Going Overboard

by L. A. Witt

  So I could still ogle Chris, but not Diego? My straight friend, but not the man I knew was dynamite in bed? Huh. Especially since I couldn’t have said which of the two I was more attracted to. Not usually, anyway. The only reason my lust for Diego had ever had any edge over the same feelings for Chris was that I’d actually slept with Diego. I knew what he was capable of in bed. Chris? That was never going to happen unless my fairy gay mother showed up and gave him a taste for dick.

  Was I just hot for him right now because I couldn’t have him? And Diego was suddenly old news because we’d slept together so many times? No way in hell. So, what? A knock on the head and suddenly I only wanted Chris?

  Man, my brain really was fucked up.

  It needed to get unfucked in a hurry, and not just because I didn’t want to get caught drooling over my straight best friend. A knot coiled beneath my ribs. The exam. The goddamned advancement exam. I was still scared shitless over that thing. I couldn’t afford anything other than a spectacular score, and even before I’d hit my head, Chris and I had both been panicking about how few chances we had left to advance if we didn’t want to get kicked out.

  Now I wasn’t just nervous. I was scared shitless because the exam was less than a month away. What if my head wasn’t back in the game by then? I still had to work at it to count out change, for God’s sake.

  If I was still like this on the day of the exam, I was fucked.

  “Hey.” Diego nudged me. “You still here?”

  “Yeah. Just . . .” Freaking out about getting promoted. Totally something I needed to go on about to a man who’d have sold his soul to still be in the Navy at all. I so needed this right now—a reminder of just how happy the Navy was to chew people up and spit them out.

  “Sorry.” I fought the urge to shake my head. It might rattle my brain back into place, but it would also hurt, if the throbbing in my temples was any indication. My surroundings—Diego’s tiny apartment—came back into focus.

  From the other end of the couch, he watched me skeptically. “You didn’t hear my question, did you?”

  “No, sorry.”

  “I asked what the Navy’s going to do about that asshole who almost killed you.”

  I sighed, rubbing my forehead. “Allegedly, they’re investigating. But since this is Chief’s golden boy . . .” I flailed my hand.

  Diego scowled, draping his arm along the back of the couch. “You’re not going to cover for him, are you?”

  Frowning, I avoided his gaze.

  “Dalton.” He nudged my arm. “Dude, you’re not—”

  “I gotta play ball, you know?” I carefully ran a hand through my hair, avoiding the goose egg and the stitches on the right side. “If I don’t toe the line . . . I mean, the MA1 who was driving the night I went in the water? He does my eval. And since he’s got his nose between Chief’s ass cheeks, if I make any noise about throwing him under the bus for what happened, I’m fucked.”

  “You gotta do whatever’s good for you. Nobody else will have your back.”

  “It is good for me to do what they tell me. Unless I want to get booted for not getting promoted.”

  Diego frowned.

  I winced. “Sorry. I—”

  “No, it’s okay.” He waved a hand. “Nobody knows better than I do that the Navy will kick your ass to the curb over dumb shit.”

  Scowling, I nodded. The Navy had worked him over hard, and even though it had been several years, who could blame him for still being bitter? That job had been his life. His whole world. Then along came Perform to Serve.

  PTS had been a short-lived program where algorithms were created to analyze Sailors based on test scores and God knew what else. If you scored a certain number, you were good. Score below that, and you couldn’t reenlist. I’d been fairly new to the Navy during that time, but I’d seen a few people go down because of it. Good solid Sailors, too. Total fuckups passed with flying colors. The good ones inexplicably missed the mark, and when it came time to reenlist, they were shit out of luck.

  Diego had been a stellar Sailor if there’d ever been one. Eight years. Three Navy Achievement Medals. Two combat deployments. A Purple goddamned Heart.

  And somehow, the numbers hadn’t been good enough. While one of his coworkers who’d been to Captain’s Mast and never seen combat reenlisted for a fat bonus, Diego was discharged with nothing but some scars, a hell of a knee injury, and a wicked case of PTSD. Now he was a civilian, stuck in this town with nowhere else to go and still no idea what he was supposed to do with himself. I’d have been bitter too.

  I cleared my throat. “I really don’t know what to do now. I can’t just lie and tell them Anderson didn’t do anything wrong, but . . .”

  “But you don’t want to get fucked.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Man.” He whistled, shaking his head. “That is not a fun spot to be in.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  We were quiet for a while before Diego twisted toward me, facing me fully, and asked, “So you’ve been spending a lot of time with Chris? Since what happened?” There was a note of caution in his voice. Like he was uneasy with the subject but didn’t want to let it show.

  I nodded. “He’s practically been glued to my side, literally since they pulled me out of the water.”

  Diego cocked his head, lips tightening slightly.

  I explained everything, from the way Chris had helped me regulate my body temperature to him being at my bedside in the ER to sticking with me after I was released.

  Diego sighed something in Spanish, sounding almost melodramatic. “Shame the guy’s straight. Sounds like he’s got boyfriend material written all over him.”

  “I know, right?”

  He paused, watching me for a moment. “And you’re sure he’s straight, right?”

  “Yep. I’m sure.”

  Diego laughed, but it was a taut, not entirely comfortable sound. And I knew why. I knew damn well Diego didn’t like hearing about Chris. He was well aware that I had a thing for Chris, and he’d probably be outright jealous if Chris were actually a threat. But Chris was straight and Diego and I had figured out we couldn’t make it work, so that was the end of it. He probably didn’t even realize he was letting that subtle insecurity show whenever Chris came up in conversation.

  I didn’t mind it. Sometimes I thought his thinly veiled possessiveness was kind of cute. If he ever got nasty with Chris or actually tried to sabotage a relationship with someone, that would be another story. But his barely noticeable teeth-grinding was . . . okay, it was flattering as long as it stayed harmless like this.

  And Chris was definitely pulling my attention away from Diego. My mind went to him, and my heart did all the things it hadn’t been doing for Diego today. What the fuck?

  “You’re blushing.” Diego’s voice was soft, without a trace of jealousy. “You’re really hung up on him right now, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah. Ever since the other night, I . . .” Shit. How much did I want to tell Diego? I didn’t want to make things awkward between us. Before I could stop myself, though, I blurted out, “Is it weird that I suddenly want to tell him how bad I want him?”

  Diego blinked. He didn’t quite flinch, but the corner of his lips twitched slightly. He seemed to consider the question for a moment. Then he shrugged. “I don’t think it’s weird, but it might not be a good idea. If he was bi or something, maybe. But the dude’s straight.” I took his advice at face value. Diego wasn’t one to bullshit me. I knew him—no matter how he felt about me or anyone else, if he thought someone should make a move, he’d tell them. It was one of the things I loved about him. He’d tell you the truth and give you honest advice even if it wasn’t what he wanted you to hear.

  I sighed. “Yeah. I know. And it’s . . . I mean, the way I want him—it’s not even just sexual, you know?”

  “Yeah, I know.” Diego nodded slowly. “But before you go and tell him that, keep in mind how many straight guys you probably know that coul
d listen to a gay guy tell him that and not assume it’s sexual.” He held up a hand, thumb and forefinger making a circle as he mouthed, Zero.

  He had a point. I wanted to argue that Chris was different, but was he? Hadn’t I had some straight friends who’d been cool with me right up until they’d caught a whiff of attraction?

  Yeah, Diego was right. Telling Chris I was more attached to him than just as a friend—that would only make things weird. I sure as hell wouldn’t gain anything besides an awkward conversation.

  And the fact was, I needed Chris right now. If things went south at work like I had a feeling they would, I needed my closest ally. So I’d keep my mouth shut and keep my best friend.

  No matter how much the silence was starting to eat me alive.

  The water seemed clearer than usual. The Pacific was almost always an opaque green, but today, it was practically transparent. Rocks I’d never seen before were visible as the boat cut across the calm water toward the open seas. The small boat. Which I was driving. Wait, when had we gotten the smaller boat back? Was the investigation finished already?

  Well, it didn’t matter—the boat was back and I was at the helm.

  On the other side of the salty windshield, Dalton stood at the bow, his broad shoulders emphasized by the black vest and the rifle strap angled across his back.

  God, he was sexy in that uniform. So fucking hot. I hated the blue camouflage, but it would be a shame when NAS Adams finally made the switch to green.

  Dalton turned around, and when our eyes met, he smiled. A lopsided little smile, like we were exchanging a secret. The way his eyes narrowed—was he flirting? Or thinking about flirting? Or maybe—

  Out of nowhere, a swell crashed into the port side. Dalton stumbled. He grabbed for the rail at the same time I tried to steer and recover.

  Everything seemed to slow down.

  The boat listed hard.

  Dalton’s fingers closed.

  Missed the rail.

  And he was gone.

  I spun the boat around and doubled back to the place he’d gone over. Then I was at the side and looking over.

  The water was calm again. Clear. Perfectly clear, straight to the bottom.

  And he was sinking, weighed down by boots and a rifle and trauma plates.

  “Dalton!” I shouted. “Fuck! Dalton!”

  I threw off my own vest.

  Vaulted over the railing.

  And just kept falling. And falling. And falling.

  And Dalton kept sinking. And sinking. And sinking.

  My eyes flew open and I sucked in air.

  Dark. Bedroom. Sheets.

  Home.

  Safe.

  I exhaled slowly. One of these days, I’d wake up from that stupid nightmare without feeling like it was the first time it had ever happened. Maybe I’d even stop mid-dream and go, Hey, brain, enough with the bullshit reruns.

  So far, no dice. This must’ve been the third time since I’d gone to bed, and according to my phone, it was only 0915. So that was three times in two hours. Fuck.

  I rolled onto my back and rubbed a hand over my face. Kind of felt like I should take a shower. My skin was sticky with sweat, and it was crawling. But I really needed to sleep, and a shower would wake me up. Plus, I’d just have that stupid dream again anyway.

  I dropped my hand onto the bed beside me. Staring up at the ceiling, I let the fragments of the dream flicker through my brain. The details changed every time, but the gist was the same—watching Dalton go overboard and not being able to save him. Watching him sink or float away. My skin prickled and my stomach twisted. Was this some kind of PTSD or something? Shit, maybe I needed a psych eval. And if I was this messed up, how the hell were Dalton or Rhodes sleeping? Or Anderson? Much as I didn’t like the guy, I couldn’t imagine he’d walked away from all that without a mental scratch. I wondered if the only person who could sleep anymore was Chief Lasby, because I sure as shit doubted anything kept him awake. A man would need a conscience for that.

  I sighed and closed my eyes. I could worry about all this shit later. Right now, I needed to sleep, or I’d be a worse coxswain than Anderson on my shift tonight.

  I just hoped I didn’t dream again.

  But of course . . . I did.

  By the time I dragged my bleary-eyed ass out of bed, it was almost 1400. Shame I felt like I’d only slept about fifteen minutes.

  I had a text from Dalton, though, and that was enough to wake me up and make me feel a bit less shitty. Partly because it meant that stupid dream had just been a dream, and partly because . . . I had a text from Dalton.

  You want to grab something to eat? #CabinFever

  I chuckled. He still wasn’t driving yet, and the walls of that little barracks room would’ve closed in on me after the first day. Just got up. Give me twenty.

  Okay, so it turned out to be more like twenty-five, but I got there. As I pulled up in front of the barracks, Dalton came outside. He was wearing a red Huskers hoodie and some snug jeans, and goddamn, he looked good. As if he ever didn’t look good.

  He eased himself into the passenger seat. “Thanks. I was getting stir-crazy again.”

  “Anytime. Where do you want to go?”

  Dalton shrugged. “You’re driving. Long as they have coffee and food and more coffee, I’m game.”

  “Junkie.” I chuckled and pulled out of the barracks parking lot.

  We found a little diner not too far from the base. Anchor Point was full of places like this. The kind of restaurant that was probably run by a family and had recipes someone had taken out of Grandma’s box of handwritten note cards. Sometimes I thought about opening a place like this after I retired. God knew I had plenty of recipes from Grandma and all the ones my parents had picked up from other families at the bases where they’d been stationed over the years.

  But then I’d take one look at the tired people running the joint and reconsider. As the sleepy-eyed lady took us to a table today, I was definitely thinking twice about my own restaurant. I was tired enough in my job right now, so yeah, maybe not. Just what I needed—a job where I worried about somebody getting food poisoning or choking on a meatball.

  She sat us down and handed us a couple of faded laminated menus. I hadn’t been here before, but I didn’t bother reading the whole thing. I knew what I was in the mood for, so I scanned over the pages until I found the omelets. A meat lover’s omelet? With steak instead of ground beef? Oh fuck yeah. Sign me up.

  Dalton was still perusing the menu, so I drank my coffee while I waited for him to figure out what he wanted to order. The coffee was strong too. Good. I was going to need it today.

  The waitress came, and while Dalton ordered, I watched him surreptitiously, wondering if he’d been able to sleep. A week after the incident, he still hadn’t gained back all his color, so I guessed not. Or maybe he’d just been getting pastier like he always did when our section worked nights. He and Powers both lost a few shades of tan when we were on nights, and it didn’t help that this was the dead of winter. Come summer, they’d both step outside and fry in the sun.

  As the waitress left, I snickered to myself.

  Dalton’s eyes flicked up. “What?”

  “Nothing.” I shook my head.

  He watched me like he wasn’t convinced.

  I thumbed the handle on my coffee cup. “So, how do the docs think you’re healing?”

  He narrowed his eyes a little, probably not fooled by the subject change, but he went with it. “Well, I go back to work tomorrow.”

  “Already?”

  “Yeah. Light duty. It’ll be good to get back to something normal.” He laughed like he didn’t really feel it. “Better than sitting around with my dick in my hand.”

  “Any idea when they’ll put you back on the water?”

  Dalton squirmed, avoiding my eyes. “Don’t know. I’m not sure I want to go back out for a while.”

  “Don’t blame you. How’s your head doing?”

  “Eh
.” His lip curled. “God knows how long it’s going to take to unfuck itself.”

  “Yeah?”

  He nodded. “I can think a bit clearer, so there’s that. Actually managed to count out money at the Exchange last night, and I can walk in a straight line.” He laughed self-consciously. “Just think what I’ll be able to do in another week or two.”

  The sarcasm was almost heart-breaking. I could only imagine how much he hated being a stranger to his own brain. It could’ve been a lot worse—he could’ve had to learn to walk or talk again—but it had to be frustrating as hell for him.

  “It hasn’t been that long, remember that. And I mean, you got hit by a boat. My sister clocked me in the head with a book when I was nine, and I felt that shit for ages.”

  Dalton laughed. “A book, huh? What’d you do to deserve that?”

  “Hey!”

  “What?” He shrugged. “Or did she just throw it at you for no reason?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Uh-huh.” He chuckled again, but then he sighed and rubbed his forehead. “I just want to feel normal. Like, I can’t wait until I can drive again.”

  “Any idea how long that’ll be?”

  “The doc says I should be okay in a few more days. He just wants to make sure the double vision is really gone.”

  “Seems legit. Seeing double while you’re driving doesn’t sound safe.”

  “Isn’t safe while I’m walking, either.” He gestured at his shoulder. “Tried to walk through the wrong bathroom door last night, and clipped the frame. You wouldn’t think something like that would hurt that much, but Jesus fuck.”

  “Want me to put some bubble wrap on the frame for—”

  “Shut up.” He took a playful swing at me and laughed.

  I chuckled. Right then, the waitress showed up with our food. One sniff of the meats in my omelet and the French toast he’d ordered, and I decided this place was a winner. No way in hell food could smell that good but taste bad.

  Sure enough, it was amazing. I didn’t think I’d ever had a meat lover’s omelet where the cook had actually nailed a perfect medium on the steak. Add in the sausage and diced ham? Fuck yeah.