by L. A. Witt
It wasn’t like there was any point in denying it, so I nodded. “Uh. Yeah.”
“Seriously?” Sarah said. “Goddamn, that didn’t take you long.”
My face was on fucking fire. Great. My coworkers knew. Our coworkers knew.
Shaking his head, Diego rolled his eyes before turning to walk away. “Just keep it out of the office, all right?”
“So, no more banging him over your desk on the weekends?”
He turned so fast I was surprised his neck didn’t snap.
I gave him my best innocent look, batting my eyes and everything.
“Pendejo,” he muttered, and really walked away this time.
“I’m kidding!” I called after him. Then, lower, “Please. Your desk is way more comfortable for blowjobs than—”
“I heard that!” Diego glared at me.
Sarah smirked again. To me, she said, “And now you know why we kept the door shut even while you were still on crutches.”
“Okay, fair,” I said with a laugh.
“Well, that and because Diego thought it was funny to make you—”
“Don’t you dare throw me under that bus,” he growled. “You’re the one who said the guys in admin were eavesdropping on all our bullshit.”
“And getting offended by it, right?” I asked.
“Pretty much.” She clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes. “Snowflakes.”
Diego and I both snorted.
Moments later, Logan returned with another box, and thank God he didn’t seem to have overheard anything. While he was getting situated, Sarah met my gaze and mouthed, Nicely done.
Renewed heat rushed into my face, and I focused intently on my screen. At least that gave me an excuse to keep my back to him so he wouldn’t see how many shades of red I’d turned.
So the cat was out of the bag. Diego and Sarah knew I was banging Logan. Which I supposed I didn’t really mind. I was hardly embarrassed if people knew I was hooking up with him, and it also kind of entertained me to think I was rubbing it in to Sarah that I’d won our bet.
But . . . how would Logan feel about it?
Only one way to find out. And I should probably tell him sooner than later so he wouldn’t hear it from Diego or Sarah. I could just see Sarah strolling over and offering him a Snickers so he’d have energy for tonight, and then shooting me a significant look, and Logan basically dying of embarrassment on the spot.
The thought made me chuckle, but it also made me determined to tell him ASAP that our secret was out. No point in letting the man get blindsided.
“So.” Logan dropped onto the couch next to me. “Pizza or Thai?”
“Mmm, I like that Thai place from the other night.”
He picked up his phone again, but paused. “Before I call, let me see if we need to order sodas or if I have enough.”
He got up to head for the kitchen, and I followed. While he checked the fridge, I pressed my shoulder into the kitchen doorframe. “So, uh, fair warning, but Diego and Sarah know about us.”
Logan’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “They do?”
I chuckled as I nodded. “Don’t ask me how they figured it out.” Because then I’d have to admit they totally busted me groping you with my eyes.
He laughed. “Well, you apparently figured out I was gay after about five minutes, so . . .”
“To be fair, I did admit there was some wishful thinking there.”
“Uh-huh.” He shut the fridge and shot me a look. “Wishful thinking you were willing to back up with fifty bucks.”
“What can I say? I’m an optimist.”
“Or a really bad gambler. One of the two.”
“Hey. Shut up.”
Logan snickered, but his features tightened with concern. “They won’t . . . I mean, it’s okay for us to be, uh, seeing each other, right?”
I shrugged. “Long as it’s not interfering with our job.”
“Which it isn’t.” He paused. “Especially since you’ve been coming in and helping me with the records project.”
“Exactly. Now let’s get something to eat and chill for the night.”
“Sounds good to me.” While he scrolled through his phone, I leaned against the counter. For the first time, I noticed that between his microwave and coffeepot, there was a stack of spiral notebooks. Sketchbooks, actually, judging by the thickness of the paper. “What are those?”
He looked at them, and his posture tensed a tiny bit. I wondered if he thought I’d laugh at them.
“I didn’t know you were artistic,” I added.
“Yeah it’s . . . something I’ve gotten back into this year.”
I gestured at the stack. “May I?”
He shrugged. “Sure.”
As I picked up the top sketchbook, Logan casually pulled one—a black-covered book—from the stack and moved it into a drawer. He didn’t comment on it, so I didn’t either.
A moment later, I was too distracted by his drawings to even think about the book he’d put away. He was . . . Holy shit, he was really good. There wasn’t a constant theme to the sketches. One page was a seagull sitting on a wooden railing. The next was, I thought, Anchor Point from one of the hills just outside of town—I recognized some of the rooftops, not to mention the pier and the base. He had sketches of muscle cars, people, buildings, a raccoon chowing down on something in a dumpster. It didn’t matter what he’d drawn—a person, something mechanical, a plant, a landscape. The details were so fine and intricate, it shouldn’t have even been possible with a pencil. The shadows and highlights were mind-blowing. Most of these looked more like black-and-white photos than pencil drawings.
“How the hell do you do this?” I turned to him. “The detail is just . . . Logan, these are amazing.”
He blushed, smiling with a degree of shyness I’d never seen on him before. “A lot of practice.”
“So, do you draw from pictures, or what?”
“I have a photographic memory.”
“Seriously?”
He nodded, and his eyes went a little distant as he said, “It’s a blessing and a curse, believe me.”
I watched him, wondering if he might elaborate. When he didn’t, I decided not to push.
After a moment, he said, “I was really into art when I was a kid, but stopped after I enlisted. When I started cleaning myself up, I decided to pick it up again.” He paused. “It’s, um, therapeutic. In fact, my therapist is the one who told me to do it.”
“Does it help? I mean, does it actually do something for you?”
Logan nodded. His eyes flicked toward the drawer he’d tucked the other book into, and a roll of his shoulders almost hid a shudder. “Yeah, it helps. Sometimes it’s just relaxing. Something to concentrate on so my mind doesn’t wander into things I don’t want to think about. Sometimes it’s . . .” He paused again. “That’s mostly what it is these days—something to keep me busy when my head . . .” He gestured at his temple. “When I start thinking about shit I shouldn’t.”
I hesitated, then asked, “It’s for your PTSD?”
He nodded again. “This is a, um, more constructive outlet than I had before.”
“The drinking?”
Clearing his throat, he lowered his gaze. “Yeah. Should’ve taken up sketching instead of drinking myself stupid. And maybe gotten help a long time ago, and not hurt so many people along the way.”
“Maybe, but you’re on the right track now. That’s what matters. A lot of people never manage to crawl out of that hole.”
He met my eyes with a watery smile, then sighed. “Now it’s just a question of staying out of it.”
“Well, anything I can do to help—”
He kissed me softly, but firmly enough to shut me up. Barely breaking that kiss, he whispered, “I’ve got it. But . . . thank you.” He wrapped his arms around me. “This is all I want from you, to be honest.”
“Making out in your kitchen?”
“Basically.” He chuckled, lips grazing mine. �
�And cash for Thai food.”
“And sex after dinner.”
“And someone in bed so I don’t have to turn on the heat at night.”
“Aha! I knew it.” I sighed with mock indignation. “You are using me.”
“Absolutely.” He leaned down to kiss my neck. “And you love every second of it.”
I bit my lip as I tilted my head back, and moaned softly as his lips skated along the side of my throat. “Okay, you got me. I love it.”
“Uh-huh. That’s what I thought.” His hands slid over my ass. “Think we should wait on ordering food?” He nipped lightly. “Because the driver might get here before we’re done.”
“Dinner can wait.”
“You can’t?”
“Can you?”
“Probably.” He squeezed my ass. “But I sure as shit don’t want to.”
Casey and I spent our days in the office and our nights between the sheets. Sometimes one of us had an appointment in the afternoon—therapy for me, physical therapy for him—but most days ended with us naked and tangled. When I came in on Saturdays, he came in with me to help so neither of us had to feel quite so guilty for the amount of time we spent in each other’s beds.
Sometimes I still wondered if I should have listened to Clint and not dated a coworker, but I really liked Casey. He was smart and funny. We could talk forever or just hang out in silence. We worked great together, and we were even better in bed. And besides, Clint had married a coworker, so his argument was invalid. Diego and Sarah gave us hell for it, but that was just par for the course in the training department. I’d had my doubts about being able to pull off this job without fucking it up, but so far, so good.
On the way back from the conference room with yet another box of records, I overheard some of the guys from another department talking about partying over the weekend. Someone had gotten shitfaced and puked on the wing commander’s front tire outside the officers’ club, and someone else had passed out on the sidewalk in front of the Navy Exchange.
Drinking for fun hadn’t really appealed to me, so I couldn’t relate to wanting to get smashed in the name of a good time, but the conversation did stick with me for some reason. It didn’t give me any nostalgic feelings. No mouth-watering at the thought of getting hammered. No barely resistible craving for a drink. It was strange hearing about people drinking but not envying them or needing to fight any urges.
And then I realized what it was—I hadn’t felt the need to drink recently. At all.
Weird. Because for way too many years, every minute I spent sober was one minute closer to getting unsober. I’d count down until I could crack open my first drink, and even before the hangover had receded, I’d be counting down until I could start pouring beer into my face again. The constant obsession with my next drink had occupied so much real estate in my head that its absence was huge. And alien. And—please God—permanent?
I hadn’t thought there’d ever come a time when I wouldn’t have to fight cravings every minute of every day, but here I was. Maybe it was Casey. Maybe it was the job. Maybe I was just too hooked on the clarity and stability I’d found over the last several months. The nightmares sucked, but the waking hours when I was actually clear-headed and had my shit together? Damn. That was new. And I liked it.
With a renewed sense of . . . hell, pride? Feeling like I was really back on the rails? Well, whatever it was, it made me grin like an idiot as I headed back to the office with the box of records.
I’d have to take Clint out to dinner soon. I owed him one.
Two weeks into this, Casey and I started getting tired of takeout, so we swung into the commissary and picked up some actual food, which we took back to my place. Between our two apartments, mine had the bigger and better kitchen, but Casey was far more competent than I was when it came to cooking, so I stayed out of the way while he got to work.
The boot didn’t seem to be slowing him down any. He moved around the kitchen easily, boot clicking on the linoleum. If he needed something out of a cupboard below the counter, I took care of it, though—crouching was still a challenge for him.
While he went through the motions of making a chicken stir-fry, I sat at the kitchen table and propped my sketchbook on my knee. “You don’t mind if I’m doing this while we’re talking, do you?”
Casey shook his head. “No. You said it keeps your hands busy, so . . .”
My hands and the parts of my brain that I used to keep quiet with a bottle.
As I started sketching, I cleared my throat. “So, uh, is it okay if I ask about your career?”
He glanced at me. “I’m assuming you don’t mean the part where I’m playing office drone.”
“No.”
He swallowed, but then shrugged. “Sure.”
I watched him for a moment while he focused on cooking, and finally asked, “Why the SEALs?”
Casey sighed, and the food sizzled as he chased it around with a spatula. “I couldn’t even tell you why it started. I was really into military movies from the time I was a kid, and somewhere in there, I just knew. First I wanted to be in the military, but then when I started reading about the SEALs, it was like looking into my own future, you know?” He scowled. “I thought it was, anyway. What about you? Why the Marines?”
“Didn’t have a lot going for me, I guess. I needed to do something after high school, and wasn’t good enough to get a football scholarship, so it seemed like the next best thing.”
“Why not art school?”
I laughed bitterly, sliding the pencil under the line I’d just drawn to add a soft shadow. “After everyone warned me my whole life that art was fine and good but would never actually get me a respectable job?”
“Oh for fuck’s sake.” He scowled. “My sister got the same shit. People saw her music as a way to get into college and get scholarships, but a career?” He glanced at me, the scowl turning to a grin. “She showed them, though.”
“Yeah?”
“She’s first chair violin for a symphony in New York. It’s not loads of money, but it pays the bills and she’s happy.”
“Good for her.”
I bit down on a comment about at least one of us being moderately successful and not a complete fuckup. My therapist had been on my case about that. About self-berating. I wasn’t a failure. I’d had a setback. A big one, but not an insurmountable one. Comparing myself to someone who didn’t have nightmares about being shot at wasn’t really fair to anyone.
“Anyway, SEALs or not,” he went on dryly, “it’s just as well I joined the military. My parents were saving for all three of us to go to college, but most of that money went to legal fees and rehab for my brother.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Around the time I was getting ready to enlist, he had a huge setback, and the lawyers alone almost bankrupted my folks.”
“Jesus.” I watched him, not quite sure what to say, and finally settled on, “How’s he doing now?”
“He’s been holding steady for a couple of years now, but with an addict like that, you just never know for sure.”
I bristled, but tried not to let it show. “If something will set him back? Or if he’s really sober?”
“Both. Sometimes he can weather really horrible stress without a problem. Like when he lost his job—he was fine. As far as we knew, anyway. But then other times, it’s like he’s on a hair trigger. One thing in his life gets out of whack, and suddenly he’s getting arrested for possession or DUI again. Or everything looks fine, and he’s getting evicted for cooking meth.”
“Jesus . . .”
“Yeah.” Casey’s hands stopped mid-chop. Then he rolled his shoulders and tilted his head to each side like he needed to get a crick out of his neck. “My parents and I actually had to have a long discussion about my career and how it relates to my brother. They don’t want anyone or anything to hold me back, but we all have to face the reality that if something happens to me . . .” Casey paused and, as he went back to chopping
, added, “What can we do, though?”
“Yeah. Wow. That’s heavy.”
“It is. But that’s the reality of having someone in your family who’s that on edge.”
I chewed the inside of my cheek. Was that what my family had been dealing with all this time? Stressing themselves into knots because no one knew how to save me or how to keep me from sinking deeper? And all that on the heels of cumulatively spending three years worrying I’d come back from the Middle East in a box? Kind of explained why they barely talked to me anymore. Fuck. What had I done to my family?
“Logan?”
I shook myself and looked up from my sketchbook. I hadn’t even realized I’d started drawing again. “Sorry, what?”
He cocked his head, but then broke eye contact while he tossed a handful of diced peppers into the pan. “You just zoned out for a second.”
“Eh. It happens sometimes.”
“I know.” He glanced at me. “I’ve, uh, seen it. At work.”
“Really? I didn’t think anyone noticed.”
“Kind of hard to miss,” he said softly. “Diego does the same thing sometimes. I think half the guys in the building do it.”
I shuddered. There was something oddly comforting and depressing about having that many people around who dealt with those moments. Tonight, it was just an intense train of thought pulling my focus out of the present, but I’d seen Diego. I’d seen some of the other guys. I’d done it myself. I wondered if there would ever be a time again when half the people on a base didn’t have some form of PTSD.
Watching Casey cook, it hit me in the gut to know that for right now, he was one of the lucky ones. He’d never been to a war zone. He was still unscathed. What did somebody like that dream about at night?
And how much longer before he got a dose of combat trauma like the rest of us?
That thought sent a chill through me, and I didn’t dare let my mind linger on it. I cleared my throat and tapped my pencil on my half-drawn sketch. “So, um, is there anything I can do to help? Cut something up, or . . .?”
“Nah.” He tipped the cutting board over the pan and pushed some more peppers in. “It’s pretty easy.” With a wink, he added, “You’re just here to entertain me with conversation.”
