GAGE: A Bad Boy Military Romance

by Blanc, Cordelia

  As I suspected, he was fully of shit, and he admitted it while I held his face to the pavement. It made me wonder if the desperate fuck had ever been laid before, or if all of his stories were made up fantasies.

  “You broke his arm, Daniels,” Major Richards said. “You broke it bad. He’ll be in a cast for the next two months.”

  “Sorry, sir.” Until that moment, I thought I’d just roughed him up a bit. I had no idea I roughed him up that much. I laughed.

  “It’s not funny. Our reporter friend got plenty of photos—photos he’s very fond of, that he doesn’t want to give up.”

  “To be fair, sir, he’s fond of all his photos. And if you ask me, they aren’t very good photos.”

  “Don’t be a smartass. You’re going on ground duty.”

  I’d already assumed as much. There weren’t too many more punishments he could have given me.

  “Tomorrow, ten hours in Shamiya. It’ll be you, Darby, and Miller.”

  “What did Darby and Miller do?” I asked.

  “Nothing. But HQ won’t let me send you out alone. Rules say minimum is three guys.”

  I’d gotten off easy. Major Richards could have given me a month’s worth of ground duty. Instead, he was giving me a single day. Though I still wasn’t excited about it. Spending one day around IEDs and Hajjis in suicide vests was one day too many, as far as I was concerned.

  “And I want you to apologize to Hastings.”

  That was the real punishment—apologizing to Hastings. The bastard didn’t deserve an apology. Had I broken both of his arms, his legs, and half of his ribs, he still wouldn’t have deserved an apology.

  I got up to leave.

  “And Corporal,” Richards said, stopping me before I reached the door. He was frowning, and I could tell that he was biting down on his tongue. “You can skip target practice, today.”

  “That’s fine. I like target practice.”

  “Let me rephrase that—you will skip target practice today. You’ve got a photo-shoot scheduled for 0900. And consider anything the reporter tells you to do, an order from me. Understand?”

  Apparently, the reporter wasn’t the only one who loved his photos. After seeing the first batch of photos, Playboy decided they loved the photos too—so much so that they wanted to do a full, three page spread in their upcoming March issue—and in their upcoming Playgirl issue as well.

  I was going to be a Playgirl model.

  I cringed at the thought, and tried to fight it with Major Richards, but it was hopeless. I suddenly understood why I’d only been given a single day of ground duty.

  “Don’t worry, Corporal. They’re a non-nude magazine now,” Major Richards said, laughing as I left his office.

  I went out to the pavement at 0900, but the reporter wasn’t there. Instead, one of the girls was there waiting for me. She was older than the Playmates, but not nearly as old as the manager woman with the wrinkly lips. She introduced herself as “Vanessa, the makeup girl,” and told me to follow her into the Guest Hall.

  The place was quiet seeing as all the Playmates were still asleep, hungover from another long night of partying and fucking. Vanessa led me across the building to an empty room where there were rows of mirrors set up. “Have a seat. Take off your shirt.”

  I took off my shirt and Vanessa’s eyes lit up. She bit her lip and then spun away, digging through her makeup box.

  I figured she needed me to take off my shirt so she wouldn’t ruin it with makeup. I realized I was wrong when she started applying some sort of alcohol rub directly to my chest and abs.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I asked.

  “I’m just cleaning you up a bit. The oil sticks better to clean skin.” She showed me the bottle of oil, which was labelled:

  Hot Bod Photogenic Oil

  I considered telling her to fuck right off, but I knew it was pointless, that in the end, they would get what they wanted, and the quicker it was over with, the better.

  I spent nearly an hour in the makeup chair, having my face brushed with a skin-coloured powder. While I wasn’t happy about being oiled up for a Playboy photo-shoot, I didn’t mind the feeling of Vanessa rubbing her hands all over my torso. She wasn’t a bad looking girl. She was only about ten years older than the Playmates, and she claimed she was once a Playmate herself. I had to ask a few times to figure out when. I thought she was just afraid to date herself, but when she finally told me, I realized it was more sensitive than that. Miss September, 2001.

  Ashley and the reporter were waiting for me out on the pavement, and so were all of the men stationed at COIQ-UA-14. They whistled, laughed, and cheered as I stepped out from the Guest Hall, half-naked. I tried to ignore them, but I couldn’t hear the reporter over them, which made ignoring the idiots difficult.

  “Looking good, Gage! My panties are soaking wet!” Miller called out, eliciting a burst of laughter from the other men.

  “Is this what you’ve been working out for?” another called out.

  I thought about flipping the bastards off, but I knew that would just get them going even more.

  Ashley was sexy. She was wearing a pair of camo booty shorts and the green Marines t-shirt I gave her, which she’d modified into a tank top but cutting the neckline deep, and cutting the arm holes so low that you could see the sides of her perky, braless tits.

  The reporter started off by saying, “I want this to be organic. Just let the sexy flow out of you—don’t force it. Just pretend like I’m not here.”

  “Let the sexy flow out of you, Gage!” Miller called out from the sidelines.

  “Start by holding her. Take her by the hips. That’s it. Open your stance wider. Relax your shoulders.” He didn’t make it easy to pretend he wasn’t there.

  I held onto Ashley while she posed for the camera. She would change her position after every burst of photos. I just remained in the same position until he told me to move. I felt like a real asshole.

  “Don’t look at me,” the reporter said to Ashley. “Look at him. Look at his chest. What a chest! Now look into his eyes.”

  She looked up into my eyes. Her eyes looked sad, hurt. They darted back down after just a few seconds.

  “I’m sorry you have to do this,” she said.

  “Me too.”

  “I appreciate it, though. It means a lot.”

  “Don’t mention it. Let’s just get it over with, okay?”

  We changed positions as per the photographer’s command. “Great shots! Excellent shots!” he called out.

  “You’re a star, Gage!” someone called out, their voice thick with sarcasm.

  “I can’t wait to pick up my copy of Playgirl Magazine!” someone else yelled, eliciting another round of laughs.

  “Is that Hastings guy okay?” Ashley asked.

  “I dunno,” I said. We changed positions again. “Who cares?”

  The reporter lowered his camera and waved his arms to get our attention. “Okay, okay!” he said. “Let’s change it up! We’ve got plenty for our first page.”

  I counted the seconds in my head as they passed. They weren’t passing nearly fast enough.

  “We’re going to do a few topless shots. Miss King, please take off your top.”

  Ashley’s expression dropped. “My top?”

  “Don’t worry. We won’t see anything. Just keep your chests together.”

  She hesitated. The men became silent as they realized they might get to see tits. I just wanted the shoot to be over. Ashley turned her back to the crowd and stepped in close to me. “I’m sorry,” she said again.

  A simultaneous awe leaked out from the Joes as they were robbed of their free peep show. I, on the other hand, saw everything. Ashley’s tits were perfect, round, supple, soft. Her tits held onto her shirt as she lifted it over her head, not letting go until the last possible second, bouncing and settling into place.

  She stepped forward, pressing her rack against my oiled chest. We spun back towards the photographer, and th
e shoot continued. We did a few more poses. One pose involved me pretending to kiss her neck.

  “You didn’t have to beat him up like that,” she said into my ear. “You don’t have to protect me like that.”

  “I wasn’t protecting you. I was just following orders.”

  Her grip tightened against my side and her face snuggled up against my shoulder. “Thanks,” she said.

  My heart fluttered, but I kept my mouth shut. I beat up Hastings because he was a slimy prick who had it coming. But a small part of me was protecting her. The thought of someone taking advantage of her like that made me sick and angry. Ashley snuggled her body in closer, possibly for the camera, possibly to be closer to me. I wasn’t ready to jump to any conclusions.

  “Take off his pants, please,” the photographer called out to Vanessa.

  My heart sank into my stomach. Vanessa ran up and reached between Ashley and I. “His legs aren’t oiled.”

  “Can you oil them quickly, please?”

  The final shred of dignity I had left in my body shrivelled up and blew away. Vanessa pulled down my pants, leaving me standing in just my boxers. Then, she proceeded to rub oil all over my legs.

  Ashley looked into my eyes and then laughed. Apparently, my face did a proper job of conveying how unimpressed I was about the whole thing.

  The Joes whistled and laughed. Over Ashley’s shoulder, I could see Major Richards standing outside of his office, watching with a grin of his own. A shiver crawled down my spine.

  “You’re doing a good job,” Ashley said to me with a big smile on her face.

  “I want to die.”

  “Now those are legs!” the reporter shouted as he continued snapping photos. We continued posing for what felt like an eternity. “Great stuff! Now let’s end it with a kiss—a nice, passionate one.”

  Ashley’s face became white, and I’m sure mine did the same. We kissed. The Joes cheered and the reporter snapped a handful of photos.

  Ashley’s lips were soft. Her hands tightened against my skin and her body became like fluid as she relaxed.

  It took fifteen minutes for the oil to wash off in the shower. The stuff was like superglue. It eventually washed off, but the smell of her perfume never did. It stayed on me, refusing to leave my body, as if had been stained into my brain.

  I tried to get a set of weights in, but I couldn’t focus. I couldn’t shake that smell, or the feeling of her lips against mine, or her soft tits pressing up against my chest. After a few reps, I’d lost count of where I was.

  “Shit,” I muttered to myself.

  It was happening—I was becoming like the rest of them, with nothing but women on my mind, unable to process anything remotely important.

  I had to remind myself that Ashley was an actress. She just wanted a fake relationship for the sake of self-promotion. She wasn’t interested in me. She didn’t like me. She’d perfected that kiss over hundreds of photo-shoots and movie-shoots.

  I knew it was all a sham. But still, I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Nancy shook me awake in the early hours of the following morning. She had dark bags under her eyes, and her hair was a mess. It was a frightening sight to wake up to, having never seen Nancy without makeup before, her plastic face was always at least buried beneath a thick layer of concealer.

  “You need to get into makeup,” she said, turning to leave the room without telling me why. I thought the same of her.

  It turned out, the people over at the Playboy Mansion had been inspired yet again. My viral shoot was still making its rounds on the internet, building momentum and gaining attention. My manager sent a message:

  Ashley,

  Good news first: they don’t want you to do the nude shoot. They changed their mind.

  Now the bad news: They’ve been loving the photos you’re giving them—so keep it up. But they want to do a whole feature on their site, which means more shoots. They want to keep you in Iraq for a few extra days.

  Paid, of course.

  I tried to get a hold of you yesterday, but I couldn’t get through. So I just told them you would do it. I hope you don’t mind. It’ll be good for exposure. Trust me—the phone’s been ringing off the hook for the past few days.

  Oh yeah, one more thing. They asked me if you were okay with guns. I assumed you were, so I told them yes. I hope that’s okay.

  Brit Sanders

  Morgan & Sanders Talent Agency

  They were sending me to the nearby town of Shamiya, which had apparently been used as a hideout for terrorists before they set up the outpost I was staying at. Major Richards told me that they bombed the terrorists out, but he didn’t give me a very clear answer when I asked, “Is it safe?”

  “You’ll have three of our best men with you,” he said. “Terrorist activity is rare in this province—very few attacks over the past year.” He never gave me the ‘yes’ I was looking for.

  Two of the other girls came along for the trip, as well as Nancy and Vanessa, the Playboy makeup artist. Three of the soldiers and the reporter brought our total up to nine. The five of us girls were given bullet proof vests, much like the one the reporter always had on. The reporter’s vest said ‘PRESS’ on it. Ours said nothing.

  Gage drove the Humvee. The town was almost an hour from the outpost, all down a bumpy dirt road. By the end of the drive, I thought I was going to throw up. Had we gone any further, I probably would have.

  Gage didn’t speak much during the drive. He kept his head forward, and only answered direct questions with brief answers. Private Miller, one of the other men in the group, made a number of jabs during the drive. “I can’t wait to pick up my copy of Playgirl, Daniels. Will you sign it for me? Think they’re going to airbrush your bulge bigger?” Gage ignored the remarks, keeping his head forward, not responding.

  I felt bad, like he was embarrassed and I was responsible—but at the same time, it didn’t seem like he cared. None of his fellow soldiers’ jabs succeeded in drawing even the slightest reaction out of him.

  “Better be careful, Miller,” said Darby, a British soldier with a thick accent, “or you’ll end up like Hastings and Lyon. I hear they’re being sent to Baghdad for medical treatment. Gage really fucked them up.”

  Shamiya was exactly what I had expected, a small, dusty town with just a few main roads. Each building looked incomplete, as if it should have been empty, but wasn’t. People poked their heads out of the holes where windows were supposed to be, and the openings where doors were supposed to be.

  I wasn’t too nervous until a few moments after we parked the Humvee, and no one got out of the car. Gage, up in the driver’s seat, scanned the street but said nothing. The other men just waited, but no one said what we were waiting for. You could feel the tension radiating off of their bodies.

  But the streets were mostly empty, except for a few kids kicking a ball back and forth, and a few elderly residents who stood, staring at the Humvee.

  “Let’s get this over with,” Miller said. He opened the back door and was the first to step out. He motioned for everyone to follow. Darby got out, then the other girls got out, but I stayed, waiting for Gage to step out first.

  “You alright, Miss King?” Darby asked, reaching his hand into the vehicle for me to take.

  Gage did another full scan of the horizon and then he stepped out.

  “Yeah,” I said, taking his hand and stepping out. I was scared. Anyone in their right mind would have been. The other girls were scared—even the soldiers were scared. But my instincts told me to follow Gage. Near Gage, I felt safe. I had the inexplicable sense that if anything happened, Gage would protect me.

  It was an irrational feeling, seeing as I was almost certain Gage didn’t like me, and he didn’t want anything to do with me. But still, every time Gage told me to wait across the street while he went to talk to locals, I instantly felt insecure, vulnerable, like every passer-by was going to attack. But the moment Gage returned, th
e anxiety dissipated.

  Gage and Miller were the ones to go speak with locals. Darby was assigned to me and the other girls. Darby seemed like a nice guy, funny, smart, well-spoken, but every time Gage and Miller splintered off, the anxiety rushed back and I wished that Darby and Gage would swap positions.

  I was surprised to hear Miller, a tall, skinny white guy, speak fluent Arabic with the locals.

  The reporter took out his camera and asked me to pose. Some of the locals stopped to watch. Gage and Miller disappeared inside of a nearby building.