Bishop
Copyright © 2018 BT URRUELA
All Rights Reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Photographer: CJC Photography
Cover Model: Xander Fit
Cover Designer: Pop Kitty Design
Editor: Great Imaginations Editing Services and Book Reviews
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Epilogue
Afterward
Acknowledgments
About the Author
MY NAME IS MCKENZIE BISHOP, and this is the last day I’ll ever spend in the Army.
I’m not sure what to make of that yet. I know I’m excited to grow a beard, smoke a joint, and do whatever the fuck I want to do, whenever the fuck I want to do it. But I’m scared too. Scared of leaving the only thing that ever made any sense to me in this life. Leaving my family. I’m scared of never again making the kind of friends I made over the course of my six-year career.
And what the hell do I do now anyway?
I don’t know a thing about existing with civilians anymore. I don’t know banking, or teaching, or any other discernable skill other than killing, protecting, and defending. That was my life for nearly four years. Another two were spent recovering from a horrific injury I never thought could happen to me, regardless of the number of deployments I had under my belt. Regardless of the bloodshed I had witnessed, the friends who had perished in ways you don’t even wish upon your worst of enemies. Still, I never thought I could get injured. I felt invincible; more so with each successive deployment.
“Do you know what you want to do after this?” the counselor sitting across the desk from me asks dubiously as if he’s been reading my mind and senses my self-doubt. I blink a few times to bring myself back to the present. My thoughts often wander to horrible things, sometimes nice things, sometimes dirty things. They flit from one to the other in an everlasting loop, much like Malcolm McDowell in A Clockwork Orange, strapped down and being subjected to things I can’t look away from or run from, nor understand most of the time. God only knows where I’m headed from here, but I certainly don’t owe this man an explanation. Unfortunately, the Sergeant First Class rank pinned on his uniform means I can’t respond how I’d like to: “What’s it fuckin’ matter to you?”
No, the three stripes on my uniform collar means he gets to play this stupid little game. A few more years and I would’ve been at his level, and I would’ve had an infantry platoon of my own had I not been hurt. But a few more years is something I didn’t have left in me to give. Not sitting behind a fucking desk, at least. And that’s certainly where they would’ve put me had I reenlisted.
I shrug. “I’m not sure, Sarge.”
“You’ve gotta have more for me than that,” he replies, tilting his head with a look of slight frustration, as if my future somehow impacts his own.
Truth is I don’t have any answers for him. I’m drawing blanks. And I can’t be bothered with the dog and pony show that is ACAP, or Army Career and Alumni Program—a week-long course that’s more likely to cause death by boredom than it is to be a helpful transition tool. This meeting with the counselor is the last step for me and the anxiousness of finally being rid of it causes me to fidget restlessly in the seat, trying to pass along to him that I’d like him to just shut the fuck up and sign off already.
“Sorry, I just don’t have a clear answer for you. I anticipated spending my career in uniform. Now that that’s changed, I’m not sure of much right now. There’s a lot to figure out. A lot to figure out and talk through with my girlfriend.”
“Well, you’re twenty-five … plenty young to do whatever your heart desires. You’ve got the GI Bill. Disability checks. The world is your oyster, as they say.” He smiles, a used car salesman’s smile; too wide to be real, and he’s got just enough monotone in his voice to let me know he’s done this dance far too many times before. He doesn’t care for my answer. He just needs to fill these thirty minutes. I’m led to wonder what this man knows about the horrors of war; how each dreadful second plays on a loop in your head. He doesn’t get how anticipating the future with anything but trepidation from here on out, after seeing the things I’ve seen, is nearly impossible. I’m at a crossroads in my life; one I never anticipated. It’s not so easy for me to figure out what’s next, not when I had planned on staying in the Army for at least twenty years before retiring as a Sergeant Major in charge of an infantry battalion, like my father, and his father before him. A rocket-propelled grenade at the end of my last deployment, and the shrapnel that followed, had other ideas. I could no longer serve as an infantryman; therefore, in my eyes, I could no longer be a soldier. I could never see myself like this man, sitting behind a desk, while others wearing the same uniform were fighting and dying in theirs.
I was born to fight. And when I lost that ability, I lost a piece of my identity along with it. A big fucking piece.
“Yeah, I guess we’ll see what happens with it,” I say through a forced smile, pushing back the desire to tell him how pointless all this is. “Probably just start with gen. ed. courses and figure it out from there.”
The counselor tilts his head again, a judgmental furrow in his brows. “Anything spark your interest, at least?” he asks.
For fuck’s sake…
I ponder this for a moment, my gaze fixed on the cluttered desk before me, my mind lost in thoughts of future days without a uniform coating me, protecting me, empowering me. Without it, I feel naked … and lost. I feel restless.
Shrugging, I shift my focus back to the counselor. “Nothin’ I can really think of. I’ve always enjoyed acting. Did a few plays back in high school and took some acting classes here in D.C. Really enjoyed them. It’s somethin’ I could see myself doin’ long-term.”
The counselor shakes his head, his lips curled down in a scrutinizing fashion as he grabs a stack of papers from the desktop. “No,” he says, still eyeing the papers as he leafs through them. “You’ve got some great scores all around here,” he continues, eventually finding the paper he was looking for and setting it down in front of me. He looks over the top of his glasses in that fatherly way that always grinds my fucking gears. I have a father, and a shitty
one at that. I don’t need another one. Nor do I need this man’s worry or self-serving pity.
He taps the sheet of paper with his index finger, grabbing my attention. I realize it contains the results of an occupational strength test I had to take last week. “There are a lot of options here,” he continues. “Doctor, lawyer, intelligence … I mean, an actor …” He sits back in his chair and crosses his arms, his face scrunched in displeasure. “How many people do you think want to be an actor? How many roles do they have for—” He stops himself, his focus shifting from my prosthetic eye, surrounded by thick scarring that does well to attract unwanted attention, to the papers in front of him. He clears his throat before looking back up at me, avoiding my prosthetic this time. “I mean, how many people are out there trying to make it? What are the chances?”
I keep my features relaxed, though on the inside I’m envisioning a swift slap across this man’s cheek. And not a regular slap. An eye-opening bitch slap.
In a steady tone, I say, “Sergeant Kemp, with all due respect, this is the last day I’m ever gonna wear this uniform. It’s a good day, to an extent, but it’s a sad day, too. I don’t really care to get into a discussion about my future with someone I’ve just met, let alone someone who’s never been in this position before. I’ve been livin’ with myself for twenty-five years now. If I ain’t got a clue what’s ahead, I can promise you that you don’t either.” I push the test results aside and point to the paper the counselor set them down on top of. “Now, you are the last signature I need on my checklist to finish out-processing and get my ass out of here. I would really appreciate if you could do that for me and let me be on my way.” I find myself leaning forward in my chair now, attempting to say more with my eyes than I am with my words.
The counselor studies me for a moment, creases forming in his forehead as if he is trying hard to figure me out. I lean back in the chair, cross one leg over the other, and smile.
“Okay,” he agrees, taking the checklist into his hands, his eyes still lingering on mine. “I just don’t want to see you get lost out there.” He sighs, grabbing a pen and signing the last empty spot on the form, much to my relief.
I grin. “I can promise you this, Sergeant. Ain’t no way I’ll be any more lost out there than I was in here,” I respond, referring to Walter Reed Medical Center and all the time I’ve spent rehabbing here. I point to the map of Iraq and Afghanistan he has tacked to the wall beside us, places I know he’s never seen by the lack of a combat patch on his right arm or Combat Action Badge on his chest. “And definitely no more lost than I was out there. Not even close.”
He shrugs, resignation taking up his features, as he hands over the completed checklist. “You’ve got your own out-processing paperwork, correct?” He drums the pen against the stack of papers in front of me from which he pulled the test results, and I nod, standing from my chair and snatching the paper from him.
“Good to go, Sarge. Got everything I need.”
The counselor stands too, and just as I’m about to depart, he puts out his hand. I take it with my own, and he pulls me in.
“Make us proud,” he says softly; his coffee breath is noxious. He motions his head toward my right shoulder where the American flag patch sits, just above my 1st Ranger Bat. combat patch. “Make that proud.”
He lets go, passing me a self-assured nod as he squats back into his office chair with a heavy grunt, a chair where he’s likely spent his entire career.
“I’ll try, Sergeant. I’ll certainly try.” I nod, a cocksure smirk on my face as I make my way out of his office.
Packing up the last of my things into boxes, I busy myself as I wait for my girlfriend of nine months, Chelsea, to come by my room. For weeks now, I’ve tried to talk with her about the future, our future; whether I’d stay here for her and start at a community college for a couple years, or whether she goes with me to whatever college I end up choosing along the east coast, many of which have yet to respond to my application. She continually puts it off, though, often changing the subject, which unnerves me. I believe she loves me, I truly do, and though I have a hard time understanding what love even means at this point, I think I love her too. Yeah, she can be a pill sometimes, and we don’t have very much in common, but she was around for some of the harder moments I’ve experienced over the course of my recovery. She put forth more of an effort than any other woman I’ve dated before; even if she doesn’t often try very hard to understand the complexities of my war-weathered mind.
Over the screech of shipping tape, as I seal up my box of medals and Army memorabilia, the last things I must pack, I hear a soft knock at the door. Before answering, I grab the empty bottle of Jameson from my nightstand, creeping with it toward the kitchenette in quiet steps and with a guilty heart, and then I set the bottle gently into the trash as to not alert her. After covering the bottle with some loose bits of trash, I walk excitedly toward the door. Swinging it open, I see Chelsea standing on the other side, a slight smile on her face and a hand on her curvaceous hip, a tight dress clinging to her young body. High heels sharpen the lines of her toned thighs. The usual resting bitch face is ever present, but the curve of her thin lips in a slight smile lets me know she’s in a decent mood. And perhaps a little horny.
“Hey, babe.” I look her up and down for a moment, an eyebrow raised. “You look fuckin’ incredible,” I say, embracing her and peppering her neck with kisses. “You’re late, by the way,” I add, letting go of her and sidestepping so she can enter. I shut the door behind her as my eyes trail the sharp curve of her insatiable ass, one shaped by good genes and endless hours of yoga.
“Yeah, yeah.” She rolls her eyes and waves me off with a petite hand, the Oompa Loompa orange staining her cuticles and that distinct chemically smell lets me know she spray-tanned today.
“I’ve got most of it packed up already,” I say, nudging her with my hip.
She looks over the sealed boxes scattered throughout the small barracks room as she steadies herself, saying, “I didn’t realize you had so much shit.” She glances toward me.
“That’s because it would all end up in the closet every time you visited.” I laugh, and so does she, that cute little squeak of a laugh I’ve grown to adore; a laugh she selfishly delivers in slivered doses.
I look her up and down again, the thought process belonging to my dick now. There’s no humor in how much I need her. Quirking an eyebrow, I ask, “Did we have plans today I didn’t know about, or is this just a wonderful surprise for my last day in the Army?”
“The latter,” she says, taking a seat on the edge of my bed and leaning back on her hands, pushing her tits out as she does and smiling a wicked smile. She crosses one tanned leg slowly over the other, and my eyes trace her leg from heel to thigh.
“Lucky fuckin’ me,” I mutter, biting my lip and shaking my head.
“Oh no. It won’t be Lucky who’s fucking you today, Sergeant Bishop.”
“Fuck, babe.” I let out a quiet gasp, my dick hilting in my shorts. “You are so fuckin’ sexy.”
I dive onto her, throwing her back against the bed and pinning her arms to her sides, looking into her chestnut eyes with flecks of gold before pressing my lips to hers. They are soft, plump, and they bring my dick to the limitation of my gym shorts, throbbing against the soft fabric. I trail kisses down her cheek, across her neck, and to her ear.
“I need you so fuckin’ bad,” I whisper, taking her earlobe lightly between my teeth and nibbling.
She lets out a heavy breath. Bringing her body flush against mine, she whispers in a demanding tone, “Then take me.”
I moan, pulling my head back and looking deep into her eyes. “You always know how to get me hot and hard as fuck.” I kiss her collarbone as I reach my hand behind her, carefully unzipping her dress. Pulling it off, I admire the red tint to her face now, the hunger in her eyes. I’m hungry, too.
Insatiably.
And more than anything, I need to feel that perfect fit. I�
�m desperate for it. Regardless of the bumps in the road that have come between us, the sex has always been great. The angry sex, oftentimes, the best of the lot. She’s not angry now, no, but the lingering effects of a fight we had a few days ago is still there, and my dick knows it. It hurts now, nearly begging me to let him play.
I admire her Calvin Klein underwear and bra set, my favorite, and I let out a quiet gasp, my dick really aching now, meeting the spot just before pleasure meets complete pain.
“The black Calvins?” I ask, a smirk on my face.
“Just for you,” she whispers, stripping them off and tossing them to the floor. She then pulls at my shirt with desperate hands.
Tugging my shirt off, I toss it down with her underwear and bra, quickly followed by my shorts, and lower myself back onto her, turned on by the feel of our bare skin touching, hers young and flawless, mine, scarred and rough. Beauty and the broken beast.
I tease her nipples with my tongue, trailing hot kisses down her clenching stomach, and she writhes beneath me with a gasp. She trembles as my breath meets her clit … then my tongue, and she presses her hips up, guiding me around her core. Her body seizes as I run my tongue in circles around her sensitive bud. Her legs tighten around my neck, her hands grabbing fistfuls of hair.
Her hands fall to my shoulders, grasping desperately, her nails digging in, and she begs, “Please fuck me. Fuck me now, Bishop. I need you inside me.”
The request sends a jolt from my stomach down to my rock-hard cock. How I love it when she says that. I take one last slow lick and then inch my way back up her body, leaving open-mouthed kisses in my wake. Blindly, I reach into my nightstand, my lips meeting hers, as I grab for a condom. Once my dick is wrapped, she clenches her legs around my waist, pulling me in so that the tip of my cock meets her entrance. Our heavy breathing coincides as I guide myself inside her, slowly, just the head at first.
Throwing her head back, she gasps loudly as I enter her fully, grabbing at her nipples and tugging them. She whimpers and then moans.
I pull my dick out and then push it back in, slowly repeating the process, teasing the both of us.
Bishop (A Frat Chronicles Novel) Page 1
