by Rhys Astason
Only years of training kept Jackson from reacting poorly and looking guilty as he turned to face his best friend and former Wolf Pack teammate, Chief Petty Officer Brian Hunter.
“Chief.”
“Don’t you Chief me, Master Chief,” Brian said, his arms crossing against his impressive chest and giving Jackson his best ‘I know I caught you doing something you weren’t supposed to' look he usually reserved for green sailors just off the boat. “This is a level five course, Jackson. You have nothing to prove. The Navy didn’t promote you to Master Chief to keep your pretty face around. You have skills they find valuable, but if you blow out your other knee they will have no choice but to send you packing.”
Jackson slowly nodded, dropping his head to hide the relief that flooded his features. Hunter had only caught him running a course he hadn’t been medically cleared for and not staring after a pretty, young captain like a starving man facing a juicy T-bone.
“You’re right.”
“Of course I’m right,” Brian replied, slapping Jackson on shoulder that, had the other man not been prepared for, would have sent him sprawling on the sand. “I’m always right.” Brian grinned broadly, showing off white pearly teeth against a darker skin tone.
“Asshole,” Jackson grumbled. It was definitely becoming his favorite word.
“Fop.”
Jackson’s eyes flattened dangerously and one eyebrow arched as he put the full weight of his own version of the Command Master Chief Look onto Brian. “Fop?”
“You know,” Brian hesitated, “when that one duke goes out of his way to…”
“I read the book, Chief,” Jackson said, glaring menacingly. Then his lips twitched and the mask of righteous anger completely fell. “But I never thought you’d be man enough to admit to reading it.”
The silence lasted for a full two seconds before Brian’s explosive laughter filled the beach.
“Asshole!” Brian shook his head, a smile still playing across his lips. “You were right. It was a great way to just blow some steam.” Their eyes locked. Sometimes words weren’t necessary between brother warriors. The memories haunted both of them. Brian’s smile faltered briefly and eyes dropped to Jackson’s leg, then away.
“Brian-”
“I swear to God,” Brian started, turning back to Jackson and pointing at his chest, a smile back on his face but this time it didn’t quite reach his eyes, “if you tell anyone I actually read that lovey dovey girl porn, I’ll kill you in your sleep. And Jesus Christ those covers are horrid even in a reader.”
He responded to Jackson’s snort with his own laugh. “Come on, let’s get out of here.” He turned and smirked. “Bet I can beat you to the truck, old man.”
Jackson shook his head, a lazy grin in his face as he followed gamely up the weathered steps even as Brian detoured to a different car first. He knew that they would have to talk about that last mission someday. Really talk. But not today.
Jackson’s pace slowed when he saw a blue lump on his bumper. He picked up the still frozen ice pack. Gracen. Guilt rode through him hard as he glanced up to see her on the upper level parking waxing her surfboard. Nothing he could do right now, but he’d figure out a way to apologize somehow. Coffee. He’d buy her coffee and apologize. Satisfied with the plan, he pulled open the jeep's tailgate and hopped on, before gingerly placing the ice on his pounding knee.
“Jesus, you are getting old,” Brian said, handing him a cold water bottle.
“Pot. Kettle. Black.”
Brian laughed. “I’m vintage.” He puffed out his chest and tapped it twice before pointing to Jackson. “You, my friend, are an antique. No shame in being elderly, though.” He saluted with his own bottle before taking long drink. The broad smile on his face slowly faded. “This is my last tour with the Raiders.”
Jackson sent him a piercing look. Hunter was a career man, like himself. And that career was Special Warfare or nothing. “They pushing you out?”
“No,” Brian shook his head, “but the new guys are getting younger every day and I’m starting to feel old.” He shrugged. “Not as old as you, of course.” He laughed at Jackson’s scowl. “Speaking of which,” he nodded towards the upper level, “are officers getting younger?” A low, appreciative whistle cut through the air. “Damn. Should be against regulations for a captain to be that fuckable. Isn’t the Army supposed to be full of rejects?”
Show some fucking respect, was on Jackson’s lips but he managed to bite it back and followed Hunter’s gaze up to the second parking level. His eyes drank in the sight of Gracen peeling off the wetsuit to reveal a deep red tankini that had become his favorite. He tore his gaze away.
“Doctor Ellison? Never thought of her that way.” He hid his blatant lie behind the bottle of water, taking a long drink and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
He couldn’t believe how close he’d come to snapping at Hunter. Letting it out that he had a thing for the pretty, young officer – Hell, it was bordering on obsession, if he was honest with himself – was all he needed to top off this FUBAR day that had only just began. Looking at the crashing waves, he purposely ignored Brian’s incredulous look.
“Dear Mrs. Monroe,” Brian intoned dramatically, “the Naval Division of the American Federation regrets to inform you that your son, Master Chief Petty Officer Jackson Monroe is not just old, but actually a living corpse….”
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About the author
I live in a private island California with my two demonspawn wonderful, adorable, well-behaved boys and my nagging, patient, kind, and loving husband. I have always enjoyed talking back to the voices in my head creating stories and visiting new worlds. where I am the ruler of the universe and control everyone like puppets on a string.
Visit me at http://www.rhysastason.blogspot.com/ or
drop me a line [email protected].