by L. A. Witt
There was probably enough maritime memorabilia in the house to open an actual museum. Attached to the front of the bar was a wood and brass helm that had been a gift to Dad after he’d retired. On either side of it, a pair of brass artillery casings stood to almost midthigh on me. I shuddered at the memory of one of those tipping over and breaking eight-year-old me’s toe.
Along the far wall of the rec room were four of the huge hardwood bookcases. There were tons more pieces of Navy memorabilia on the shelves. Even the bookends were all military themed. A pair of cannons from the crew of his first ship after he transferred. The bow and stern of an aircraft carrier. Red and green navigational lights. And, of course, all the books between them were Navy related. Dad must’ve had every book Tom Clancy had ever written, plus dozens of books on great military leaders, naval battles, World War II, and the history of the Navy. He even kept a handful of old copies of the Manual for Courts-Martial from both his era and my grandfather’s.
I wonder what those versions say about officer-enlisted hookups.
I squirmed. It had always been forbidden, and I’d known it since I was a kid. My grandparents had both been in the Army during World War II, and Grandma wouldn’t date Grandpa because he wasn’t an officer. If he hadn’t gotten his commission while stationed there—thanks to a battlefield promotion after his commander was killed—I literally wouldn’t exist.
They’d both be spinning in their graves if they knew about me and Will.
I shook that thought away and scanned Dad’s familiar Navy memorabilia. Every time I came home, I realized how much I’d truly been living and breathing the Navy since the day I was born. When I’d reported to my first shipboard command, the smell of the ship—a distinctive combination of metal, rubber, diesel, and seawater—had taken me back to my childhood like the smell of beer and hot dogs takes most people back to baseball games and county fairs.
The football game wasn’t holding my interest at all, so I got up from my recliner and made a slow path around the room to scrutinize all the things that had surrounded me since I was a child.
The colorful framed certificates from Neptune’s Court and the Order of the Blue Nose were as familiar to me as my parents’ wedding photos. Things I’d seen on the walls but hadn’t completely understood until I was older. As a child, it had never struck me as odd how normal the Navy was to me, or that kids in civilian families really didn’t understand Wog Day or know what a shillelagh was. When I’d crossed the equator for the first time myself, I’d been as ready as anyone ever was for the traditional hazing, and though I’d never admit it out loud to my old-school dad, relieved as hell that the shillelagh really had been banned for good. The thought of getting beaten with a three-foot chunk of firehose had never held much appeal.
I shuddered at the memory and kept wandering the room. Every room in my parents’ house had at least one shadowbox in it, usually with examples of knots or with some small trinkets Dad had picked up overseas. Of course the one over the mantle was the shadowbox—the one with Dad’s medals and the last official portrait of him before he retired. I couldn’t count how many times he’d proudly told me I’d have one of those myself someday.
I stared up at that shadowbox. It had been impressive when I was younger, but it was intimidating now. I was proud of what few promotions and medals I had so far, but comparing them to Dad’s gold oak leaves, the rows of medals, and all the bars on his shoulder boards . . . it was like wearing a Little League uniform to a Major League game. Same sport, drastically different level.
Maybe it would’ve been easier if Dad had still been on active duty when I’d been commissioned. Like when my brother had gone in ten years before me. Dad had retired between my sophomore and junior years in high school, but my brother had already made lieutenant commander and had a couple of combat deployments under his belt. I wondered if it had intimidated him, being the son of a decorated captain when he’d still been at my level, or if it’d made it easier, knowing Dad was still in and still busting his ass commanding an aircraft carrier.
Now that Dad was retired, his perspective had changed. Everything was filtered through rose-colored glasses, and he couldn’t imagine why my brother or I were stressed or frustrated or sometimes legitimately wanted to quit and go back to being civilians. The minute he’d retired, he’d forgotten all about how much he used to snarl and complain, and how many times Medical had threatened to recommend a medical retirement if his blood pressure didn’t come down.
I wondered if that was what Will had meant when he’d talked about remembering where I came from. If I really would put on a pair of oak leaves and forget there’d ever been a time when I’d been anything other than a leader who was to be respected and obeyed.
My mind didn’t drift toward my future as a leader under those oak leaves, though. Or whether I’d remember where I came from.
It went right to Will.
I pulled my attention away from Dad’s shadowbox and took a deep swallow of beer. I missed Will. How was he holding up, anyway? My family drove me crazy sometimes, but his sounded downright toxic, at least as far as his sexuality was concerned.
With a glance over my shoulder to make sure Dad was still glued to the game, I took out my phone and texted, How is your Tgiving going?
He responded in under a minute. Would much rather be with you.
Same here. Going ok with your folks?
Good as it ever does.
Well, that was something. No screaming matches or anything, I guessed. I was about to send another reply when my brother, Dan, materialized beside me.
“Hey.” He held out a bottle of beer. “Looked like you could use a refill.”
I glanced down at the bottle in my hand and realized it was nearly empty. I quickly drained it, put it in the recycling bin behind the bar, and took the one Dan had offered. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” He clinked the neck of his own against mine. “So how are you liking NAS Adams?”
There was not enough beer in this house.
Channeling every reserve of patience I possessed, I met my brother’s gaze. “It’s all right. It’s fine.”
“What do you think of—”
“Dan.” I sighed and shook my head. “Dad’s going to grill me up one side and down the other about work once the game is over. I really just want to relax.”
He nodded. “Yeah, I can understand that. But, uh . . . fair warning?” He tilted his beer bottle toward the living room. “My new XO is the son of one of Dad’s old buddies, and a guy he went to Annapolis with just took command of the East Coast fleet. So, that’s probably going to be dinner conversation.”
I groaned. There was definitely not enough beer in this house.
I’d never know how Mom did it, but she timed it so dinner was ready right when the game was over. We all sat down—my parents, my brother and his wife, and me—said grace, then dug in.
“So how are you liking that base?” Dad asked as he poured gravy on a slab of turkey.
Jesus. Can I eat first?
“It’s all right.” I focused on scooping some peas onto my plate.
“How long do you figure you’ll be there?”
“Two more years.”
He scowled, and I cringed. Wrong answer.
“You shouldn’t stay there longer than you have to,” he said. “Those landside commands are fine and good, but if you really want the boards to take you seriously—”
“I know, Dad.” I tried to keep some of the frustration out of my voice. “But I’ve already spent three-quarters of my career on a ship. Spending a couple of years on shore won’t kill my chances of getting promoted.”
He shook his head. “You don’t want to think about what might hurt your chances. You need to think about what will improve your chances. It’s going to start getting competitive before you know it, and you’ll need every advantage you can get.”
The food on my plate looked and smelled amazing, but my stomach suddenly wasn’t
interested. Still, I chased a few peas into the gravy and took a bite so Mom wouldn’t worry. To Dad, I said, “The commander I work for is helping me make connections. It’s a small base, but he knows people.”
“Oh good. Good.” He gave an approving nod. “That’s what you need.”
No, what I need is to eat, and then get back to Anchor Point and my boy—
“So they still have you working in admin? Or did someone finally give you a real job?”
It wasn’t going to stop, was it?
I exhaled. “Yes, I’m still in admin.”
“You don’t belong there. You went to Annapolis, for God’s sake!”
My brother chuckled. “Tell them to put you somewhere where you’re not doing grunt work.”
“At least it’s just paperwork,” Dad muttered. “Anything else is what the enlisted ranks are for, son. Somebody’s gotta do the shit jobs.”
I gritted my teeth. There might’ve been a time when I would’ve laughed along with him. In fact, I realized now how much contempt I’d been raised to have for those who enlisted. They were there to do the dirty work while the rest of us rose to the top, and they should be grateful for everything we officers bestowed on them.
The fact that it took dating an enlisted guy to make me see how fucked up that was? Yeah, that made me feel like a piece of shit, but better late than never.
“Well, what you need to do,” Dad continued, “is talk to your commander about working at a joint command. Offutt is in Nebraska, and it’s not great, but it’s good for your career.”
I chased a glob of stuffing along the edge of the gravy. The nonstop Navy hadn’t bothered me as a kid, but now it was exhausting. Fuck, I needed a break.
“Dad.” I put up a hand. “I know you’re trying to help, and I appreciate it, but I’m on leave. I want to leave work at work for a few days.”
He laughed. “Kid, that’s one thing you need to learn sooner than later—you might be on leave, but you’re never not in the Navy.”
I ground my teeth. “I get that. But it doesn’t mean every conversation needs to focus on it.”
“You need to stay focused, Brent.”
“During Thanksgiving dinner?”
He started to speak, but Mom broke in with, “Are you meeting anyone there? Making some friends?”
You could say that.
I hesitated. “A few, yeah.”
“No girlfriends?”
“Nope. No boyfriends either.”
She smiled, but I could feel my dad’s scowl even before I turned his way.
He put his fork down and sighed. “Son, I know they’ve changed the policy, but that doesn’t change everybody’s minds. When you get higher up, you’re going to be relying on congressmen for your promotions.” He shook his head. “Not all of those guys are keen on—”
“Dad, I’m aware of the political situation,” I growled. “Times have changed.”
“Not as much as you think,” he muttered.
“Ron.” Mom’s tone was laced with warning, which she didn’t direct at him very often. “Brent said he doesn’t want to discuss the Navy. Can we please let it drop?”
Dad scowled harder. Wisely, though, he didn’t push. When Mom put her foot down, he knew better than to keep at it. We all did.
After a moment, he exhaled and turned to my brother. “So I hear Frank Hayes just transferred to your base. You met him?”
My brother nodded. “Yeah, several times. You know he’s a two-star now?”
Well, it was still a Navy conversation, but I could tolerate hearing about my brother’s career more than I could tolerate discussing mine, so I quietly ate while they talked.
Between dinner and dessert, I helped Mom clear the table, and on the way back from the kitchen, stole a second to check my phone.
Half an hour or so ago, Will had texted: Is it Monday yet?
I laughed. Never thought I’d say this, but I wish.
LOL Soon, right?
Yep. Soon.
The texts from Will made me smile, but also added some apprehension to my gut. I cut my eyes toward Dad as I took my seat at the table again. Pocketing my phone, I reminded myself there was no way my parents could possibly know about him. I hadn’t dropped any hints about seeing anyone. Mom always asked, and she hadn’t seemed to suspect anything when I’d given my standard Nope, still single response.
It wasn’t like telling them I actually had a boyfriend—rather than casually reminding them a boyfriend was an option—would turn Thanksgiving into a disaster. My parents didn’t have anything against gay people, and though they didn’t entirely understand bisexuality, they had nothing nasty to say about it. Nothing they’d said to my face, anyway, and neither of them had ever been inclined to hold back if they disapproved of something.
The problem was that the military had not been historically queer friendly, and my dad wouldn’t let go of his fear that being out would damage or kill my career. He still wasn’t completely sold on the idea that DADT was truly gone, and he was convinced I’d never make rank if I was openly queer. He’d given me crap tonight, and it was so not the first or last time.
“You like women,” he’d said last Christmas, “so find one and marry her, and then you won’t have to worry about losing out on a promotion or getting your own boat because the board finds out you’re queer.”
If he knew I was dating an enlisted guy, he would lose his fucking mind.
And an unusually rebellious part of me wanted to tell him. I wanted to look my father in the eye and tell him. Not only that my boyfriend was enlisted—he was career enlisted. Dad could grudgingly accept someone enlisting long enough to get the GI Bill so they could pursue a respectable civilian career.
Enlisting for twenty years or more? That was a joke as far as my father was concerned. Never mind that the Navy would fall apart without the people in the senior enlisted ranks. A coal mine wouldn’t get very far without miners, but that didn’t mean Dad respected them.
A weird feeling settled in my stomach.
Was I dating Will to rebel against my father?
Except . . . no. No, I could definitively say that I wasn’t. Maybe in the beginning. He’d been attractive as hell from the moment I’d laid eyes on him, but it was entirely possible his enlisted uniform had had something to do with it. In the beginning.
I thumbed the label on my beer bottle. If there’d been any rebelliousness at all, it was gone. I wanted Will. My momentary temptation to tell Dad about him? That was gone as quickly as it had come. Thinking about him now made me want to call the airline and see about moving up my flight home. I missed him.
I swallowed. God. I really did miss him. Like, a lot.
No, really. Is it Monday yet?
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been this squirrelly. It had only gotten worse since Brent texted me to let me know his plane was on the ground, and again when he’d left the airport to head for Anchor Point. Of course it was almost a hundred miles from there to here, so there was nothing for me to do except wait for him and try not to twitch to death.
I’d driven back from Seattle late last night. He’d left Norfolk early this morning.
Soon. Not soon enough, but . . . soon.
He texted me again: Stopped for gas. Be in A.Pt in 10 min.
I barely kept myself from groaning out loud, both in frustration and anticipation. Ten minutes out of Anchor Point meant another five to eight minutes to my front door.
If I hadn’t been losing my mind before, I sure as hell was now. I paced the living room. Wandered through the kitchen I’d already cleaned three times since breakfast. Checked the bedroom to make sure the condoms and lube I’d bought last night hadn’t magically disappeared.
I was too wound up to focus on anything except being wound up. After the better part of a week without him, I was too restless to handle another fifteen minutes apart. I was sure there’d been a time when I’d been this hungry for Vince or someone who’d come before him, but those
memories had faded pretty sharply with time. Assuming they’d existed at all. Had I ever been this desperate for anyone besides Brent?
I didn’t know, and it didn’t matter, because I was this desperate for him, and he was almost here.
Closing my eyes, I slowly released a breath. He was on his way. He’d be here. Ideally before something caught on fire, but he’d be here.
Not a moment too soon, Brent pulled in. His car wasn’t that distinctive—no massive engine that could be heard from down the block—but every vehicle had its own purr, and I could pick his out from a mile away.
I closed my eyes.
The engine turned off. The car door shut. Footsteps. God, yes, footsteps.
My heart pounded as he came up the walk, and before he’d reached the bottom step, I opened the front door.
Our eyes met. His smile made me shiver, and it was all I could do not to grab him and kiss him right there on the porch. Thank God we had all that practice with restraint.
I moved aside, and he quickly slipped inside. I closed us in, and somehow had the presence of mind to turn the dead bolt, and then? Then I was all his.
The second the door was shut enough to block out any potential voyeurs, we collided in a breathless embrace, and . . . fuck. Yeah. The world was back on its axis. Maybe this meant I was addicted to him, that I needed him more than I should, but right about then, I couldn’t have cared less. If this was an addiction, it wasn’t one I had any intention of fighting anytime soon.
“God, I missed you,” I growled between kisses.
“Me too.” He pushed his hands into my back pockets and squeezed my ass. “Been losing my mind since I left.”
“You and me both.” I rubbed my rock-hard dick against his, and groaned at the friction. After too many days of hiding his existence and my feelings for him, I needed to make up for lost time. I wanted him. Craved him. Damn it, I needed him to know that even though I couldn’t mention him, I sure as fuck hadn’t forgotten him.