[Conduct Unbecoming 01.0] Conduct Unbecoming

by LA Witt

  I laughed quietly. “Good idea.”

  “And I know just the thing.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Oh?”

  “You like sake?”

  “I haven’t tried it.”

  “What?” He clicked his tongue. “And you’ve been here how long?”

  “Long enough I probably should have had sake by now.”

  “Yes, exactly.” He pressed the button to summon the waitress. “I think I’d rather have awamori tonight, though.”

  “Awamori?”

  “Kind of like sake, except it’s served cold. And this shit is strong.”

  I grinned. “Good. That’s the way I like it.”

  “Yeah, well, make—”

  The door opened again. Shane placed the order, and the waitress disappeared, sliding the door shut behind her.

  Once we were alone again, he said, “You may like stuff strong, but this shit? Go easy on it.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Are you telling a Sailor how to handle his liquor?”

  Shane laughed. “You’re welcome to pound it like tequila shots, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” The mischievous sparkle in his eyes may as well have been a dare.

  “Hmm,” I said. “I think I’ll go easy on the awamori.”

  “Smart man.”

  The awamori arrived in the form of a bottle, two glasses of ice and a pitcher of water. Shane poured some of the liquor into the glasses, then filled them the rest of the way with water.

  “I still think that’s sacrilege,” I said, watching the water line rising in my glass.

  He set the pitcher down. “You’re welcome to drink it straight if you’d like, but I’d try it this way first.”

  “Well, if you’re going to take it weak, then…” I picked up the glass and raised it.

  He clinked his against mine, and we both drank.

  I immediately grimaced, then coughed. “Jesus, that shit is strong.”

  He laughed. “Told you. There’s a reason they water it down.”

  Coughing again, I put the glass on the table. “Yeah, I understand now. My God.”

  “Like it?”

  “Ask me again when my eyes stop watering.” I coughed once more, picked up the glass, and took a slightly less ambitious drink. This time, the water tempered the burn a little, and it went down smoother.

  We drank for a while, working our way through the various dishes in between putting away glass after glass of awamori. The shit was strong on the palate, and it sure cleared my sinuses, but by the time we’d reached the bottom of the bottle, I didn’t feel much.

  “Okay, I know I’ve been a Sailor long enough to have a crazy-high alcohol tolerance.” I held up the empty bottle. “But I’ve had NyQuil kick my ass harder than this.”

  Shane grinned. “Give it time. It likes to catch up all at once.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  He ordered a second bottle, and we dove into that one along with a second plate of gyoza rolls.

  “So you said you went to Iraq?” I said. “When were you over there?

  “My first tour was right after everything started there. The second was…” He paused. “Wow, almost five years ago now. Hard to believe it’s been that long.”

  “Time flies once you’re out of the Sandbox, doesn’t it?”

  “God, yeah.” He rested his chin on top of his folded hands. “You been over there?”

  I nodded. “Did a year in Afghanistan, came home for a year, then did a year in Iraq. Well, technically ten months, since I spent the last two in Kuwait working the supply lines.”

  Shane cocked his head. “How’d you end up on supply detail?”

  “Light duty.” I pushed up my T-shirt sleeve and gestured at a scar just above my right elbow. “Busted my arm.”

  “How the fuck did you manage that?”

  “Getting hurt in a war zone? I know, who can imagine.” Our eyes met, and we both laughed quietly. I pulled my sleeve back down and reached for the awamori. Shane slid his glass my way, and as I topped them off, I went on. “Kind of fucked up, actually. Ironic as hell, considering why we’re over there, but it was all because of an oil slick.”

  “An oil slick?” He took his drink back and watched me over it as he took a sip.

  “Yeah.” I sipped the awamori, which wasn’t even making my eyes water anymore. “We had a convoy come in that had been damaged by an IED, and we’d stopped it to inspect the damage. You know, make sure there was no unexploded ordnance that could pose a hazard. What no one realized was that some shrapnel had caused a lovely little oil leak, and while the vehicle was stopped, I guess that shrapnel came loose. So did the oil. When they rolled the vehicle out of the way, I was directing the other one into its place, stepped in the slick, and—” I made a sharp downward gesture.

  He grinned. “You didn’t see an oil slick in the sand?”

  “Fuck you. It was nighttime, and we were running low lights.”

  “Oh, well, that makes sense, then.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Are you mocking me?”

  “Maybe.”

  I flipped him off; then we both laughed as I went for my drink. “So what about you? Any battle scars?”

  “A few.” Shane put his right foot up on the bench beside him and gestured at some jagged white scars below his knee. Each was two or three inches long, and some disappeared behind his knee while others arched over the top.

  I cringed. “Shit, what happened?”

  “Razor wire.” He put his foot down again and rested his arms on the table. “Went right through my cammies and tore the fuck out of my leg. Got my hand too.” He held up his right hand, which also had some wicked scars across his palm and wrist.

  “What the hell did you do?” I asked. “Try to wear the razor wire?”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t know they’d strung up some more wire outside our tents. Bit of a lapse in communication between some contractors and my chain of command.” He rolled his eyes. “Anyway, we took mortar fire one night, and when me and two other guys in the unit tried to take cover, I found out the hard way they’d strung wire right across the gap between two tents. Spent a week or two on light duty until the stitches came out, but it wasn’t exactly Purple Heart material.”

  “At least yours was in actual combat,” I muttered. “I fucking went to war, survived all kinds of firefights and close calls with IEDs, and what do I do?” I gestured at my arm, then picked up my glass to take a drink.

  “Well, look on the bright side,” he said, his words just slightly slurred. “You could embellish the fuck out of it and make it a story to tell the grandkids.”

  “Oh, yeah, there you go.” I laughed. Damn, when did I get so light-headed? “I could tell ’em it happened in Nam. When the Germans had us surrounded.”

  Shane snorted. “Damn those Nazis in Vietnam. Get you every fucking time.”

  I almost choked on my drink. “Guess I was a sitting duck,” I slurred. “My desert camouflage fucking stood out in the damn jungle.” I paused, suddenly aware of the ridiculous turn the conversation had taken. I peered suspiciously at the glass in my hand. “I think this stuff’s kicking in.”

  “What was your first clue?”

  Our eyes met, and we both burst out laughing. Yeah, we were definitely drunk.

  “Wow, you’re right about this shit.” I held up my nearly empty glass. “When it hits you, it hits you.”

  “Yes, yes, it does.” He picked up the bottle and topped off his glass with a hell of a lot more awamori than water. “Just means it’s doin’ its job.”

  “True facts.” I pushed my glass toward him. As he filled it, I looked around the tiny—spinning, when did it start spinning?—room. “Man, do you realize the shit you could get away with in a place like this?”

  “No.” He slid my glass back toward me and winked. “Never thought of it.”

  “Was that sarcasm?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I think it was.”

  He rolled his e
yes. “Why do you think we’re here, Eric?”

  “I thought I was getting cultured.” I looked at the glass in my hand. “Well, and shit-faced.”

  “Yes, you’re getting cultured. And shit-faced.” Shane swung his legs up onto the seat beside him and, wavering a little, pushed himself to his feet. “But I had other reasons for bringing you here.” His gait was unsteady as he came around the table, walking on the tatami-covered seats since there was nowhere else to go, and I almost dropped my glass when I realized he was on his way over to sit beside me.

  “You know you didn’t have to get me drunk for that, right?” I said.

  He eased himself onto the seat beside me and put his arm around my shoulders. “No, but I’ve never seen you drunk before, so…” He shrugged, but before either of us could speak again, he leaned in and kissed me. His fingers were still damp and cool from holding his glass, and I shivered as they trailed across my cheek.

  My head spun, but hell if I knew if it was Shane’s kiss or the awamori. Maybe both. Either way, I let myself get lost in him and the alcohol and his kiss, and I didn’t give a fuck if my entire chain of command was in the next room over.

  Shane drew back enough to look me in the eye. “God, Eric, I am so, so…” He ran his fingers through my hair, then laughed. “Drunk.”

  I laughed, touching my forehead to his. “You too, huh? Who’d have thought?”

  “All that booze,” he slurred. “Can’t imagine.”

  “Thank God for cabs, am I right?”

  “Mm-hmm.” I kissed him again.

  “We should”—he kissed me—“get out of here.”

  I didn’t bother arguing. “Yes. Now.”

  “Well, in a minute.” His hand slid around the back of my neck, and we sank into another long, long kiss. Then…one more. Just like the night we met, it took us so long to pull ourselves apart, the ice had melted in our glasses.

  Shane paged the waitress, then went back to the other side of the table. We both dove into the awamori again, though we both went a little heavier on the ice and water than the booze this time.

  Settling up the bill was a challenge. We were too drunk, it was too Japanese, and the waitress could’ve taken us for an extra thousand yen or two and we never would have noticed. Or cared. We’d paid, so that was good enough for me.

  Taxis were lined up on the curb outside, and there wasn’t an American in sight, so we didn’t think twice—probably couldn’t have if we’d wanted to—about getting in the same cab. I got in first, and Shane slid in after me. He gave the driver his address, though his Japanese took considerably more effort than usual.

  And as soon as the car was in motion, I was in Shane’s arms again. In the back of my mind, I worried the driver might say something or be offended, but…God, Shane’s kiss. How was I supposed to think about anything else?

  All too soon, we stopped. We got out of the car, and I put an arm around Shane’s waist just for balance as he counted out the yen for the driver.

  The driver took the money and looked up at us, smiling and probably poised to thank us, but then he saw me. His eyes widened, and his smile fell. I couldn’t figure out his reaction. He quickly muttered something in Japanese, then left so fast the tires squealed on the pavement.

  Shane furrowed his brow and watched the cab go. Then he turned to me, and in the most matter-of-fact tone possible, said, “You know, I think he thought you were a woman.”

  “What?” I stared at him. “I don’t look like a woman.”

  “No, but you were behind him. He couldn’t see you.” Shane made a drunken gesture down the road. “Whole time we were back there, he probably thought I was feeling up a girl.”

  Remembering the look of horror on the driver’s face, I put the pieces together. No wonder he hadn’t said a word about the two of us making out in the backseat. Any other night, I’d have grumbled about homophobia, but…I was drunk. Like everything else tonight, the man’s reaction was funny, and when Shane’s eyes met mine, we both collapsed into laughter.

  “Great,” I said, struggling just to speak through the alcohol and my laughter. “All night I’m worried some fucker will figure out who we are, and this guy mistakes me for a chick.”

  Shane started to speak but paused. Then he shook his head. “Fuck, I forgot what I was gonna say.”

  “Probably wasn’t that funny.”

  “Hey, fuck you.”

  “Isn’t that why we’re here?”

  He slid his arm around my waist. “Yes, it is. Why don’t we get upstairs, then?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  We were too drunk to stand, let alone walk without the other’s help, and way too drunk to care if anyone saw us leaning on each other on the way up the stairs. Not that it mattered out here. Most of his neighbors were Japanese, and everyone knew service members partied hard. My arm around Shane’s shoulders didn’t mean we wanted to fuck, it just meant I couldn’t fucking walk. As far as they were concerned, anyway.

  Somehow, we made it up the stairs and into his apartment. Down the hall. Into his bedroom. We got as far as kicking off our shoes before we just tumbled into bed together, fully clothed.

  And that’s about the time the second and third bottles of awamori caught up with both of us. Kisses slowed down. Every movement was as slurred as the occasional words we slipped in between kissing. Even our breathing slowed. My body was lethargic, my limbs heavy, and my mind shifted from needing Shane to needing sleep.

  “I’m so fucking tired,” I murmured.

  “You too?” He kissed my forehead. “I can barely keep my eyes open.”

  “Same here.” I rested my head on his shoulder. Shane wrapped his arms around me. I thought he said something. Maybe I did too. Before I could give it too much thought, sleep took over, and I drifted off in his arms.

  Chapter Twelve

  Shane

  Who the fuck installed a sun that bright?

  I winced and closed my eyes again, which didn’t help me make sense of my surroundings or why I felt like shit. It did ease some of the pulsing between my temples, though. Whatever. It dulled the pain. Good enough for me.

  Slowly, I took stock of the rest of my situation. My arm was numb. I was still in my clothes for some reason.

  And my head? Jesus fucking Christ. I was certain a pair of battleships had spent the better part of the night playing bumper boats with my skull in the middle.

  Good morning, awamori.

  At least I’d been just drunk enough I didn’t dream. Or if I did, I was drunk enough I didn’t remember. Maybe that was why so many guys drank like fish after their tours.

  Eric was beside me. His shirt was rumpled, his head was on my shoulder, and he was out cold. He was also on my arm, and I grimaced as I carefully freed that arm.

  I opened and closed my hand, wincing at the intense tingle of blood rushing back into my fingers.

  He opened his eyes, then covered them and groaned.

  “Coffee?” I asked.

  “God, yes.” He groaned again and rubbed his temples with his fingers. “Why did you make me drink that shit again?”

  “Make you?” I laughed. “Oh, come on. I hardly forced it down your throat.”

  “You might have mentioned it would come back and bite me in the morning.”

  I shrugged. “You know a hangover is always a risk.”

  He glared at me, then went back to rubbing his temples.

  “To be fair, I did tell you it would catch up with you quickly.”

  He flipped me the finger but otherwise said nothing.

  I laughed and kissed his forehead. “I’ll go make coffee.”

  We put on some clothes and shuffled out to the kitchen, which, like the bedroom, had obnoxiously bright sunlight pouring in through the windows. I drew the curtains to block out as much as I could, and then, squinting and swearing, managed to get some coffee on.

  As we sipped our coffee, I said, “What do you think about going snorkeling on your next day off
? It’s getting to be the perfect weather for it.”

  He set his cup down. “I suppose I don’t need to ask if you know some good places.”

  “Oh, just a few.” I paused. “I mean, as long as you’re still down with being out in public somewhere.”

  He smiled over the rim of his cup and met my eyes. “I’m getting much more comfortable with it, believe me.”

  “Good.” I grinned. “And snorkeling? No one’s going to notice us. If they can recognize us facedown in the water, well”—I raised my coffee in a mock toast—“more power to ’em.”

  Eric laughed. “That would assume they actually went off base once in a while too, wouldn’t it?”

  “Exactly.” I idly ran my thumb up and down the handle of my coffee cup. “I know some good spots. Pretty damn far from any of the bases too.”

  “Tell me when and where,” he said. “I’ll be there. I’ve been dying to snorkel here.”

  “Can’t blame you.”

  “If it’s anything like Hawaii or Guam, you won’t be able to keep me out of the water after this. Just so you know.”

  I grinned again. “Then I guess we’d better stock up on sunscreen, shouldn’t we?”

  ~*~

  Hangovers, thank God, never lasted too long. The euphoria from a weekend with Eric? Oh, that carried me well into Monday afternoon. My hips and back didn’t ache too much. Maybe that meant my body was getting the hang of having that much sex with someone like him. Which clearly meant we needed to have more.

  Eric wouldn’t be off until late tonight, so I went with everyone for beers after work. Even Morris couldn’t get to me today, so we were safe from brawling tonight. I hoped, anyway. It was always risky taking a good mood anywhere near him. He could make short work of good spirits.

  But he’d have to work at it this time. I sat at the end of the bar with Mays and Gonzales, laughing over beers—a Coke for Mays, since he was DD—and a basket of tortilla chips while Morris annoyed some of the other guys a few seats away.

  Mays had dark circles under his eyes, and I didn’t have to ask why.

  “So,” I said, “enjoying being a dad?”

  “It’s awesome,” he said. “I’m telling you, though, she has my sleep pattern in a choke hold.” He clicked his tongue. “If I’m awake, she puts me to sleep. If I’m asleep, she wakes me up. I think I got more sleep in Iraq.”