Tight Quarters

by Annabeth Albert

  “Good. Got to accompany an oil company exec to Bahrain with...” Lowe drifted off. Bacon knew what he he’d been about to say and didn’t press him, waiting for Lowe to continue. Lowe was both working and living with Strauss, their former XO, but that information was on the serious down low to their old teammates. Not that that had stopped the rumors from flying, but Bacon was happy to give the two their much-deserved privacy. “Anyway, private security work is interesting. Miss you guys, though. Less need for explosives in the private sector. I’m still debating looking into bomb squad work, but this is good for now.”

  “I’m glad.” Bacon’s throat was thick. He really was happy for his friend. And he personally didn’t care about when Lowe’d fallen in love with Strauss—it had never affected either of the men’s work, and he wasn’t going to ask for a timeline. What mattered was that they were both happy together in civilian life. But the navy might not see it the same way, and the two had to be cautious even now. Which was exactly why Bacon had to be wary of the reporter. He couldn’t allow fraternization allegations to jeopardize Lowe and Strauss’s newfound happiness.

  Lowe chattered on a bit more about his private sector work, but then there was a low rumble of a voice in the background and he had to go, sounding not one bit sorry about the fast goodbye. Must be nice.

  Yeah, he needed to get laid himself. He wasn’t usually this morose. Unbidden, an image of Spencer Bryant crept into his brain. Nope, nope, nope. But maybe he could scratch the itch the man had awakened. Head out to the Hillcrest bars, find an older man...

  Buzz. His phone went off again. Still not the base, but his mother.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  “Hi, sweetheart. You still Stateside?” she asked.

  “Yup. We’re heading out soon, but I’ll try to text you when we do.”

  “I know it’s a Friday night, and all...” Her voice sounded more tentative than usual, so Bacon forced himself to take a deep breath, sound like the patient guy he was, and not the cranky bastard he’d been playing at all day.

  “It’s okay, Mom. What do you need?”

  “There’s something wrong with my toilet. It keeps running, but the landlord said he could have someone come on Monday—”

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. We need to find you a new landlord. Make a list of anything else you need me to do while I’m there—lightbulbs? We might be gone awhile, so I want to do what I can tonight.”

  “Thanks. I hate bothering you.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” His mom had moved across the country to be near him. The least he could do was go give her a hand. Busting out of his funk could wait.

  * * *

  Spencer supposed that it being a Friday night he should go explore San Diego, maybe get tipsy and get laid. But this embedded assignment was the opportunity of a lifetime, and he was too old for bar crawling anyway. He took himself out for dinner in the hotel restaurant, passing what looked to be an anniversary party in one of the ballrooms. A giant gold number fifty hung at the front of the room. Fifty. Jeez. He and Greg had barely made it five years, and three of those were bicoastal separation with sporadic visits. They’d each been married to their work before they ever got together, and while he missed talking shop with Greg, he didn’t pine for the relationship itself. Relationships were work and required sacrifice, which he wasn’t particularly good at.

  No, he was happier being a casual guy, dating here and there when he got tired enough of his right hand and eating alone, but otherwise keeping his independence. Greg had moved on, found an adorable preschool teacher to play house with, and Spencer was genuinely happy for him. In fact, he snapped a picture of the ballroom and texted it to Greg.

  Don’t you have an anniversary this week? You and Justin need to start planning now. You’ll have to wheel me in, of course.

  The reply came a few minutes later after he’d been seated at a side table in the restaurant.

  Ha. Yup. Three down, forty-seven to go. Heard through the grapevine that you got a plum assignment.

  Spencer ordered himself a glass of a nice white burgundy to have with his order of pasta with a cream sauce. The wine was a bit of an indulgence, as was the pasta, but he knew he could get called back to base at any time, and he wanted to make sure he had a meal that would last awhile if that was the case.

  After quickly ordering an arrangement of the same sort of daisies Greg and Justin had had at their wedding to be sent to their DC home, he texted Greg back.

  Yup. Embedded. Can’t say exactly where, but this should be a hell of a story.

  And it should. And that’s what he had to focus on, not his intriguing handler, not the weird team dynamics, nor the impression that they did not seem to want him there at all. He had to look beyond that, find the heart of the story that would grip readers. It was what he was good at—finding the human side of his assignments—but this time, he was also motivated by Harry’s suicide.

  They don’t see us. No one cares, Harry had texted him. But Spencer had been out chasing a story, hadn’t checked his phone until it was too late. Maybe nothing he could have said would have made a difference, but Harry had been upset that while Spencer’s book hit the bestseller charts, there was still no push in Washington to make real changes for veterans and enlisted personnel. Spencer was determined that his next story would lead to greater public awareness of military issues, give him a platform from which he could work to honor Harry’s life. Maybe by showing the inner workings of a spec ops team, he could help people to value the spec ops veterans in need of assistance. That was the plan at least.

  He didn’t linger over his meal and wine, instead heading back up to the hotel room, intent to bury himself in his research for the rest of the night. But as he was opening the room, his phone alarm chimed. Oh right. He needed to call Oscar, especially if he was going to be gone a few weeks.

  His old mentor answered on the first ring. “Spencer! I saw your email. You finally got permission to embed?”

  “I did. How are you? Been wondering if you had a good week.”

  “Not bad. The chemo nurses really are the best. There’s this cute young one, I simply must have you meet him.”

  “I don’t need you playing wingman.” Spencer laughed. Oscar was the one who’d originally introduced him to Greg. He didn’t need another round of heartache from overzealous matchmaking, even if he did like the vision of the eighty-something Oscar ogling his care providers. Showed he still had some spunk left. “Save him for yourself.”

  “Ha. That ship has long sailed, my friend. These days I’d rather work on my memoir with my limited energy. I’ll just live vicariously through you and your Bachelor-of-the-Year exploits.”

  “I never should have let them run that feature,” Spencer groaned. “And how is the memoir coming? I’m going to be busy the next few weeks, but I can look at some chapters—”

  Oscar scoffed. “I’d sooner have you see me in one of those ridiculous hospital gowns, ass hanging out. You’ll read it when I’m done.”

  “Okay, okay. But tell me you’re not going to talk about my first assignment.”

  “How could I not talk about my new A&E writer, whose first review got hate mail? I saved some of those, you know?”

  “It was a terrible production of The Nutcracker. It deserved the review.”

  “I know. And I’m still glad I didn’t listen to those theater owners who wanted your young head.” Oscar laughed fondly. “I hear you’re following in my footsteps, spoke to the paper’s latest group of interns. Managed to give them words of wisdom and not corrupt their budding journalistic minds. Quite the honor.”

  “I’m enjoying mentoring far more than I thought I would,” Spencer admitted. “Some of these kids have real promise. I’m looking forward to seeing what they’ve done when I’m back.”

  “Well, when you’re back in Los Angeles next, stop by. I’
ve got a nice Pinot Gris I’ve been saving for you.”

  “I will. You take care until then.” They ended the call with promises to talk soon. And Spencer hoped they would. He wasn’t ready to lose Oscar to his cancer, not yet. He’d been almost a second parent and was far warmer than Spencer’s art dealer father. And far more fun to talk to.

  Spencer worked on his notes for several hours, using a bad straight-to-streaming drama as background noise. He must have dozed off at some point, because next thing he knew, he was blinking awake and his phone was vibrating across the nightstand. As soon as he saw the detailed message from base with instructions to report, he was wide awake, adrenaline surging. Go time.

  Chapter Four

  Bacon helped his mom with her toilet, changed her flickering hall light, tightened her kitchen faucet, and triple-checked her locks. She lived in a not-so-great section of Chula Vista, so he worried, but she was close to the school where she worked as a teacher’s aide and to her favorite park, where she enjoyed the ocean views that her life in Kansas had sorely lacked. After he finished there, he thought about heading to a bar, trying the whole get-laid plan, but he just couldn’t summon enthusiasm for the endeavor and ended up coming back to the barracks, sober and frustrated.

  And determined not to jerk off thinking about silver fox reporters with intense eyes and...

  Okay. That happened. In like vivid detail too, a whole fantasy of blowing Bryant while on his knees, Bryant’s hand in Bacon’s hair, him saying filthy things in that cultured voice of his. Which was why when he woke up to the news that they were deploying, he was uncharacteristically embarrassed about his fantasy life and gave Bryant extra personal space as he greeted him at the base gates.

  “We’re on a transport to a base in the South Pacific where we’ll do more training before being sent into the field.” He filled Spencer in as they walked briskly in the eerie early morning chill. “LT says to remind you that you can’t say which one in your reports. Most likely it’s not just our team on the transport, but expect a long, boring thirteen hours of flight time. You got everything you’ll need?”

  “Yup.” Bryant patted the backpack he was carrying. He hadn’t overpacked, which was good. Bacon had his own bag, which he’d had ready to go, spidey senses telling him this call-out was imminent.

  “Good.” Bacon kept his voice light and friendly, as if being nice was a way to outrun his guilt over fapping to the guy.

  “Well, everything except coffee. Didn’t take the time to stop on the way here.”

  “There might be some drinks for purchase on the flight. We’ll have to see what the loadmasters have.” Bacon did a quick calculation as to whether they’d have time to hit the mess hall on the way to the airfield and determined that the LT’s wrath wasn’t worth it. “Curly usually has caffeinated gum because he says it keeps him from puking on rough flights, so if you get really desperate, let me know and I’ll try to snag you some.”

  Fuck. He wasn’t just being extra nice. Now he was talking too fast. And that stupid fantasy was going to haunt him all damn day.

  “Appreciated.” Despite being shorter, Bryant easily kept up with Bacon on the walk across base to the airfield.

  “You fly military before?”

  “Not a flight this long. I took commercial flights in and out of the Middle East, but I flew in some helicopters and transports while there.”

  “Well, LT says this flight is a C-40, which is basically a 737, but don’t expect an in-flight movie or anything like commercial comforts, although the flight crew will run extension cords down the aisle and I’ll try and find you a seat by an outlet if I can.”

  “Appreciated.”

  “You’re lucky. I figured they’d have us on a C-130J which is a cargo plane—huge, cold as fuck, and jumpseats only. We’ll have normal seats here at least, which is nice for a long flight.” Yup. Still rambling.

  As they approached the airfield, Bacon spotted his team assembled near the terminal. The loadmasters and other flight crew would be responsible for getting them on the aircraft, but the LT had his own list of reminders before they loaded onto the bus that would drive them out to the C-40.

  Curly looked particularly bleary eyed—he’d undoubtedly come straight from Rachel’s, and his pallor didn’t bode well for his stomach behaving during the flight. His bedraggled appearance had Bacon glad he’d forgone the bar scene in favor of helping his mother. At least he’d managed a few hours of sleep. Thanks to that fantasy...

  But he couldn’t think about that right then. If ever. And he absolutely could not let such a lapse happen again. Rooster arrived moments before they boarded the bus, getting the evil eye from both the LT and the senior chief. He looked like he’d had about as much sleep as Curly, but was bouncing on his feet and couldn’t stop grinning.

  “Someone got lucky,” Bullets observed as the bus took them across the runway to the plane. Beyond the C-40 was a giant C-130J that could easily fit Bacon’s mother’s small apartment building. Other planes and small vehicles darting about made the airstrip seem lively for how early the hour still was.

  “Yup. And now we get to go kick some ass. It’s a fine, fine navy day.” Rooster smiled widely. “Worth giving up my day off for and everything.”

  “There will be another chance to make your next video,” Curly assured him. Then seeming to remember Bryant’s presence, he turned toward Bacon and Bryant. “That’s off the record, man. We don’t need Rooster here going any more viral than he already has. His ego doesn’t need the inflating.”

  “I’ll bet,” Bryant said dryly, then added, “I promise I’m not here to broadcast your personal lives. Human interest is part of what I do, yes, but Public Relations gave me very strict guidelines about what I’m able to share—no real names or identifying facts. So, yeah, your social media celebrity is safe.”

  “Better be.” Curly looked like he be might be about to say more, but the roar of the planes as they got close drowned out their conversations.

  “We board from the rear,” Bacon yelled at Bryant. “Stick close to me.”

  “Will do,” Bryant yelled back as they exited the bus. Other personnel besides their team were on the flight, including a few space-A military family travelers. The flight crew made sure the families were seated together, then their team took the whole rear of the plane. As promised, Bacon found Bryant a seat near an outlet, but right as he was about to sit next to him, Curly called his name.

  “Bake. Please come play cards with me. I’m too pumped to sleep and my stomach doesn’t want to let me read.” Curly was several rows behind them.

  “Yeah, Bacon, you can ditch the babysitting duty while we’re in the air,” Bullets said, none too quietly. The LT and the rest of the team leadership were far to the front, though, and no heads swiveled. Still, it was rude as fuck and Bacon opened his mouth to tell him that.

  “It’s all right,” Bryant said mildly before he could speak. “Go with your friends. I’ve got plenty to occupy me.”

  “Thanks.” Bacon headed back to Curly, in part because he really didn’t want to spend the next ten-plus hours right next to Bryant, memories of that fantasy still lingering. He needed time to get his shit together. Leaving the middle seats open, he and Curly sat opposite Donaldson and Bullets, their usual card-playing partners. In front of them, Rooster and Shiny had somehow managed rows to themselves and looked ready to sack out.

  Once they were underway, they played a few hands before Donaldson started running off at the mouth. He was a killer poker player, but man, Bacon was damn sick of his attitude of late.

  “You know what I don’t miss? Lowe cleaning up at cards,” Donaldson observed. Lowe hadn’t played cards all that often, mainly keeping to himself, but when he’d played, he’d been a freaking shark, making Bacon glad they didn’t play for money.

  “Shut up. You’re just pissed because he’s better than you.�
�� Bacon kept his voice light, but he still wasn’t letting the slight pass.

  “I’m just saying, we had just gotten back to normal, and then they gave us the reporter. W-T-F, right? It’s like they want us queered-up.”

  Bacon waited a beat, but as usual, no one else spoke up. “Dude. It’s not catching. And Lowe’s a friend. Stop talking shit about him.”

  “I’m not talking shit.” Donaldson held up his hands as Bullets dealt them all fresh cards. “I’m just saying I’d rather hang with you guys. That’s all. Don’t want a distraction.”

  Come on, someone else say something. Please. He glanced at Curly, who was in the window seat, and his mouth was a thin line, but he was damnably silent. Why the fuck was it always on Bacon to be the PC police and educate these lunkheads on basic empathy?

  “I don’t care who I hang with as long as they’re not jerks,” he said finally, voice tight. “Homophobia’s not cool.”

  “I’m not homophobic.” Donaldson waved away the critique while the others stayed fucking quiet. Even Rooster, who hadn’t fallen asleep after all and was draped over the seat back watching them, was silent, face a thunderous mask. “I know people. I’m just saying when the chips are down, I know who’d I want next to me in the field.”

  Curly, for the love of God, say something. You know I’ve had your six for a fucking decade now. As if he could hear Bacon’s thoughts, Curly opened his mouth and said mildly, “Everyone here has your sorry six, Donaldson. Now can we play?”

  And with that, Bacon had fucking had it. He stood up. “I’m out.”

  “What? Why?” Bullets blinked. “You’d seriously rather hang with the reporter?”

  “At least he’s not talking smack about my friends.” And me. And with that, he strode up the aisle, cursing himself for not just coming out to the other guys right then and there. But would it fucking matter? Curly knew and apparently it hardly made him an advocate. Whatever his personal sexuality, Rooster had no problem with guys on social media ogling him, but couldn’t bothered to speak out either. Fuck. This. Shit. He clomped down the aisle.