by Jillian Neal
“Of me, obviously.” He stared at me like I didn’t have enough sense to get in out of the rain.
“I’m going to go with no, I’m not a fan. I also can’t be on camera, so keep that shit out of my face.”
“Wait, you seriously don’t know who I am?” Utter shock formed on his features.
“Don’t know. Don’t care. Whichever you need to tell yourself works for me.”
“Dude, I am the Gig-splainer, famous YouTuber, my autobio just hit the NYT, I have like a quadrillion follows on Insta and Snap. I have the blue checkmark on my Twitter. I even have my own merch line. This nail polish,” he pointed to his obnoxiously blue fingernails, “totally mine.”
Okay, maybe I’d somehow missed takeoff. We’d clearly crashed on the runway, and now I was officially in hell. “Look at that,” I sniped. “I was so busy sitting on this plane I must’ve missed the boat to Give-a-fuck-istan.” At least Satan had left me with my sarcasm when I arrived.
“Wait. You’re going where? Did you say something about a cruise?”
“Oh, my dear God.” It was always a bad sign when my brain began reminding me of all the ways I know how to kill a man without the use of a gun. In this situation, I wasn’t necessarily above the idea.
“Last year, me and one-hundred lucky subscribers went on the YouTuber cruise. It. Was. Epic. Woot! Woot! Like it was just good, man, you know? Just good. Like we were there and they were there. And everyone was just…there. You know?” Clearly, this idiot was high. There was no other logical explanation.
“Did you just woot on a plane?”
“It’s my thing. Woot! Woot! Gig-splainer here to explain yo’ life.” He proceeded to perform a dog bark while he cranked his hand above his head. What in the actual fuck?
“I could literally not care less about what your thing is, Jizz Stain, do not do that in my presence again. Ever.” Life needed to start using some lube if it was going to continue to fuck me over like this.
The plane lurched forward and taxied down the runway. Damn. Now I was stuck in a seat with the very reason this country has to put instructions on shampoo.
“So, what’re you doing in Veeeeggggaaaasssss?” He drawled the city’s name out into more syllables than could possibly have been in his I.Q. I’d happily take the two screaming twins over Jizz Stain and his Twitter followers.
“We don’t have to chat. It’s a complete misconception that just because I have to endure your presence in my life for the next three hours, we have to communicate,” I pointed out.
“My friends-with-bennies, Wiggleswarm, she’s a YouTuber too, but she doesn’t have as many subs as me, went on the pill so we don’t have to worry about miss conceptions. Get it?” He elbowed me. Never a wise move. Then he proceeded to howl with laughter.
I ran my fingers through my hair mostly to make certain my brain wasn’t bleeding from the current torture I was enduring. The DOD needed to get on this. Put Jizz on his cruise ship with our captures. They’d break in under twenty-four hours guaranteed. “I am rapidly running out of reasons not to stab you.”
“I seriously cannot believe you don’t know who I am. But, dude, your arm. I think I like injured my elbow. You are ripped.”
“And yet you just keep talking.”
“You run some kind of fitness channel on the Tube or something? That pay well? Been thinking about adding another channel.”
I said nothing. There was no safe way out. Any answer I provided would only force me to endure more of his incessant narcissistic drivel. At that very moment, the plane lifted off of the ground. I was trapped and alone. No amount of army training or Beret PACE methodology was going to help. I’d been spotted so evade and escape techniques were out. He was going to keep talking, and I was going to end up having to store him in an overhead compartment. It was inevitable.
“Where are you staying on your vacay?” he chirped.
Assuming he’d decided I was going to Vegas for a vacation, I drew in a deep breath of recycled air. “Wherever you’re not.”
“I’m doing a show at The Obelisk. Pretty sweet if I do say so myself.”
Fuck me.
He continued, because of course he did. “After my show, I’m gonna do this live thing where I go out on The Strip and take comments on my latest ’Splainer vid series - ‘Chicks and Their Monthlies.’ After that, Wigs and me are going to Denver for a mountain trick shoot that should bring killer views.”
I clenched my jaw but clearly the trauma to my brain was extensive, and the words spewed forth despite my efforts to dam them back. “Their monthlies?”
“Yeah, I’m not afraid to get into real life, you know? Like that’s what my channel is all about. Real life. I did a series where I explain to girls about their bleed weeks. Got a ton of views.”
“And your plan is to go out and ask women about their menstrual cycles while you’re in Vegas?”
“Yeah. Like in-depth, too. I want to hear from my people. Answer their questions. It’s basically my job to explain it. It’s like my gift to the women of the world. You get it?”
“No. But what I’m most baffled by is your insane belief that women need you to explain their bodies to them.”
“See, you don’t get my purpose, man. If I don’t explain it, who will? It’s my brand.”
“The women of the world really should not have to put up with the sheer amount of shit free-flowing out of your face right now. They’ve been through enough. We’ve worn them out collectively with all of our utter bullshit. Leave them the hell alone.” I felt genuinely sorry for every single person lacking a Y chromosome that was in the state of Nevada at that moment.
However, on a personal level, occasionally the universe gives you the thing you need most. I wasn’t going to have to kill the extra paddle on the douche canoe. Some fantastic woman with god-awful cramps and a real perspective on life was going to do it for me, and I would gladly tell any judge willing to listen that he had it coming. Hell, skip the judge. I’ll help her hide the body.
“Hey, I bet you totally do know me. You’ve read my autobio, Gig-splainer Does Life All the Way to Paradise? You read it and didn’t know it was mine because it totally doesn’t say ‘by Gig-splainer.’ It says by Nelson Q. Linn because that’s like my real name but not the name I go by which is obs Gig-splainer. All of my followers are my gigs and giggettes. That’s what I call them. The ‘all the way to paradise’ part had to be a smaller font because it wouldn’t all fit on the cover with my name. Basically, I’m a national hero. I totally made my publisher put a close-up shot of my face on the back cover. You know, so if any of my followers have worries or nerves about kissing, they can just practice on my face. I’m there for my people, bro.”
Never before had I ever wanted to punch myself in the face. I ground my teeth instead and shifted in my seat. The dull throb I was more than accustomed to began in my hip. It didn’t hurt nearly as bad as my head but, hey, he was the national hero, right? “How old are you?” I demanded.
“Nineteen.”
“How the fuck does a nineteen-year-old even have an autobiography? You have no life experience.”
“Uh, duh, I keep telling you I know stuff, and I explain it to people.”
At that moment, God himself must’ve decided I’d suffered enough because the flight attendant stopped by with the liquor cart. “Can I get you anything, sir?”
“No, but you can do something for me. I am too old, too tired, and entirely too sober for this.” I framed Jizz Stain’s face with my hands. “Either find me another seat or leave the cart here.”
Three hours later, I stifled the guttural groan that threatened to tear from my lungs as I forced my body into a standing position to disembark the plane. My ass ached from the seat in coach and my leg felt like someone had set it on fire. Still, it was better than what I would’ve had to endure next to Captain Braincells in first class.
I could walk it out once I was off of this godforsaken jet. Besides, the flight had given me ample
opportunity to come up with a plan. Going to this ridiculous bachelor auction was not happening. I’m not some kind of desperate loser. I may not have many fucks left to give about this life, but when I do give a fuck it’s a good one. I’ve been known to blow Hannah’s mind more than once. Hell, with her, I could do it more than once an hour. The surgeons had done right by my junk. It had gotten my baby off repeatedly every time I’d snuck down to Denver.
Hannah’s form swayed through my mind again. Shaking my head, I tried with everything I was to force the memories away, something I was going to have to learn to do a better job of. She’d moved on. She needed to. God, I wanted that for her. I wanted her to have the kind of life she deserved. Killer career, a million reasons to smile every damned day, kids. All of the things she’d always wanted. The things I just wasn’t certain I could give her.
She was with someone now. Someone whole. Someone who wasn’t me. My mission was to figure out how to be okay with that. There was no reason I couldn’t blow off a little steam this week. Maybe it would even help, but I wasn’t going to be forced into it.
I had my checkbook with me. I’d write a hefty check to Homefront Heroes, surely more than I’d ever garner at some auction. If my team wanted me to vacation, it was going to be on my terms. End of story.
With every step I progressed down the jetway, my leg loosened up. I was almost to a normal gait when I entered McCarran International. Thank God. Like a dumbass, I’d packed in my duffle so when I picked up my luggage it would be apparent that at some point I’d been in the military. Nothing drew attention more than an injured serviceman. I didn’t need people’s thanks or their awkward pity. I just couldn’t do it today. It had been my job. I tried to do it to the best of my ability, but I’d failed my team. My failures had nothing to do with the American people. They’d deserved better.
A repetitive clanging sound and obnoxious neon lights assaulted the air. Pressure built in my skull. Rolling my eyes at the slot machines in the freaking airport, I headed to baggage claim. The casino at the hotel would be every bit as deafening and twice as annoying.
“Great locale for a vacation, T,” I grumbled to myself.
I fell in with the throngs of people heading toward the turnstiles. Stale rubber, cheap liquor, and sweat. The scents of Vegas. It was going to be a long-ass week.
Jerking an army green duffle bag off of the rolling belt, I grimaced and started to set it back down. It wasn’t mine.
“Oh, that’s probably mine,” a guy called from a few feet away. Definitely not regular army but also not Special Forces. He had the look but not the scars. Lean muscle. Slightly overgrown haircut, not the standard high and tight. Clean shaven. He’d seen some stuff, but he’d never even dreamed the kind of shit we’d done in his worst nightmares. I tossed the pack his way. “Thanks,” he offered.
I gave him the standard nod.
“Hey, are you here for the bachelor auction tonight?” he sidled closer.
And here’s where S.F. training came in handy. If I took too long to answer, it might be somewhat apparent, if he had any training at all, that I was lying. However, since I was not going to that auction the extended pause I offered gave credence to my lie. My brow furrowed. “What?” If I weren’t there for the auction, I wouldn’t know it existed.
“Sorry. I thought you might be. Homefront Heroes is having this bachelor auction thing. I got roped into participating. Figured if you were looking for a duffle, you might be here for it, too.” He offered his hand. “Staff Sergeant Ryder Mathis, 101st.”
As fucked up as it was this was one of the weirdest parts about retirement. I could tell people what I did, where I had been stationed, who I was. I wasn’t sure I’d ever get used to it. “Sergeant First Class Griff Haywood. Seventh Special Forces Group. Have a good friend who’s also a Screaming Eagle from the 101st.”
Ryder looked appropriately impressed. “Oh yeah? Who’s that?”
“You know Maddox Holder?”
“Mad-dog, hell yeah. Dude’s crazy.”
“Hence the nickname.” I offered the kid a half-grin.
“Wait, did you say Special Forces Team Seven? Damn, I bet you have some stories.”
I chuckled. Yeah, that was the one thing we all had. Most of them we didn’t want.
“Bet you won’t tell them either.” He offered me a genuine smile.
“That’d be a safe bet.”
When his brow furrowed and realization lit in his eyes, I regretted not lying about my former position. “Holy shit. Team Seven. Man, are you serious? You’re one of the guys who runs Tier Seven Security. You all took Northeastern Iraq on your own, before our boots even hit the ground. You dismantled that chemical weapons facility. You’re in all the Tactics and Techniques textbooks now. You all got Medals of Honor.”
The air in my lungs compressed. I couldn’t bring more in or release the valve. I couldn’t breathe at all. I should’ve kept my mouth shut. “Might’a done something like that,” I forced out in an odd choke. Ryder must’ve crawled so far up his instructor’s ass he’d memorized the whole freaking Tac and Tech manual.
“Fuck, man, you lost half your team. I almost forgot that. I’m really sorry.”
He almost forgot the one thing I never would. I refused another response.
Offering me that pity I loathed, he carried on just like a good little soldier. “How long are you in Vegas? I’m supposed to wine and dine some chick for the week, but you gotta let me buy you a beer. We owe you a helluva lot more than that so let me step up. I’m at The Obelisk. Where are you staying?”
“I’m sure I’ll see you around.”
“Yeah, give me your phone. I’ll put my number in.”
“No.” I shook my head. At that moment, Ryder was entirely too…much.
He laughed. “Right. Special Forces. Here’s my card. If you hit a bar later, text me.” He handed over a standard army business card. I shoved it in my pocket and vowed to lose it as soon as possible.
By the time I turned back to the luggage turnstile, my bag was the only one making the loop. Throwing it over my shoulder, I forced my boots to the shuttle that would take me to my rental car. T better have gotten me something worth driving.
The Vegas sun was out in full force. It glowed almost as brightly as The Strip. I settled my Oakleys on the bridge of my nose thankful for the cover. Sweat dewed on my neck while I waited on the shuttle. I’d been living in Lincoln too damn long. I clearly wasn’t accustomed to the heat. Someone caught my eye through the windows of the airport. A cheerleader blonde ponytail whipped out behind a shadowed form. She was coming off of a flight that had just arrived. But she moved away from the window too quickly for me to make out much else. Something about the curvature of her spine and length of her legs was familiar.
I shook my head. Great, now I had a bum leg, half a dick, and I was losing my mind.
Twenty minutes later, I was handed the keys to a four-door navy blue Jeep Wrangler. It was a decade newer than the one I’d bought with my first combat paycheck. I threw my bag in the back, just like I used to do every single day. My ass sank into the seat just like it always had. Instinctively, I slid the key in the ignition and let my right hand fall to the gear shift.
My mind scrambled. The years in between were too variable for me to discern the past from my present. I turned to stare at the passenger seat half expecting her to climb in beside me, to grin up at me, to tell me to get her away from every expectation the general heaped on her. I’d always been her escape and all in the world I wanted when I gripped that all too familiar steering wheel was to run away with her again. Fuck. Me. Now.
7
Griff
I dropped a decent tip in The Obelisk’s valet’s hand mostly because I couldn’t stand to drive the damned thing anymore. Bracing for the onslaught, I made my way into what was admittedly one of the nicest hotels in Vegas. I’d come out here with my first platoon for one of our military balls long before I was selected for Q training. The thing yo
u had to admire about The Obelisk was their sheer dedication to their own theme. You damn near needed a machete to get through the fabricated rainforest and a massive waterfall sat front and center out the entry doors.
Lining up behind what had to be a few other victims of the bachelor auction, I pretended to be interested in the massive aquarium behind the front-desk employees all efficiently checking people in. I couldn’t stomach another round of former-soldier reunion chatter, so I eavesdropped on a customer frantically discussing something with another attendant. “My purse has been on me all day. Now, my husband’s medicine is gone. Someone must’ve taken it while we were in the casino.”
“Mine too,” another woman fussed. She glanced around nervously and leaned closer. “The medicine we use so he can…you know.”
I grimaced. Poor guy.
“I am very sorry. We do keep security very tight, but I will let them know and we’ll keep an eye out for the missing medications. Be sure to check your room just in case it’s there,” the attendant instructed.
“He might’ve left it in the bathroom, I suppose,” one of the women considered. “We were out late last night.” The other nodded her agreement.
I moved on from that conversation. A sign advertising the bar at the Bare Pool Lounge caught my eye. Tits weren’t something I ever minded getting an eyeful of. Maybe this wouldn’t be all bad.
I lingered behind the guys all discussing the auction as they headed toward their rooms. Letting them clear out, I stepped up to the counter and handed over the hotel paperwork T had provided. “Griffin Haywood. I’m supposed to have a suite.”
“Yes, sir. Welcome to The Obelisk.” The woman smiled as her fingers flew over her keyboard. “You’re in one of our Villa suites. They were just completely redesigned. You’ll love it.” She handed me a brochure, two key cards, and then a legit set of metal keys. What the hell? “That’s for your private backyard pool.” She pointed to one. “And this is so you can access the secluded wing where your suite is located.”
