“You arrogant asshole, sit up!” the judge booms at me.
Too stunned to move, I just look at him.
“I said to sit the fuck up!”
“Hey now, Lawrence,” my father steps closer to the angry man and places a hand on his shoulder. “That’s quite enough.”
The judge spins, jerking away from Dad’s hand. “Not enough by a long shot, Charles.”
I look from the judge to my dad to the DA who’s covering his mouth with his hand to hide a grin. I look back at my father. “Lincoln, do as Lawrence says. Sit up.”
I uncross my leg and sit up straighter. Looks like I’ll need to endure another long ass lecture.
To my surprise, instead of addressing me, Judge Cardell turns back to my father. “Enough is enough, Charles. It’s time this boy owns up to his actions. Right now, there is enough evidence on him to put him away for several years. It’s less than he deserves.”
I sit up straighter. Several years?
“Now, you know that isn’t necessary. I know I’ve—”
Cardell interrupts him. “Your boy is a nuisance, Charles. Even worse, we allowed it to happen. And if we keep on letting this happen, we’re going to be standing here in twenty years having this same discussion. I’m sorry to say it, but he’s not going to amount to anything at this rate.”
I stand up. If nothing else than to remind them of my presence. They’re talking about me like I’m not even here.
“You listen to me, Lawrence,” my dad begins, the vein on his temple bulging to the rhythm of his rapid pulse.
“No. I won’t be listening to you, and you better sit down before you have a damn heart attack. I’m not finished with what I’m trying to say.”
Judge Cardell turns toward me. “Sit down, son.”
I flip him off and head toward the door.
“Fine,” the judge says and turns toward the DA. “Throw the entire book at him. Charge him with everything.”
“Lincoln Charles!” The sound of my father’s voice stops me in my tracks. “Get your ass back in that chair right now.”
I turn, enraged. “Or what? I lose my trust fund? I’m disowned? Guess what? I don’t care.”
DA Nielson stands. “Son, do you know what you’re facing here? Any idea of the extent of your charges? You walk out that door and you not only lose the backing of your family, but you’ll do it behind bars. Hard time. Not the local jail. State penitentiary.”
The corners of my vision grey. I’m breathing too damn fast. This isn’t happening the way it was supposed to. I don’t know how everything got so fucked up.
“John’s right,” the judge says. “You’re looking at hard time and neither I nor any of my fellow judges will let you off this time. We’re done with you. Done with covering for you. Things went too far this time. I can tell by the look in your eyes you don’t believe me.” He takes a step closer to me. I meet his eyes in defiance. “Believe me. I’ve known you most of your life and I hate like hell to see you brought down like this, but I cannot in good conscious allow you to continue to screw up your life. It’s time for accountability.”
“Lawrence, surely there is a compromise,” Dad says, his voice weaker than I’ve ever heard it.
Judge Cardell addresses my dad, but looks straight at me. “The last time Link was in trouble, I swore to myself that I’d intervene. So I’ve had some time to think about this for…” he scowls at me “…a good four months now. This boy doesn’t need punishment. He needs discipline.”
“I—” my dad begins.
“Real discipline, Charles. Not time-out. Not taking away his toys. Not keeping him locked up in his gilded bedroom. Real discipline that you, because you love him, won’t dole out.”
I stare at him, refusing to ask what he means. Are they cancelling my backpacking trip through Europe? Surely not! Dad knows how much that trip means to me.
Dad clears his throat. “What are you suggesting, Lawrence?”
“Military.”
I erupt. “No fucking way!”
The judge doesn’t bat an eye. “Military or prison. At least you are one of the few people in this world who get’s a choice. You have twenty-four hours to decide. I’ll be here tomorrow.”
With that, he strides past me and out the door.
Chapter 5
Seven weeks later…
This isn’t so bad.
I have to admit, I was a little freaked about my first week at Fort Sill. I’d heard nightmare stories of screaming drill sergeants and endless push-ups. But so far, all I’ve done is sit around, fill out paperwork and then more paperwork, then sit around again. Or wait in one of the endless lines that seem to go on forever. Sure, the sergeants are assholes, but not nearly as douchey as everyone says.
One thing the rumor mill got right … the food is hell on a plate. Of course, that might not be a bad thing. During my ‘house arrest’—yeah, I air-quote the words—at Casa Duffy the past six weeks, I’ve put on a few pounds and gone a little soft. During my parent-imposed punishment, I was ‘allowed’ to use the pool and the indoor gym, but I didn’t really feel like it, so I didn’t. I just sat around and played video games. And ate.
During these first four days—Reception Battalion they call it—I got inoculations and a dental and physical exam. I murdered the physical assessment, but hell, I’d have to have been a pussy not to. I would have thought the physical requirements to be allowed in the Army would be more strenuous. I could do those thirteen pushups, seventeen sit-ups and run a mile in eight-thirty all day long.
All in all, reception battalion was boring. I learned how to make a bed, something our housekeepers would probably love to see, and even sat through a, get this, finance class. I found out that new soldiers get the privilege of paying for their own gear. They give us a monthly allotment that wouldn’t cover the price of a t-shirt in my real world, and expect us to pay for everything. Including a fucking haircut.
I’m still pissed about that. I think the damn dude scalped me extra close just for the fun of it—he took that first swipe across the top of my head nice and slow, a big grin on his face. Now I have a tanned face and white, cue ball skull, just like everyone else. Hell, I am like everyone else, especially in my basic training uniform and boots.
I’m thrown forward as the cattle car brakes hard. Yes, I mean cattle car in the purest sense of the words. I’m thrown backward as it takes off, the huge semi that’s pulling us throwing up a huge stream of black smoke.
We’ve left reception battalion and are being moved to our basic training facility. Unit. Company. Whatever they call it.
Fuck.
Paparazzi are on the side of the road, their damn cameras snapping away. I nearly laugh. They can take all the pictures they want, but they’d be hard-pressed to recognize me right now. I turn away from them anyway, not giving them the opportunity to accidently get what they want—a piece of me. The ‘spare’ of the Duffy fortune, brought low and facing his slap on the wrist punishment.
Shit.
Dad had been livid when the press covered the accident like hyenas on a fallen doe. There had been pictures of Anna’s body being airlifted from the rocks below. Pictures of me coming out of jail. Pictures of me sitting by the pool afterwards with the freaking headline—Playboy Lounges After Girlfriend Falls To Her Death. I still don’t know how they got that picture. Hell, we live on a cliff. A freaking compound with state-of-the-art security. But, there I was, kicked back on the lounge talking on my cell. Looking like I didn’t have a care in the world.
They had no idea I was saying goodbye to my friends who were still heading to Europe the next morning. Without me.
We make a final turn and I see the compound up ahead. Good. Let’s get this over with. Besides, this damn cattle truck smells like shit, but I really don’t mind. I’ve smelled worse in the locker room after a game. What I do mind is the silence, not one person is saying a word. Everybody seems scared to death. I want to tell them to chill.
I�
��m not worried. I’ve survived summer football workouts, I can survive this. Nine weeks. I can do that. Then I’ll get my desk job, just like Dad told me he’d arrange. Logistics. Fucking logistics. Sounds boring, but four years of that is better than six years in the federal pen.
Shit. I didn’t know Mattie wasn’t eighteen yet. The detectives seemed thrilled to toss statutory rape on top of my pile of charges. Who knew the age of consent in California is eighteen years old? Since I’m less than three years older than her, it’s only a misdemeanor, but I’d also provided her alcohol, so that meant I was pretty much screwed.
“So, what’s a girl like you doing on a bus like this?” I say to the cutey beside me, adding in my most charming grin.
Silence.
She stares straight ahead. Not even her eyes flick my way.
What the fuck? You’d think she’d want a little conversation before boot camp begins.
I try again, a little more serious this time. “Which assignment did you choose?”
Silence.
I heave out a breath and look out the window again. This place is a shithole. Flat land as far as the eye can see. Scared people willing to give up their independence and be brainwashed from being civilians to soldiers. They’re doing this willingly, not like me.
I look back at the girl, her hair tied back in a severe knot. Maybe she’s a dyke. Hell. I hope they all aren’t lesbians; that would put a serious kink in my plan to fuck my way through basic training. I’d heard hooks up were possible and brought a stash of condoms I have hidden in my bag. My fake deodorant bottle conceals a number of ‘illegal’ things.
The cattle car stops and the door is flung open. “Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!”
Some asshole is screaming at us and everyone around me snatches up their bags and hightails it out of the car. I let them go, then grab up my bags—one civilian and the other an issued duffle—and climb out.
“Well, nice of you to join us,” says the old dude with yellow teeth. “Please, take your time.”
I nod at him. A mistake. In a heartbeat, he’s in my face, spittle coming at me like darts. “Did you look at me? Did I give you permission to look at me, maggot?”
“No, sir!”
“And he fucking speaks. Down. Now, and give me twenty.”
“Twenty what, sir?”
His red face turns blank. Scary blank. I didn’t know blank could be so terrifying.
I drop to the ground and give him twenty push-ups.
Back on my feet, he picks up my bags and thrusts them in my hands. “You’re holding us up, maggot,” he yells, spittle still flying. “Double time.”
I look around. “Where?”
“Holy fucking brain cell challenged mother fucking maggot…” I honestly think this guy is going to have a stroke. Instead of waiting for him to continue, I take off after the others, plopping the bag up on my shoulder as I go.
“What the fuck?” It’s another dude this time. He steps in front of me and I almost don’t stop in time. “Did I say you could haul that bag on your shoulder, you piece of shit?”
I stare at him and look at the others. They’re holding their bags in front of them, so I take it down and do the same. It doesn’t stop him from screaming in my face, telling me what a loser I am. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to just stand here and listen to the tirade or step around him and double time it to the others as the first guy said.
I stand there, waiting until he’s done. “Double time,” he finally screams and I take off, running with the packs in front of me this time. It’s much harder this way and my arms are screaming by the time I catch up. How stupid is this? It would be much more efficient if our packs were on our backs.
“Find your place. Find your place. Find your place. Find…”
It’s a woman this time, skin dark as night, the whites of her eyes an eerie white. Place? What place? There is no fucking place. But I go around her and halt in a spot that looks like it might sort of be a place.
“You’re fucking up my line, maggot!”
Shit. What line? I look at the drill sergeant. “Where do you want—”
Another mistake. I stand there while I’m cursed and am blinking against his spit. I frown as my face becomes a petri dish of who knows what kind of bacteria.
I want to tell him all of this could have been avoided if we’d been prepped with what to expect and where to go beforehand. A little communication—hold your bag in front of you; move to a four line formation—would have been helpful.
He grabs me by the front of my shirt and hauls me over to another spot only eight inches away. Seriously. I fucked up his line by eight inches. Fucking anal obsessive-compulsive asshole.
I set my bag down and get lit into again.
“Did I say you could set down that bag?”
I roll my eyes.
Big mistake.
Two hours, three hundred and sixty push-ups and seven shouting matches later, I’m finally in the bunkhouse I’m going to be calling home for the next nine weeks. I’ve been assigned a bunk—top; thanks Dad—and a locker and am stowing my gear away.
The door bursts open, slamming against the wall. The sound is like gunshot through the room.
Twenty big burly men come in and surround the perimeter. Then one more. This one is old as hell and has more wrinkles than skin. “Who told you maggots to sit down?”
Me and about forty guys get to our feet, some quicker than others. I look around. What the fuck? My answer breaks the silence. “No one said…”
Fuck. Old guy is in my face, mixing his spit with the others. “Who said you could speak?”
I’m fucking tired of that question. “No one, sir.”
“Holy fucking hell. The maggot sits. He speaks. He doesn’t even call me by my name.”
I look at his shirt. Boner. I force myself not to laugh. “Sorry, Sergeant Boner.” Dammit, I couldn’t stop my lips from twitching.
He grows quiet and turns away. Whew. At least I got something right.
He paces up the aisle between our bunks, from one end to the other. Then he strolls back to me. “What’s your name, son?” His cold stare exaggerates the chill in the room.
“Lincoln Duffy, sir.”
“Ah, that’s nice. Full name, son.”
I heave out a breath. I hate my full name. “Lincoln Charles Frederickson Duffy.”
He paces up the aisle again. Turns, and paces back. “Pretty pussy name you’ve got there, Lincoln Charles Frederickson Duffy.”
I can’t disagree. “Yes, sir, Sergeant Boner.” I smirk again. I can’t help it.
Paces up. Paces back. “Does your momma still wipe your ass, pretty boy?”
I want to say, no, we have servants for that, but hold my tongue.
“Step aside, son.” His voice is low. Conversational. A slight Texas drawl behind the words.
Confused, I move to my left and he steps by me, going directly to my locker. Fuck. What the hell is he doing?
He opens the locker and begins pulling everything out and tossing it on the floor. What an asshole. He stops and turns with a pair of my boxer briefs in his hands.
“What the fuck are these?”
“Uh, underwear, sir.”
His mouth grows tight and he steps back into the middle of the aisle. “What, fruit of the loom not good enough for you, pretty boy?”
I shrug. Underwear is underwear. What’s the big deal?
He turns to the others, holding my boxers up in the air. “Gentleman, let me introduce you to rich boy panties. Seems we have a rich boy in our midst.”
I see a few eyes slice toward me, but everyone else stares straight ahead. Great. I was hoping no one would find out so I wouldn’t have assholes pretending to be my friend to gain a buck. I’m so pissed. I just stare at Boner—ha—while he continues to hold my boxers up for the world to see. What was wrong with Zimmerli anyway?
He lowers them. “Normally, it’s kinda nice to have rich friends, but I honestly feel sorry for everyone in
this room. You see, rich pricks think they are better than everyone else. Isn’t that right, Lincoln Charles Frederickson Duffy?”
“No, sir.”
“They think they’re special and can do things that we, normal waged, humans cannot. Isn’t that right, Lincoln Charles Frederickson Duffy?” Dammit. His voice is getting louder again.
“No, sir.”
“They think they can walk into the finest military force in the world with their expensive underwear and their fancy names and call their drill sergeants ‘sir’. Isn’t that right, Lincoln Charles Frederickson Duffy?”
“No, uh…Drill Sergeant, sir.” Fuck. What am I supposed to call him then? Shit. They said something about it in reception, but I don’t remember. I wasn’t paying attention.
“Well, looky there. He got close.” He steps up to me and screams, “But not fucking close enough. You will call me by my proper name. You remember that, don’t you?” His coal colored eyes bulge along with the veins in his temples. He finally pulls back, his face no longer a millimeter from mine.
Shit. Why can’t I remember it? “Yes, sir. It’s Drill Sergeant, sir.” As soon as the words come out, I know there’s a problem. My shirt is getting sticky and I hope the deodorant I put on works.
He’s enraged again. Spitting. Shouting. “Don’t you ever call me ‘sir’ again, puke. I know who both my parents are.” His breath is pungent, onions and garlic. His nostrils flare and veins in his temples get bigger. I’m afraid he’s gonna stroke out right here.
“Sergeant Miller!” Boner barked.
“Yes, Drill Sergeant.” A tall, lanky man takes one stop toward Boner.
“Halle-fuckin-lujah!” Boner puts his hands in prayer position and looks up at the ceiling. “We have some intelligence in this room who knows how to address his drill sergeant properly.” He drops his hands. “Sergeant Miller, we’ve been in here for, what, four minutes?”
The man looks at his watch. “Four minutes and seven seconds, Drill Sergeant.”
“And in those four minutes and seven seconds, how many rules has Pussy Duffy broken?”
Badass - The Complete Series: A Billionaire Military Romance Page 3
