As I get closer, I see that the bike's not one of the Corps' bikes. We ride Diamondbacks, mainly because they're cheap and long-lasting, according to some of the firsties. Not a bad bike, a hell of a lot better than what I rode back home in Michigan, but then again, I took a while to get used to the racing handlebars too. This person though, they're riding a Specialized rig, a bit more expensive than what the US Army is willing to pay for its triathlete cadets.
I pull even and glance over, cracking an easygoing grin. “Hi.”
The other rider barely glances my way. “Hi.”
I can tell from the sticker on the seat post that it's a USMA registered bike. Whoever it is lives here, and it's a she. Still, we're both going a good speed, and the words are ripped from our lips nearly as soon as we speak. “Where you headed?” I say loudly.
“Don't know, just out for fun,” she yells. “You?”
“Bear Mountain Bridge,” I reply, pointing. “You down for pairing up?”
“Sure,” she shouts, taking the lead. She's got good form. That Specialized bike is a lot lighter than mine, and she pulls away quickly. Grinning, I click down a gear and pedal, letting myself get into it. The burn starts in my quads, and I'm loving the feel of it, but sadly, the Bear Mountain Bridge isn't all that far, only eight miles even if I include the long lap around the parade ground, and we're soon watching the bridge approach. In the last quarter-mile, I pull up next to her and keep pace until we reach the limits of the bridge. Since it's a toll bridge, it's a good place to turn around.
Instead of turning though, she stops and climbs off her bike. I slow and circle back, and I see that she’s checking her rear tire. I stop too and get off my bike, surprised by my concern. “Everything okay?”
“Just forgot to tighten a thumb-bolt,” she tells me softly. I can’t help but like the tone of her soft voice. It’s like music to my ears, soft and serious, yet still playful. She stands up and grabs a water bottle, pulling off her helmet and sunglasses. “Nice ride.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, a surge of desire running up from the core of my stomach. I know I've been stuck at West Point that’s eighty-seven percent men for a year and some change, and I know that I haven't had a girlfriend since breaking up with Cindy Mandrowitz during the first semester of my plebe year, but holy shit, she's hot. Her light blonde hair is pulled back into a ponytail, one she'd had tucked in her jacket before, and she's got clear blue eyes that rival the sky above us with their intensity. “You ride like a pro.”
“Thanks,” she replies, taking a sip of water. Her cheeks seem to redden at my compliment, but I can’t be sure. “Six miles isn't much, but I couldn't ride at all the past three days, so I didn't want to chafe on my seat.”
“Your backside looks fine to me,” I say, unable to stop the words from flying out of my mouth.
Come on, Aaron, I think to myself, even the cheesiest pickup line is better than telling a woman she's got a nice ass even before you know her name.
I play it off, not giving her a chance to respond. “Name's Aaron.”
“Lindsey,” she says, offering her hand. We shake, and she has a nice grip, not too hard, not too soft. It's strong but still feminine, and I can feel a twitch in my own tights that has nothing to do with the blood flooding my quads right now. “You do a lot of riding, Aaron?”
“I try,” I reply, feeling like a total idiot. Smooth, Simpson, real smooth. Jesus, you need to get laid. This is pathetic. You did better as a sophomore in high school. “I’m training to try and get through a half-Ironman in the spring. The run and swim are easy for me, but the bike . . . fifty-six miles is a long way.”
“I know,” Lindsey says knowingly, and I'm impressed. She doesn't say it in a cocky way, just an acknowledgement that she's an experienced rider. “What's your max distance so far?”
“I've done twenty-five quite a few times, but the farthest I've pushed is forty,” I answer. “That was rough. What about you?”
“I did a century ride a few years ago,” Lindsey says, again without bragging. “It ached, but think of it this way. If I can do that, you can do a fifty-six easy.”
I whistle, impressed. Looking down, I can't help it—I check out her legs. She's wearing tights like me, even if they are a lime green civilian model, and her thighs are impressive. “That's a heck of a ride. Are you a triathlete too?”
Lindsey laughs musically, and I decide that no matter what, I’m going to see her again. Whatever it takes. “No, just a rider. I hate to swim. So, you've done shorter triathlons before?”
I nod, taking a swig of water from my own bottle. “A sprint and an Olympic last year,” I admit. “I really should be doing shorter distance ones first, but this chance to do the half-Ironman, it's a big challenge. I'm just the sort of guy who likes big challenges.”
Lindsey smiles again, her blue eyes twinkling, and asks mischievously, “Really?”
“Really,” I answer. I get the impression that she digs me. Maybe she's flirting, maybe I'm just off my game, but I like it, and I decide to try a little bit more. “I just get motivated by the idea of a goal in front of me.”
“Well then, you did pretty good on the first leg,” Lindsey says, strapping on her helmet again. “Think you can keep up on the second? Race you around to the ski hill.”
Before I can reply, she takes off. I watch her for a half-second and then grin, putting my water bottle away quickly, scrambling to get on my bike. I know that even with letting her get a head start, I’ll ride her down. “You're on!”
Chapter 2
Lindsey
Right now, I'm struggling with the bad side of my job, namely trying to keep the paperwork right on a group of people who don't quite operate by normal military rules. The Army seriously didn’t train me how to handle the personnel paperwork of the United States Military Academy.
“PFC Morgan, how's that schools request coming along?” my commanding noncommissioned officer, Sergeant Greene, asks. She's been in the Army a long time. She joined back before 9/11, and she's been at the Academy for three years. She's got the system down cold, and I think that there'd be a lot of Colonels and Lieutenant Colonels who'd be seriously pissed at me if it weren’t for her.
I pull the paper off my desk and hand it over to her, and she gives me a little nod of thanks. “Not a problem, Sergeant. Major Landry is going to be able to go to the Christmas break course at Leonard Wood. And I've got the travel requests in to Washington for the Band, too. I should be hearing back from Washington tomorrow or Thursday.”
“Good,” she hums, checking the form. “Okay then, get out of here. Nothing too stressful going on. The Supe's got nothing major going on this week, and we've got all the new folks' pay right. Anything else, they can go bitch to the Housing Office about it.”
“Thanks, Sergeant Greene,” I reply, grabbing my backpack and heading for the door. “See you tomorrow.”
That's the good thing about being at the Point. The office hours are different from the rest of the Army, and for the most part, the Academy treats things on the so-called 'gentleman's code.' That means that unless you're in trouble or in some other way fucked up, there aren't any of the morning group formations, whether it's for PT or anything else. Instead, we show up for work, we do our jobs, and we get our free time. Even our office hours are different. Instead of the nine to five that most units operate on in garrison, we run by the timeline that the Corps of Cadets does, which means that while we start stupidly early at seven thirty, I'm also out of the office by four on most days.
Not that I can take advantage of that free time. As a Private First Class, I don't exactly make great pay. I mean, twenty-two grand a year isn't peanuts, especially since I don't have to pay for health insurance or an apartment, and even food can be free most of the time, but I'm not exactly living high on the hog, as my grandmother used to say. I've got bills to pay, specifically paying off my student loans for community college. It was the whole reason I joined the Army in the first place. My parents tri
ed hard, but they're both working class people, and after a high school career where I kinda spent three years goofing off and spending more time watching the hot ice hockey guys than studying, I found myself short on scholarship options when I graduated. Still, I've got my associate's degree, so the Army was a good choice, since I can make Specialist or Sergeant faster that way, and then I'll have a good GI Bill afterward to finish out my degree. They even offer options to help you study in the service as well, but I'm not ready for that yet. Kinda strange, being somewhere that’s meant for college studies when I'm not ready for college.
I get back to my barracks and change quickly, wanting to make the most of the time I have to ride. My one weakness, the thing that I'll admit I've spent too much money on, is my bike. Once I realized that I didn't like the hard contact of hockey, and I'm nowhere near the pretty princess style that makes a good figure skater, Minnesota's favorite sports went out the window. But what my home state did have was lots of good roads for riding, and in the months that I've been here, I've gotten back into riding again.
My lime green Specialized is my baby, custom fit to my body after I pulled out a little bit of my built up pay after finishing training at Jackson. My roommate is pretty cool with my hobby too, not minding that I have a big part of my personal space in the barracks taken up with a fifteen-hundred-dollar bicycle. This might be a military Academy, but there's no way I'm trusting my baby to just being locked up outside on the bike rack.
I head outside and stretch lightly before hopping on my bike, rolling down and around the cadet area. I don't usually go near Central Post on my rides. To be honest, I've got personal beef with the Corps of Cadets. It's not that I resent them for being able to go to college for free. I mean, they're going to be commissioned and they have to serve five years after they graduate, and I've heard a little bit of what they go through. It's tough. Four years of being simultaneously called a future leader but also given a lot less freedom than even I have must wear on them.
But with that great stress comes a lot of compensation, too. Like I said, the cadets are treated differently than any other group in the Army. Even their seniors, or firsties, as they call themselves, have this strange blend in which they're called the best and brightest of the Army's future, and they’re given a lot of stress and privileges in addition to the stress of classwork . . . but on the other hand, I'm able to leave after work whenever I want, and they can't. I don't have to sign out to go to New York City on the occasions that I can afford it, and there's none of the stupid parking issues that they have. My car's parked right outside my barracks for when I want to use it. They have to walk three-quarters of a mile to get to theirs. It's like the cadets are pressured and treated like babies at the same time.
To make up for it, a lot of the 'pampered pets' are assholes. Especially the First Captain, or highest ranking cadet. I get it, and I feel bad for her. There haven't been a lot of female First Captains. And she's the poster child for her class. Seriously, she's on the fucking website. And even though she's twenty-two, she's reporting to Colonels and Generals on a pretty routine basis, and every VIP that comes through post is a chance for the Army to trot her out to do a dog and pony show. She's shaken hands with half of Congress, I think, and for certain, she's met the President. It doesn't excuse her being a certifiable bitch.
I avoid the cadet area when I can, and circling around, the hill from the docks up to Buffalo Soldier gate warms my legs up. The weather's perfect, a crisp sixty-five or so, and the afternoon sun is nice as I crank out toward the bridge.
I'm about a quarter of the way there, six miles to go to the bridge still, when I feel someone coming up behind me. I glance over my left shoulder and see a guy on a bike approaching, catching up to me. “Hi!”
He's cute, from what little I can see, and as we ride out toward the bridge, I enjoy the company. He's a good rider, perhaps not the most efficient, but as we head toward the bridge, he leans into his pedals more, catching up and passing me just before we hit the turnaround.
I slow my bike to a stop. My rear wheel's feeling a bit wobbly the past two miles, and the guy comes to a stop, circling back. He gets off his bike, a look of concern on his face. “Everything okay?”
Before I know it, we’re flirting, and when he makes a comment about enjoying big challenges, I can’t help it. I challenge him to a race around the ski hill.
We take off, pushing the bikes hard. I cheated a little and took off before he was ready, but it's not that big of a cheat. He’s a big boy with lots of muscle, so I’ll take all the edge I can get. As we go around the curve heading toward the ski hill and next to the mint, he's caught up with me. Still, I put a surge on, getting up off my saddle and pushing hard, and I just barely stay ahead of him as we pass the sign for the ski hill and I start to brake.
“You little cheater!” Aaron says, coming to a stop in mock outrage. “Good riding though.”
I smile at the praise in his voice. “Helps that you're riding a damn brick with wheels.”
Aaron laughs and nods, patting his handlebars. “Actually, I think Captain White said this is aluminum.”
I think he realizes he basically just said he’s a cadet, as if I didn’t already know all the way back at the bridge. “Guess you know I'm a cadet then?”
“The haircut was a sign. The big 'USMA triathlon' on your back helps, too,” I tease, smiling. “What year are you?”
“I'm a yuk . . . sorry, sophomore,” Aaron says, and I realize something. He doesn't recognize that I'm also in the Army. I guess in my civilian clothes, I still look like a normal girl. “I'm a Devil,” he adds.
“A Devil, huh?” I tease, knowing exactly what he means. Each of the cadet companies have a mascot, most of them matching alphabetically after the company name. So, A-1 is the Axemen, B-3 is the Bandits, stuff like that. Most Army units have that sort of thing going on, although I think the Corps of Cadets has some strange ones out there, the D-1 Devils being one of them. “So where are your horns?”
He looks at me, and I can tell he’s not sure how to take my comment. I realize that he could take it a couple of ways, some playful, some not. I smile, not letting him know that I didn't mean the horn that's obviously between his legs. His bike pants are doing nothing as far as hiding what he's got there, but I'm gonna run with it, have a little bit of fun. It's been a while. I'm enjoying the old feeling.
“It's just my company nickname,” Aaron says. “Anyway, I had fun. I've still got a little time on my training time. I was going to do some hill sprints, from the river up to Michie Stadium. What's your plan?”
“I'm just going to take it easy and head out toward Cornwall,” I tell him regretfully. Doing hill work from the river up to Michie Stadium is not what I'd call fun, and I'm working up enough of a sweat as it is. “Sorry.”
“That's okay,” Aaron says, then rubs his head. “Are you maybe going to be riding on Saturday? It'd be nice to have some company.”
A date? Did I just get asked out on a date? I mean, it's a bike ride, but it sure feels like I just got asked out on a date. Before I can consider the idea more, my mouth opens and I reply, “Sure. Tell you what, meet you here at eleven?”
“Eleven? That'd be great,” Aaron says, then stops. “Oh . . . uh, what if something comes up?”
I chuckle. He’s slick, I’ll give him that. I go to the little toolkit on the back of my bike, where I keep a few things, one of which is a permanent marker. It’s useful in a few ways, but I've never used it this way before. I go over and unzip his jacket, getting a little thrill at seeing the way his body looks with the sweat sticking the cotton PT shirt to his torso. I write my phone number on his shirt in one of the dry spots, ruining it but not caring. Besides, I think I'm worth ten dollars to get my number, right? “There. That's my cellphone. Don't call during your work hours, okay?”
Aaron looks down in surprise at the number and grins, nodding. “Interesting way to do it. You just ruined my shirt, but I’ll take it. I hardly ever ge
t to wear this anyway.”
I cap my pen and go back over to my bike, picking it up off the ground. “Baby, I'm worth it,” I say with a wink at my corny attempt at humor, getting back on my saddle. “I love that song.”
He laughs, and I can feel him watching me as I ride off. I glance back as I round the corner, and he's still standing there, watching me. I feel a bit of warmth in my cheeks that doesn't come from the exercise at all. I wasn't lying. A few more easy miles here, and back to the barracks. Then I can use a shower and relax some. A good end to a tough day.
After my shower, regret about what I did starts to set in. I flirted with a cadet. I gave him my personal cellphone number, for fuck's sake! What sort of idiot does that?
One of the first rules drilled into every female soldier when you join the service by the female Drill Sergeants is that you do not, under any circumstances, fraternize with officers, male or female. The Army's willing to overlook a friendship that comes from certain activities if it doesn't occur within your own unit, like if you're friends with an officer through church or something like that.
Though, when it comes to romantic or personal relationships, the rule is that 'blue shouldn't be fucking blue anyway.' Of course, this rule gets broken. I've heard enough stories about girls getting reputations as 'Camp Cuties' when they're deployed, but even then, for female enlisted, the iron-clad, no negotiations rule is to keep your damn legs together when it comes to officers. If you need to get an itch scratched, there's plenty of enlisted people who'll help you with that. Officers live in their own world, and there's enough men and women there to be able to keep themselves entertained if that's what they want to do.
When I got to West Point, Sergeant Greene pulled me aside and told me the USMA addendum to the rule. “Morgan, you're a pretty girl,” she said that day, looking me up and down, “Here at USMA, you're damn near a supermodel. I'm warning you now, some of the male cadets are gonna try for you. Never, ever get involved. The Corps call themselves 'The Long Gray Line.' I do too. And you never want to cross that line.”
Duty: A Secret Baby Romance Page 2