Page 57 of Proof Of Life
He licks the shell of my ear, making me flinch and smile. “You love Mad Libs and working out.” His warm breath ghosts over my ear and my dick kicks. “You act like a big baby when you’re sick or injured, but you have a high threshold for pain. When you were little, you wanted to be a soldier when you grew up, just like your grandfather, and you followed your dream. Most people can’t say they had the courage to follow their dreams. You’re one of the bravest and strongest people I know, and nothing you’ve been through changes that.”
I can feel his dick beginning to harden, still nestled between my cheeks. “And you’re the only man who has ever made my dick hard. I know that seems scary or foreign to you, but it excites me, and I’m so fucking grateful that it’s you,” Brandt finishes in a barely audible voice. His soft kisses on my neck feel like affection, not seduction, and I can identify with his feelings. It is thrilling. And I’m definitely fucking grateful that it’s him. “That’s who you are, Wes, all those things and more. And if you feel lost, just lean on me and I’ll show you the way back home.”
Tears threaten to spill over my cheeks, but I hold them back. “Three legs, huh? Can’t fall with three legs.”
“We’re a fucking tripod, baby. We’re never gonna fall, and we’re never gonna lose our way.”
I know he’s right. I believe every word he’s saying. He’s my crutch and my compass, an old familiar comfort, and my new thrilling addiction. He’s everything I need and everything I want. My past and my future. Brandt is…everything. He’s my home.
West kept his promise to get involved with the Bitches, and Riggs delivered on his, hooking West up with a new hydraulic leg and a blade.
The blade is cool as fuck, in my opinion. It makes West look like a badass. Especially when he wears it with cargo shorts. It took some convincing, after his expected grumbling and excuses, but I finally got his stubborn ass in the Jeep and drove him out to the running track that circles the park. I’m hoping the more comfortable he becomes using the leg, the more active he’ll be. I really think it will have a profound effect on his mental health.
Dressed in a gray T-shirt with the BALLS logo and black running shorts, West runs through a warm-up routine of stretching and squats, getting juiced up for our run. Like a fucking creeper, I catch myself checking his crotch for a dick imprint through the thin nylon and I mentally shake myself. It’s crazy how aware of him I’ve become, always eyeing his nipples when he’s shirtless, or checking out his ass. I barely recognize myself anymore, feeling so hypersexual, but who could blame me? West provides me with plenty of eye candy.
“Come on, Professor. This track ain’t gonna run itself.”
I take off at a slow jog, giving him a chance to get the hang of it and build up speed. At the half mile mark, we’re running at a decent pace, just starting to feel my heart pumping, when an elderly lady in a neon pink tee passes us easily. Her shirt claims she’s survived breast cancer and is living her best life. West looks at me with horror, and I’m struggling not to stop running and fall down on the pavement in a fit of laughter.
“Fuck, Reaper! Are you kidding me? She's running circles around us. I’m being lapped by a granny!”
It’s winding me to laugh and talk and run at once. “She’s got two good legs, so quit your bitching and pick up the fucking pace.”
West burns with challenge, digging down deep into his empty reserve of motivation, burning rubber, and titanium. I sprint to keep up, and when he finally passes her, he mumbles, “Not today, Grandma.”
We manage three miles before calling it quits. “Proud of you, West,” I wheeze through labored breaths.
“Yeah. Me too. Let’s not mention the grandma thing to anyone,” he insists, eyeing me with dead severity.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I lie with a straight face.
It’s a twenty-minute drive to BALLS from the park, and I fill the silence by voicing an idea I’ve been kicking around in my head while West chugs his second bottle of water.
“When the guys were over last week, I came up with an idea.”
“Like what?”
“We’ve got all that land, and you’ve got more mobility now. What if we started up a business? Like boot camp for deployment. Some of the guys mentioned the Eighty-Second getting called up. Do you remember what we were like when we got our orders the first time?”
“Fucking noobs,” he laughs.
“We didn’t know shit, but we were gung ho. All fired up without a clue. We could lead a training camp. Put our experience to use.” He raises his brows, like he wants to hear more. “We could do some target practice, rappel that cliff on the back half of your property, do some other physical training, and then pepper them with tips and tricks the whole time.”
“Like prepare them for the heat and the smell and the fucking dust.”
“Exactly, and the stuff they should buy there at the Hajji Shop versus getting it sent in a care package.”
“You think people would pay for that?”
“Hell yeah. You heard them, they said how much they missed hanging at your place, doing all that shit. They’re a bunch of fucking POGs, they haven’t seen a day of combat yet, and they’re amped up for action. They’d definitely pay.”
“It’d probably turn into a fucking bachelor party destination,” he cracks.
“Don’t care, as long as it’s income, money is money. We have plenty saved from our retirement payouts. We could get some new equipment, invest in some advertising, some ammo, and bam, we’re in business.”
I watch as the expressions on his face range from curious to excited to determined. West has a terrible poker face, and he broadcasts everything he’s thinking and feeling loud and clear.
“We’re in fucking business, Reaper.”