by L. A. Witt
I exhaled with relief that he’d been the bigger man, and disappointment that I hadn’t moved in for that kiss when I’d had the chance. And now that he’d given me enough breathing room to come to my senses, I needed to get the hell out of here before we both found an excuse to get close again.
I cleared my throat. “I should—”
“Yeah.” He avoided my eyes. “I’ll, uh, take care of everything here.” He made a sweeping gesture around the boat.
“Okay. Cool. Um. Thanks for the . . .” I hesitated. “I should go.”
He nodded, but didn’t speak.
Without another word, I left the boat, hurried off the marina, and got into my car. I burned rubber on the way out of the parking lot, heading for the highway like the whole town was on fire. As soon as I was on that long stretch of blacktop, I gunned the engine.
I didn’t have a destination in mind. I needed to get out of there for a while, so I tried not to think about everything Paul and I had done in this car, and drove.
Hours later, I was still thinking about Paul, but I was also almost to California. I topped off my gas tank and headed back toward Anchor Point.
All the way home, with the radio blasting as if that would help drown out the silence of my car, I couldn’t believe I’d been so stupid. I’d known he was an officer. Whenever I’d dropped him off on base, the sentries had saluted him. He had a tattoo from the Academy, for God’s sake. I couldn’t exactly write him off as an ensign or a lieutenant, not when he was obviously well past his twenties. What the fuck had I expected?
I raked a hand through my hair and then slammed my palm onto the steering wheel. Truth was, I’d shut out everything military when it came to Paul. He’d never volunteered any information about his job or his rank, and I hadn’t asked because, goddamn it, I’d already had enough conversations about the Navy to sink a metaphorical battleship. If I never spent another night in bed with someone who thought the intricacies of avionics made good pillow talk, it would be too soon. So when Paul hadn’t offered up any shop talk, I hadn’t pressed, because fuck that.
Maybe deep down, I’d known there was some reason we shouldn’t see each other, so I’d deliberately ignored all the signs. Or maybe I’d been so caught up in the amazing sex, I really hadn’t noticed. I couldn’t remember what I’d been thinking at that point because all I could think now was I’ve been fucking my dad’s commanding officer.
If we’d been caught, God only knew what would have happened. I was a little hazy on the regs when it came to stuff like this, but I was pretty sure there was something in there about fraternization or carnal knowledge or whatever they called it when people hooked up with the wrong people. I doubted his superiors would look kindly on fraternization of the naked variety with a dependent of someone under his command.
It was over, though. No one had to know. Paul’s career wouldn’t be damaged. My dad didn’t need to find out, and since Paul didn’t know who my dad was, nothing would change between them at work. Everything would move forward as if nothing had ever happened.
As if I had never picked up Paul at that motel. Never fucked him over the back of my car or in a shady motel bed. Never known what it was like to be kissed and feel like nothing else existed in the world. Never looked at him and wondered how we hadn’t known each other our whole lives.
I sighed, pressing back against the seat and focusing on the white lines in front of me. I’d get over him like I’d gotten over every man I’d ever had to give up—or who’d given me up—because of the Navy. At some point, just like every time before, this would stop hurting.
And maybe at some point, I’d figure out why it hurt so bad at all.
I thought we were just having sex. Why does—
Oh right. Because our relationship—whatever it was—had become another casualty of my father’s career, and I was one hundred percent over the mess that the Navy had routinely made of my personal life. It wasn’t that I’d had feelings for Paul beyond what he could do in bed—I was tired of the Navy basically confiscating every goddamned thing that made me happy.
Right?
When I parked at the curb in front of the house, Dad’s truck was in the driveway. My gut lurched. No big deal. All I had to do was play it cool and he wouldn’t suspect a thing. Hopefully. Right? Shit.
Poker face. I can do this. Poker face.
I headed inside. Dad wasn’t in the kitchen, but he was on his way down the stairs, so I schooled my expression—Poker face, come on!—while I fished a bottle of water out of the fridge.
“Oh.” He stopped and did a double take. “I thought you were Julie.”
“Nope.” I smiled despite the ball of lead in my gut. “Sorry. Just the resident freeloader.”
Dad rolled his eyes and laughed. “Yeah, okay. Not that you’ve been around enough to do much freeloading.”
“Aside from the rent and insurance, right?”
“True. Haven’t seen much of you lately, though.” He arched an eyebrow like he was searching for something. “Work keeping you busy?”
I swallowed. “And school, yeah.”
“Must be having class outdoors these days.”
“Out— What?”
He gestured at me. “Got a bit of a sunburn.”
I glanced at my arm, and my blood turned cold. I had turned a little pink today, hadn’t I? Oh God. Did I smell like sunscreen? Did I have a tan line from my sunglasses? And now the sting under my shirt made itself known. From when I’d had my shirt off. On the boat. While I was going down on Paul before we’d gone down into the cabin. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I had to keep up the lie, though. If Dad saw through me, Paul was fucked even though our relationship was over. Jesus, that hurt to think about. It really was over, wasn’t it? Of course. It had to be. Neither of us could justify staying together if the consequences got too real. Kind of like swimming in a place where sharks were sometimes sighted—only an idiot jumped back in the water after having their toes nibbled.
And my dad was still staring at me, waiting for a response to his comment about my sunburn.
I cleared my throat. “Oh, I was down at the pier today.” I sound casual, right? Like I’m not bullshitting? “Figured I’d take advantage of some nice weather.”
He grunted quietly. “Maybe take some sunscreen next time?”
“I did. Not enough apparently.”
Dad chuckled. “You have Irish roots, kid. You can never use too much sunscreen.”
“True!” I laughed. Too obvious. Rein it in. Clearing my throat, I shifted my weight. “Guess I should get some of the SPF 80 next time.”
“Planning to go back down there? I thought you didn’t like the crowds on the pier.”
I shrugged. “Better than sitting at home watching TV.”
“Okay, I’ll give you that.” He studied me, and I was sure he was going to see right through the lie. I’d said it with a straight face, and didn’t think I’d tipped my hand at all, but still.
My heart pounded. My stomach knotted tighter with every second. I was a split second away from coming clean when he shrugged.
“All right, well, glad you had a good time. You watching TV with us tonight? I’ve got Unhappy Hour queued up on Netflix.”
It took everything I had not to breathe an incriminating sigh of relief. “Yeah. Sure. I’m going to grab a shower first.”
“Okay.” He smiled. “We’ll put it on when Julie gets home.”
“Sounds great. I’ll just . . . um . . .”
“Shower?”
“Yeah. That.” I started to leave.
“Oh,” he called after me, “one more thing.”
I froze. Slowly, I turned around. “Yeah?”
He nodded toward some papers on the counter. “Need you to fill those in for your tuition assistance. It’s due next week.”
“Oh.” My mouth had gone dry, and I cleared my throat. “Sure. Yeah. I’ll get them done tonight.”
“Good. Thanks.” He paused, rocking fro
m his heels to the balls of his feet like there was still something he wanted to say. Or, worse, ask.
I prayed to anyone who’d listen that he didn’t. I wasn’t sure I could keep up the “nope, nope, nothing to see here” much longer.
“All right. Well.” He shrugged. “I’d better get started making some popcorn. Julie is on her way.”
“Yeah. And I still need—” What was I doing? Shower. Right. “I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
I turned to go, and he didn’t stop me this time.
Upstairs in my bedroom, I sagged against the door and released a long breath. As far as I could tell, he didn’t suspect a thing. Or if he did, I’d convinced him to let it go.
I’d done it. I’d lied through my teeth to my dad about the relationship I’d had up until a few hours ago with his commanding officer.
And I had no idea how to feel about that.
Two weeks after Sean left my sight for the last time, I couldn’t feel him anymore. All the aches and twinges were gone. The last bruise—a faint one on my shoulder from an enthusiastic bite—had disappeared. When I ran on the treadmill or along the paths on base, my hips didn’t protest. Sitting in meetings or at my desk, there was no lingering soreness from being fucked to within an inch of my life. My chronic injuries were present and accounted for, but Sean? No.
And I was going to lose my mind.
The icing on the cake was how badly I needed a cigarette. Even more than I’d wanted one the night Jayson and I split up. Probably because I didn’t run the risk of bumping into Jayson on base. And no one in Jayson’s family had any ammunition to try to fuck over my career.
Just one cigarette. One. I’ll even smoke it slowly so it lasts longer.
I had this conversation with myself over and over and over again. The only thing keeping me from calling Sean was the consequences, and the only thing keeping me from swinging into the Exchange and buying a pack of Marlboros was the memory of how hellish it had been to quit. It was awful. All four times.
The third time had been during a deployment, way back when I was a lieutenant commander. For ten days, I hadn’t touched a cigarette. Most of that period was a blur—an excruciatingly miserable blur—right up to the moment when the XO had taken me out to the smoke deck and ordered me to light up.
“You’re not going back in until I’ve watched you smoke two,” he’d growled at me. “Don’t even think about quitting again until we’re back on land and you aren’t my problem anymore. Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir,” I’d said around my cigarette.
The fourth time, I’d been so desperate to quit, I’d taken twenty-one days of leave so I could knuckle through the withdrawal without it interfering with my work. Three months and twenty pounds later, I’d almost relapsed, but the miserable memories were still vivid enough to keep me on the wagon.
And even now, eight years down the line, I still had to talk myself off that ledge whenever something had me wound up. Quitting Jayson and Sean in short order meant talking myself off it again.
And smoking again means quitting again, and quitting again means going through hell and getting every fucking uniform retailored, so how about manning up and dealing with it?
Intellectually, I knew what was happening here. Sean was a distraction from Jayson. A reason not to think about my breakup.
Except everything with Sean was so much better than it had ever been with Jayson. I never felt like I was walking on eggshells or putting on a façade to keep him from seeing who I really was. He was funny and fun to be around, and despite me being convinced I couldn’t possibly have anything in common with someone half my age, we never ran out of things to talk about.
The sex, of course, was nothing to sneeze at. Even during our early days, back when we’d fucked every chance we had, Jayson had never had the kind of enthusiasm that Sean did. He’d always been in it for the orgasm—his orgasm—and didn’t really care about the rest. Sean, though. Christ. He was so attentive. And generous. And just . . . into it.
Okay, so maybe he wasn’t a distraction from Jayson. He was a distraction from everything, and right or wrong, I wanted that back just like I’d wanted the nicotine high back when the withdrawal had been at its worst.
Was that all I wanted, though? A fix to tide me over until the next craving?
I thought back to the afternoon we’d spent on my boat. Before everything had gone to shit, anyway. Yeah, the sex was hot, but the more I thought about it, the more I missed that companionship. We’d barely started getting to know each other, had revealed enough cards to realize we couldn’t see each other, and already . . .
You’re losing your mind, Richards.
Lying in bed after turning off my alarm for the forty-fifth time, I rubbed my eyes. Smoking wasn’t going to help anything, but maybe a good hard run would clear my head. At least then I could be functional at work today. I needed to run anyway. As it was, I’d started avoiding the gym, preferring to run outdoors instead of risking being there at the same time as Sean again.
That plan had worked for a day or two, but this being coastal Oregon, there’d been quite a bit of rain lately. The Physical Readiness Test was coming up, and I would be damned if I couldn’t keep up with the younger guys, so skipping my workouts was not an option.
I made myself sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. Okay. Upright. All I had to do now was grab a shower and get my ass to the gym.
What time does Sean work out?
I cringed. Despite my best efforts, I’d run into him there a few days ago. Almost two weeks after our last night together, I’d walked into the gym just in time to see Sean position himself on a weight bench under a loaded barbell. I’d frozen. I’d stared. And then I’d turned around and walked right back out because I was a goddamn coward and an idiot who was losing his mind over someone he’d fooled around with for a little while.
Sean be damned, though, I needed to get to the gym.
Except it was kind of a moot point now. I’d spent so long trying to talk myself into getting out of bed, I had barely enough time to get my shit together and get to the office. The rear admiral was coming today, and he had an annoying habit of showing up bright and early, so I needed to be put together and mainlining coffee on time.
I’d run later. For now—shower, dress, go to work, and deal with everything like the grown-ass adult I was.
My neck and back smarted as I stood and stretched. No surprise, there—stress aggravated my ancient injuries like it did my latent nicotine addiction. Good thing I had a crap-load of ibuprofen in my desk. I was gonna need it.
The shower didn’t help. Big shock. Something about being naked and letting water slide all over me like hot, eager hands brought Sean to the front of my mind. As if he’d been very far from it to begin with.
Now that I have your attention, my body seemed to say as my cock hardened, you still haven’t relieved some of this tension.
I let the shower spray rush over my face and down the back of my neck. For the last several nights, I’d fought the urge to jerk off to thoughts of Sean, but today, there was no avoiding it. My mind was completely preoccupied with him—his talented mouth, his strong, lean body, his strained voice when he was getting close—and if I was going to be remotely useful during the admiral’s visit, I needed to clear my head. And since I didn’t have time to run, I gave in. I closed my eyes, and I let myself imagine my hand was Sean’s.
In no time, I was there, coming quick and hard after resisting for too long. I hadn’t even had a chance to fantasize or enjoy it—a few strokes, and it was all over.
Panting, I rested my head against my forearm. Nope, this hadn’t helped. The hard-on was taken care of, and the orgasm’s delicious relief was still coursing through my veins, but clearing my head? Restoring my ability to concentrate so I didn’t make an ass of myself with the admiral who could decide whether or not I ever got my own ship? Not so much.
I’ll get over this.
I got over the nic
otine (sort of). I’m over Jayson (kind of).
Why should Sean be any different?
All the way to my office, and through my various meetings, and as I waded through my overstuffed email inbox, my mind refused to let go of Sean. It didn’t help that Senior Chief Wright went through the building a couple of times on his way in and out of meetings, and every time I saw him, I saw another hint of the resemblance between father and son. I had no idea how I’d failed to notice it before. All he needed was longer hair and a few blue highlights, and—
Don’t ogle the senior chief, idiot. That will not help.
The admiral must’ve thought I was a complete moron. Though I was usually pretty damn good at faking it, he still had to repeat himself a few times after my brain checked out at inopportune moments. That would definitely earn me some points toward taking command of a carrier. The Navy was reluctant to give me a boat anyway—my injuries just toed the line of rendering me unfit for sea duty—and being a space case in front of this guy of all people wouldn’t help. Fuck.
The next afternoon, I pulled myself together enough to fool him into thinking I really was a consummate professional who’d just had an off day, and I stayed that way until the helicopter lifted off and took him away from NAS Adams. He’d barely cleared the airfield before I texted my secretary to let her know I wouldn’t be back to the office. Cutting out early wasn’t a privilege I abused on a regular basis, so I decided I could get away with it this one time.
I went for a run to clear my head, but did it do a damn bit of good? Not even a little. I ran five fucking miles, showered, dressed, went home, and still had a mind full of hot cab driver.
Since I didn’t have any better ideas, I ignored the fact that I had to work tomorrow, and drove out to a bar at the north end of Anchor Point. It was a total dive bar, which I’d expected. Probably not another gay man within ten blocks, and probably not a place where a gay man should be waving a rainbow flag or subtly checking out an ass in tight jeans.
