Page 45 of Proof Of Life
West raises up on his elbow and searches my face. “Yeah, but what if you don’t like it? Does that mean we’re not gonna—we won’t be–”
“Is that what you’re worried about? That I won’t like it and I won’t want to be with you? And I’ll call the whole thing off?” Is he fucking serious? My expression softens, and I grip his chin. “To be honest, because I’ll always be honest with you, it doesn’t matter if I like it or not. There’re other ways we can be together that are satisfying. The point is, as long as we’re together, the logistics don’t matter.” He doesn’t look like he believes me and rolls his eyes. I want to convince him that I’m all in. “But to put it more romantically, there’s no way being inside of you isn’t going to feel good, and vice versa.”
His eyes widen slightly as he considers that, possibly based on how good what we did earlier felt. He must believe me because he leans in, and I swear he’s about to kiss me, and I close my eyes, lick my lips, but after a moment, I feel nothing but the kiss of the cool air. When I open my eyes, I’m not disappointed. Well, only slightly. He’s grinning at me like a fucking tease, and I can’t figure out if he faked me out on purpose or chickened out at the last moment, but either way, I don’t fucking care, because he’s smiling, and he’s hot as fuck, and apparently, he’s willing to try butt stuff with me.
West walks his fingers down my chest, down my stomach, and draws circles around my navel. My gut churns with anticipation.
“I’ve wondered about myself a few times,” I admit. “I've looked at guys we served with and thought, damn, what a magnificent body. But I’ve never gotten hard from looking at them. My thoughts sometimes bordered on sexual, wondering what their dicks looked like, but I guess I never crossed the line.” When he remains silent, I prod him. “What about you?”
“Nope. Never.” Fucking Dick, hanging me out to dry. “Just you. The thing is, I have no fucking clue what to do with you.” He laughs at himself. “I mean, if you were a woman…”
He dips his finger into my belly button, and it’s an odd oversensitive feeling that makes me want to squirm. I grab his hands and place them over my pecs. “Pretend I am. Touch me, Professor.”
“Fuck,” he whispers, rubbing his hands over my chest, teasing my nipples into hard points.
“Yeah,” I groan with pleasure, “feels so good.” His hands are warm on my cold skin. His touch is solid.
“You like that?” He purrs, and I can hear the rumble underlying his voice. He’s getting turned on while turning me on. I watch his hands travel over my body with hooded eyes. “All this strength makes me wonder what you could do to me,” he admits, squeezing my biceps.
“What do you want me to do to you?” My voice is low and full of gravel. He’s fucking killing me with his touch and his words and the promise of more.
West looks up into my eyes, and I watch his throat slide before he licks his lips. “I want you to wreck me. I want you to make me forget everything but you.”
“Are you gonna blow that cucumber, or eat it?”
Brandt glances up and laughs. “Maybe I’m going to use it on you.” He places it in the shopping cart and moves on to the cantaloupe.
I was a decorated Sergeant First Class in the United States Army. I’ve led teams of men and women on dangerous missions. I lost my fucking leg and recovered. But even I don’t have balls big enough to stand here and flirt and trade gay sex jokes in the middle of the produce aisle.
I’m not there yet.
“What’s with you today?” he asks, nudging me. “You’re not in blackout mode, but something’s definitely off.”
Blackout mode is what he calls my black moods. “It feels so surreal to be shopping for peanut butter and jelly after what we’ve been through. Everything here is so calm and clean and quiet. There are no terrorists with guns, no soldiers, no refugees, or hostages screaming in a foreign language. The difference in realities is jarring. Sometimes it hits me out of nowhere.”
He places the cantaloupe in the cart and moves on to the frozen foods. “It can be hard on your psyche to switch from crisis mode to peacefulness. Most soldiers who come home have the same problem adjusting to life again. We aren’t the only ones. Not by a long shot. In fact, it would be weird if it wasn’t a struggle.”
That’s Brandt, always cosigning my shit. Always making it safe for me to feel whatever fucked up thing I’m feeling. I could tell him I want to dye my skin purple and he would tell me how it’s a valid expression of my inner self or some crap. I grab a box of frozen pizza and throw it in the cart.
“This life feels so mundane. I'm used to having a purpose and a mission. Save the people, secure the village. I don’t know what to do with myself anymore. I have no purpose, no mission, no value. Every day is the same—laundry, cooking, cleaning, and errands. What is the point of it all? What’s the endgame?”
His words from last week come back to me, when we were laid out over the hood of my Jeep, and he asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. He told me I could be anything if I could only dream it. It’s a bunch of fucking bullshit, if you ask me, but there has to be something I can do.
“Maybe our purpose is to just be happy. Have you thought about that?”
He’s asking the guy who doesn’t believe he deserves happiness? Yeah, I’ve fucking thought about it. “Maybe, but is that enough?”
“It is for me.”
Maybe it is, at least for him, but I have to serve in some way. I have to give back, to atone for the many lives affected because I failed as a leader. I have a penance to pay, and it might be a very long time before just being happy is enough for me.
“Maybe I could volunteer at BALLS, like Riggs does.”
Brandt points at me with a loaf of French bread. “I think that’s an excellent idea.”
I could help out in the weight room, or even the pool. I’ve become pretty good at—there’s a loud crash two aisles over, and the explosion of sound makes my heart stop. My lungs seize up, and the blood in my veins thickens like sludge, too thick to flow. My vision turns white and orange, like a fiery blast and the words ‘frag out’ scream through my ears and ricochet around my head.
“Hey, it’s okay, I’ve got you.”