Danger Zone: Tales of Military Passion

by Marie Harte

So yes, Quinn’d picked Con almost from the start, but remained at his table, casually scoping the soldier out while he ate dinner. He noted both he and Con were early for their meet-up, and wondered if they’d both been trying to outmaneuver the other. Not that there was any reason for that kind of thing—this was supposed to be a fun trip, not a competition. A trip ordered by Scott, and something neither Quinn nor Con could—or would—refuse.

  Quinn could hear that phone conversation echoing in his ears.

  “Bring my best friend to me,” Scott had ordered him three weeks ago on the phone, and in Con’s paperwork, Quinn now saw that Scott had written, Bring my brother home to me.

  When they’d spoken on the phone weeks earlier, Scott had also explained, “Con’s dangerous with too much time on his hands.”

  Quinn remembered wanting to bang his head against the wall but had asked instead, “How dangerous?”

  “You’ll travel with him for a couple of weeks—you tell me.”

  Quinn immediately understood just what his brother meant, because Con was obviously well versed at hustling pool. The guys he’d been playing had gone from friendly to very disgruntled, and Con either noticed and didn’t give a shit or else he was oblivious.

  Quinn was betting on the former.

  Then again, Con had refused the bets at least six times, had told the men asking that it wouldn’t be fair, and not in a cocky, assholeish way. But the men weren’t listening and Quinn knew there was a fight in Con’s future. And that meant there’d be a fight in Quinn’s as well.

  There was still time to bail. He glanced at his watch, noting he was still early enough that Con wouldn’t miss him if he left. Unless Con had pegged him from the moment he’d walked in.

  Scott wants this, he reminded himself. And he wouldn’t refuse his brother, no matter how badly he wanted to.

  And he really wanted to. But Scott couldn’t make this trip this year, not like he’d planned, and so he’d asked Quinn and Con to do it in his stead. They’d start here, outside of L.A. and end up in the Catskills, and ultimately, Scott’s wedding, by way of the strange and varied path Scott had created for them.

  By rights, Scott should’ve been here, a buffer between them, the glue that would bond them. Con and Scott had served together. Sat on the bus together to Basic, and from that point forward they’d been inseparable. Con did come home with Scott for some holidays, but Quinn hadn’t been there for any of those. He was the older brother, off sowing his wild oats, which was true. But during that time, he’d also become a licensed tattoo artist. He’d also been featured on a few of those ink shows on reality TV, but he had no real aspirations to be a regular, even though his boss wanted him to be. Mainly because the producers also wanted to include more about his personal life, thinking that would make for great TV.

  But this wasn’t TV—this was his motherfucking life, as he’d pointed out. His private life was private for a reason, although he’d never made any bones about his sexual orientation, or his bent toward BDSM. The writers of the show offered to find him love, especially if they could follow him into the club scene.

  His boss at the tattoo shop told him he’d cave sooner than later. Right before he’d given Quinn the time off to make this road trip. And if that was a bribe, it was a pretty effective one. So he’d pushed back appointments. But really, Scott did the rest of the work, from the big things like booking hotels and restaurants to the mundane of actually planning the route (“Con will tend to ramble and he doesn’t like to use maps—says he doesn’t need them”)—and yeah, that was so not how Quinn operated.

  But hell, he couldn’t deny how handsome Con was. Not pretty boy, no. He was rugged looking, lanky with a swagger that probably made most guys want to be him or fall to their knees and beg to be fucked by him.

  It made Quinn want to push Con to his knees and force his cock in between those full lips, watch them swell from sucking as his eyes glazed with pleasure.

  You’re supposed to be keeping an eye on him, not fucking him.

  Did Scott even know if Con was gay, or bi? Did it matter?

  What mattered was that this would be the longest trip of Quinn’s life.

  *

  AS SOON AS Con saw the pool table, he’d known he was fucked. Because he was nervous. Jumpy. And as much as playing pool always got him in shitloads of trouble, it also calmed him.

  He’d come back to California forty-eight hours earlier after eight months OUTCONUS. He’d routed through his home post for seventy-two hours and then he’d literally come straight to this bar in Normalsville, USA.

  He wasn’t ready in any way, shape or form to be around civilians. Scott knew that—it was probably why he’d given Con a chaperone, in the form of Quinn McKenna.

  Quinn’d arrived ten minutes after Con. Situational awareness was his job, and a guy like Quinn caught his attention easily. He’d seen pictures, but none had done Quinn justice. He’d walked in like he owned the place.

  And he’s bossy as fuck, Scott had told him often. And the way Quinn’d marched in, like he was planning on taking and conquering, made Con smile. Mainly because he didn’t play by bossy rules. But looking at Quinn…maybe he should start.

  Still, Con had been ignoring him for the better part of an hour, in favor of racking up. The pool cue, the chalk, the sharp snick of the balls as they snapped smartly together all drew him in, especially because of the way they mixed with the smell of beer and tobacco and cologne, all the bar chatter and music. The familiar sounds of his childhood.

  And the people…he could group them easily, had been born and bred to group them in the most advantageous way possible. The monied set. The good ole boys. The cowards. The troublemakers.

  Where Quinn fit in, Con had some idea, but he was open to really finding out. After a few games. And so he’d shot several, fucking up the first break the way he always did. His dad thought that Con had just perfected the art of the scam easily. Con had let him think it.

  What was the alternative? No, Dad. I really didn’t fuck up my games on purpose—I let my nerves get the best of me…

  “You had a clear shot. Blind man could’ve made it.”

  Con didn’t bother glancing up at the sound of the voice. Guaranteed, it was a plaid-shirted guy who’d been sitting at four o’clock, trying to pin him down for a so-called friendly game of pool.

  Right now, Con screamed “easy betting money.” But Con didn’t want to bet on pool, hadn’t planned on hustling tonight. The pressure had started from Plaid Shirt and then a few of his friends, and Con suggested they keep it friendly, play for beers. But the guys thought he was chicken. Goaded him.

  Finally, because he needed to play pool and make them shut the fuck up, he took the bet. He figured he’d given them enough of an out that he didn’t have to feel guilty. Now, an hour later, he was up two grand and up against three pissed-off regulars who would no doubt try to roll him in the parking lot when he left. At this point, they were in the “refusing to let him leave” stage of bargaining. The “just one more game” bullshit, like they’d suddenly get lucky.

  Ain’t happenin’, boys.

  Finally, Quinn’d sidled up to the table, looking like just another guy checking out the action. But he wasn’t just another guy—he was big and tall and handsome…and he turned a lot of heads. He could probably fight well. But really, Con wouldn’t have any problem taking on these guys the way he took their money. He’d told them not to—he’d been truthful, so that absolved him of any guilt he might’ve had.

  Hell, he had enough guilt already—needed a fucking U-Haul for it—and wasn’t looking to add more weight to pull.

  Instead, he took a drink of the seltzer water that’d been fueling him most of the night and finally made eye contact with Quinn. The two of them were standing slightly away from the pool table, watching Plaid Shirt rack up—again—with the others watching him like they were afraid he’d just disappear into thin air.

  Con could definitely do that, but it was more smok
e and mirrors than anything. All of this was. So he stared at the big man who looked at him, disapproval written all over his face. It was literally going to be like being watched by Big Brother. Although he looked nothing like Scott, Scott had shared family pictures ad nauseam.

  Con had none. In return for warm fuzzy family pictures and their accompanying stories (that Con had actually liked but would never come right out and admit to), Con taught Scott to hustle pool. Well, to assist. Hustling was a skill best learned young and used regularly, especially when someone was depending on it for survival. He’d learned early on that if he didn’t hustle, he didn’t eat. That’s how he’d grown up.

  “You’re good,” Quinn said in a low, deep voice.

  “I know,” he said irritably as Quinn’s dark eyes locked him in place. He swallowed, forced himself to look away.

  “How long are you going to keep this up?”

  “I’ve been trying to get out of here for an hour.”

  “So go.”

  “Gotta give them a chance to make their money back. Wouldn’t be fair otherwise,” Con pointed out.

  “Since when’s what you do fair?”

  Con smirked. “Since now. And you have no idea what I do.”

  “Hustler with a conscience. Interesting.”

  Yeah, it was interesting all right. “I’ll meet you two exits down the highway.”

  Quinn raised a brow but didn’t say anything.

  Con wanted to be annoyed, but he was too busy noticing the tattoos that snaked out from under Quinn’s pushed-up shirtsleeves, and one that twined elegantly along the side of Quinn’s neck. “Seriously. Don’t wait here for me. I’ll be fine. Trust me.”

  Quinn looked between Con and the pool table and gave a soft snort in retort.

  *

  QUINN DIDN’T LISTEN to Con’s orders, mainly because he didn’t take them, not that he didn’t believe Con could handle himself. When Con readied to leave, Quinn saw three of the men follow him out. Quinn brought up the rear, walked out onto the dark sidewalk in time to see Con smoothly dispatching the three men, doing barely any damage, but enough to make the men go back inside the bar.

  For reinforcements, Quinn figured.

  “Ready?” Con called as he got on his Harley, which was parked two spaces over from Quinn’s big truck.

  “Do we have a choice?” Quinn asked as he started his truck.

  Con laughed, a sound that carried over the roar of his own bike. “Unless you want to deal with more of them. I’m happy to do it.”

  Fuck. Not especially. Was it going to be like this for the entire trip, getting Con’s ass out of scrapes?

  “You weren’t supposed to wait,” Con called to him, right before he pulled out into the road. Quinn followed close behind, the two vehicles taking off smoothly into the night and disappearing without anyone following them.

  They’d gotten lucky. Quinn knew that. He could only imagine the amount of times a trail of cars had followed Con.

  Finally, he pulled off the exit, behind Con, as planned. They parked along the side of the rest stop where they’d have a good view if anyone drove in. It was mainly truckers stopping here this time of night anyway.

  Con got off the bike and strolled up to Quinn’s truck. Quinn opened the door and slid down to meet him. “What would you do if I wasn’t here?”

  Con laughed, sounding slightly crazy “What? You think I need you to bodyguard me? Newsflash—I don’t.”

  “Fine. So we ride together and go our separate ways at night. You can hustle pool and defend your own honor.”

  “While you rest your old man bones? Sounds good.”

  “Let’s leave my bone out of it,” Quinn growled. Con looked right between his legs, letting his gaze linger, then slowly let it drift up to Quinn’s face.

  God, this fucker needed to be taught a lesson and Quinn was itching to do that, wanted to take him over his lap and…

  Con grinned, like he knew what Quinn was thinking. Which wasn’t possible. He was military, not psychic.

  “We’re not doing that every night,” Quinn informed him.

  “Last I looked, this wasn’t a military base and you aren’t in charge of me,” Con told him.

  Quinn raised a brow. “You’re looking for someone to take charge?”

  Con hesitated for only the briefest second. “Did I say that?”

  Well, he might as well have, because dammit, Con was screaming for someone—the right someone—to hold him down and fuck him.

  But he was supposed to simply be taking a road trip to see Scott. With Con. “Escorting him,” was how Scott termed it. As he put it, “Without you, Con would eventually make it here, probably with a police car in tow.”

  Quinn glanced at Con. “Doesn’t the military have rules?”

  “Lots of them. Be specific.”

  “Moral ones? Propriety.”

  Con snorted. Motioned to himself. “Not in uniform, right? And I don’t see any MPs around. Dude, I’m free. And you’re killing my buzz.”

  Quinn’s buzz was nonexistent, unless he counted the low-level buzz in his head that made him want to strangle Con and take him in hand in equal parts, and fuck, that wasn’t good.

  Instead, he went back to the truck, grabbed the itinerary that was Con’s and handed it to him.

  Con began to flip through it, standing under the lights of the Arby’s in back of him. “Looks like our tour guide/travel agent took care of everything.”

  “Yeah, these came this morning.” Quinn had glanced through the itinerary briefly. “It’s got both weeks planned, down to the hotels he’s reserved and paid for.”

  Con sighed and stuffed the folder in his bag. “Are we set for tonight?”

  “Hotel’s an hour away.”

  “We’re starting tonight?”

  “According to Mr. Control Freak, yes.” He glanced at Con’s bike. “Want to stow this? I’ve got a cover for it.”

  “You ride?”

  “S’why I bought this truck.” He opened the flatbed and pulled the ramp down. Con wheeled the bike up easily, chained it in and covered it up.

  Then he joined Quinn in the cab, sliding into the passenger’s side and dumping his camouflage duffel behind the seat. “She ride well?”

  “Not bad. Better since I played with her.”

  “Gearheads,” Con muttered, but he nodded with a smile when Quinn started the motor and it rumbled to life with a resounding roar.

  Neither one of them was very talkative. They were both wound up from that last minute burst of adrenaline, and Quinn just wanted to get to the hotel before he lost that charge. With the radio pulsing some old school heavy metal—music Con didn’t object to—Quinn tried to figure out the suddenly compliant soldier sitting next to him.

  Scott’d never mentioned Con being gay or bi and it was obviously possible that he’d had no idea. Between DADT—because repealed or not it’d still been a part of Con’s military life at one point—and the fact that these men were in one of the most gay-unfriendly professions, Quinn couldn’t blame Con for not discussing his personal life.

  Con didn’t seem like he was the type to hide what he was, though. At least not off-base. While he could easily pass for straight, Quinn noted that, at least tonight, Con had made sure to catch as many men’s eyes as he could.

  Granted, Quinn had never come out and told Scott he was gay. He figured his family hadn’t been able to handle the fact that he wasn’t enlisting, and being gay would throw them over the edge. It wasn’t a reveal he deemed necessary.

  And the Dom part? Yeah, no fucking way.

  Maybe he’d read Con’s vibe wrong but, but…yeah, no. Especially not when Con had given him that smile and boldly looked him up and down.

  Hell, had Scott known about him and told Con? Was this some kind of weird set-up?

  Granted, if it was, Con had seemed as clueless about it as Quinn’d been. At some point, Con had started looking through the itinerary again. “Christ, he turned this into a milit
ary op.”

  “That he did.”

  “Well, this is what he wanted. Can’t not comply with his wishes now,” Con pointed out.

  Two weeks. “Think we can make it in one?”

  “And hit all the hotspots he highlighted?” Con shook his head. “What’s the rush? I’m making the most of this—I plan to have fun in as many states as I can.”

  Jesus. Quinn rubbed his forehead. Nothing about this trip was fun, especially the endpoint. There was still time to say “fuck it,” to get on a plane and show up, and hell, what was Scott going to do? Send him back to gather up Con? The guy was a grown fucking man in the Army, for Christsakes—he could get himself across the country.

  And if he couldn’t? Well, then maybe Con had bigger problems than Quinn should be expected to handle.

  By the time Quinn pulled the truck into the hotel’s lot, it was close to three in the morning. Con let him check them in, take the keys, sign for the room, and then Con followed him into the elevator.

  The room was a two-bedroom suite. Con walked toward the room to the left immediately.

  “We’ll sleep in today and travel through late afternoon. We’ll get to the next stop before nine tomorrow night and we’ll be back on Scott’s schedule,” Quinn said firmly. Con grunted, went through the connecting doors (“Without shared suites you’ll never keep track of him,” were Scott’s instructions) and left the door open.

  Quinn glanced into Con’s room and saw the man’s clothes in a trail leading to the bed. And Con was only under the sheet—really, only partially under—and very obviously naked.

  And there was no ink on his body at all—at least from what Quinn could see, which was three quarters of a solid body. That was a shame, because Con really had the perfect contours.

  Stop thinking about his contours, Quinn.

  But he couldn’t stop. These next weeks would no doubt be a crash course in everything Con. And what an education it would be, if tonight was any indication.

  And since his mind was racing, he did what he always did when he needed to calm the fuck down—he sketched.

  He’d been born with art in his blood, and he’d been sketching from the time he could hold a pencil. He’d also liked giving orders. “Bossy as fuck,” his father would say. “He’ll make a good general.”