Field Stripped: 15 Steamy Military Romances

by Marissa Dobson

  Police sirens screamed in the distance, causing their adrenaline to pump even harder until they reached the end of the alley.

  “Call you assholes later!” Ripper hollered as the four of them went their separate ways, heading home or wherever they spent their nights.

  He yawned and opened his eyes, blinking against the piercing light of the morning sun streaming in through his partially open curtains. Remembering the night before, his eyes flew open and he immediately reached under his pillow to see if his new Beretta was still there. He sighed in relief when his hand wrapped around the warm metal.

  Pulling it out, he examined the gun more closely than he had last night. Its black body gleamed in the morning sun. He locked the slide to the rear and looked inside. He fiddled with the magazine release until it fell out into his hand and saw it was empty. He glanced over at his chest of drawers, as he remembered putting the boxes of bullets in his underwear drawer.

  Glancing at his bedroom door, he flipped the thin blanket aside and went over to the chest and slowly opened the top drawer. Moving his underwear aside, he saw the three boxes of 9mm bullets. He breathed a sigh of relief and smiled. He and Ripper and the other two from the OAB had gotten away with it. He was thrilled to have his very own piece to carry around for protection – and when the need arose, intimidation.

  “Ellis! Get down here!” he heard his mother call.

  He sighed, setting the gun and bullets back into his drawer, covering them up with the undergarments. Pulling on the jeans that were lying in a heap on the floor, he fastened the button and slogged down the stairs.

  His mother was in her waitress uniform, spooning hash browns and eggs onto a plate. A cigarette dangled from the corner of her mouth.

  “You’re going to be late for school,” she murmured through a hazy blue cloud of smoke.

  He coughed and resisted the urge to wave the smoke away. He loathed the smell and looked forward to the day he could move out of his mother’s house.

  “I don’t give a shit about school,” he murmured, squeezing ketchup onto his eggs and hash browns.

  He flinched when his mother’s palm made contact with the back of his head. “Boy, you go to school, you graduate, then you can do whatever the hell you want. Until that happens, these are my damn rules. And watch your mouth in my house.”

  She glared at him before crushing the cigarette out into a nearby ashtray.

  He said nothing, just shoveled more food into his mouth, hoping she’d just leave. She headed for the door and opened it. She stepped out into the morning sun, but before closing the door, she pointed a blood-red fingernail at him, her eyes narrowed. “If I get another frickin’ call from the school that you’ve ditched, I’m gonna beat your ass when I get home. You hear me, boy?”

  He sucked in a deep breath and nodded. “Yeah, Ma.”

  “Good.”

  She slammed the door and Ellis flipped her off after it was closed.

  He went to school… barely. He was still hungover from the cheap beer Ripper had manipulated a pretty girl at the corner store to buy for them before they had hit the sports supply store last night.

  As he sat at the dining room table staring at his backpack, which was full of homework he most likely wouldn’t be doing, he grinned in triumph at his conquest from the night before.

  He was in his senior year and wasn’t even sure how he’d made it this far. He had continually given each teacher hell every year, learning at an early age that if he was a holy terror in each classroom, the teacher would pass him onto the next grade just to get rid of him.

  He startled when the door opened and his mother came walking through, dressed in her uniform, just like she had been that morning.

  “Son, how was your day?” she asked.

  He looked at her weary blue eyes and wrinkling tanned skin, almost feeling sorry for her. She’d lived a hard life and he knew that he was all she had. Still, he couldn’t wait to move away from home and be on his own. She pulled her bleached blonde hair out of its ponytail, set her purse down on a worn kitchen chair, and lit a cigarette.

  Sitting at the table with him, she pulled off her rubber shoes and began massaging her feet over the nude-colored pantyhose.

  “It was fine, Ma. I got homework, though.” He pointed to his backpack.

  As she was about to reply, there was a knock on the door to their townhouse.

  “You expectin’ someone?” she asked through the cigarette at the corner of her mouth.

  He shook his head and swallowed hard, trying to think. Ripper hadn’t said he was coming by when they’d parted ways at school, and he wasn’t expecting anyone else. “No.”

  She cautiously went to the door, looking through the peephole. She saw two men in suits and ties. Opening the door a crack but leaving the chain bolted, she glared at the two men. “What the hell you want?”

  The taller of the two, a clean-cut white guy in a tie, produced a police badge. “Are you Mrs. Anderson?”

  She nodded. “Yeah, why?”

  “Is there an Ellis Anderson living at this residence? Your son?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We need to speak to him. Now.”

  Oh, shit, Ellis thought at hearing who was at the door. He thought about running up to his room, throwing the gun and bullets out the window, but what good would that do? They’d find them, and they were covered with his prints. Maybe he could rub the prints off? Maybe he could shimmy up a loose board in his room and hide the contraband under a floorboard. Maybe he could hide them in his laundry basket or the trash can in his bathroom. Who wants to search through that stuff?

  Maybe it was too late and I was completely screwed, he panicked.

  His mother briefly closed the door and slid the chain off, opening the door wider and reluctantly inviting the two cops inside. She looked past her decaying porch and down both ways of the street before closing the door, a common habit of most inhabitants of the roughest neighborhood in Orlando.

  “Y’all want something to drink?” his mother asked as she awkwardly indicated for them to sit on one of the two sofas, a couple of pink and blue flowered pieces that looked like the 90s might want them back someday.

  “No, thank you, Mrs. Anderson,” one cop said.

  The taller of the two shook his head and looked at Ellis. “You. Come sit over here.”

  Ellis complied, sitting on the other sofa.

  His mother sat on the sofa next to her son and stared at the men.

  The one who’d spoken first started. “I’m Detective Atcheson, and this is Detective Johnson.” He pointed to his partner, a light-skinned black guy who looked too young to be a cop.

  “What’s this about?” Mrs. Anderson asked.

  Detective Atcheson produced an envelope from the inside of his suit pocket and set it on his lap. He fixed his stare on Ellis. “Where were you last night, son?”

  Ellis swallowed hard, but tried to keep a cool mask over his face. “Out with friends, why?”

  “Are you a member of the Orlando Aryan Boys gang?”

  He feigned innocence and gasped for effect. “No. No way.”

  Without warning, the detective reached over and grabbed his arm, yanking his T-shirt sleeve up to expose Ellis’s shoulder where a tattoo with the letters “OAB” decorated his shoulder.

  His mother gasped. “Ellis John Anderson! How the hell long have you had that?”

  Starting to get angry, he yanked his arm away from the detective and pulled his shirt sleeve down. “I got it on my 17th birthday, Ma. Calm down.”

  “Calm down?” she screeched. “Why are you involved in some gang? I raised you better…”

  “With all due respect, Mrs. Anderson, we’re here about something more serious than his affiliation with the OAB. The Jensen Sportsman’s Warehouse was robbed and vandalized last night, and we know the OAB was responsible.”

  Ellis and his mother said nothing, just continued to glare at the detectives.

  When they didn’t resp
ond, the cop cleared his throat and pulled a series of black and white 8 by 10 sized photographs from the envelope he had set on his lap earlier. Spreading them on the wooden coffee table, he pointed at the surveillance video photos and said, “This is you.”

  It wasn’t a question. The detective’s hard stare demanded an explanation.

  Ellis didn’t say anything, he just stared at the photos, wondering how the hell he was gonna get out of this. He absentmindedly wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans. He was brought out of his thoughts when a smack to the back of his head made his vision go fuzzy.

  “Answer him now, boy!” his mother ground out, her piercing blue stare shooting daggers at him.

  He glanced at her, then back at the detective. “No, that ain’t me.” He gazed at the photo again, the dark hoodie covering most of his face, only a small part of it was showing. “That could be anyone,” he continued, his confidence growing.

  The detective nodded, thrusting another photo of him with his arm raised, crowbar in hand, winding up to smash the glass. “This isn’t you, either?” The detective was almost mocking him now.

  The hoodie had come back a little in the excitement of swinging the crowbar. Ellis sat back and folded his arms. “Nah, not me.”

  “I see,” the detective said, not bothering to show them the rest of the photos, but instead, putting them back into the envelope. He then pulled a piece of paper out of the breast pocket of his suit jacket. He handed it to Ellis’s mother. “I have a warrant to search the premises.”

  Detective Johnson fixed Ellis with a glare. “Unless you’d like to save us the trouble and just tell us where the weapons and ammo are?”

  Ellis narrowed his eyes at the detectives. “Fuck you.”

  “Ellis!” his mother screeched, standing up and yanking him by the arm. “What the hell is going on here?” She was trembling, her eyes a mixture of fear and desperation.

  The detectives stood up and tossed the search warrant on the coffee table.

  Lifting a shoulder and letting it fall, Detective Atcheson glared at Ellis for his disrespect and then said to his partner while staring at Ellis, “Johnson, you take the kid’s room. I’ll start in the kitchen.”

  Just then, two uniformed police officers walked calmly through the front door. “These two will make sure you stay either outside or in this room while we search,” Detective Johnson said, heading upstairs.

  Not five minutes later, Johnson came down the stairs carrying the gun by its handle in his gloved hand, the boxes of bullets wrapped in a plastic bag. He glared at Ellis, then poked his head into the kitchen, looking at Atcheson, who was pulling drawers and cabinets open. “Found it. Let’s roll.”

  Atcheson spied the gun and then cut his gaze to Ellis, who was on the sofa with his head in his hands. Briskly walking to him, he grabbed his bicep and yanked him up. “Ellis Anderson, you’re under arrest for robbery and forced entry.”

  Ellis pulled out of his grip and began to struggle. He was going to try to flee out of the back door and run – somewhere – anywhere! He just had to get out of there.

  “Get your fucking hands off me!”

  The two armed police officers ran to the aid of the detective and pinned the boy to the floor, putting handcuffs on behind his back.

  “Get off me!” Ellis screamed again. “Let me go!”

  They stood him up as he continued to struggle futilely.

  “Don’t make me taze you, boy,” said one of the officers, a large guy who looked like he’d been a professional linebacker before he became a cop. His hand was twitching to pull out his Taser and his face was stern and serious.

  They escorted Ellis to the front door, Detective Johnson opening it for them.

  “No, please don’t take my boy, please!” his mother pled, falling to her knees, sobbing.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” Atcheson said, cutting her a sympathetic glance. He walked over and pulled a card from his breast pocket, offering it to her. “Here’s my contact info. Call me tomorrow and I’ll tell you if he’s made bail.”

  She continued to cry, tears streaming down her cheeks, ignoring the detective. He placed the card on the coffee table and the detectives and officers left with Ellis in custody, placing him in the back of a police cruiser.

  “This is your third strike, Mr. Anderson,” the judge said, his wise hazel eyes narrowing on the defendant as he sat in the Orange County, Florida courtroom.

  Ellis simply nodded as his court-appointed attorney leaned over and whispered something in his ear.

  His mother was seated behind them in the galley, clutching her purse and watching in horror as the judge handed down a sentence to her only child.

  The judge cleared his throat and looked at the paper in front of him, his glasses perched on his nose as the arms of his black robe swept across the desk as he read. He lifted his eyes up to Ellis. Removing his glasses, he set the paper down and folded his hands over it. “You know, when you first appeared in front of me last year, I gave you a chance, like I do to all teens. I thought maybe you were on the wrong path and that some community service helping the homeless would open your eyes. But no. Six months later you appeared again in front of me, on yet another robbery charge. Boy, the worst thing you could have ever done is get involved with the Orlando Aryan Boys. The other three are already behind bars, and your leader,” he looked down at his paper, “Justin Silver – or ‘Ripper’, is going to have a hell of a time in prison with the other gang bangers. But you,” he sighed, “I still don’t think you are beyond repair, even though you seem to be on the same path as your father.” He shook his head. “Despite that, your mother has tried her hardest to raise you, but you’ve continued to disappoint her, time after time, haven’t you?”

  Ellis cut his eyes down to the desk, unable to look at the judge. As much of a hard-ass as he’d become, he still hated that he’d hurt his mother. “Answer me, boy!” the judge roared, pounding his fist on the large oak desk in front of him.

  His eyes darted to the judge and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, I’m going to do you a huge favor today.”

  Ellis, his mother, his attorney, and the entire courtroom were silent, hanging on every word coming from the judge’s mouth.

  “Instead of prison, you are to enlist in the United States Marine Corps, effective immediately. You want to play with guns and pretend to be a tough guy? Let’s see how you handle the toughest boot camp in the world, and maybe a deployment or two.”

  Ellis’s eyes got big, and he bit back a curse. “But–”

  The judge cut him off. “Shut up, boy, I’m not done.”

  Ellis’s jaw ticked with defiance, but he just simply nodded.

  “If you do not complete four full years of active enlistment, you will be brought back here to Orange County, where you will serve a term of no less than seven years in a state penitentiary of my choosing.”

  Ellis’s attorney raised a hand. “Your honor, the boy is only 17, and has not finished high school. I don’t believe the military will accept him without a high school diploma.”

  The judge nodded. “Right. He will take a G.E.D. test, which he will pass, and that will satisfy their enlistment qualifications. If he doesn’t pass it, this one-time get-out-of-jail-free-card is null and void, and he will be off to prison – where, by the way,” he looked at Ellis, “they make you get your G.E.D. anyway, so keep that mind, boy. You hear me?” The judge narrowed his eyes at the defendant.

  “I do, sir,” Ellis eked out, swallowing hard.

  The judge pounded his gavel and shook his graying head. “Court adjourned.”

  Chapter One

  Present Day

  Ellis

  If pain is weakness leaving the body, then what is it called when pain leaves the heart?

  The fact that the gang I’d joined when I was 17 had called me “LT” turned out to be a sort of twisted poetic justice. The “leader” – if you could call him that, Ripper, had said Ellis was a stupid name and said LT
sounded close enough. Then he made me “First Lieutenant” of the OAB. A title, at the time, I was proud to have.

  Now, it just confused people – or it did during my eight years in the Marines. LT is the nickname for ‘lieutenant’ there too, but I hadn’t been a lieutenant in the Corps. No, those were the college-educated types. I’d started out as a grunt and made my way to First Sergeant by the time my tenure was up. Yes, the judge had sentenced me to four years, but by the grace of God, that judge, to whom I owed my life, had known what he was doing. He had seen something in me that not I, or even my mother, had seen in me: Potential. Instead of being the bad kid with the pretty face I’d appeared to be on the outside, I was actually a good kid just in with an ugly crowd. A sadly typical story, one that, fortunately, did not have a tragic ending. So I ended up serving another 4 years because I wanted to, not because I had to this time.

  Well, some might say it could still end that way, but not me.

  My past sins have definitely come back to haunt me. Not the sins of my teenaged youth; no, not those. Petty theft and robbery is nothing compared to what I’ve done and seen during my awesome, wonderful, sad, horrible, and terrific time in the United States Marine Corps.

  The horrors, the triumphs, the defeats, the victories, they’re all wrapped up in one big confusing ball of memories and nightmares. The places I’ve seen, the people I’ve met, the women I’ve loved and let go, the brothers and friends I’ve loved and lost… all worth every moment. Even if I did come out of that part of my life scathed, scarred, broken, put back together, and then broken again.

  There are times, when I’m alone, that I fight against the memories, battle against a breakdown at what I’ve been through, and then five or ten minutes later, I’m laughing like an idiot at a memory. Something that really isn’t funny, it’s just amusing to me, forever burned in my brain.

  I have scars on the inside and the outside, and you know what? Thank you, Judge Perkins, because I wouldn’t trade them for an easier life. The mark that digs the deepest, though, isn’t one you can see. The one she left on my fucking soul.