third time that night. It's short, sweet, passionate, and no less intense or satisfying than the earlier episodes. I'm left completely exhausted with a body that barely functions.
He eases off me and I scooch over to make room for him on the narrow mattress, once again settling onto the crook of his shoulder.
His cheek rests against my head. "I don't think I'll be able to walk tomorrow," he whispers into the dark.
"You won't be able to walk?" I reply through a smile. "Imagine how I feel."
"It's not natural for a man my age. I may have pulled a hammie."
"Oh, shush."
"Think I can claim workmen's comp?"
I smack his chest, but it's more of a floppy wrist brush than a real smack. "Be quiet. I'm trying to sleep."
I can feel his face curl into a smile. "Good night, Andrea."
"Good night." I can already feel myself doze off. When I do fall asleep, I'm pretty sure it's with a grin on my face.
CHAPTER NINE
Someone is shaking my shoulder. Gently, but it still feels like I'm being violated. Mornings have never been a strength of mine, and this one is no exception. I'm not ready to face the day. Not yet. I need another hour. Maybe two.
I groan and try to roll on to my stomach, away from whoever is shaking me, but am stopped by a strong hand. I throw my arm�
�the one not tucked under the pillow—over my eyes, even though the room is completely dark.
"Time to wake up," a male voice sings, peeling back my shield. His hands are large and roughly calloused.
"Ugh. Am I late?" My voice sounds like I've had a gallon of milk to drink and my throat is coated in mucus.
"No. But you should get up. This is worth it."
I crack my eyes open and am greeted by a white wall. The bed below me is rock hard, and with a few pats of my hands, I realize it's barely as wide as a twin-sized mattress. I feel like I'm at summer camp.
Rolling over to my back, I come face-to-face with a pair of gorgeous brown eyes on an even more gorgeous man. And it all comes back to me.
The wet wipes, the amazing sex, the MRE dinner, talking until well after midnight, the amazing sex again…
I smile. Trey grins at me like a kid with a frog in his pocket.
"What are we doing?" I ask.
"Getting up. To check out something amazing."
I rub my eyes. "What time is it?"
"Ten."
"In the morning?"
"Yes."
The last of the sleep has finally left my eyes. I prop myself up on an elbow. "Do I need my scarf?"
"No, you should be fine. Well," he pauses, "go ahead and grab it. To cover your nose. And glasses. Preferably goggles."
After I sit up, it takes me a minute to convince the blood to flow to my extremities. When I finally feel like my muscles are nourished enough to actually walk, I rise.
Trey stands up and heads for the door, which he props open. His grin still rivals that of a ten-year-old boy. To be honest, instead of checking out whatever he has in mind, I'd rather reacquaint myself with what's hidden under his clothes.
But there will be time for that later. After stretching like an overgrown cat, I grab the soft, cotton fabric that is my paisley scarf, and place it over the lower half of my face. Joining Trey at the door, I step into dusk.
A blanket of fine dust hangs suspending in the air, blocking out the morning sun so it feel like it's practically nighttime. I feel like I've landed in some hazy, alien world. Everything is blurry, outlines clouded and hidden.
"Wow."
Trey beams at me. "It's amazing isn't it? Look at the sun."
He points to the morning sun, which should be a blazing ball of brightness. It's a dull white glow, looking more like the moon on a foggy night than the sun. I look around. The dust is everywhere, the air eerily still.
"How long will it last?"
"Depends on the weather. A good wind will blow it out. Rain would be better, but I doubt that's a possibility this time of year. If the weather stays calm…a week?"
"Wow," I repeat.
He turns to me, his expression suddenly serious. "We're grounded here until it passes. No one will fly in this. Satellite signal is going to be really bad too, if we even have access."
I nod. "So no Internet."
"Or phone."
"Hmm." I scan our surroundings. The dust is like a thick fog with poor to no visibility. I can't see the far end of the canister next to us. "My construction crews really shouldn't be working in this."
Afghanistan may have looser (and I use this term, um, loosely) safety laws than the United States, but U.S. rules apply for these American paid contractors. And there's no way O.S.H.A. would allow heavy equipment in this mess.
"Probably not," he concurs.
I glance at him. His stubble is thicker than normal. It's really more of a beard at this point. The shadowy light emphasizes the lines on his face. It does nothing to inhibit my attraction. In fact, I think it's intensified.
"I'm sure I should make note of it." In those blasted daily reports. "I'd like to verify they aren't actually working." I highly doubt my Afghan crew realizes they should lay low until the visibility is slightly greater than none. From old reports I read, keeping them in shoes can be a problem. I'd be surprised if a little dust deters them.
"Let's go."
Walking through the storm is surreal, like walking on the moon at dusk. Thank God for Trey because it only takes one hundred steps before I'm completely turned around. It seems to take twice as long to get to the job site as it did yesterday and for a moment I'm worried he's just as lost as I am.
We finally stumble onto the empty construction site. The backhoe stands unmoving like the petrified skeleton of some extinct dinosaur.
"Well I guess that's that," I say to Trey. "Since I don't have a way of contacting Kaihan, I'll probably need to make a daily visit until the storm clears to make sure they aren't working."
He nods. "Understood. You know, now that we're here, I wouldn't mind doing a perimeter check myself. Want to go for a walk?"
I wipe the accumulated dust from the lenses of my glasses, limiting my open eyes to mere slits. "I'd love to."
The perimeter check makes for an eerie walk. The chain-link fence is a stoic barrier to an unseen enemy, a foreboding presence, like its wispy existence is the only thing protecting us from the certain death. Completely silent, there isn't a rustle or a peep from anything or anyone. The only sound comes from the bottom of our boots against the rocks.
I'm not sure what we're looking for, and whenever I glance toward Trey, his hidden face is unreadable. The tense way he's holding his body tells me he's not happy, for whatever reason.
We walk for ten minutes before we see anyone. A lone man, outside the fence, holding a rifle and standing with his back to us. I remember Trey mentioning Afghan guards. This is the first one I've seen here.
His voice booming and authoritative, Trey says something to the guard in Urdu. The man startles before turning. He gives Trey, then me, a once over before meeting us at the fence. I'm glad I have my scarf. I don't like the way the guard looks at me.
They have a tense conversation in Urdu. The guard's gaze continuously flicks back and forth between Trey and me. I definitely don't like it. There's something unsettling about his expression. He's actually…leering at me.
I wrap my scarf closer but realize keeping my hair covered should be the least of my worries. I'm wearing yoga pants and a tank top. Hardly modesty approved attire.
I cross my bare arms tightly across my chest, careful not to cleavage myself. I thought ahead enough to grab my steel-toe boots, I don't know why I didn't think to grab a long sleeve shirt. A burka would have been nice too.
Still conversing with the guard and without looking at me, Trey reaches over and takes my arm. Gently, but with firm hands, he guides me behind his back so that he is between me and the guard. The possessive gesture could easily ruffle some feminist feathers if it weren't completely warranted, appropriate, and welcome in this situation. I'm more than happy to stay hidden behind Trey's wide back. I even lean slightly into him, marveling for the millionth time at the firmness of his body.
The conversation continues for a few more minutes. Tuning out the harsh sounding language, I scan our surroundings. It's a pointless effort. Visibility is literally reduced to ten, maybe fifteen feet, and that's grainy at best. Unless the perimeter guards were right next to the fence we wouldn't be able to see them. I wonder how many we passed.
The thought that there are unseen men out there protecting our compound should make me feel better. It doesn't.
Finally, Trey and the guard offer parting words—though I have no idea what they might be—and Trey turns to me.
"Everything okay?" I ask.
He strokes my arm in a familiar, reassuring way. I love that his touch feels so natural, and that touching me seems so natural to him. Nothing forced. Everything genuine. "Nothing you need to worry about."
Part of me hates to be pandered to. The other part understands knowing how vulnerable we are won't accomplish anything. It isn't like I can do anything to change the situation. I have to trust Trey. Thankfully, I do.
I nod. "Want to continue?"
"Let's go."
It takes fifteen minutes before we're back at the lake that serves as a
natural fence. We see a few more guards, but Trey doesn't engage them. They remind me of ghostly wraiths silently guarding our camp.
I really want to ask questions, try to pry out some info. I know it won't make me feel better, but for some reason I still want to know.
Or do I? I can remain ignorantly blissful, spending the next few days in the arms of an amazing lover and letting him do what he does best: take control. Or I can fret over a situation I can't control—whether it's the weather or the potential American-hating terrorists lurking just outside the fence.
I'm ready to let go. I need to let go. Fretting over things out of my control has made me miserable for months. I'm sick of it.
So I push any questions I have away and before long, we've arrived at a thick-walled concrete structure. I don't recognize the building, but that doesn't mean much. The dust is so dense I can barely make out the outlines of multiple satellite dishes dotting the roof.
"The security building," he explains as he reaches for the door. "I need to talk with Charlie."
The door opens before he has a chance to turn the knob, and Charlie steps out, dressed almost identically to Trey—down to the checkered scarf and sunglasses. He greets Trey with a robust handshake before settling his mirrored gaze on me. He's lost all of his jovial ease from the other day.
I recognize my name, but the only other words I understand from Charlie's mouth are "gettin'" and "grub". His thumb juts back toward camp.
"Let's walk and talk," Trey says. He turns to me. "Andrea, I'm afraid this is sensitive information…"
I'm sure I won't understand half of it.
"I'll walk slowly," I offer.
"I'd rather keep you in my line of sight at all times. Why don't you start? We'll be right behind you."
I won't lie, it's a little eerie walking in front of my protectors. I feel like bait, or the sacrificial lamb. And since I'm basically walking blind, I feel utterly lost too. The sound of my boots on the rocks drowns out all other noise. But luckily, Trey calls out directions from time to time.
How he knows where we're going when I don't is beyond me. We've been here exactly the same amount of time. I can only imagine not only is his sense of direction far superior to my own, he likely studied a location map before traveling here. It sounds like something the head of security at Merritec Village would do. Trey seems to think of everything.