by J. B. Havens
“I’m in,” he said, short and sweet. I nodded curtly and turned to wash my hands.
Pierce clapped him on the back and Phillips shook his hand. The boys were welcoming him with open arms.
“Welcome to Steel. Get a shower and sleep and I’ll see you in three days.” I knew I should say more, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it right now. I knew I seemed like a cold bitch and that was ok, I was his superior. I absolutely refused to notice his blazing green eyes, or the promise in them.
“Pierce. Phillips. Keep me posted on his condition. I’ll see you both in the morning at breakfast. Everyone gets tomorrow off. I’ve already told the others; no one has watch either.” I gave Jordon a slap on the shoulder, making him wince, and then left.
****
Jordon had come full circle. He found himself standing in the shower, hands propped on the wall letting the water pour over him and rinse the blood and dirt down the drain in a pink and brown swirl. He was finally beginning to thaw out from the ice water. Just like before, his thoughts were on Bea. Why couldn’t he control his thoughts about her? Thinking about how she filled out that shirt of hers was not going to net him anything but frustration and misery. Just because he saw the same spark of interest in her eyes that he felt, it didn’t mean anything. They had already had this conversation, and he thought he’d put it behind him. Apparently not.
Stepping out, he dried off gingerly, allowing himself to baby his wounds. He wiped the steam from the mirror with the towel and studied the stitches on his forehead. Three neat black knots tied his skin together a few inches over his eye. Well, not that he could see his eye, it was swelled completely shut now. Phillips had muttered a few terrifying comments about cutting it open to relieve the pressure. Jordon wasn’t even going to entertain the thought. He’d locked himself in here before Phillips could get out a scalpel. He had seen enough of his own blood to last him a while. Next time he washed blood off, it had damn well better belong to someone else.
He patted his face dry and smeared some of the cream Phillips had given him on the cut, before taping a small piece of gauze on it. The rest would just have to heal on its own. Not much you can do for bruises. After brushing his teeth, he swallowed some of the pills he’d found in the medicine cabinet and dressed in flannel pajama pants and a t-shirt. Being warm, clean, and dry was going a long way toward improving his mood.
He fell into bed with a groan, and had every intention of sleeping for the next two days straight. He didn’t want to think for a while. He didn’t want to think about concrete rooms with drains. Or perky blonde commanders. Jordon felt the pills relaxing him and let sleep pull him under. He fell into oblivion gratefully.
****
Exhausted, Phillips flopped onto the couch next to Pierce. They should both be in bed sleeping off the past few days, but he needed to decompress a little before he could sleep. Beating a man into unconsciousness is never an easy thing; when it’s a team mate it’s even worse.
“What do you think?” Phillips asked, glancing at Pierce. They sat in darkness and he could only see his profile.
“About what?”
“Jordon.” There was no need to expand on that. Pierce knew what he was asking.
“He’s young, but not green,” Phillips continued. “He must have seen some decent combat to take as that as well he did. I remember when you got here and we took you into that room. You went crazy for two days; hell, most of us did. He had a minor freak out and screaming fit, but then was fine.”
“Boy has ice water in his veins.” Pierce replied in his gravelly voice.
“I think he’s got a thing for Mic. It could cause lots of problems down the road.” Phillips added, knowing he was right. You’d have to be dead not to notice the chemistry between those two.
“Even if he does, it’s pointless. She would never cross that line man, you know that.” Pierce finally glanced over at him.
“You’re right. She wouldn’t. Who gets to wake the kid up first?” Phillips asked, changing the subject.
“I guess that’s on me. I’m the one who hit him in the head so many times. That reminds me, I need to soak my hands, and I’ll wake him up in an hour. Get some sleep, you look like shit,” he said, walking into the kitchen to get the basin and peroxide.
“Fuck you very much, ass. You don’t look so good yourself. I guess you’re staying here tonight and Jones is going to sleep in your cabin?” In all the excitement of blood, stitches, and possible romantic entanglements, Phillips had completely forgotten about Jones.
“Yeah, Phillips. I cleared it with Jones before we even started in on boy-o. You know he doesn’t have the patience for the playing nurse shit. He’d rather be making people dead, not keeping them alive. Took you long enough to remember about him. This shit with Mic is really tearing you up, huh?”
“No. I’m not torn up over Mic. I’m just tired and feel like hell for almost suffocating Jordon to death. None of you fuckers better die, because I do NOT want to train anymore noobs,” Phillips said, trying to come off as joking and failing.
“Don’t worry your pretty little head. No one is going to die on you, dude.” Pierce clapped him on the shoulder and headed to the bathroom with the basin.
Phillips sank back into the couch, knowing that he should head to his bathroom and clean up himself. He had Jordon’s blood on him and blood gets tacky as hell once it dries. His clothes would have to be tossed. Mic owed him a new pair of tactical pants. He had to special order them online to get ones that fit his long legs and thickly-muscled thighs. He stretched his arms over head and tried to think of something other than the meaty sound of fists striking flesh and the suctioning rustle of the plastic bag. He was serious; he wouldn’t do this again. He didn’t have it in him. Playing slap and tickle with the enemy was one thing; it was necessary sometimes, but not something he enjoyed. Beating and torturing a team member haunted him for weeks after, every time.
Standing, he tried to shake it off. Jordon had taken it well. He seemed okay. Or as okay as anyone was after taking a vicious beating and facing death. In that moment Phillips felt like Jordon was made to be Steel more than he had ever been. Jordon had an inner reserve of strength that Phillips envied. He had witnessed it in those hours during the interrogation and afterwards here. Jordon was a force to be reckoned with; he just hoped that Mic saw the same thing he did.
Chapter 9
Jordon sat back on the over-stuffed couch, watching his new team members. Yesterday he spent all day in bed; today he was brave enough to actually move around. Mic was right, everything they did to him was pretty superficial. He was anxious to do something, anything. He wasn’t used to sitting around all day.
Flynn nudged Pierce, grabbing his attention from the zombies he was killing with child-like abandon.
“Hey man, let’s go to the hangar,” Flynn said as he took the controller from Pierce.
“Sure, all this fucking sitting around is getting to me. Get the others?” Pierce stood and kicked Jones’ feet off the coffee table.
“Fucker,” Jones snapped at Pierce.
“Come on guys, Flynn wants to spar or something,” Pierce said, as Flynn bravely shook Phillips awake, who’d been dozing off in a recliner. Phillips startled awake, jumping to his feet nearly instantly, tripping over the foot rest in the process.
“Phillips, you’d better come too. Looks like you need to work on your reflexes,” Flynn said laughing, as he led the way out of the mess hall.
“You know better than to wake me up like that, asshole. So fuck you very much.” Phillips practically snarled at Flynn.
Jordon followed along as well, not entirely sure lifting weights was what he should be doing right now. Couldn’t puss out in front of the men though; if they wanted to lift, he would lift too.
As soon as they entered the hangar, Flynn went right for the bench press, no warming up. Pierce spotted him while Phillips and Jones started stretching.
“Not going to warm up first, Flynn?�
�� Jordon asked, leaning with his arms draped backwards against the ropes on the ring.
“I don’t need to warm up, noob. I’m a beast,” he chirped back. Lying down, he grasped the bar above him, twisting his fingers to get the grip he wanted, before picking it up and lowering it to his chest.
“More like a little bitch. You only have two hundred pounds on there.” Flynn replaced the bar and sat up, glaring at Jordon.
“A bitch, huh? Think you can do better? Be my guest.”
“Let’s make it more interesting; a bet.” Walking over to where the weights were stored on a multi-armed tree he selected two more fifty pound weights, adding them to the bar. “I bet you, I can do ten reps with this and you can’t. If I win, you take my watch tonight. If you win, I take yours.” Jordon held his hand out for Flynn to shake.
“Do it, Flynn. Can’t let the noob show you up,” Jones said, looking bored as ever.
Flynn shook Jordon’s hand. It was on. Phillips pulled out his phone, tapping away until music filled the hangar. I am Machine, Three Days Grace poured out of the speakers. Perfect choice, Jordon thought, as he took Flynn’s place at the press.
Tossing his shirt aside, Jordon sat and lay back. He stared at the bar above him, ignoring the pain in his face and ribs and gripped the bar. He took a few breaths deep into his chest. He’d lifted this much before but not while injured. What he was doing was a classic dick measuring contest. The fastest way to see if you measured up was to just whip it out. With that thought, he exhaled and lifted.
His muscles straining, he pumped out the first three reps, the bar touching his chest lightly before he pushed it back over his head. Sweat popped out all over his brow, coloring his broad, black tribal tattoos even darker. Pressing out two more reps, he let himself pause to take a few deep breaths.
“Done already, Jordon? Come on, you’re half way there!” Flynn mouthed off.
Jordon could only give one response; he lifted the bar again, pushing it up and down three more times. Almost there, he thought to himself. He could feel his face flush red; he knew he must look like he was having a coronary. The veins in his arms were showing up, sweat running down his face and chest.
“Come on, Jordon, you fucking got this!” Pierce shouted, earned a punch in the arm from Flynn.
“Shut up, fucker. He’s gonna choke.”
Jordon reached down deep, pulled hard, and pushed out two more reps.
“Ten,” he said, gasping for air. He used his shirt to wipe the sweat off his arms and chest; wincing when he pressed too hard on his bruises.
“He fucking did it. I’m impressed.” Phillips shook Jordon’s hand, patting him on the back hard enough to hurt.
“Of course I did it. I don’t make bets when I think I might lose.” Jordon smirked at Flynn, sweeping his hand toward the bench. “Your chariot awaits, my lady.”
“So, what happens if you tie?” Phillips asked Jordon.
“Not sure. Call it a draw I guess. Or move to something else. Sit ups maybe.” Jordon really hoped Flynn didn’t make it. Flynn was busy, counting each rep, his voice becoming more and more strained. Sweat pouring off him, his own colorful tattoos stretched with each push and pull of his arms.
“Six,” Flynn gasped out, pushing so hard Jordon thought he’d pop an eye out from the pressure. Pierce ran over to help him get the bar back in the cradle. He spoke softly to Flynn, leaning close and speaking into his ear. Flynn shook his head, sliding one finger across his throat. He was finished.
“Well done, Jordon. You get extra sleep tonight,” Jones gave Jordon yet another painful whack on the back.
“Hey Jordon, are you Ken or G.I Joe?” Flynn gasped out, wiping sweat off his face and neck with his shirt.
“What?” Jordon asked, causing Pierce to do a full on face palm.
“There was a mother and daughter, playing with Barbie’s. Little girl asks her mom if she can have a G.I. Joe doll.” Flynn took a long drink from a water bottle he’d magically produced. “Mom asks the little girl, ‘Why do you want a G.I. Joe, honey? Don’t you want a Ken doll?’ The little girl shakes her head no.”
“Here it comes Jordon, you asked for it,” Pierce said.
“Shut up dick, you’ll spoil it.” Phillips and Jones were sitting on the floor at this point, counting off sit-ups. They’d started their own bet apparently, and they were already at a hundred and fifty with no signs of slowing.
“Go on, Flynn, finish it.” Jordon was curious to see where this was going. It didn’t sound like the normal sort of joke you’d hear from guys in the military.
“Little girl says, ‘No Mommy, I want a G.I. Joe, Barbie comes with G.I Joe and she fakes it with Ken.’ So are you a Ken or a G.I. Joe, Jordon?”
“Too early to tell Flynn, could go either way,” Mic’s voice broke in, the sound surprising them all. She stepped around the still-counting Jones and Phillips.
“She got you again, Jordon or should I say, Ken?” Flynn said, doubled over with laughter. Jordon ran forward and tackled him onto the mat. He got him in a head lock, with Flynn kicking around, trying to gain purchase.
“No Ken, don’t take me like this!” Flynn shouted as best he could with Jordon’s arms wrapped around his neck.
“For fuck’s sake.” Mic rolled her eyes so far back, Jordon was shocked when they didn’t stay there. She pivoted on her heel and left them.
Jones was collapsed on his back, every cut muscle shiny with sweat. Phillips stood next to him, hands on his hips, no doubt the victor. Jordon looked around at each of the men. Tattoos were everywhere. Phillips was the only one that had only one; the Steel insignia was on his upper bicep. Jordon’s own arms, chest, and back were nearly covered. Each of them was very similar, but also very different. A blend of men with one goal in mind, the absolute destruction of their enemies.
****
At breakfast the next day, the men were louder than usual, the bonding I walked in on the day before showing its face. Jones and Flynn had gotten there early and were sprawled on couches in front of the giant TV, battling it out killing zombies or something on the Xbox, Flynn running at the mouth as usual. By the set of Jones’s jaw, it was apparent the jack ass was getting to him. Something about a sniper should be a better shot even if it was just a video game. The screen flashed a bleeding “Game Over” and Jones dove at Flynn, knocking the couch over in the process.
I stomped over to them, sounding my foul mood with every echoing step.
“Jones! Flynn!” I barked in my trusty drill sergeant voice. They both jumped up from where they had been wrestling and stood before me, trying not to look too guilty.
“Are you two fucking twelve, or what? If you want an excuse to wrestle, go to the fucking gym and work on your take downs. Fucking A. Fix the damn couch and get the fuck out of here,” I snapped at them, and continued to work my frustration out by stomping. I was acting like the child I had just accused them of being, but I didn’t care. I knew I was throwing a tantrum but I didn’t give a crap. I was pissed and until I could work some of this energy off, the men were just going to have to hold tight to their balls and deal.
“Mic, get your ass over here,” Jackson rumbled at me.
“Yes, Master Sergeant,” I stood at attention before him. I knew what was coming and I relished the thought like I would a root canal without Novocain.
“You’re being a bitch. You’re allowed one day and you’ve had three. Get your shit together or we’re going to have a problem. Go for a run; take that fucking Jeep of yours out. I don’t care, but can the queen bitch act before I do it for you. Dismissed.” Jackson didn’t give me the chance to respond before he took care of his tray and left.
“Fuck fuckity fuck,” I mumbled to myself as I loaded up my tray. Slapping a plate of powdered eggs and microwave bacon on my tray. I didn’t look at the men, but I could feel them staring at me. Nothing like getting a dressing down in front of your men to make you feel like a cockroach. I needed physical action; a release, something. Hand-t
o-hand training seemed like a good place to start, maybe I’d just smoke all of us until we couldn’t walk. Jackson was right, I was taking my bad mood out on the men and it wasn’t right. Fair didn’t even factor into it. We’re in the military, there is no such thing as fair and unfair; just right and wrong, honor and justice. Jackson being right, that’s what pissed me off the most. I hated being in the wrong. Looks like I had to get ready to eat a big crow pie. I ate quickly and took my tray up.
“Steel Corps! Attention!” I shouted. The men lined up before me, looking weary and cautious, which made my mood worse. I wanted their respect, not this barely-contained censure. I heaved a sigh over what was to come.
“Finish your breakfast and meet in the ring. Today we spar. I think we could all use it,” I ordered calmly.
Flynn started grinning like a fool, which was a good sign. He didn’t ever hold a grudge for long. The others just looked at me like they were waiting for the other shoe to drop. It pained me that my actions over the last few days had put those looks there. Now it was on me to correct them.
This unit was as close to a marriage as any of us would ever get; it takes work. If a marriage is five guys and little ol’ me, that is. The thought made me smile. Jones nodded at me, which was his version of a smile anyway and Pierce let the corner of his mouth raise up. Phillips managed to look neutral, which must have been painful for him.
Finally, I looked at Jordon. His bruises looked more or less the same as the other night, varying shades of purple and red. His eye wasn’t swollen shut anymore at least; he should be healed before we leave for our mission. He was moving okay, so his ribs must be feeling better. The stitches I put in his forehead were looking good as well. We were going to box, and he wasn’t going to be too happy when I made him wear head gear. I had a feeling things were going to come to a head today; I both dreaded it and anticipated it. I did love a good fight. An evil grin split my face; I was going to go with anticipation then.
