Jordan

[Jacko]

The lingerie part worked well

Agreed! Thanks for the shout out, Crushing

[Joe Pilot]

Crushing - I enjoyed reading the latest segment. Happy to have helped and thanks for the feedback.

[Crushing]

Hey everyone, here's the next installment. I usually take a little longer to post, since these things take time to write and edit. I appreciate your patience, I know it can be annoying to wait sometimes.

This installment is coming a little more quickly because I had most of it drafted a year or so ago before I posted anything on this site. There are a handful of key plot points that are crucial to the overall character arc that I sketched out before I posted anything. It's a habit of mine to write out most of the key scenes in a project to make sure they feel right before I commit to writing a whole story. Suffice it to say, this one seemed okay when I opened it back up this week, and I only had to add a couple segments and polish some details.

Also, one more note. Feel free to post feedback as you feel inclined, as I am always interested in reader's reactions. You seem to be enjoying it overall, which is gratifying! And if nothing else, if people post a few more reactions to each chapter, then we won't all break our thumbs or mouses scrolling down the page because I have four or five 30 page chapters on one page. I was looking for a section back around chapter 8 to check a detail for this chapter, and I just kept scrolling and scrolling on my phone, and caught myself thinking...jeez, do I really write this much?

Anyway, hope you enjoy, and thanks for all of your feedback and help.

[Crushing]

Most judges' offices–colloquially referred to as "chambers"--are usually quite tidy. Neatly kept to a fault. It's probably a good thing. A courtroom is a serious place, and no one presiding over matters of life, liberty, and livelihood should be perceived as messy or cluttered.

This judge's office was no different. Furnishings were comfortable, but stodgy and cerebral. The standard leather chairs with rivets, a neat bookshelf on one side with the US Code of Federal Regulations centered to view. On the desk itself was a small Newton's cradle, with five metal balls nestled together, suspended by a thin thread of wire.

Megan Rodriguez-Poisson sat politely across from the presiding judge. He was squinting as he quietly shuffled through some stapled papers, adjusting his glasses with every turned page.

Megan was dressed for court. She was dressed in a light blue blouse with a gray suit jacket and matching skirt. Black pumps and stockings on her feet and legs. A modest white gold necklace with matching earrings to accent her black, shiny, shoulder length hair tied tightly in a bun behind her.

"Hey, does this thing actually work?" Megan asked, breaking the silence and reaching up and lifting one of the balls to the side of Newton's cradle. She released it, hearing the clack, clack, clack in steady rhythm as one ball delivered momentum through the three middle ones, throwing the far ball up into the air and back down.

Clack, clack, clack…

She smiled widely. "Whoa, that's neat…" she whispered to herself.

She looked up to see the judge glowering impatiently.

"Sorry…" she said, gently cupping the device until the clacking stopped.

Two sharp raps came from the door behind her.

"Come in…"

The judge's impatient tone indicated that his mood was not entirely Megan's fault.

Not entirely.

The opposing attorney stepped briskly inside and shut the door behind him before sitting in the chair next to Megan.

Rick Kreutzer. A high priced white collar defense attorney. He was notorious. Silver hair slicked back, freshly shaven with perfect posture, his entire presentation was instinctively irritating to Megan. His suit likely had a price tag in the thousands, custom fit from a designer boutique. He checked his Rolex pointedly before apologizing.

"I'm sorry I'm a few minutes behind. My client…"

"Mr. Kreutzer, I have another hearing in ten minutes, let's just get to it, shall we?" The judge interrupted.

"Of course, your honor. The latest motion…"

"The latest motion is a bogus delay, your honor," Megan interrupted. The defense is utilizing arcane procedural loopholes to pretend they had an excuse for not doing their homework. You should throw it in the trash like the night-before term paper it is."

The judge cleared his throat. "Mr. Kreutzer, While I don't entirely condone her metaphor or her attitude, I'm inclined to agree with Ms. Rodriguez. I can't make heads or tails of this motion. I'm beginning to suspect there's an intention to simply flummox the court with piles of extra words. If that's the case, I'm disinclined to grant it. I'm an educated man, but this…" he pointed to the sheaf of paper on his desk, "this is baffling." Can you distill the merits of this motion for me here? I don't want a repeat performance of what I saw out there this morning."

Megan smirked at the recent memory. The judge was alluding to her reading portions of the filing out loud to the court reporter, emphasizing the run on sentences, stopping to spell out misspelled words, and pointing out the flagrant misuse of at least three crucial legal terms.

"That wasn't funny, Ms. Rodriguez," the judge warned. "You need to treat your peers with respect in my courtroom."

"Well, if I see a peer, your honor, I'll be sure to do that…" Megan muttered under her breath.

The judge cleared his throat again and moved on.

"Your honor," Kreutzer began, "the motion is simple. Given the complexity of the issue and the sheer variety of documents admitted to discovery and evidence, we simply need more time to be ready for trial. We cannot start next week. It is unreasonable to…"

"Variety of documents?" Megan laughed in spite of herself. "The documents are yours! They're your client's documents! We subpoenaed them, we got them, we read them, we indicted him, and then we gave you copies! You don't need more time…you know how I know? I made it through the whole stack by myself in a week and a half. You've had 3 months and a team of lawyers!"

"Ms. Rodriguez…"

"I'm sorry your honor, but this motion is vexatious, and I'm appropriately vexed. The defense is trying to buy his client six more months out of jail by throwing gibberish at us and then pretending that reading is too hard. This is federal court, these are felony charges. These are serious matters for serious people. Not this dog-ate-my-homework nonsense…"

Here Megan gestured contemptuously toward the stapled papers on the judge's desk.

The judge sighed. "Mr. Kreutzer, Ms. Rodriguez has a point here. The prosecution has given you more than enough time to prepare. I have granted three discovery-related delays already."

"And we've been grateful, your honor. And I'd like to emphasize, my client has been more than willing to cooperate with the discovery process…"

"You mean that when he jammed his cooked books in his toilet before realizing he couldn't flush entire folios? That kind of cooperation?"

The judge looked over his glasses at Megan. She rolled her eyes and leaned back in her seat.

"Yes, more than willing," Kreutzer continued. "And please don't give undue weight to the bad temper of this woman in weighing our motion, your honor. With all due respect."

Megan smirked.

"I don't need the federal prosecutor's office to tell me a motion is ill-conceived and bogus, Mr. Kreutzer. I've got a dead tree's worth of word salad right here in front of me to say that." The judge tapped on the papers with his finger. "The motion, whatever it might actually be in reality, is denied. The trial is still set to begin next Monday. Be ready at that time. Now both of you, leave."

"Thank you, your honor," Megan said, picking up her briefcase and moving toward the door.

The door clicked shut behind them. As soon as they were a stone's throw from the judge's chambers, Kreutzer caught up with Megan's brisk pace and grabbed her elbow.

Megan whirled toward him. "Excuse me?"

"That conduct was wildly unprofessional, and you know it." His voice was curt. Clearly offended, he wanted to cut this angry little woman down to size.

"Which part? The part where I accurately described the garbage you put in front of the judge, or the part where I compared you to a grade school kid?"

"All of it. You want to get petty, we can get petty. My client is a very well-connected man. Your boss is a political appointee. Do the math."

Megan smiled widely. "I have done the math, genius, and that math shows your client getting most of his wealth and connections by robbing pension funds. I take a dim view of it, and so will the jury."

"Alleged. He's alleged to have…"

"Oh, please. You know what we have on him. You're dumb, but you're not so dumb you haven't actually seen bones of the case we have. Wait until I get into that courtroom and put some meat on them bones. You know what the difference between an alleged multiple felon and a convicted felon is?"

Kreutzer rolled his eyes. "What?"

"Let's see," Megan mimed counting on her fingers. "Today is Tuesday…six days. The difference between your well-connected client being an alleged felon and an actual felon is six days. Come Monday morning, I'm going to eat you alive in that courtroom, and your boy is going away. From the yacht club to the yard. Gonna get a good long taste of that 5 x 8 cell life. Gonna get a roommate that calls him Betsy…"

Kreutzer laughed. "We'll see."

Megan squinted at him. "Think this is funny? I don't. We both know I could make five times what I make doing this in the private sector. We both know that I could because we both know you're making three times what I make right now, and I'm a lot smarter than you. I'm glad you found a rich, piece of shit sap to rack up your billable hours. But I don't need that kind of motivation. I've got a full on boner for making sure your wealthy, well-connected client only gets an hour of supervised exercise a day in a cage for the rest of his goddamn life. Take a look at my witness list: I'm going to line up three dozen little old ladies that got their pensions cleaned out. They can't eat lunch anymore, and some of them eat cat food for dinner. I'm going to go through the witness facebook to make sure every victim witness I call looks like every single juror's grandmother. Then I'm going to make sure they know that your client made their grandma eat cat food, and he bought a yacht to fill with hookers and blow with the money they wanted to give for their grandkid's birthday. Then, I'll strongly suggest that they have the power to make sure your wealthy, well-connected client– which, by the way is the exact kind of defendant that juries fall right in love with–I'll strongly suggest to them that since their grandmothers can't eat lunch anymore, they, a jury of his peers, are empowered to make sure your client gets the rest of his lunches served on a small, metal tray filled with the food that Walmart rejected. Breakfasts and dinners too."

Kreutzer blinked, a little stunned. "Jesus…"

"Sure, why not. I'm not particularly religious myself, but if the Incarnate Son of God wants to hop in the witness box, we'll make sure he's comfortable. Pretty sure he'd have no problem locking your boy up either."

.Megan took her first breath after a long rant. Then she smiled sweetly at her disoriented opponent.

"Kreutzer, I know your reputation. And I know your pathetic attempt to leverage me by threatening my career just shows you don't have shit for a real defense. My boner just got an inch longer."

Her sweet smile faded into gravity. "Fuck with me at your peril, dumbass. I don't give a watery shit if your client has leverage over my boss's boss's boss. If I have to go down to take down your client, believe me, I'll do it. I'm not gonna stop. I'm just too horny for it."

She jerked her elbow away from the grasp of the well-dressed and befuddled defense attorney and walked smoothly and confidently toward the courthouse exit. Planting her feet to emphasize her walk, her hips swayed suggestively as she moved away.

"See you Monday…" she called over her shoulder.

* * *

"All squads, roger up."
crrk
"First squad up."
crrk
"Second squad up."
crrk
"Third squad up, on post rotation."
Crrk
"Fourth squad up, coming at you."

Mark turned around to see Jared at the head of his group of 12 marines approaching the outside perimeter of the small patrol base. He was dressed in full combat gear, as was Mark. Desert camouflage, flak vest, kevlar helmet, ballistic sunglasses, ammo pouches, grenade pouches, elbow pads, knee pads, gloves, and tightly laced beige boots. Each marine carried an M4 assault rifle. Jared's M4 had an M209 grenade launcher attached under the barrel. Mark also had an M9 pistol strapped to his right thigh. All weapons, magazines, and grenades were live. No more training rounds.

No more training at all.

"Frenchie, we're outbound.," Mark barked at his subordinate. "Your guys ready?"

"Yep."

"Gear check?"

"Yep."

"Function check, weapons clean?"

"Everything's good to go."

"Hydrated?"

Jared tapped the mouthpiece of his camelback drinking reservoir.

"Anything I should know about?" Mark continued.

Jared raised an eyebrow.

"Nothing I can't handle, sergeant."

"Good. Let's go. Call it in."

"Tower, Echo four Papa requesting clearance to depart, 14 on foot."

Receiving the confirmation, Mark unhooked the concertina wire gate and stepped outside the patrol base for the first time.

It was a warm morning, not yet hot. The sky was clear, and the small village in Kandahar province was buzzing with activity. Young men zipped by the base on mopeds. Women wrapped in full linens walked in small groups, carrying bags or jars. Some of them had small children tagging along behind them. Moving through the street toward the market, they passed old men squatting on their heels and smoking pipes.

Mark's eyes were wide under his sunglasses. He didn't realize there would be this many civilians around. He began rapidly taking note of each person that passed, making quick calculations of how to pivot or direct his marines to avoid innocents getting caught in crossfire. Fixated on that particular danger, he began directing small movements about every thirty seconds: telling this marine to move three feet left, that marine crouch down, everyone stop while I check this corner…

The tension that naturally arises from micromanagement was beginning to mix with the more routine first-patrol jitters. Mark had orders to rendezvous with the old platoon sergeant, who had stepped out with his patrol before the sun had come up. They were set to conduct a joint patrol in the crowded marketplace to help the new platoon get oriented to the area. They were late. They had to hurry.

Mark's eyes darted around the street. Still busy. He decided to take a chance. He pumped his fist in the air twice, directing the squad to follow him quickly. His eyes shot quickly down side streets as he passed, wincing at the possibility of an ambush, as he didn't have time to properly clear the way before crossing.

His heart was pounding as he huffed into the open air market.

Looking around, he noted a similar number of marines to his own little group, maybe 14 or 15, scattered around the space. Mark signaled to hold his own marines in place, and he began looking around to find his counterpart, the platoon sergeant preparing to rotate out. He hadn't met him yet.

Two marines broke from the loose group on the other side of the market and began to cross the market to meet him. They both had dirty uniforms, and seemed unnaturally thin.

It looked like the year had been rough on them.

Mark squinted at the rank insignia set in the upper center of their flak vests. It was hard to tell from across the market street, but one rank was clearly bigger than the other. Squinting, he was able to see three chevrons on the marine on the left. Sergeant. Probably his counterpart–the departing platoon sergeant. The other insignia was noticeably larger. Mark squinted again. Three chevrons, and two curved lines (rockers, they call them) beneath.

Shit. Company level NCO. Three chevrons up, two rockers down. Gunnery sergeant.

Anyone who has ever been a marine, knows a marine, or knows anything about the US Marine Corps knows an unwritten rule high on the list of those few, unwritten, cardinal rules of Marine life.

Never, ever, ever fuck with a gunny.

Mark nodded in acknowledgment and walked to meet them. He only made it a few steps before an explosion thundered in the distance. Then another. The ground rumbled in sympathy.

Mortars. Overhead, indirect fire.

Fuck.

Mark whirled around to his marines. "Incoming!!! Cover!" He shouted. Instantly the whole squad scattered, darting all across the far side of the market: crouching in doorways, behind display tables, wherever they could find cover.

The civilians in the market stopped, staring at the scene. Half the marines in the market were crouched, preparing for imminent danger. The other half seemed unmoved. Mark, himself crouched next to a stand selling pills, began to notice the incongruity, along with the panicked look in some of the civilian's eyes. He looked over to see the gunnery sergeant with his hand over his sunglasses, looking disgusted. The platoon sergeant wore a huge grin.

Fuck.

Mark stood up casually and turned to the squad. "All clear. Return to position."

The marketplace hummed back to life as the tension relieved.

In that moment, Mark would much, much rather have his body shredded by a mortar than to walk the remaining dozen steps to meet the outgoing platoon sergeant and company gunny.

Fuck.

"Morning Gunny," Mark said sheepishly as he approached. "I apologize for that. That was…not great."

The skinny platoon sergeant burst into laughter.

Mark broke into a nervous grin. The company gunnery sergeant, a lean, mean looking man in his late thirties shook his head gravely. Mark's smile dropped off immediately.

"Jesus. Fucking. Christ, kid. What the hell was that?" The gunny growled.

"I apologize, gunny, that was all me. Not used to all the sounds out here."

"No shit you're not. We've got a mortar firing position in a base about 300 yards north of here. That sound was us, shitwit. There's a lot of boom booms out here, and at least half of them are us. Learn the fucking difference."

"Aye, gunny." Mark yielded, sheepishly.

"I ain't got time for this amateur Call of Duty shit! I don't want to hand off to a fucking amateur improv group! We're goin' home in a week. Look at us! We look like…fucking…anorexic Ken dolls! We need food. We need beer. We need pussy. You fuck that up for me or anyone in my company, I will take away your goddamn birthday, sergeant. I will fucking end you."

"Understood, gunny. I promise it won't…I won't…"

"You get that jumpy in a public place again," the gunny growled over him, "you spook the locals like you just did, you're gonna fuck up everything we're trying to do here. Everything we've spent the last year doing here. Everything some of my guys went home in boxes for. I don't care if you are the size of a goddamn tractor…I see you twitch under fire like that again, I will find a stepladder, I will set it up, I will climb it, and I will skullfuck you. You get me?"

"Understood, gunny. It won't happen again."

The salty gunny paused, seeming to chew on his own words. Mark caught a slight twitch in his left eye.


They were silent for a few moments. The gunny seemed to be thinking about something else, and the platoon sergeant on the left opened his mouth to rescue his new colleague.

He didn't get the first word out. The older gunny shot him down.

"Shut the fuck up Jones. I'm not done with him yet."

"Aye, gunny." Sergeant Jones took a half step back, indicating he wouldn't interfere.

"Listen kid…it's your first day, and…I'll say this: Your guys fucking moved when you ordered. Moved with a purpose That's a good sign. Don't lose that. But you have to be the cool head, but you need to keep that level of control at the same time. They need to trust you and fear you at the same time. They need to know you got power. A shit ton of power, enough to kill them or get them killed. They gotta fear you more than the enemy, and respect you more than their own goddamn fathers. They gotta know that you'll get their back when shit goes sideways, they gotta want you to have that power. And they gotta trust you with it. They gotta fear you and trust you at the same time. Fear and trust." He held up crossed fingers, symbolizing the intertwined nature of the imperative. "Fear and trust. You get me?"

"I do, gunny." The words hit home to Mark. He knew the gravity of his position beforehand, but this…

Shit…

This wasn't just a middle management job. This was life and death.

"Good," the gunny said. "Keep your head on a swivel, but keep cool. Only go hot when you need to. You'll be alright."

"I appreciate that, gunny."

The gunny laughed in disbelief, looking Mark up and down. "Jesus, you're a big one. Thought they stopped makin' 'em that big." He elbowed the junior sergeant, who started to smile again. "Allright Jonesie, show this colossal, jumpy motherfucker where the bathrooms are. And all the other shit around here."

"On it, Gunny…what's your name again?"

"Rein. Sergeant Rein."

"Rein? My name's Jones." He extended a gloved hand to Mark. "Welcome to Kandahar."

* * *

4:15.

The clock on the nightstand indicated he would be home any minute.

Megan, still dressed in the business suit she wore to the courthouse, hummed happily to herself as she picked stacks of neatly folded clothes out of a laundry basket and placed them into drawers. Rowdy and Chopper, a black lab and a collie mix rescued from a shelter two years ago watched her intently as she worked. She had two stacks to go when she heard the door open downstairs. The dogs leaped to their feet and scrambled down to see.

Megan smiled as she heard Jared's voice pitch high in excitement as he greeted the dogs. The well-known sound of marine boots made their way up the stairs, down the hall, and into the bedroom.

Jared, dressed in dark green camouflage, was startled to see Megan as he turned into the bedroom.

"You're home early…" he said.

"Yeah, I took off a couple hours early."

"Everything okay?

"Yeah, everything's fine." She smiled, then placed the last stack of folded clothes in the drawer before shutting it.

"Okay…what's the occasion?"

"The Corelli case."

"The one that starts next week?"

"Yeah. He took the plea deal."

Jared's eyes widened and he grinned. "No shit? I thought you said they were gonna drag it out forever…"

"Yeah, they filed some bullshit delay motion, and I could tell the judge wasn't having it, so I just…let him have it."

Jared's eyes narrowed playfully. "You made that guy your bitch, didn't you."

Megan smirked. "Yeah, kinda."

Jared walked briskly over to his wife and swept her into an embrace, spinning her around the bedroom. She giggled in delight, kicking her feet into the air, still in black pumps, before setting her down.

They held their embrace but leaned back to kiss. Megan kissed her husband deeply, holding the back of his head in place with her hands until she was done. Then, breaking the kiss, she pulled her elbows down so that her hands rested on his shoulders as he held her around the waist.

"Congratulations, Meg. This is huge for you. I know you wanted to nail that guy."

"Yeah, well, the boss was happy. Gonna get 5 years federal prison, and full restitution. Little old ladies gonna get at least some of that pension back."

"Meg-justice…" Jared grinned and kissed her again. "Kids home yet?"

"No, they're going straight from camp to JJ's game. Camp van is taking them. And everyone on JJ's team, I guess."

"The game's at 7, right?"

"Yep."

"So we have…two hours and forty-five minutes before we have to be there, right?"

"Yep."

"Oh, hell yeah. We're gonna celebrate…" He kissed her again, holding the kiss as their tongues began to dance.

"Hold on for a minute, there…" Megan broke the kiss and leaned back again. She ran her hands slowly down his shoulders and over his collar bone. Passing down onto his chest, she uncovered two large, black rank insignia pinned to the lapels of his jacket.

Three chevrons up, two rockers down.

Her hands went further, down his chest, running her fingers across the embroidered name tapes above the pockets.

The left tape read: "US MARINES."

The right read: POISSON."

Megan stopped, holding her hands flat on her husband's chest and looked up at him.

"You know I love you, right baby?"

Jared grinned. "Shut up…you know I know it."

"Okay, good…because I have to tell you something." Megan reached up and bopped his nose playfully with her index finger. "And you can't get mad. Okay?"

"Okay…" Jared answered apprehensively.

"I'm feeling pretty excited, you know, about my news?"

"Okay…"

Megan leaned in and gently kissed Jared again. Then again. Then she began gently caressing his chest again as she looked into his eyes.

She spoke quietly, but above a whisper. "I've got a little date tonight. I'll make it to the game, though."

Jared breathed in sharply. "Really?"

Megan nodded, smiling. "Yep. I texted Mark. He'll be at his place at 5."

Jared began kissing her passionately. "Really? No shit? You texted him?"

"Of course, sweetie. You know his new girl called things off, and I thought he could use some company. And I could, you know, use some company too. To celebrate. I thought it'd be nice to, you know, be available for him."

Jared's cock began to harden in his pants.

"Oh my god, Meg, I need you right now. Get on that fucking bed."

Megan laughed and shook her head. "You know the rules. Gunny." She leaned back further as her hands found their way down his stomach until finding the hem of his jacket. She lifted it up and began to undo the black nylon belt holding his pants up.

"But I think I might know something that might help…"

Jared let go of her waist and caressed the soft bronze skin of his wife's face. He leaned forward, bending at the waist, and kissed her. "God, Meg. I love you…" he whispered.

She giggled again, unbuttoning his pants and pulling them down below his thighs. She reached into the fly of his boxer shorts and pulled him out, still passionately kissing his lips as she did.

"Hold it for a minute there…" she said playfully. "I wanna see…"

Jared stood up straight as Megan squatted down to be at eye level with Jared's stiffening cock. She took it, gripping the excited member with her right hand. It was thick…thick enough for her fingers to barely touch as she gripped it, and extended well past the circle made by her forefinger and thumb.

They had measured once, playing a game very similar to the one they played now. 7 inches long.

"Yes," Megan said quietly, looking up at her husband. "Yes, it's a nice one. But we both know Mark's is bigger."

Jared's cock twitched at her words. She smiled to herself, standing up.

"So since we've got a little time before JJ's game…I think I'd like some sex. I'm certainly in the mood." She flipped her hair playfully behind her. "Riding the high of my big news, I'm in the mood to, you know, ride…

Jared looked helpless as Megan let go of his penis and turned to walk out the door.

"Wait…" he said, gripping his stiff cock.

She turned around. "Yes?" She asked innocently.

"Can you…"

"Oh, right…" Megan answered, her tone suggesting she had forgotten something. Something obvious.

Something trivial.

Routine.

She made her way to their dresser and took out a small squeeze bottle of lube. Then, applying a small dribble on to her husband's desire, she replaced the lube in the top drawer, then carefully ran her fingers around him, applying the lube evenly.

"Is this what you want?"

Jared nodded helplessly.

Megan gripped him firmly and began to stroke slowly. Jared's head fell back, reveling in the warm feeling of his wife's grip.

"So…" she said quietly. "Did you get your transfer orders today?"

Jared's head snapped forward again, and he looked quizzically at her. "Yeah, why?"

"So, it's official. You're going to be Charlie Company's gunny?"

"Mmm, that feels good. Yeah, we knew that was coming…why?"

"I'm just checking…"

"Okay…"

The wet smacks of a lubed penis being stroked slowly were the only noise in their bedroom for a few minutes.

"So…" Megan spoke up a little louder this time.

"Yeah?"

"So I guess Mark got his orders today too?"

"I think so…not sure, haven't talked to him…mmm…yeah…"

"Okay."

Sklurp. Snck. Sklurp. Snck.

"So…Mark's officially your commanding officer now?"

"Not officially, there'll be a ceremony. But basically, yeah. Why?"

"Just curious."

Sklurpsncksklurpsncksklurpsnck

"Oh, baby…yeah…just like that. Yeah, keep going, just like that. Please…"

Megan began to smile as she saw the clear signs of Jared's crisis brewing. As he began to swell in her hand, she looked up into his eyes. They were still closed, soaking in the sensation as his breathing quickened.

"Jared."

He opened his eyes to meet hers. Her eyes, a rich brown with deep wells in the center were calm. Confident. Maybe a little arrogant.

He had trouble answering between his increasingly erratic breaths. "Yh..yeahh?"

"I'm gonna go fuck your commanding officer…"`

* * *

Two weeks had passed since that jumpy, embarrassing first patrol. The old unit had rotated out, vacating the patrol base to be occupied by third platoon.

Sergeant Rein was pacing the inside of the patrol base. The base itself was not large. Maybe the size of a mid-sized gas station lot. It was enclosed by excavated dirt stacked end to end in pallet sized boxes made of grated metal and rough cloth. The walls weren't towering–maybe 9 feet tall, maybe a little bit more in places, and the towers that cornered it weren't so much towers as they were square plywood boxes lined with sandbags.

It stopped bullets, but it wasn't pretty.

It was like living in a dirt prison. One where, if you escaped, you were likely to be killed, or captured, tortured, and then killed anyway.

Approaching the northwest guard tower, Mark met Corporal Arnold coming down the ladder.

"Arnie."

"Hey, sergeant. What's up?"

"Everything locked down for the night?"

"Yeah, we're squared away."

"Who's on now?"

"Longman, Jett, Smith, and Novak."

"Longman looked like shit today. He sick?"

"I think so, yeah."

"Pull him off. Put someone else up there, have the doc take a look at him. I need him rested tomorrow."

"I was going to. I don't have enough guys." Arnold shrugged helplessly. "And Longman said he didn't wanna fuck anyone over. He said he'll gut it out."

"Really."

Arnold nodded.

"Okay, fair enough. But have him check in with the doc as soon as his shift is over."

"Aye, sergeant."

They parted, and Mark made his way around the wall, checking the other towers.

Satisfied that the guard was adequately scheduled and staffed, he returned to the command center.

Command center. It sounded cooler than it was. Really, it was a little mud house with a generator outside of it. It had three rooms: One held the ammunition, one had a floor-to-ceiling map of their assigned area, and one was where the platoon commander and platoon sergeant slept.

Rooming with Lieutenant Macintosh. Jesus.

Mark would have preferred to have roomed with Bin Laden.

"Evening, sir."

The lieutenant was wearing only shorts and socks, stretched out on his cot. Clearly distracted, he had his laptop open on his chest, an unwrapped candy bar jutting sideways from his closed fist. "Hey, Rein. How's it going."

"Everything's secure, sir. Guard shifts are laid out, nothing to report."

"Okay."

"If you don't mind me asking, sir, where'd you get the candy bar?"

"Care package from my girlfriend. Well, one of 'em. Mail came earlier."

"Mail came?" Mark perked up. "First I heard of it."

"Yeah, it was while you guys were out on patrol. I found mine there. The rest are piled in with the ammo."

Mark rolled his eyes as he walked briskly to the outer door. Stepping one foot outside, he barked out, "Mail's here!" The two tents holding the rest of the platoon emptied out instantly as the mud house was swarmed with eager marines.

"Linkin. Frenchie. Get in there and pass that shit out."

He stepped back inside to his room and put on his flak jacket, helmet, rifle and other combat gear. Then, sidestepping the frenzied mob shoving each other in order to grab the small, uniform postal boxes from the hands of Mark's designees, he headed to the northwest tower and climbed the ladder by himself.

Private Longman was seated, eyes facing out toward the darkening flat landscape. Quiet night.

"Longman."

He shot up and stood nervously. He looked pale. A little shaky. "Evening, sergeant. All clear, nothing to report."

"Good. You're relieved."

"Um, okay…who's relieving me?"

"Me, dumbass. Go talk to the doc, get something for whatever the hell this is, and go right to sleep. You can stop and get your mail on the way, but no fucking around."

Longman smiled gratefully. "Thanks. I mean, thank you, sergeant."

"Whatever. Get out of here." Mark answered gruffly, avoiding eye contact as Longman shuffled by him and down the ladder. Mark stepped into his place, preparing for four hours of staring into blank space.

They never attacked at night. They'd bury their little dollar store landmines at all hours of the night, and that was always something to keep an eye out for, but the departing platoon sergeant had assured him. Don't worry. They never attack at night.

Twenty minutes passed before Mark felt the rudimentary tower jiggle slightly as someone climbed the ladder up. He checked his watch. His relief wasn't due for another three hours.

"Hey, man." Jared climbed into the space with him.

"Hey, Frenchie. Get some mail?"

"Yeah. Something from my mom, and Meg sent me a package." He handed him a package of peanut M&M's. "Meg said these were for you specifically."

"Hey, thanks man…" Mark said gratefully. "How's Meg holding up?"

"No idea. Says she was bored and decided to start studying for something called the LSAT."

"No shit?"

"Yeah. I guess she's thinking about going to law school. Since I'm gonna be gone the whole next year, I guess something's gotta keep her busy."

"Well, she's crazy smart, man. I'm sure she'll do great."

"Yeah, she will." Jared hesitated. "She's scared, though. Really scared. About us. I don't know what to say to her. All this deployment shit is new to her, too."

"Yeah, new to all of us."

They sat in silence for a moment. Mark tore off a corner of the candy package and squeezed a piece out, popping it into his mouth.

"Hey, I was gonna talk to you tonight anyway, before you decided to jump in for Private Pukes-a-lot. You got a minute?"

"Yeah, take a look," Mark said, gesturing to the open desert. "I got nothin' but time. What's up?"

Jared hesitated. Finally, he grimaced and began to speak quickly.

"You gotta get up out of my ass, man. You've just gotta. This micromanaging shit… And not just me, Arnie, the other guys…you're losing the respect of everyone."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Mark's head jerked back, surprised.

"You're out on every patrol. Every single one, and you're completely running shit. Your squad leaders are totally superfluous. Look, I know what happened that first pump out. I was with you. We were all embarrassed. No shit, man, if I was in your shoes, I would have made the same call, and would have looked equally stupid. But you're not going to get respect back by just…fucking…being up everyone's ass every second of the day."

Mark cocked his head ominously. "Who the fuck do you think you are, Frenchie? I don't know if you forgot the basic rank structure of this thing we're doing, but this…" he gestured to the three chevrons pinned to his flak jacket, "This doesn't take orders from this!" He reached over and slapped at the two chevrons pinned to Poisson's uniform.

"Yeah, no shit. That's why I've waited so long to talk to you. It's been two weeks. Twenty patrols have left this base, and you've led every one of them, totally undermining your squad leaders, and pissing everybody off."

"Fuck you, Frenchie. You don't know what you're talking about. I've got a responsibility…"

"So do I!" Poisson raised his voice, then quickly looked around, hoping nobody heard. He dropped his voice to mitigate the force of his accusation. "So do I. So does Arnie. So does everyone here. I know we have a shit lieutenant and you feel you have to carry him. But you don't have to carry everybody. And by the way…you don't know more than we do about this…this is your first time out just like mine. Just like everybody's"

"Enough!" Mark snapped at his friend. "I will delegate when I feel it's time to delegate. If I don't see my squad leaders taking initiative, then obviously…"

"You don't see because you're not looking, shithead! You're doing it right now!" Mark's face reddened as Jared continued. "Don't you think Arnie was on his way back to gear up and do exactly what you're doing right now? You really think you're the only one who can take a shift for the team? Now you look like the hero and Arnie looks like an asshole. Like he wouldn't step up so his platoon sergeant had to. And every goddamn step I take outside the wire, I can't look out for my guys…I can't look out for the enemy…I have to look at you! I have to be constantly checking my shoulder or radio to see if I'm allowed to put one foot out ahead of the other!"

Mark's already pronounced jaw was slowly pulsing as he grit his teeth.

Realizing he'd gone too far, Jared stood up and began to walk out. "That's all, just think about it."

"Corporal Poisson."

"Yeah?" He turned around. Mark was standing to his full height, glaring down at him. "I didn't dismiss you."

Jared took a deep breath, then sighed. "So that's how it's gonna be?"

"That's how it's gonna be. I don't need a best friend. I need my marines to respect my authority."

Jared turned to face him, then placed his hands behind his back,elbows out, and feet shoulder width apart.

Parade rest. A symbolic posture, signifying submission to rank.

Mark waited in silence for a moment as his fourth squad leader stood patiently. Then he spoke in cold, curt tones.

"Tell Arnold if he wants to step up, he can tell me what he wants to do. I don't want to have to guess what my subordinates are thinking."

"Tell him yourself."

"Excuse me?!?" Mark leaned down and put his nose millimeters away from Jared's. "Care to try that again?!? Corporal?"

Jared didn't flinch. Now it was his turn to clench his jaw. "Aye sergeant. I'll convey the message."

"Good. Dismissed."

Jared briskly broke the parade rest pose and turned to step down the ladder. Halfway down, he paused, looking up at Mark, now fully towering over him.

"It doesn't have to be this way, man."

"Here…" Mark growled, throwing the nearly full bag of peanut M&M's down the ladder. It sailed past Jared, exploding on the ground below. Brightly colored candies scattered in all directions.

"You can keep that shit."

* * *

Megan, still dressed in her courthouse clothes, sat on the front steps of unit 50 in the officer and staff NCO's housing. Jared, now a gunnery sergeant, could have gotten a spot in this complex to be near his best friend. But Megan and Jared preferred finding their own housing, generally avoiding areas that were too densely populated with career marines. Enlisted men and women, and frequently their spouses, were occasionally uncomfortable and sometimes even hostile to a professional working woman like her. Not all of them, of course, but enough to make it weird to live too close to it. And Jared liked to leave work at work. It was hard enough having a family in the corps. A little distance on nights and weekends was good for them.

She felt a little silly sitting on the steps like this. She had arrived right at 5. Mark didn't like her to be late.

She looked at her watch. 5:10. She looked up to see him striding quickly through the complex toward her. Toward his condo. She stood up to meet him.

He was wearing his service uniform–the equivalent of a business suit. Dark olive trousers, a khaki shirt. An array of rectangular ribbons neatly pinned above his left breast pocket. Two silver bars pinned to his lapels, and the jaunty garrison cover, also sporting two silver bars.

She waited until he was within whisper range before acknowledging him.

"You're late…" she said with a low voice.

"You know where the key is," Mark's voice matched her curt tone, just a full octave lower. "Let yourself in."

"I shouldn't have to. You shouldn't make me wait."

"I didn't text you to come over. You texted me. I've got shit to do. I'm busy."

"Well, maybe, fuck you then…" Megan's voice began to rise in pitch. "Maybe I'll just leave."

Mark stuck his key in, then opened the front door. "Get in the fucking house."

"No. I'm leaving."

"Get. in. the. house…" Mark growled.

Megan glared at him, then silently walked through

It was immaculately clean as always. Megan noted a thick book on the coffee table. She squinted to see the title. Against the Day. Thomas Pynchon.

She turned to face Mark as he closed the door behind him and put his keys in a little bucket next to the door.

"So…" he said slowly. "You want to have fun, or you just want to bitch at me some more?"

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" She raised her voice. "You can't talk to me that way."

"Yeah? Stop me." Mark responded, matter of factly.

Megan burned with indignation. She leaned forward and shoved him.

He barely moved.

She shoved him again.

Same result.

Mark's angry look cracked momentarily, and a brief smile flashed on his face.

Megan caught the look, then broke into giggles herself. She leaned into a third shove, to little effect. "Shit…this isn't working at all…"

Mark giggled back, then tried to force his face into an angry stare again. "Come on, stay in the moment. Use your body. Come on…come at me."

"Fuck you, you oversized asshole!" She threw her shoulder into his chest, and he stumbled back into the wall.

He regained a stable stance, then began to walk menacingly toward her. "Are you serious with this?"

Megan's heart began to beat faster as the larger man towered over her.

He smoothly reached forward with both hands to grip to the button line of her blouse, then yanked both hands outward forcefully. The sound of a dozen buttons ripping from their mooring was quickly followed by a dozen little plastic ticks hitting the hardwood floor.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Megan demanded.

Mark was staring at the exposed skin visible now that her blouse hung open. She wore a plain white bra today. Pretty conservative. Looks like she had no plans when she got dressed this morning. Other than a day at the office.

Megan gestured at her ruined blouse in outrage. "What am I going to wear now, dumbass? Leave it to some oversized imbecile like you to just…just…"

"Jesus Christ, woman, don't you ever stop talking?" Megan's eyes widened. She wound up and slapped his face. Taken aback, Mark raised his hand to his face, unsure of what just happened.

Megan smiled to herself and she wound up again. This time, Mark caught her wrist, gripped her fingers, and put her in a firm wristlock and twisted it down. She yelped in surprise as the hold forced her to one knee.

"Enough." Mark growled. "Both knees. Now." Fear flashed in Megan's eyes as she looked up at him. He let go of her wrist. As she clutched it painfully with her other hand, he grasped a handful of her shiny, dark hair, twisting it until her face looked up at him.

Mark spoke in an even, measured, but deep tone. "I don't want noise in my home. I want quiet. You''re going to stay nice and quiet down there. Understand?" He firmly shook her hair. She nodded silently.

"Good."

He reached up to his zipper with his free hand and pulled out his penis. Already hardening, Megan's eye dropped to see it near her face.

"Look up at me." Mark's voice was firm but quiet. "The prelude is over. You had your fun with our little play. Now it's time to do what you came here to do. Understand?"

Megan nodded again, the look in her eyes shifting. Some fear was still there, but a more stable look tempered it.

Trust.

He let go of her hair, but continued to lightly grip the back of her head as she straightened her kneeling posture.

"Open your mouth." Megan opened her mouth, holding absolutely still. Mark lifted his cock between her lips. She began her gentle ministrations, bobbing slightly back and forth as he hardened further, as he filled her mouth more.

"That's better. Now you're being a good girl."

Megan didn't respond, but began to lean forward slightly to grant Mark access to her throat.

Chlk. Chlk. Chlk.

"Excellent. Now, isn't that better than fighting? Doesn't it feel good to do just what you're told?"

Chlk, Chlk, Chlk

Mark felt the resistance drain from Megan's body. The obvious tension of her day began to melt out of her as he gave her firm but gentle commands, as she focused simply on obedience.

On his cock.

"Take off your top."

Megan, holding Mark stock tentatively in her mouth, quietly pulled open her destroyed blouse and shrugged it off until it fell behind her. Then, reaching behind her back, she unclasped her bra, again shrugging it off as it fell forward onto her knees.

"Straighten your back. You know I like the look of your breasts when your back is straight."

She straightened up, shuffling forward so she could continue to take him deeply while keeping her back straight.

"Good girl. Now, put your hands behind your head."

Megan complied, removing all visual and physical obstacles to her breasts, and ensuring that Mark could control the pace, rhythm, and depth of his cock in her mouth without resistance or interference..

A symbolic posture of submission.

Mark reached his large hand behind hers, fingers laced together behind her head, and began to guide her movements.

"That's better. You know what I like to see. Now, get back to it. No hands, I'll tell you when I'm ready."

Chlk, Chlk, Chlk


"Listen to me, Meg."

Her eyes rose up.

"You're going to swallow the first one, and then we're going to go upstairs.Do you understand?"

Chlk, Chlk, Chlk

* * *

"Echo five Romeo, this is Echo four Papa."

Mark turned his head to the radio handset attached to the shoulder strap of his flak vest. He tapped the key.

"Go ahead."

"We've got a suspect line here. Not sure if we should move forward or reroute. Please advise."

Suspect line. Usually that meant some indication of an explosive device. A line of freshly dug dirt, or a wire sticking out of a doorway. Something out of place that might spell trouble.

"On my way."

The platoon was conducting a routine patrol of a small village about a mile from their patrol base. The departing platoon had told them that marines hadn't been there since the first month of their deployment. That nothing ever happened there.

Mark had convinced the company commander, Captain Wolfe, that the lack of patrols likely meant that enemy forces could either be hiding or storing weapons there. That it only made sense to check it out. See what was there. They had been there a month, and found nothing. No engagements with Taliban fighters. A couple found IEDs, which they promptly called in and which were promptly defused by disposal teams. Pretty boring so far, really.

Mark didn't think much of it, but he definitely didn't want to leave anything to chance. He was, however, still a little leery of interacting with Jared, who had found the "suspect line."

Mark made his way from one alley to the other–he had two squads walking parallel down two adjacent alleyways, checking in on houses within and between the two units. Coming around the corner, he saw Jared standing with one of his fire team leaders. He gestured to Mark to look toward the ground.

A straight line of freshly dug and replaced earth spanned the alleyway. It seemed to run under the outer wall of one of the houses, then disappear on the other side. Mark signaled to the platoon's interpreter, a paid local, and instructed him to knock on the door of the house and ask if they knew what it was. A short conversation followed.

"He says it is power cable, they just did repair on his house." The interpreter explained.

"Okay. You believe him?"

"Yes sir. He showed me the plug it runs into."

"Good. Okay. Good looking out, Corporal. Carry on."

"Aye, sergeant," Poisson answered flatly, signaling to his team to move further up the alley. Mark dipped between the houses to return to second squad with Corporal Arnold, when two loud pops rang out.

Shit. That was definitely gunfire.

Mark sprinted toward Corporal Arnold, who looked back at him from the front of the line and shrugged. Mark turned around and sprinted back, keying his radio as he ran. "Fourth squad. Report!"

The radio crackled, but he only made out the word "contact" and "east side." The voice was Jared's. Definitely elevated. This was real.

Fuck.

Mark burst around the corner to see Jared and his squad covered down around the opposite corner of a house. Small puffs of dust popped out of the wall concealing Jared and his squad.

They were definitely being shot at.

Mark looked across the alley to see the only house the fire could be coming from. Little puffs of smoke were visible from the side of the window.

Mark sprinted across the open way and squatted down next to Jared.

"Anyone hit?"

"No!" Jared shouted back over the gunfire. "We were turning down this way anyway, we just covered here."

"Good!"

Jared hesitated for a second, then admitted: "I don't know where it's coming from. Just across the way…I don't know where. Can we get eyes on somehow?"

"It's the house with the blue door!" Mark shouted back. "I saw it when I was crossing…"

He turned to each of the fire team leaders and shouted directions.

On his signal, Jared would lob a grenade round through the open window and first fire team would breach the corner and move toward the north corner. Second team would provide suppressive fire into that window. Third team would follow Mark and Jared into the house to clear it.

Mark then told everyone to get ready as he shouted into his radio for second squad to cover the other side of the house in case the shooters came out the back. Jared loaded a grenade round into the launcher mounted underneath his rifle barrel, and nodded his readiness to Mark. Mark looked around to visually confirm with each of the team leaders, who nodded in affirmation.

Fear was loud in every eye.

Mark held out his fingers to indicate a three, two, one count, and they exploded into action. Jared popped around the corner, fired the grenade which sailed through the open window, then crouched immediately back down out of sight. A second later, a deafening explosion gave the signal. Four marines sprinted around the corner to the north side of the house while four more moved directly toward the open window, firing as they walked. Mark, Jared, and the other fire time sprinted to the blue door. Mark raised his foot forward and slammed it into the thin metal door near the knob. It clanked open, bouncing off the wall as Mark breached the house. The six of them quickly and methodically cleared each room in the house, finding the room with the open window empty, but with a large trail of blood leading toward the back entrance.

More gunfire.

"Down!" Mark shouted, and they dropped to their faces. The gunfire continued for about ten seconds, then stopped.

"Up!" They jumped up again, and continued clearing. "Second squad, report!" He shouted into his radio, his breath heaving from adrenaline.

"Two hostiles, one of them pretty badly hurt. They came out shooting, we took 'em down. You guys in there still?"

"Affirmative. Hold your fire. We're coming out." Mark signaled toward the back entrance and they walked out. Two AK-47 assault rifles were lying, useless, next to two dead men who tried to kill his marines. Mark breathed a sigh of relief. He leaned back into his radio, switching channels.

"Command, this is 3-1. Come in."

"3-1, this is command. We heard something from your direction. What's your status?"

Mark gave a brief report, then waited as the information was conveyed to the commander. After a moment, the familiar voice of Captain Wolfe came over the line.

"3-1 this is command. Sounds like you popped your cherry. Good work."

"Affirm. We're going to do some slow clearing of the village now. Looks obvious that it's hot, over."

"Negative, 3-1. Hold your position. We've got eyes on you from the air, looks like there's some more movement to the north of you. I'm sending first platoon to support. We need to cover the whole area. Stand by, don't move, we've got air support on the way too. Just hold."

"Roger."

Adrenaline pumping and breathing heavily, Jared and Mark allowed a brief smile to break between them as they caught their breath.

* * *

"I love your sheets…"

"What?"

"I love your sheets, they're so comfy…"

Megan stretched her arms and legs out to resemble a starfish, luxuriating in the feel of the crisp, new, gun barrel blue sheets. "They feel new."

"Yeah, I ordered them about a week ago. Just liked the color."

"Well, good purchase, captain." She turned toward him on her side and snuggled up to him, extending her left arm and leg over his body.

They were naked together, relaxed. Their breathing had only a moments earlier returned to normal. Both relaxed, the tension drained out of them. A serene glow was apparent on Meg's face.

She had taken what she needed from her lover.

Mark broke the silence. "JJ's game's at 7?"

Megan nodded, and he felt her affirming nod on his chest before hearing her response.

"Yeah.7. You want to come?"

"Sure, sounds fun. He's the only one playing?"

"Yeah. Marky's got practice, but no games this week."

"Oh. Marky doing any better on his team?"

"He's fine, he's just…he's hard to get along with. He got in trouble with his coach because he brought a book to the outfield during practice. Just sat down in the grass and stopped paying attention, apparently. I guess a fly ball almost hit him."

Mark chuckled. "He's a bookworm, like his mom."

"He's a pain in the ass, like his dad…"

Mark stroked her hair quietly.

"So, did you get your orders yet?" Megan asked, matter of factly.

"Yeah, cut this morning. My report date is July 1. I'm assuming Jared's is, too?"

"He didn't say, just said he got them. But I think so."

"I hope so." Mark sighed.

Megan propped herself up on her right elbow, the flat of her left hand still resting on Mark's bare chest. Mark was briefly distracted by the momentary sparkle of her wedding and engagement rings.

"Why? Something wrong?" Megan asked, squinting slightly.

"No, it's nothing. Just…it's my first command. I'm a little nervous. I'd just like to have him with me when I check in."

Megan looked concerned. "I don't think you have anything to worry about, Mark. You're the picture perfect officer. Seasoned, deployed, decorated, a mustang…shit, handsome as hell. Hung. All the goods. They're going to love you. You'll distinguish yourself immediately. You always do."

"Yeah…" Mark sighed.

Megan laid back down, resting her head on his chest and lightly running the pads of her fingers up and down from his mid rib cage to his iliac crest.

Just like he liked it.

"The thing is…" Mark started.

Megan waited as he formed his thoughts.

"Hmmm?" She goaded.

"The thing is, Wolfe's the CO again. But battalion level this time. And I know you remember how I left the last time. No way HE doesn't remember that."

Megan paused to consider before responding, continuing to gently rub his chest the way she knew he liked.

"Look," she started. "I know you left with a bang, but that was years ago. And don't forget…Wolfe called you. You didn't call him. He wouldn't have reached out if he wasn't over it. No way he would give you command of a whole company if he didn't fully trust you."

She propped herself up on her elbow again, looking right at him. His eyes were fixed off in the distance, but he was listening intently. "You really have nothing to worry about, Mark. I'm serious. You're just being hard on yourself."

Mark didn't respond. She grasped his chin with her hand and turned his face toward her.

"Mark. Look at me. You've got this. Okay?" She leaned down and slowly, gently kissed his mouth before leaning back up on her elbow.

Now Mark was holding eye contact, his brow slightly furrowed. She leaned forward and gently kissed him again, holding the weightless kiss for a few seconds longer, then leaned over again. She stroked his hair with her free hand as his features softened.

"And my man's got your back, captain. Believe it."

One more kiss.

"We both do."

She smiled warmly at him before laying her head back onto his chest.

"What time is it?" Mark's chest rumbled. Megan strained to look at the clock on the nightstand. "6:14. Why?"

"Just asking."

Meg leaned up to look at him again, pausing as they caught eyes again. "You want more?"

"Do you?" Mark cocked an eyebrow.

"You know I'm up for it, Cap."

"Yeah. Only…less rage fucking maybe?"

Megan smiled and rubbed his chest again. "You need some love, Achilles? A little affection?"

"Maybe. Kinda. Yeah, a little."

Megan smiled again and rose up to her knees, then extended her left leg over Mark's waist. Now straddling him, she leaned down and began gently kissing all over his face, her obsidian hair falling all around his head. He kissed back, soaking in the affection. His cock began to stir again as Megan kissed his lips lightly, pulling back after every few kisses to look into his eyes.

Her eyes were a rich chocolate brown, a beautiful accent to the richer, only slightly lighter tone of her skin. She scooted back a few inches and reached behind her to lightly grip his now erect member. She rose slightly and wiggled as she slid it into her body, finding little resistance after the spirited events of the previous hour. Wiggling slightly more, she sighed deeply as it disappeared inside her, filling her.

"Just you and me right now, Mark. No games, no worries. Just you and me together, okay?" She intoned affectionately. Mark nodded silently, holding her gaze.

Megan sat up straight, throwing her hair behind her and began rocking gently back and forth on top of her lover. Her eyes dulled in pleasure, her naked torso now illuminated as her posture opened her front to the light.

Mark instinctively reached up with his right hand to feel her breasts. After two children, her lovely C cups remained intoxicating to him. Remembering fondly the first time she exposed herself to him in a little rented house in the woods, nearly a decade ago, he ran his fingers up, over, and around her breasts.

Megan tilted her head forward, smiling at his attention, and caught sight of a small scar on the underside of Mark's right forearm. Her smile faded, and she reached over to touch it with the pads of her fingers.

"I wish you wouldn't do that…" Mark said, breaking the breathy silence.

"I'm sorry. I know. I just…"

Megan leaned forward and found another scar, just on the ridge line of his chin and gently kissed it, then kissed his lips again.

"It's important to me," she insisted quietly. "To us."

She sat back up and placed his hand on her breast again. "Take what you need. Just talk to me. I'm here for you right now…"

Mark groaned and began thrusting upward to meet her. She quickly set her hand down on his chest to stop him.

"Easy big guy…I've got this one. Just let me take care of you, okay?"

* * *

The news of Mark's rapid, flawless response with his first firefight spread like wildfire. Not only back at the patrol base where his platoon knew him, but all through the company. Everyone knew that the rookie sergeant got two enemy KIA, clearing a live fire house in under two minutes with no injuries to his own people.

Even the salty senior marines, the ones who had deployed three, four, five or more times, had to admit they were impressed.

Pretty good for a rookie.

Pretty good for anyone.

But that wasn't even the big news. The big news was, after ordering first platoon to assist in clearing the village, Captain Wolfe had radioed in full hearing of the whole company that the chain of command for the short afternoon operation was to be directed by Sergeant Rein, not the higher ranked, more experienced Staff Sergeant Jiminez.

Mark suspected it was simply because he was more familiar with the terrain, the layout of the village and houses, that sort of thing.

Nobody else suspected that.

Mark had to move quickly, but he couldn't prep the whole operation himself. He turned one squad east, one squad west to do a snap recon of the area and return with a plan to utilize 8 squads instead of 4. They were ready in an hour when first platoon arrived.

Staff Sergeant Jiminez met Mark with a smirk.

"Well, kid…you cleared your first hotbox. Let's see how you do with a whole village."

Mark, struggling to not show his apprehension at the sudden assumption of a higher level of command, simply laid out the plan with his colleague, established a shared radio channel, and within minutes 8 squads were fanning out to clear two dozen odd streets. Most of the local civilians, having heard the earlier firefight, had all moved west to the far side of a poppy field under the shade of some pomegranate trees.

The operation was flawless.

Three hours later, four more houses were found stocked with weapons, explosives, and opium nesh. Each of the houses were occupied by hostiles waiting in ambush. First platoon cleared two, and Mark's third platoon cleared the other two.

Mark called in the battle damage assessment as the sun began to sink toward the horizon.

First platoon: Two engagements. Roughly 15 minutes of exchanged gunfire each. 2 enemy killed, 1 captured. One friendly casualty, mild–dislocated shoulder as one of the marines tried to batter open a door.

Third platoon: Two engagements. Roughly 5 minutes of exchanged gunfire each. 3 enemy killed, 3 captured. No friendly casualties.

Company command took the report in a businesslike manner. But even Jiminez was impressed.

From there, Third platoon was first to be tasked in new, unexplored areas. They were efficient, thorough, careful, and ruthless when needed. Each of Mark's four squad leaders rose to become confident combat leaders under his direction.

A month passed, and the star of Sergeant Mark Rein began to rise. Other platoon sergeants began to visibly respect Mark, and even defer to him. The battalion commander, Colonel Chen, stopped by their patrol base to congratulate him and shake his hand. There was even talk of a meritorious promotion.

The rise of Mark's reputation had a footnote. Things stayed frosty between the platoon sergeant and his fourth squad leader. The confrontation in the guard tower had ruptured their easy association, and Jared clearly felt that Mark was more interested in rank than friendship.

Mark was at a loss as to how to mend it. Unfortunately, to his mind, friendship simply could not take priority. If his longest friendship and his billeted responsibilities to his unit and mission couldn't exist in the proper priority to one another, friendship would have to go. He simply shifted his tone and approach to Corporal Poisson–no longer given the moniker "Frenchie"--to match that of the other three squad leaders. Probably better that way, he thought.

But Jared showed himself highly competent too, albeit in a less visible fashion. His squad was always the neatest, leanest, and quickest to report and to move when ordered. His own wiry frame made him particularly useful to squeeze through tight spaces or bend around tight corners to check if the coast was clear. A new nickname rose through the platoon for him: "Gumby." It seemed to fit. Most of the time he seemed to be a pretty chill guy, and flexible in more ways than one.

When promotion recommendations came around for review, Mark made sure to put his estranged friend forward as a candidate. He just didn't tell him.

It was weird.

A week or so after the village clearing operation, when it became clear that the spat between friends was deep enough to suggest permanence, Mark quietly deleted the "Achilles" folder from his own laptop. He felt bad that he had shared such a level of intimacy with his subordinate's wife. He knew it was stupid at the time. He knew he should have just resisted or outright refused the strange offer. Now, Mark wished he just hadn't done it. It might have made things less awkward when they had a falling out.

Once a week or so, Mark could slip over to the company HQ and use the laptops at the morale tent. There, it took his whole body weight to hold down the smile on his face when he saw Molly Cohen's name as the sender of an email. Writing back every week, he shared his successes and his insecurities. She responded with enthusiasm and empathy, and her excitement at his successes gave him permission to be proud of himself. She even let Lucy and Max send him a message once.

It was nice.

Without fail, he would leave the morale tent smiling broadly.

He did not, however, tell Molly about his falling out with his best friend. She didn't know about him, anyway. And what could she do? Probably best not to bother her with it.

On a morning patrol with third and fourth squads, the group was moving on the outskirts of the town, with an open field in front of them, and small orchards on either side. Small houses intruded on the full view of the orchards.

The morning was quiet, however. None of the usual signs or marks of a firefight.

Mark was engaged in dealing with one of those unavoidable irritations of deployment life–trying to re-attach his handset to his radio when one of Jared's squad members tapped him on the arm.

"Hey sarge. I think I see something. That treeline over there."

Mark continued to fiddle with the handset. The damn thing was always coming unplugged.

"Gimme a sec." Failing to reconnect the wire, he finally gave up and let it hang down from its holster on his shoulder. "Fuck it. Where? Show me."

The marine pointed to the west toward the bigger orchard. "Looks like someone's crawling around over there. Looks shady."

"All right, let's get eyes on. Poisson. You see what your boy sees?"

"Negative, sergeant," Jared said, straining to look. "I got a house in the way."

"We're coming to the end of the street. Think you can slip around one of these houses and get a better view?"

"Aye, sergeant." Jared motioned for his squad to fan out and cover him. All eyes and rifles found a line of fire through the gaps between houses as everyone kept an eye out for the suspicious movement. Jared found a low wall, about 4 feet tall, situated between two tight rooftop awnings. He motioned toward Mark and gave the signal for a boost. Mark moved over, then crouched down, his body concealed by the half wall. He laced his fingers together next to his raised knee so Jared could step into his cupped hands and walk right up to the wall. His skinny frame fit perfectly between the awnings, and he leaned forward to look out over the west side orchard. Mark remained crouched behind the wall, avoiding exposure as he carefully watched for Jared's signal.

Out of the corner of his eye, something moved. He turned his head just enough to see a man, crouching in the east orchard, taking aim at Jared's back.

"Contact, east side!" Mark boomed with his full voice. Everyone turned around quickly except Jared, who was still wedged between the two awnings. Mark stood up to full height, grabbed Jared's belt loops and yanked with his whole body weight to throw Jared off the half wall and onto the ground just as the frantic pops of gunfire began. Mark heard two loud cracks just as Jared's startled body hit the ground and lay motionless.

Mark reached for his rifle, which, dangling from the sling around his flak jacket, had become tangled in the disconnected cord of his radio handset. Cursing, he reached down and quick-drew the pistol off his leg and fired off at the shooter. Emptying his entire clip, he saw the crouched man slump over and lie still.

"Report!" he shouted into his handset.

Still detached.

Shit.

Mark's eyes darted around the street. Fourth squad was with him, all 12 crouched behind the corners of houses, looking for more shooters. Some had spotted them and were returning fire. Third squad was about two hundred yards down the street. Hearing the gunfire, they had begun to run to help.

Mark looked closer, about four feet away, and saw Jared's still body haphazardly crumpled on the street.

Shit.

He ran over and shook him.

Nothing.

He rolled him on his back, then checked his pulse, then his breathing.

Pulse good, breathing, good.

He noticed a spot of blood near his collar bone.

Shit.

"Poisson, wake up. Get up. Goddammit, get up!"

No response. Third squad was getting closer, but still not in range. Fourth squad was holding. Nobody else was down. Mark grabbed the handset on Jared's radio out of the holster and called in the attack.

"Company, this is 3-1, we have contact. East from our position. How copy, over."

"3-1 this is company, we acknowledge contact. What do you need?"

"I don't know. They're in an orchard, we can't see how many. Sounds like at least 4 or 5 Maybe more. We have partial cover. Can you get eyes from the air?"

"Stand by 3-1, we'll get eyes on."

Mark knelt by Jared. It didn't look like the blood spot was getting bigger, but two new blood stains had appeared closer to his neck.

Mark called for a medic, then turned to check again. Third squad had arrived. He pointed furiously to the open spots in their defense and ordered them to hold the opposite side in case the ambush came from the west too. The squad leader nodded acknowledgement and directed his teams. Mark checked Jared's pulse again, then dropped the magazine from his pistol and reloaded.

The medic rushing toward him unexpectedly dove to the ground and covered his head. Perplexed, Mark turned to look behind him.

Another man with a gun had rounded the corner of the house and was taking aim. Mark whirled around and drew his pistol, firing again. The man ducked behind the corner out of sight. Knowing that he was exposed and standing near an injured man, Mark was clearly holding the weakest part of the line, He squatted down and pulled Jared by the collar up to a sitting position. Then he looped his left arm under Jared's armpits and stood up. Jared's head, arms, and legs dangled forward as Mark pivoted, standing sideways with his pistol arm pointing toward the dangerous corner and the limp frame of his former friend facing away behind him.

The man peeked around the corner again, aiming and shooting down the street. Mark was completely exposed to the fire, but the man, too, was exposed for long enough for Mark to let off a half dozen rounds. The man crumpled forward into the street. Mark carefully backed toward the rest of Jared's squad, still holding their injured leader. The sound of helicopters began to rise from the distance, and Mark called a ceasefire. They heard their attackers disappearing into the orchard.

Mark's adrenaline was hot enough to make his head explode. He could hear the blood flow in his ears, and he began to feel light headed. He gently set Jared down on his back again and knelt next to him, trying to wake him up.

"Poisson. Get up. Get up. Frenchie, get up. Get up! Come on, man…"

Jared began coughing erratically, then his eyes popped open, disoriented.

Mark exhaled for the first time since he saw the first shooter. The helicopters got louder, and communicating with his stunned fourth squad leader became even harder.

The medic, kneeling on the other side of Jared, opened his bag and pulled out gauze and reached for Mark. Mark leaned back, indignant.

"Don't touch me, asshole!" He shouted, barely audible over the helicopters. "Check him. He's bleeding! Look…" Mark pointed to the blood splotches on Jared. There were more than two now. At least five.

The medic shouted again, but the roar of the helicopters drowned him out. He reached for Mark's face, and Mark slapped his hand away. Mark pointed angrily at Jared again, trying to redirect the medic's attention. The medic responded by pointing to his own face, touching his right cheek near the jawline. Mark squinted, then realized what the medic was trying to indicate. He reached up to touch his own face and returned his fingertips covered in thick, dark blood. He looked down to the ground and saw large splotches of blood on his pants, his flak vest, and the ground all around him. A few more had landed on Jared, still dazed on the ground.

Now knowing what the medic was indicating, Mark inspected himself further, surprised to find his pistol, still gripped in his right hand, also covered in blood. He lifted it up sideways to inspect it, finding the sleeve of his right forearm saturated with a deep red, almost brown stain. The roar of the helicopters reached a peak, and was topped with the sound of high speed machine guns spraying metal into the orchard in front of fourth squad.

He could still hear the sound of his blood vessels in his ears over the roar of the helicopters and the gunfire. A distant, persistent ringing accented the sound as his vision dropped into a still, quiet blackness.

[Johng1953]

I'm loving this amazingly written story and hating every break!

[Oneillfranko]

Love it. So well written!

[subtoall]

Who says erotica can't be high quality literature?

[Crushing]

"Thanks for the ride!"

Jordan waved to the car as it drove off. Lacy, the girl whose encounter with chewed up gum had literally knocked her onto the floor, had noticed Jordan walking away from the church after their youth meeting ended. Her mother, a single mom who sang in the choir with Jordan, had finished with the women's group and, on noticing Jordan walking, offered to drive her home. Tired from a long day of school, vocal coaching, and a horrifically awkward sex talk with teenagers and a pearl clutching malcontent, Jordan was more than happy to accept a ride home. All she wanted to do now was relax…

She had told David she would be home between 8 and 8:30. The proffered ride had cut her commute down, so she was a little early arriving home.

She looked at her watch.

7:45.

Still a late dinner, but she was looking forward to eating, cleaning up, and falling asleep with her man. Maybe after a little fun…

Walking up the hall to the front door of their apartment, Jordan reached out for the doorknob with her left hand, rifling through her purse with her right for her keys. To her surprise, the door was unlocked.

She turned the knob and walked in.

David was seated on the couch facing the open laptop. His basketball shorts were pulled down over his knees. The unmistakable sounds of a woman moaning in pleasure emanated from the speakers.

She froze in the door as David furiously tried to salvage the scene. Tucking his penis back into his pants, he quickly slammed the laptop shut. The moaning continued to rise from the laptop speakers for a few seconds.

Then, silence.

David's face turned deep red, and he clenched his lips together as he stood and pulled his shorts up to his waist.

Jordan stood in the doorway, clearly in shock. Gathering herself, she stepped into the apartment and shut the door behind her.

David stood up to meet her. His face a deep firetruck red, a small tent of fabric awkwardly dented one side of his shorts, betraying a persistent erection.

Jordan also turned a deep shade of red. She dropped her school bag in front of the door, stepped over it, and walked briskly by her husband, turned down the hall, and disappeared into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

A few seconds passed, and she heard David's tentative knock on the door.

"Jordan…honey, can we talk?"

She didn't answer. She crouched into a corner of the bedroom in the fetal position, covered her mouth with her hand and began sobbing silently.

"Jordan…baby, I'm sorry. I really am sorry.

Jordan's shoulders shook as she buried her face between her knees.

"Honey…I know…I screwed up. I just…I'm sorry. If you want to talk, I'm willing to talk about this."

"Just talk to me, honey…"

"Honey?"

"Jordan..?"

* * *

Vibrations. Full body vibrations.

It started with just an awareness of feeling. Then, the darkness faded into dim, blurred colors. Then some shapes began to emerge against the colors. Somebody, standing over…a person…in some kind of weird outfit…a tan jumpsuit…

The vibrations increased in intensity. They buzzed through Mark's whole body, causing a deep hum to saturate his skull.

It was the closest he could come to hearing. There was noise, and he was hearing something, but it wasn't anything he could pick out of the din. It was less like hearing, more like drowning in a waterfall of sound.

The shapes got clearer. A surgical mask. A flight helmet.

He shifted his eyes in the other direction. Another person, same jumpsuit, holding on to a metal bar above him.

The sounds got clearer. The unmistakable sound of helicopter rotors roaring over all.

The medic with the surgical mask saw his eyes open and leaned down to shout in Mark's ear.

"YOU'RE GONNA BE OKAY! LOST SOME BLOOD! GOING TO SURGERY, BUT WE STOPPED THE BLEEDING!"

The masked man leaned back up to standing position and gave a thumbs-up with inquisitive raised eyebrows.

Mark nodded weakly, then let his head drop.

It was cold here. Did anyone have a blanket? It was like…really cold here.

Mark mouthed the words "I'm cold." Nobody saw him.

He began to shiver. Trying to move his arms, he had hoped to mime the sign for "cold," by grasping his opposite arms and shaking slightly, but he found both arms bound to a gurney. He lifted his head up to see an IV line filled with blood draining into his left forearm. His right forearm was a mass of gauze, elbow to fingertips. He couldn't feel it.

He still had his undershirt on, but he didn't have his flak vest, his overshirt, gloves, none of that. He wondered where they'd gone. It would be a bitch to get new ones out here. Jesus. The paperwork. The explanations. The stern lectures on responsibility.

But he realized he couldn't really feel the absence of his protective gear either. He had trouble feeling anything. Just a general…tingling. More in his arms and legs. He had to lift his head up to see himself to notice that layers of clothes and protective gear, which he had carefully donned that morning before leaving for the patrol, were gone.

He couldn't feel much, really. Just cold.

Morphine? It was probably morphine. Felt..dull.

His body broke into another involuntary shiver. This one was noticed by the medic, who reached behind him and produced a small square of plastic with silver contents. A space blanket. He produced a knife, cut open the package, and spread the blanket over the patient.

Mark nodded gratefully, sleepily, to the medic as his head fell back against the gurney. The people faded into shapes, the shapes into colors, and the colors into blackness again.

* * *

"Jordan?"

dok dok dok

A few gentle taps on the bedroom door indicated that David's confidence was tentative, at best. He was as terrified to talk to his wife as she was to open the door.

Jordan had moved from fetal position in the corner to laying flat on the bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling. She couldn't get away from the image burned in her mind: her husband, seated and leaning back into the couch, eyes fixed on the open laptop screen, shorts around his knees, and the nub of his stiff penis pinched between his thumb and first two fingers.

"Jordan?"

dok dok dok

The quiet sobbing had run its course, and now Jordan found herself navigating the raw, hollow feeling of emotional aftermath when the high tide of outrage had subsided.

Jordan looked over at the nightstand clock.

8:45.

It had been an hour since she had caught David playing with himself in the living room. While looking at other girls on the internet.

She wasn't naive. She knew David touched himself sometimes. Men in their twenties? They couldn't help themselves.

Still.

She was naive enough to assume that it was her body, her looks and personality, her sensuality freely imparted to David multiple times every week, that was the only engine of her husband's arousal.

The very body, looks, personality and sensuality that she was looking forward to sharing with David tonight.

Jordan sighed, wiping her eyes. If things were otherwise, this exact moment could be the exact opposite it was now. She could have been snuggled right here, right now, in this very bed with the man she loved.

Instead, she was alone.

She could have given and received sweet, hungry kisses, and he could have felt up and down her body and held her close.

Instead, they were on opposite sides of a closed door, on his side an air of anxious uncertainty and shame, on her side, crying.

He likely would have kissed gently down the front of her torso, licking and teasing, until he pulled off her panties and employed his tongue in a lively dance with the electric button between her legs. A button he was more and more able to find lately.

He might even give her an orgasm. He had done it before…he was getting better at it. And best yet, he would wait until her body fully worked itself out–released the tension, the tightening and the crisis–and then he would climb up next to her again and kiss her deeply and hold her close again.

Then, in the haze of deeply felt love, she would have asked him to climb between her legs and take her. He would have trembled with excitement. As he always did. Fumbling about trying to line up his penis with her opening, he would gasp and she would sigh as he found his way inside. He would enjoy himself, and she would luxuriate in his pleasure before he trembled more deeply, this time in sexual exhaustion.

She would fall asleep warm, relaxed, happy, and in love.

These were the kinds of thoughts she had hoped inspired her husband's arousal. Not some balloon breasted bimbo from the internet.

The hollowed emotion began to fill again, this time with insecurity and indignation.

Am I not enough for him? Is my body not everything he needs?

No. I'm his woman. I'm the one that arouses him. No one else.

The thought of David staring gape jawed at the laptop screen while some double D cup Playboy model made virtual eyes at him turned her stomach.

She felt sick. And angry.

Stewing on these thoughts for a moment, she rode the wave of indignation.

She would never. No way would she cast eyes toward another man for arousal.

But that wave dried up quickly as she caught herself. The heat of indignation slowly subsided for a while before it, too, hollowed out and left her depressed.

Her thoughts turned inward.

Obviously there was some amount of hypocrisy in her evaluation here. Some moral impasse to be navigated.

An unpleasant, if necessary task.

Her memory drifted back to the first talk. The first talk where she had mentioned Mark to David. It was innocent enough. She didn't quite remember how the conversation went.

In fact, the whole process leading up to her first time with him was a little hazy. She had written letters dramatizing the exchanges for David's benefit, but she tended to embellish to cater to her husband's weird proclivities. The reality of the process was far different.

That first conversation, where she mentioned Mark to her husband, she didn't even know what she was feeling. Probably nothing. She was simply recounting an experience, telling David about her day. In retrospect, her talk about meeting with Lieutenant Rein (Lieutenant at the time) seemed routine, but she noticed that David's eyes were a bit wide as she told her story.

Looking back on it, her tone may have been…a little effusive. Unconsciously bubbly. Excited.

Nothing came of that talk, of course. But subsequent conversations seemed to map the same emotional territory: an excitement that was hard to suppress or to hide. Mentioning her interactions with Mark, although those interactions were purely collegial, just felt a little different. Her voice would lilt a pitch or two higher, laughing a little more easily as she remembered some joke they shared. David's reactions were consistent. His eyes would widen, then look down.

She caught on to that reaction after a while, realizing that she might be sending the wrong impression to David. She felt the need to assure her husband that there was no attraction between her and this man. Just class business turning into a passing friendship. Colleagues who shared nothing more than responsibility for a sneaky, if not particularly clever student-cadet.

She had, at one time (she couldn't remember when), hastened to make that clear to David. That she was not attracted to Mark, and that he had absolutely nothing to worry about.

This time David's reaction was memorable. She had said that, and his eyes had widened, then shifted down as before. But this time she had followed his falling eyes and reached for his hand to grasp, reassuring him that she would never have eyes for another man. As she grasped his hand, she felt his stiff penis just underneath, straining against the fly of his pants.

Shock didn't begin to describe that feeling, but, trying to stay in the moment, she suppressed it. She held focus on reassuring David. He had nodded gratefully and had stammered out his appreciation and love.

She had kissed him gently to return the love.

It wasn't until a few weeks later, when, out of the blue, he asked about Mark, that she saw his erection again. Unwilling to sweep the issue under the rug, she casually reported on her last few Platonic interactions with the Marine officer, then checked to see…yep.

There it was again, fighting not to be seen just on the left side of his zipper.

She confronted him about it. He parried the question, made excuses, tried to initiate an intimate touch. She hadn't let him. Finally, backed into a corner, David admitted that the thought–and the thought only–of her being both attractive and attracted to a handsome man was surprisingly arousing to him. His eyes had widened again, then fallen, and his hand descended to hide the excitement of his shame.

With data in full view, so to speak, Jordan had done what any self-respecting psychology professional does at that point. She looked into it. Starting with peer reviewed journals, then books by sex therapists and researchers, then a few narrative and advice blogs on the internet produced by self-proclaimed hot wives (an interesting moniker that suggested a high opinion of themselves, she had thought at the time) that engaged in a consensual infidelity kink described under various labels, the most prominent one being

Cuckolding.

As she came to understand the mechanics and rough psychological drive of the kink, Jordan studied David for signs. When she asked him about it, he admitted to the various proclivities that marked him as an aspiring cuckold. She had to take some time to adjust to this reality, not quite sure what it meant for their relationship.

For instance, all the while buried in research, Jordan found herself terrified and enraged in shifts–convinced that on some level, David wanted to sleep with other women. That the arousal he felt amounted to a smokescreen. A moral faux-projection, an act to convince her to be unfaithful so he could then pressure her for the same privilege to enjoy other women.

Furthermore, the more research she read, the more muddied the pragmatic morality of the issue seemed to become to her–many of the studies she read were peppered with all the hallmarks of weak, tendentious methodology: poor sampling, mixing quantifying and qualifying analytical criteria, an over-reliance on anecdotal data. And more.

Reading anecdotes, case studies, articles…she began to draw her own tentative yet professional conclusion: The whole practice seemed to be a kind of relationship death-drive, a desire to play hot-potato with a live grenade that threatened to blow up the relationship by ripping apart monogamous behavioral and ethical norms.

Thus, fully aware that such a live grenade was threatening her marriage, i.e. knowing that David had some strong attractions leaning into the fetish, she sat down and had a talk with him.

She explained that she didn't want him to feel ashamed or scared, that he could tell her anything, and that even though she would never, ever stray from her marriage vows, that they could do…other things. Things that could scratch his itch, without pulling the pin on the grenade, so to speak.

The first dirty talk scenarios soon followed. Just generic hypotheticals, improvised narratives about a chance meeting with a handsome movie star. Kissing her, or grabbing her tush.

David never failed to find quick arousal. His reactions were strongest when she held eye contact and pinched his penis while she narrated the scenarios.

Later, she found stronger reactions as the make-believe encounters moved away from movie stars and toward handsome but faceless strangers with random names. Sebastian. Troy. Jose. Mark.

The last one really was an accident.

Or at least she thinks it was.

Hard to know what subconscious factors were at work when that particular fantasy encounter found a name.

Oddly enough, that time, as she laid on her side, clad only in a bra and panties and facing her husband, she had only begun to pinch his penis, lightly stroking it. The fantasy itself was still in the opening paragraph, so to speak. Just recounting an experience while on vacation in Hawaii (she had never been), where she met a man named Mark working behind the counter at a surf shop.

The name had caused David's eyes to roll back, and soon she felt her fingers grow warm with a thick coating of semen.

Another curious piece of data.

This was easily the most she had ever seen. David was usually not a mess-maker when he finished–just a couple of drops. Easy to mop up. She remembered at the time being surprised, but also very aroused at his reaction.

Thus, "Mark" made his way into the fantasy rotation over the next month or so, and it was only a matter of time before "Mark" became Mark. A man Jordan actually knew, and a man who seemed to make her laugh or smile subconsciously–just a little easier than normal.

It was dangerous territory. But David, too shy to admit it, clearly craved it.

And Jordan was reveling in the newfound ability to drive her husband bonkers.

Each time he would leak into the pads of her thumb and fingers, she would giggle to herself, and deeply kiss his exhausted face. He seemed to be in heaven. She loved to carry him there.

The scenarios got more graphic, and inched closer to reality. Make believe narratives were replace with plausible hypotheticals:

"What do you think Mark would do if I just walked up to him and said I wanted to try him out in bed?"

"I wonder if Mark's penis is bigger than yours?"

"I wonder what Mark's penis tastes like?"

Each hypothetical sent David into paroxysm.

Each of David's paroxysms caused Jordan's heart to leap with satisfaction and arousal.

She felt good that she had found her husband's pleasure button. She also felt good that she was the center of his fantasy world (so much for that…).

But she also refused to admit that she, herself, liked the hypotheticals. That they weren't abstract exercises. That her hand would find its way between her legs on occasion when contemplating these same hypotheticals. And others.

And this led her to the admission she had danced around–the one she was avoiding at all costs in this little trip down memory lane. She admitted that there was a time…a time in between that first talk–where she agreed to pursue his fantasy as long as it stayed fantasy–and the second talk–where they gave each other trembling consent to take that last terrifying, taboo step through the door of David's real world cuckolding–a time when those hypotheticals…

Weren't actually hypothetical.

David didn't know, but…some of the things she wondered out loud about…some of the hypothetical fantasies, the what if's…

She already knew.

Jordan, rolling to her side, returned to the fetal position, the wave of silent sobs rising again.

High tide.

* * *

The surgery was far less dramatic than Mark had imagined. Fully conscious, he was carried by the medevac team into a surgical tent at the main provincial air base. There, he was met by a trauma team.

A nurse tried to get the story of his injury from him.

He couldn't remember much. He remembered seeing an insurgent firing toward his unit, and he fired back, but with his pistol for some reason. He remembered calling into company HQ, but on one of his squad leader's radios, he couldn't remember why.

It didn't seem right.

He also remembered Jared lying on the ground, motionless.

Fuck.

Mark immediately began panicking, asking where Jared was.

If he was on the same medevac chopper.

If he was alive or dead.

The nurse assured him they were apprised of Jared's injuries, that they were minor, that he had gotten knocked out but was otherwise fine. Just a little dazed.

Mark dropped his head back in relief, holding still in a foggy silence while the nurse unwrapped the gauze around his arm, and unpacked the gauze under his chin.

A middle aged man in uniform–a senior officer–approached the gurney and spoke directly to Mark.

"Good afternoon, Sergeant Rein. My name is Commander Hunter. I'm a surgeon. It looks like we're going to need to get some metal out of a couple places, but other than that, it just looks like stitches. We'll do X-rays later to make sure, but you are a very lucky man. Nothing vital got hit.

Mark, still cold, tired, and foggy, didn't have the wherewithal to respond. He felt a new needle pricking his right arm near the crook of his elbow, then on the other side of his forearm. Then he felt the nurse prompt him to open his mouth, where another needle was injected into his gum, behind his lower right molars. Within a few moments, the right side of his face was numb, as well as his arm.

A morbid fascination drove Mark to watch the surgeon as he used long, thin forceps to dig into the flesh of his forearm and extract several small, red metal shards. Each one was dropped into a metal cup with a pointed clink.

After the senior officer was satisfied with the extraction, he deftly stitched up the wound and applied fresh gauze, covering a significantly smaller area. He then moved up Mark's torso and began to examine his jawline.

Mark could feel the strange pressure one feels when one is numb as the forceps grasped onto more debris where his neck met his jaw. These small shards, too, were dropped into the tin, but made a slightly different sound: a drier, less metallic click as opposed to the metal-on-metal clink of the bullet fragments.

Weird.

The surgeon seemed to be taking more time on this part, and kept shining small lights around Mark's face. Eventually, he indicated to one of the attending nurses, who left the room and returned with another senior officer. He, too, shined lights on his face until they nodded solemnly to each other. The second officer left the room and the first began stitching up his face.

When he finished, Mark felt himself crashing again. The fear, or morbid curiosity, whatever it was, seemed to hold his attention enough to keep him awake during the surgery, but now he was slipping under the waves of morphine again. He felt the gurney begin to move as his vision faded into black.

When he woke up, his head was much clearer, and the first thing he noticed was stabbing pain in his forearm.

Fuck. It hurt.

A nurse working nearby waved someone over, and the surgeon walked over and smiled. "Well, Sergeant, good to see you're awake. How are you feeling?"

Mark groaned. "My arm hurts, and I have a taste of metal in my mouth."

The doctor nodded. "Well, both of those things will go away, that's the good news. We got all the bullet fragments out of your arm. I couldn't find any in your jaw, but I did find some very small bone shards. Looks like the bullet just took a tiny bit of bone but didn't leave any metal behind. We confirmed it with an X-ray after you fell back asleep."

"Bullet fragments?"

"You don't remember? You were shot, sergeant. Twice. Looks like they both hit your chest plate, one bounced into your arm, the other up past your shin. Thirty degrees difference in that bounce angle, you'd be a dead man."

"No shit?"

Doctor and nurse both laughed at his stoic incredulity. "Yeah, no shit, sergeant."

"Okay, cool. So when am I better?"

"Shouldn't be too long, actually. And you're fully ambulatory. You can walk out of here, hang out at the morale tents, wait for your flight to Germany, and they'll check my work at the hospital there. Then you're going home."

"What? Home? How long was I asleep?"

The doctor laughed again. "Not that long, but you were wounded. We can't return you to duty like this."

"My platoon…"

"Your unit has a plan to adapt, someone will take your place."

"No, you don't get it, doc. I can't." Mark's eyes began to widen with panic.

"It's okay, sergeant, you were wounded. No one will blame you or think less of you. You're a hero."

Mark began to shake his head in protest, then stopped as a stabbing pain in his jaw shot through him like lightning.

The surgeon grimaced. "Take it easy with that. I'll be sure to inform your command that you expressed a desire to return to the front. That will look really good on your fitness reports. This won't hurt your career, I promise."

"Fuck the fitness reports reports, man…I mean, I'm sorry…uh…fuck the fitness reports, sir…"

The surgeon smirked in admiration. "I admire your dedication, Sergeant Rein. I really do. But your family will really want to see you after what happened. You're going home, and I'm afraid that's final. Those are my orders."

Mark stared straight ahead, furious, but unable to talk or fight his way out.

The surgeon waited for a moment, then tried to soften the blow. "If you'd like, I can bring you a phone, you can call your family."

"I don't have a family," Mark answered gruffly.

"No family at all?"

"No, my mom died, I don't have any siblings. I don't got nobody."

"Do you have a friend at home you'd like to call? Maybe a girlfriend or something?"

Mark briefly thought about calling Molly, then rejected the idea. This "deployment girlfriend" thing…it wasn't real. It was just a game. No way she could take it that seriously. Certainly not seriously enough to deal with a situation like this. Now that he was really injured, he couldn't put that on her. What could she do? She'd just feel obligated to…but then how could she even…but then…

No, it was a terrible idea. He shook his head silently.

"Well, who's your next of kin? Who's listed as your emergency contact, life insurance beneficiary?"

Mark started as the realization hit him.

"Sergeant? Who do you have listed as your next of kin? I'm sure the Red Cross has already informed them…"

"Megan. Megan Rodriguez-Poisson."

"Who is she to you?"

"My…my best fr…my fourth squad leader's wife."

"Okay, would you like to call her?"

He shook his head.

"Are you sure?"

He wasn't sure if it was the morphine, the pain, the frustration, the powerlessness he felt in the situation, or more likely some combination of all of those things, but Mark surprised himself by snorting impotently. Tears began to run down his cheeks.

He closed his eyes to signify the end of the conversation. The surgeon nodded silently, motioned to the nurse, and they and left him alone.

* * *

"Hello?"

"Hi dad, it's me."

"Hey Jojo! I wasn't expecting to hear from you tonight! To what do I owe the honor?"

"Oh…" Jordan trailed off momentarily. "No reason really. Just checking in. How's mom? How's everybody?"

"Mom's fine, everyone's fine. You want to talk to her?"

"No…" Jordan stopped herself, realizing she had answered too quickly. "I mean, not right now, I actually want to run something by you, if you have a minute."

"Okay…I'm listening. Shoot."

Jordan instantly recognized her father's pastoral voice. The voice he pulled out of the tool box when someone was distraught, confused, or even combative. The voice he used for her during her childhood "wrap ups," on occasions where she would get in trouble (which were rare), where after her punishment they would talk about what she did. They always ended with her being assured that Jesus and everyone still loved her, that it's okay to make mistakes as long as you say your sorry and try to make it better.

In short, it was the tone of voice that clearly knew something was wrong. Despite her attempt to present a casual tone, he had clearly picked up on it.

She should have known.

Jordan took a deep breath. "I had something happen tonight, and I'm a little disturbed, I wanted to know what you thought."

"Okay." He started to sound nervous. "What happened?"

"Well, last Sunday I was approached by a woman in our church. Mrs. Deleuze. Ugh. She's in charge of the girls' youth group. She said she wanted some help with the Bible study this week."

"What ages?"

"Teenagers, I think they're all between like…twelve and sixteen."

"Okay. What did she ask you to do?"

"She asked me to help with her Bible study on moral purity. She said she wanted my help because I'm studying developmental psych, and I said okay even though I'd never done anything like this before."

He laughed gently. "No one's ready for that kind of thing."

Jordan smiled to herself and continued. "So I get there tonight, and the lady in charge kept talking over me. She was super harsh, and it was obvious as soon as she started that she just wanted to scare the girls, and she wanted me to back her up. Just pure fear tactics."

The Reverend Simms sighed. "Oh. Well, hellfire and brimstone is tried and true. People with weak imaginations love to use that stuff. It will probably never totally go away. Sadly. So what did you do?"

"I kind of tried to temper what she was saying for a minute, but she kept running over me when I would try and take the temperature down a notch. So finally I just kind of just…put my foot down and took over. She went and got one of the pastors, and it turned into a whole thing…"

"Oh wow…" he groaned. "I'm so sorry! What happened when the pastor came in?"

"She actually got the emeritus pastor, old, retired guy but he always comes and fills in sometimes. He was actually very nice and supportive, and said I was doing it right. The other lady got super mad and left."

He laughed again. "Well that's good, at least. I bet you'll get some dirty stares from her next Sunday. But you know, Jesus got dirty looks from…"

"Jesus got dirty looks from mean people all the time." Jordan finished her father's sentence, allowing another brief smile.

"It's a badge of honor, Jojo. Sounds like you did good. I'm proud of you."

Jordan's smile widened and she looked down bashfully, a warm feeling entering her heart. "Thanks dad."

"Seriously! Don't feel bad about that stuff! You do the right thing, and let the mean people do what they do, and give it time to let love win. Keep your head up."

"I know dad," Jordan answered, the nervousness creeping back into her voice. "But it wasn't just that."

"Okay…"

Jordan paused and took a breath. "So one of the things this other lady did was a kind of object lesson. She had a little plate with a bunch of gum on it, and there wasn't enough for everybody."

"Okay…"

"So when she runs out of gum to hand out, one of the girls says she didn't get a piece, and so the lady pulls a piece of gum out of her mouth and shoves it in the girl's face!"

"Ugh, gross!" The pastor began to laugh.

"Yeah, right?" Jordan's voice lifted into her father's laughter. "The girl was so freaked out she tipped over in her chair!"

He laughed harder. "Oh no! Was she okay?"

"She was fine, and then the lady was all like…wow, I'm such a good teacher…"

"What was the point of that? Chewed gum in the face? That doesn't make sense..?"

"Well, this is the thing that's bothering me." Jordan's tone returned to gravity, and her father sensed it. The laughter subsided and he waited, clearly listened intently.

"She said that a girl who has sex before she's married is just a chewed up piece of gum that nobody wants."

"Oh." He sounded disheartened.

"Yeah. That's when I kind of took over."

"Yeah, that was the time to do it, Jojo," He said, reassuring her. "That's a really hurtful analogy."

"Have you ever heard of that before? I know I haven't."

"No, sweetie, but you were raised in my church. You know we don't do stuff like that. But…yes, I've heard of teaching and preaching tactics that are kind of like that."

"Well, I wasn't sure what to do with it. I basically told the girls that girls aren't gum, and that Jesus loves them no matter what."

"That's perfect, honey. That's what they should walk away with. Good job."

"But Dad…the analogy is sticking in my mind. I can't seem to shake it off. And if I can't stop thinking about it, I'm worried the girls might really start believing that they're…you know…chewed up pieces of gum. Or at least that they will be."

Jordan heard her father breathe in deeply, then sigh. "Okay, well, time to go to work on it then, right? We've done this so many times. When you find a metaphor in the Bible or a sermon, what are you supposed to do?"

"Test it."

"Exactly. So, what are the strengths of the analogy? What works about it?"

"Well, umm, it's…I don't know, potent? It's simple but it punches hard. Like you feel it in your gut."

"OK, good start. What is the feeling? What do you feel in your gut?"

"I feel like…I don't know. I feel like I might be gross. Or, used up. Or if I do certain things, then I'll just…I don't know, I'll just be chewed up? And nobody will want me?"

"Okay, so it works rhetorically. It seems like it's supposed to. But dig in a little more. What's the difference between gum before and after it's chewed?"

Jordan thought for a moment. "I guess everything? Shape, feel, texture, taste. Everything changes."

"Can it go back to how it was?"

"No, it loses its flavor and you have to throw it away."

"So when a young woman isn't a virgin anymore, is there the same before and after effect? What do you think?"

"I don't know. I think there's a real psychological and developmental difference between a young woman before and after she becomes sexually active."

"Is she totally different? Does everything change? Like before and after chewing gum?"

"No. I don't think so."

"Looks like it doesn't quite work then."

"I get that, Dad. But I don't think it has to actually be true. It just has to feel that way. I think women can feel like they're chewed up and spit out after...you know, certain relationships, some situations involving sex."

"I think you're onto something here, honey. Chase that idea. You said, 'some' situations. So in some situations they don't feel like that?"

"Yeah, I think it's case-by-case."

"Tell me more. What kinds of 'cases' make a woman feel like a chewed up piece of gum?"

Jordan paused to think. "Obviously cases of violence, abuse. Rape, incest, stuff like that. Situations where manipulation is involved, or where they're told lies to convince them into doing things. Toxic situations. Or wherever they feel used. Spoken for instead of spoken to, that sort of thing."

"That makes sense. Could I use the word 'objectified?' Would that cover the scenarios?"

"Maybe. I'd have to think about it."

"How about we put it this way, honey. Can a piece of gum choose to be chewed?"

Jordan's eyebrows lifted. "No."

The reverend waited a moment for his daughter to think. She was a marvelous thinker, and he could always tell when she was nearing a breakthrough. Then, he spoke again.

"So let's start over, Jojo. Does the chewed gum analogy work? Can we save it? Use it in a better way?"

"Yes." Jordan answered with more confidence this time. "Girls aren't gum, because gum can't make choices. But if a girl thinks of herself like an object, like gum, as if her body is something to be used by someone else rather than her own to choose what to do with, of course she'll feel like a chewed up piece of gum after she has sex. Maybe more, maybe all the time! How could she feel otherwise? She had no choice. She was either forced, manipulated, tricked, pressured, or lied to. If she has a choice, if she really wants what she really wants, and if there's no force, manipulation or bad faith in her partner, she won't feel like a chewed up piece of gum."

"There she is. You're off and running now, smartypants."

Jordan grinned, but her grin quickly faded. "I like the idea, Dad, but I also know it won't cut it all the way. Why should I try to convince a young woman to wait until she's married? If this holds, couldn't she just choose to start having sex when she wants to?"

"Well, yes and no, honey. I don't know how deep into the dogma you want to dive tonight, but there are real moral questions about sexual ethics at play. So much ink has been spilled over this…too much, I think. But it is a thorny issue."

"Okay, so what do you think? I know I grew up with a pretty heavy dose of purity culture, and I think it might have warped my thinking a little bit. I don't know."

Jordan could almost hear her father grimacing over the phone. "I hope that isn't the case, sweetie. Let me say this. I have always been fairly confident that I'm teaching the right thing, but I've always been less confident that I've been teaching the right thing in the right way. I didn't use fire and brimstone, but we did have an understanding that you should wait until you're married. Lucky for us, you never found a boy that could keep up with you in high school."

"I got bored pretty quick, I know. I never had a boy-crazy phase. But I did have feelings, dad, and I didn't really know what to do with them. And I'll be honest, it's still confusing. I don't think waiting necessarily helped that."

"Maybe not. But I don't think it really hurt you, either. We try to keep moral teaching simple and straightforward when we teach young people, a lot of them can't really handle a lot of nuance. You probably could have, in retrospect, but who knows? Maybe there's a better way to do it. I think if there is, Jojo, you'll find it. And then you can show me how to teach the next batch of randy teenagers."

Jordan laughed. "Maybe. I just…I don't know."

"Not yet, but you will. You can figure out anything, Jojo."

Jordan smiled warmly again. She recognized the feeling of talking to her dad settling into her voice. She felt safe.

"Dad, can you help me out with one more thing?"

"Sure, hon, I can try…"

"Well, just, as a pastor, I kind of want to know how you talk to a girl, or a woman who feels like a chewed up piece of gum. You know, after…"

"Yeah, after…" the reverend sighed, thinking for a moment. "It's tricky, and it depends on a lot. If they really got chewed up, if we're using that term…I mean if they're stuck in or just out of a terrible relationship and they feel used because they got used, the first thing I do is brainstorm with them how to get some distance from that situation. After that, we work on healing, on finding Jesus' love, and hopefully finding some self worth so she can find a better situation. One where she can get and give love instead of just being chewed on by some mean or selfish bastard. But it's a process, honey. And I will say this: it's way more about listening than talking."

"So what if…" Jordan paused briefly to compose herself, as the gut-check of her next hypothetical was not something she wanted her father to perceive. "So what if she wasn't really used, what if she just slipped up? What if it's a married woman in…like her forties or something…and she just…did something she regrets?"

A brief silence on the other end of the phone nearly suffocated Jordan emotionally.

Finally, the reverend's voice came back. His tone was even. Gentle.

"Well, if that were the case, I think I'd tell her that she needs to be honest with her partner, and then try to rebuild trust. I'd offer to help them negotiate that if they want, or refer them to a professional if they're open to that. But it's not something that can just fade into the past. Because it's likely that she hurt someone she loves. And that's the real problem. The act itself isn't the worst part. It's what the act does. The hurt. The betrayal. The love it threatens to demean, or even destroy."

Now it was the Reverend Simms' turn to suffocate on silence from the other end as he waited for his daughter to respond.

"I get that, Dad. I'm just…I worry about a woman just feeling like garbage forever because of something she did in the heat of a moment. I mean, this is the problem with purity culture…one slip up and you're garbage forever, you know? You're chewed up gum. You can never undo it."

"But you're not, remember? I don't know what the analogy is for "slip ups," or anything other situation. But remember, the analogy doesn't work, because girls aren't gum."

"But you can't undo it. You can't go back and un-choose something like that. There's no going back."

"No, I don't think it's like that, honey. I know that might be what it feels like, but people come back from things like this. And that's the message you need to push if you're approached with this kind of situation. If you hurt someone, and you truly didn't mean to, there's a way back from that. If you truly love someone, and they love you, and you work on it together, you can not only fix the hurt…you can actually come back stronger. Like building muscles–you break down some of the tissue, it comes back stronger. It's possible. I promise. I've seen it. Lots of times."

Jordan had muted her end of the call to hide the sound of her sniffling. Her father, picking up on the silence, continued.

"Love is the thing, honey. Not the individual things we do. Not the mistakes we make. Partners hurt each other all the time through carelessness, thoughtlessness, selfishness. Some hurts are little, some are big. Some of those can't be overcome, and most of those ones involve malice or contempt. And they usually happen again and again because one partner doesn't really love the other one. But think about it: if our hypothetical woman hurts her partner, and she and her partner really love each other, then over time, by sharing and growing in love, they'll find the act itself, and the hurt that comes with it, fading into the background. Love can replace it. Never underestimate love. And if love is there, if love is growing all the time, if you feel love, and you give it and you get it back, if it's always there with you…then you're doing it right. All the other stuff is just silly little details. Focus on love. The rest…who cares? It will work itself out."

Jordan had composed herself during her father's monologue. Thankfully, she noted to herself, you can always count on a preacher to preach. She wiped her eyes and her nose and unmuted the phone.

"That makes sense, dad. I appreciate it. Sorry about the third degree, I just…it was a weird night. And I'm guessing the way things went tonight, they might ask me to take a more active role in the girls' group. It's just a little intimidating, and I want to be ready."

"You're ready, honey. You're more than ready. You're a Simms. You're almost a Dr. Simms! The first ever! Mom and I are so proud of you, we could just pop and leak everywhere."

Jordan laughed in spite of herself. "Thanks, dad. I appreciate it, I really do. Can I call you if I get blindsided with impossible questions again?"

"Anytime, sweetie. But I don't have all the answers. You're the genius in the family."

"I'm not a genius, Dad. But thanks anyway."

"Love you, Jojo. Hugs from mom."

"Love you too Dad. Bye…"

* * *.

After a full day in the surgical tent, Commander Hunter and his surgical team checked Mark's wounds just after lunch. They noted the progress in healing, changed the wound dressing, and released him.

He couldn't go far, of course. But Kandahar AirField was significantly larger than the small patrol base he was used to. And they had a surprising variety of amenities. A large chow hall that served hot food, a large shower complex, even a couple little stores and a restaurant.

Must be nice, Mark thought to himself. This is the good life. This was the provincial command.

But, on the other hand, there were definitely general staff–bigwig officers here. Probably best to avoid them.

He was incredibly hungry. They only ate MREs when they were out at the patrol base. Occasionally they would send out some morale food–a crate of gatorade bottles to pass around, or a box of Clif Bars. But he hadn't eaten a hot meal in almost two months now.

But it wasn't time yet. It was only early afternoon. The chow hall wouldn't open for dinner until 1700 hours. He didn't have his laptop, or his music player. He didn't have other clothes to change into. All of that was still back at the patrol base, along with his rifle. They had even taken his pistol, which he still had in his hand. Last he remembered.

He asked a passing marine where the morale tent was, and received concise directions back. The marine stared uncomfortably at Mark's arm and face, both bandaged and with his arm in a sling.

A few minutes later, he found his way into the largest morale tent he had ever seen. It was almost the size of an entire house, with flat screen TVs surrounding one room, with different sports channels on display. A whole room full of computers, and another one with a long row of paperback books on a handful of shelves. Being the middle of the day, almost no one was in there, just a local civilian standing by to check people in. Mark signed his name in and walked toward the computer room.

He hesitated, unsure if he wanted to look at his email account. With Megan having been his emergency contact, and with Megan certainly being informed of his falling out with Jared, it seemed almost inevitable that drama would be in his inbox. Drama that would be impossible to ignore.

He decided against it. Instead, he moved to the other wall, finding all of the phones available. He picked one booth and sat down, reaching for the notebook in his pocket. He had written Molly's number down there just in case, knowing that he couldn't carry his cell phone which stored the number. He was glad for that foresight.

He wasn't going to tell her about what happened. But it would be nice to talk to her. He found the number and dialed. His heart picked up slightly as he began to hear the ring tone.

One ring.

Two rings.

Three rings.

Four rings.

"Hey, it's Molly. I'm sorry I missed your call, please leave your information and I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Thank you!"

Mark's lips broke into a slight smile, causing the pain in his jaw to jab.

It felt good to hear her voice.

The tone buzzed, but he hesitated to leave a message.

He hung up, then sat still for a moment, staring at his hands. Then, looking around to make sure no one was in the room to see him, he picked up the phone again and dialed.

One ring.

Two rings.

Three rings.

Four rings.

"Hey, it's Molly. I'm sorry I missed your call, please leave your information and I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Thank you!"

He hung up again. Her voice had a lightness to it. You could almost hear the compassion in it, the desire to help. Mark smiled again, but this time more broadly. He felt the tension pull on his stitches, but he didn't care this time. Hearing Molly's voice was almost like…he didn't know. Maybe feeding his heart? He didn't know how to describe it. But it felt good.

He looked around the room again. Still empty. He checked his watch. 14:10. He could go find a paperback to read. He could go online and see if Molly wrote him an email. He could just ignore an email from Megan if it was there. That way he wouldn't have to deal with the drama.

Suddenly, a feeling of disgust rose in Mark's chest as he heard himself think. It wasn't like him to set problems aside and walk away. If the Jared and Megan situation needed to be dealt with, he'd deal with it. He would just apologize to Megan and hope she would get over it. Maybe put in a good word with Jared. Or if they told him to fuck off, then everyone would know where they stand. Resolution.

But then, she was probably super pissed that he made Jared get up on that wall. Even more pissed that he threw him off it and knocked him out. The people at the surgical tent assured him that he was okay. Later when Captain Wolfe called to check on him, he'd said the same thing, that they had the battalion physician check him out. Still though. It was a shitty thing he'd done to his former best friend.

Captain Wolfe also said that he was taking over responsibilities as platoon sergeant, Mark remembered.

Mark wasn't sure how to feel about that. On the one hand, he was totally confident in Jared's abilities. On the other hand, he felt like he had abandoned everyone. Including Jared. He remembered mumbling something to Captain Wolfe about having full confidence in…

Fuck it. He at least owed Megan an apology for the reckless moves. If she hated him, he'd understand. If she called him a selfish, neglectful, pompous asshole, he could agree and then they'd at least have an understanding. But he couldn't just leave it where it is. He owed her an apology. Jared too, when he saw him again.

He flipped the page in his notebook and found Megan's number, gripped the handset of the phone and lifted it to his ear, then dialed.

It rang once.

It rang twice.

The third ring was interrupted with an uncertain, "hello?"

"Uh, hi, Megan. It's…it's Mark."

"Oh my god, Mark…Mark, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Megan, I just wanted…"

"What's going on out there, Mark? These two guys in dress blues showed up, and I thought something happened to Jared, but then they said you were hurt. They said you got shot!"

"Yeah, it's…yeah, kinda. Listen, Megan, I just wanted to…"

"Jared said that you…"

"Sorry, Meg, I have to interrupt, I'm really sorry. I just…let me say what I have to say, okay? Then you can yell at me all you want, and I'll deserve it. Just let me get this out."

"Why would…ummm…okay…"

Mark took a deep breath. "I just wanted to say how sorry I am, that I screwed things up. I put him up on that wall, and then I pulled him down, I really thought he was hurt but thank god he's not. And then we had that fight a couple weeks ago, and I really lost his respect, and I feel like I betrayed your trust and let you down too. I'm really sorry, and I understand if you just want me to fuck off. There. That's what I have to say."

There was a pause.

"Mark?"

Mark grimaced into the phone and gripped the handset harder.

The squeezing caused the wound in his forearm to throb.

"Yeah, Megan?"

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Ummm…I was just saying I'm sorry."

"I heard that. And I heard about your little fight. Jared told me. He's not pissed, he's sad. I figured you guys would have moved on by now."

"Yeah, well, I kinda stepped over the line."

"Well step back over it then. Mark, are you serious right now? I swear to god, if I hadn't fucked both of you guys I'd swear you were literally, literally fourteen year old girls. Can you not talk to each other for five minutes, apologize and move on? Jesus Christ!"

Mark was stunned. "You're not mad at me?"

"Mad?" She gave a stunned, single breath laugh. "Mark. Listen to me carefully. You. Saved. Jared's. Life. You saved my husband's life, Mark! Why would I be mad at you? He said you pulled him out of a firefight. He said you physically carried him by yourself out of harm's way. He said you put your body between him and bullets. And he wasn't using his bullshitting voice. I believe him. Are you saying he's lying?"

"Well…" Mark blinked in surprise, "I don't…uh, think so. I mean, I guess technically I did all that…"

Megan sighed in exasperation. "Sweet, merciful Christ, Mark. I can't even…with you two. This is beyond ridiculous. Can we start this conversation over? Let's start over. Say Hello, Meg."

"Ummm…okay. Hello, Meg."

"Hell, Mark. How are your bullet wounds? Are you alive and recovering?"

"Um, they hurt a little but I'm okay. I'm kinda hungry."

"Okay, that's a start. Maybe get some food, Mark. Now it's my turn. Thank you for saving my husband's life, Mark."

"I mean, I kinda put him in…"

"No, Mark. Try that again. Okay? Here we go. Thank you for saving my husband's life."

"You're…welcome?"

The phone went silent for a minute before Mark could make out the sound of a tearful sniffle.

"It really wasn't a big deal, Meg. I'm totally fine. And I'm, um, coming home apparently."

The sniffling stopped. "You're coming home?"

"Yeah, I guess they're flying me to Germany, then back home. I told them I was good, but those were the orders."

"Ummm, okay. So Mark, listen to me." Megan's frustration was replaced by a new tone, one of genuine fear. "You have to talk to them. If you're really okay, you have to go back. Jared's struggling out there. I know they made him platoon sergeant when they flew you out, but he doesn't want it. He's trying, but he's really struggling. He made me promise not to tell anyone, but I'm worried. I really think he needs you. He already came too close to not coming home once."

Mark was dumbfounded. "I don't know what I can do, Meg, orders are orders. I can try to talk to the Captain, but I think this is over his head too."

The line went silent again. Mark heard another muffled sniffle.

"I'll try, Meg. I really will. I'm going to go…I'll try. I'll promise you that."

One more big sniffle and she cleared her throat to signal a return to her more natural sass. "That's all I'm asking. And if you two stop being pussies and actually make up again, that would be okay with me, too."

Another slight smile broke across Mark's face, bringing another jab of pain.

"Okay. I'll let you know if I come up with anything."

"Mark?"

"Yeah, Meg?"

"I mean it. I'm…I'm really glad you're okay. And thank you…"

* * *

David slept on the couch that night. A first in their relatively fresh marriage. And the couch, while comfortable enough to lounge and cuddle on, was not particularly nice to sleep on. Especially with no blankets. They were all in the bedroom, and Jordan wasn't opening the door.

David felt sick, tossing and turning on the narrow width of the couch.

He had screwed up royally. After returning from the bus yard, where his little crew was a full week ahead of schedule on summer maintenance, he was excited to show Jordan the first deposit in the company bank account. The first haul of subscription fees from their first little batch of clients was substantial–David had anticipated the number down to the penny well before that time, of course–but actually seeing a number like that hit a bank account…

Plus, a few invoices for larger repairs were paid. Altogether…

It was thrilling.

It was far too soon to count chickens, but there were way more eggs in the basket than he anticipated at this stage. He had hoped to have a couple small clients and maybe begin advertising on local websites, maybe get a phone app in development. He had worried in the beginning that there wouldn't be enough billable work to pay Hamad and the other two guys.

He definitely didn't anticipate that the school district gambit would work out.

Now, he was looking at the opposite problem. They were too busy. David, while still responsible for managing, selling, accounting, and recruiting, was donning the blue jumpsuit every day to help with lower level maintenance and small repairs, the other three were running around like chickens with their heads cut off. Three of the school buses, and one concrete truck, needed bigger repairs, things that took four, six, or even eight hours to complete. Their billable rate was significantly below other mechanic's shops, and customers didn't have to tow the vehicles anywhere–David's guys would come to them. The convenience and savings were obvious already. But keeping up with the demand was getting tricky.

Word was spreading. David didn't have time to do any more cold calls and walk-ins. Now potential customers–including the school district in the neighboring county–were calling him. He had appointments booked out for the next two weeks.

He had maxed out their part time and half-retired mechanics on the new work, and Hamad and the other two were mainly focused on the bus yard for the school district. Hamad had enticed three more full time salary mechanics from a local truck dealership to come on board, and they were due to start next Monday. Already, it looked like their time would be fully booked within a week of starting. David had plans to visit two nearby trade schools to pitch jobs to the trainees who were just finishing their certifications. If he could get five more full time certified mechanics to work under Hamad's master certification,, they could accept the contract for the neighboring school district.

It was all a blur. Running the numbers, he could have a thriving–no, a booming business in his first year. His forty percent share was already, at their current billings, bringing in multiples over his delivery job. Even after subtracting out salary for the new mechanics, the benefits package he was working on solidifying for the employees, investments in some new tools and their own tow truck…he was set to do much better than anticipated. At this rate, within two years the company could be worth over ten million dollars. And that was only if they kept work and growth at their current rate.

It wasn't a guarantee, of course. But so far, customers were happy. Shocked, even, at how efficient and low-stress his little company's services were. David was simply a pleasure to work with. Grizzled, salty company managers and stuffy public administrators alike were charmed by David's energetic courtesy, and comforted by his clear attention to detail and competence.

They were ahead of schedule. A full week ahead…David had thought proudly as he returned home that afternoon. He had the company bank account open on his phone, along with his master calendar showing his progress. He was in a mood to show off to the girl of his dreams. But when he walked through the door, Jordan wasn't there.

He had forgotten. She had church stuff that night. David was a little deflated, but understanding. He changed from his blue jumpsuit into basketball shorts and a T-shirt and heated up some leftovers. Browsing through a wide selection of sci-fi series on his laptop, he chose an episode of Farscape and set up the laptop next to him on the table. After eating, he opened his spreadsheets and went to work distributing pay to employees, then splitting up the profits that weren't earmarked for operating costs and depositing the allotted amounts into everyone's accounts.

Jordan usually spent the early evening on Wednesdays with David, eating dinner and relaxing before going to women's Bible study, but tonight she said she was meeting with the choir director. Apparently she was doing vocal lessons now, maybe singing solo parts in church. David didn't understand it, but he loved that it made her excited. After that, she was helping some woman talk to the girls group instead of doing the ladies' Bible study. Apparently, that made her less excited.

After depositing the money and double checking his schedule for tomorrow, David had leaned back in his chair and stretched out in satisfaction. He pulled up the bank account he shared with Jordan, pleased at the number that confirmed that things were going well. Then, closing the window and the laptop, he carried it to the lounge area and laid down on the couch.

With no more work to do, the emptiness of the apartment seemed…different. There was nothing to do, really. Just maybe watch another episode of Farscape and wait for Jordan to come home.

He looked at his watch. 7:00. She wouldn't be home for at least another hour. So he was stuck waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting for her to come home.

As if on cue, David's mind wandered aggressively to other recent memories–waiting for Jordan to come home.

Memories of the angst. Debilitating, crippling, delicious angst about what she was up to. Of the calm, confident glow about her when she walked through the door.

Memories of what she brought him when she returned.

David leaned forward and opened up the laptop, opening up an internet browser and a bookmarked linked in a hidden folder.

A strange bookmark to hide, one might think. Just the personnel page for a local Marine Corps unit.

Captain Mark Rein. Instructor, Platoon Leaders Course, OCS Quantico.

No picture, just the name. Just the name of the man Jordan was with while he waited.

David began to stiffen. Memories of waiting, of staring at blank walls, of trying to distract himself, and never succeeding.

He opened up a new window–in cognito, of course. He began searching for pictures of young women.

Young brunettes.

He typed it in the search bar.

The results were…okay.

He tried again. Young brunette–athletic–blue eyes.

Better. The search term for the eyes gave him some results where the woman looked directly at the camera. His heart quickened as his mind's eye flashed to another recent memory: the sight of Jordan's eyes locked on to his.

She as topless, her arms demurely crossed behind her as Captain Mark Rein cupped one breast and sucked the other.

And she looked at him. Looked right at him. No smile, no fear, and…if there was any regret or shame in the look, she hid it well.

But the look said something. It was hard to translate to words.

It didn't say, "I'm sorry," or "I'm leaving you," or "This is your fault."

No, it was something more basic. Something simple. Factual.

Something like…"David, this is happening."

David pulled down his shorts to his knees and pinched his penis as he continued to scroll. He continued to refine the search terms, stroking himself gently as he did.

Young brunette–athletic–blue eyes–topless.

Young brunette–athletic–blue eyes–nude.

Young brunette–athletic–blue eyes–nude–unshaven.

Jackpot. Scrolling through images, then videos, he found a collection of women who looked just a little bit like his dream girl. Some simply staring at the camera, others candid, others engaged with lovers. One particular video clip caught his eye.

"Young brunette hotwife with bull." David eagerly opened it.

She didn't look exactly like Jordan. A little more muscular, shorter hair. Bigger breasts. The eyes were a dead match, though. The woman was with a lover. The video began with her kissing a large, muscular black man in a suit for several minutes before he removed her clothing. Top first, then bra, then bottom, then panties.

She stood naked in front of the fully clothed man, hands casually fondling his crotch before descending to her knees and pulling a thick, rigid cock out of his pants. The shaking cameraman moved closer to see her open her mouth wide and stretch her lips around it.

David stroked faster as he watched the scene unfold. The woman had misty, distant eyes, but they would occasionally look toward the camera and hold. Each time she did, David felt a powerful orgasm rising until she looked away.

It was an exquisite video. He'd have to remember where he found it.

The woman, having fully aroused her partner, removed his clothes and took him by the hand to the bed. Laying on her back, she lifted and opened her legs and waited for him to enter her. When he did–a little at a time–the moans that came from her were deep and guttural. Much different from Jordan's voice. While that detail took him out of the moment briefly, he was sucked back in at the occasional looks she would flash toward the camera.

David couldn't help himself imagining his wife in a similar position while under her lover. Mark. He wondered what it would be like to watch them. Would she look at David the same way she did when Mark got her top off?

"David…" She would moan…

"David, this is happening…"

"David…"

"David!"

His reverie was ripped open as Jordan's real voice shocked him back into the real world. The smut film kept running, the moans of the woman continued to rise into the fabric of the shocked silence.

Jordan stood in the open doorway, a new look on her face. A clear contrast to the demure look of arousal she had shared with David while Mark was enjoying the feel–and taste–of her body.

No, this look was not arousing.

It was a totally different look.

One of pain.

One of betrayal.

* * *

"Hey man, slow down a little."

Mark looked up from the chow hall table to see a tall, wiry staff sergeant with a slight drawl standing across the long table, holding a tray of food and looking down at him.

The remark was sarcastic, but not misplaced. Mark sat by himself at the table, preoccupied. Alone other than the two trays of hot food, which included two hamburgers, a fried chicken sandwich, and a turkey cold cut, each garnished with french fries, potato chips, and tater tots. The spillover landed outside the perimeter of his plates, basically a hillbilly junkyard of muffins, cookies, and a half bowl of chocolate ice cream.

Mark squinted with one eye to gauge if the senior marine was serious. He was relieved when the staff sergeant broke into a wide grin.

"You're back from the front, aren't you. Got those bandages. Looks like you got a sling too. What happened?"

Mark took a moment to chew and swallow. "Firefight."

"Shit man, you okay?"

"Yep." Mark took another large bite of burger and shoveled three fries in behind it.

"How long you been out in the shit?"

"Couple months," Mark said, mouth still full.

"I'm Staff Sergeant Rickles. I'm pleased to meet you."

"Mock Ein," Mark said, trying to enunciate through the half-chewed food.

"Pleased to meet you, Mok." Rickles seemed to have an accent. Southern. Mark's curiosity was piqued.

"Wheyuu fom?" Mark snarfed out.

"Dallas," was the response.

"No sit…Epaso!" Mark pointed to himself with his fork.

"What?"

Mark chewed and swallowed. "I'm from El Paso."

"Allright, brother, another Texan! Always a pleasure." He started to extend his hand, then saw the sling and thought better of it.

"So," Mark said, preparing to jam the next mouthful in, "what do you do around here?"

"Air traffic control. I never leave the air base, it's basically a shift job. It can get crazy sometimes, but nothing like what you're doing."

Mark nodded, chewed, then swallowed again. He was actually making it through the ludicrous pile of food pretty efficiently. As it all disappeared into his mouth, the two men chatted about shared Texas experiences, similarities and differences between their home duty stations (Rickles was stationed at a base in Hawaii), and their different military jobs while Mark made up for two months of garbage food. To the staff sergeant's surprise, Mark actually found the senior staff sergeant's job to be quite interesting.

All but the ice cream cleared, Mark loosened his belt slightly and started in on it.

"So, are you on shift now?"

Rickles nodded. "Yeah, it's my lunch break."

"Motherfucker's got a lunch break," Mark chuckled to himself.

Rickles smiled in good humor. "Yeah, it's a pretty cushy job, most o' the time."

"So, I've never seen the inside of a control tower before. Would it be, like, a security violation if you just showed me around?"

Rickles hesitated. "Well, usually, yes. But it's a slow night, and seein' as you're injured from the front…I'll run it by my shift lead, he'll probably be okay with it. No promises, though. An' even if you do get in, it's boring as shit. Just a bunch o' spreadsheets, radar screens, and shit. Basically a big office with big windows."

"That's cool, man. I'm just bored, I got nothin' to do for two days. I really appreciate it." He scooped up the last of the ice cream from the bottom of the styrofoam cup as Rickles stood up with his tray to dump his trash and return to the tower. Mark cleared his trays (there were three total if you counted all the extras) and followed the staff sergeant out.

A short walk through the base, then a move to one side cordoned off by razor wire. Mark followed quietly as they approached the tower door. Rickles had Mark wait for a moment, then came back out and motioned him upstairs.

Rickles was right. It was basically like an office but with big windows all around. Mark met the shift lead, a salty looking gunnery sergeant, and nodded politely as they walked around.

"So the runways're numbered, and then there's the helicopter pads, one to eight, north to south over there. Basically we just gotta keep track of what's empty and what's not, who's takin' off when, and who's on their way home. That kinda stuff. It's simple, but there's a lot of it, so it c'n get messy fast in here sometimes."

"How do you keep track of who's leaving at what times?"

"Pretty simple, just a big shared spreadsheet. Corporal Leeds over here takes care o' that." Another young marine nodded in acknowledgment as he heard his name.

"That's really cool, staff sergeant. Mind if I just sit and watch for a minute?"

"Yeah, take a seat. I gotta get back to my station, just let me know when ye're leavin. I'll let ya out."

Mark took a seat next to the young Corporal Leeds, who was distracted by comparing his spreadsheet to a printed document on his desk. Mark watched his screen closely.

It seemed like the sheet was broken down by runway or helicopter pad, with departure and arrival times, as well as time marks for stops along the way. Below each entry was a manifest, what cargo, what people were on board, and where each flight was going.

Mark sat quietly as activity buzzed around him. After a while, Corporal Leeds stood up to use the restroom and left his station. Mark leaned over casually, scrolling through the flights for the evening. Finding a helicopter flight going to his battalion headquarters at 2300 that night, he noted a comparatively small manifest, only 5 marines and a small amount of gear. He quietly typed in his own information at the bottom of the entry, then returned the spreadsheet to the place where the young marine had left it.

Looking around to see if anyone had seen him touching the laptop, it seemed clear. He stood up to leave, stopping to pat his new acquaintance on the shoulder.

"Staff sergeant, it was nice to meet you. I really appreciate you showing me around, I was curious. But you were right, this is boring as shit."

Rickles grinned, then nodded as Mark turned to leave. He followed him through the razor wire, then waved one last time and shut the gate behind him.

Mark looked at his watch. 1800 hours. Got some time to kill.

Four hours later, Mark stood up from his chair, replaced the paperback book in the morale tent and walked toward the airfield's terminal. It was late. The walkway was pitch black, and Mark took the opportunity to pull the gauze off his jaw and remove his sling, rolling the fabric tightly and putting it in his pocket. Thankfully, nothing bled. Just stitches.

He then entered the terminal–a small plywood and concrete building with some folding chairs, a desk, and a TV–and checked in for the helicopter flight.

The marine in charge of checking him in looked suspicious, and asked him for his ID. When he produced it, she squinted at the card, then the screen, then the card again.

"How'd you get on this flight, sergeant?"

Mark looked confused. "I don't know. I was just told by my command to be here for the 2300 flight. I'm not late, am I?"

"No. No you're not. Looks like you got added from…the tower? Weird. Well, okay. The others always arrive in a group. As soon as the bird's on the pad, I'll call for you."

"Thank you."

Mark's hands were shaking as he watched the sports on the TV in the waiting area.

This may have been the stupidest thing he'd ever done. But he couldn't walk away now. His name was on that schedule and he was checked in.

"Sergeant Rein? Go ahead and suit up, the bird's on pad 6. Get comfortable, it leaves late sometimes, but you'll take off as soon as the group gets there."

Mark nodded to her like he knew what she was talking about, and walked out.

Pad 6 contained a VA-22 Osprey. With two large rotors that tilted to transform the helicopter into an airplane and back if needed. Cool to see, a little scary to fly on.

Mark walked up the ramp and into the aircraft, meeting two crewmen with noticeable shock on their faces.

"Who the fuck are you?" The nearest one asked.

"Sergeant Rein. I was told to be here for a 2300…"

"Bullshit you were. Sit down right there." He indicated toward a seat in the front corner of the helicopter. Mark nodded and complied.

"I am so, so, so fucked," he thought to himself.

The crewman leaned into a radio handset and seemed to be asking questions. Nodding silently for a while, he finally returned and addressed Mark.

"I don't know how the fuck you ended up on this manifest. Sit in that chair, don't move, and don't get in the way. The general will be here in a few minutes, and we'll leave then."

General?

Mark leaned forward to place his elbows on his thighs and to put his hands between his knees. Leaning forward as if in deep thought, he tried not to attract attention.

Within five minutes, a small entourage of older marines strode confidently onto the aircraft, completely engrossed in their own conversation. They never even looked in his direction. Mark recognized General Pack, the commanding general for all of Afghanistan. He looked quickly back down at his feet, trying to avoid notice as he saw the general and his entourage sit down and buckle in. The general gave the hand signal for departure, and the rotors roared to life. Thankfully, that same noisy-quiet sound profile characteristic of helicopters in flight seemed to dull the possibility for discovery, and the night flight went surprisingly quickly. As the flight neared its destination, Mark recognized the feeling of gradual descent.

Finally, the bird thunked down and the rotors of the helicopter backed off from their overwhelming roar. The entourage stood up and walked out the door. Mark waited for a few moments, then headed for the door himself.

Stepping outside, he found himself in a familiar space–the main operating base for his battalion.

He also found himself in the unfamiliar situation–having two armed marines pointing loaded weapons at him.

"Hands up, motherfucker. Right now. Where we can see them."

Fuck.

Mark sheepishly lifted his left hand, then his right, showing the sutures on his forearm in the spotlight now shining on him.

General Pack strode purposively toward him. He was several inches shorter than Mark, and had to look up into his face to glower.

"Since you just got a free ride on my bird, sergeant. I think it's time you tell me who the fuck you are…"

[subtoall]

Great chapter, just like all the preceding ones.

[Johng1953]

I'm loving this as a regular story and not just for the erotic elements.

[user322]

still excellent, we are impatiently waiting for the sequel!!

[nnjcpl2002]

Crusher, sounds as though you've had some combat experience.

[nnjcpl2002]

Of course in the Navy, we did refer to our Marines as the Jarheads! And we loved 'em just the same.

[Crushing]

Yeah, you got me, haha. I am an Afghan combat vet, some of these characters and situations are based on real people and events. Not all of them, but pretty much every character (certainly every major character) in this running serial is based on someone I know. Not sure if that makes it cooler for anyone, but you know...write what you know, right? Anyway, thanks for the feedback as always, everyone. Here's the next chapter.

[Crushing]

"Sir, the general has landed."

"Thank you. I'm on my way."

Lieutenant Colonel Grant Chen stood up from his makeshift desk tucked off in a corner from the open floor of his command and control center.

The facilities were less than ideal. Field conditions always required adaptation–in this case, the Battalion had occupied a bombed out former elementary school. Having made the necessary repairs to keep the weather out, the marines had fortified it with sandbags and repurposed classrooms as sleeping quarters, teachers' offices as storage rooms and repair work spaces. What had been the principal's office, adjacent to a large, open meeting space, was cleaned out and set aside for the battalion commander.

That battalion commander was a tall, beefy man in his mid forties. Standing 6 feet 3 inches and weighing 235 pounds, his physical presence only underscored the naturally intimidating bearing of his high rank. He was the embodiment of a vague but well grounded intuition–a single word out of the mouth of an infantry battalion commander could level a small city.

Best not to cross him.

Raised by immigrant parents–his father was Chinese, his mother Tongan–Chen was the first in his family to graduate from college. Recruited as an outside linebacker by the Naval Academy, he had significant athletic and academic success, but found the structured life of the academy surprisingly comfortable. Although he was approached by multiple pro scouts as he neared graduation, he opted instead for a military career where he developed the reputation of being a savvy, pragmatic field commander who rarely spoke more than a few words at a time.

Chen was halfway out the door to the helipad–what was a playground at the school was cleared for a landing zone–when his aide stopped him.

"Sir, there's an issue with the general's aircraft."

"What issue…" Chen replied, continuing to walk with his eyes forward.

"They said it was a security breach. They requested a security detail when we cleared them to land."

Chen said nothing, pushing the outer door open and continuing to walk toward the helipad. He could see the blades of the Osprey slowly spinning down, and, seeing it was safe to approach, waved his way past the gate guard.

After passing through the gate, he saw two armed guards with weapons drawn on a kneeling figure, and General Pack talking down to the man with a severe look on his face.

This was unexpected.

Chen approached the scene and stepped to the side of the guards to greet the general. "Good evening sir, what seems to be the issue here?"

General Pack's head jerked toward his subordinate. "Chen. Got a stowaway. Said he's one of yours. That true?"

Lieutenant Colonel Chen walked closer, and the kneeling marine looked up at him, hands laced behind his head.

Rein.

A small trickle of blood was running through stitches on the side of his jaw, and the hands laced behind his head showed the bandage on his arm.

Chen looked toward his superior and nodded.

General Pack looked down at Mark again, then back at Chen. "Well?" he asked pointedly. "What is he doing here?"

Chen looked at Mark, who returned his look with a stony face. He knew he was in trouble, but seemed to be characteristically defiant.

"Don't know, sir." Chen replied flatly. "I was unaware. He was recently wounded. Evacuated day before yesterday."

"No shit?" General Pack looked back down. "That explains the stitches then. Did he get his bell rung? Is his head fucked up or something?"

Lieutenant Colonel Chen shrugged. "Not to my knowledge, sir."

"Well then I ask again, Colonel…" General Pack said, squinting toward his subordinate. "What's he doing here?"

"Don't know, sir." Chen replied again, flatly. "Have you asked him?"

"Yes. But now that you're here, let's try that again." Pack looked back down at Mark. "Alright marine. Explain yourself. What in God's name did you think you were doing slipping your name on the manifest for my helicopter and coming back out here without authorization?"

Mark, his fingers still laced behind his head, still sheepishly on his knees, simply shrugged. "I don't know, sir…" he replied casually. "All my stuff's here."

A genuine laugh rippled through the guard detail and the General's entourage. Even Pack cracked a slight smile.

"No really, Sergeant. What the fuck are you doing back here?"

Mark shrugged again.

"Rein. Answer." Lieutenant Colonel Chen growled, clearly growing impatient.

Mark looked down sheepishly. "I just felt like I should be back. I ain't hurt that bad."

The guard detail shifted uncomfortably.

General Pack nodded slightly, a slight smile stretching his lips before he caught himself and returned his expression to a scowl.

"What's this marine's billet, Colonel?" he asked, looking over at Chen.

"Platoon sergeant, sir. Third platoon, Charlie Company."

"No shit?" Pack replied. "Are they in trouble out there? They gonna die without you, son?"

Mark shrugged awkwardly, his hands still behind his head. "I don't know, sir. Probably not. Just felt like a thing I needed to do."

The general grunted. "You could be halfway home by now. Spend some time with your family. Bet they're shitting their pants over you right now. You just got shot by the bad guys."

"I got no family, sir. I got nobody."

General Pack softened visibly. "Really, sergeant? Nobody?"

"Just my platoon, sir."

General Pack looked over at Chen. "Colonel, is this little hide and seek stunt a sign that your man is going apeshit on us?"

Chen raised an eyebrow, unsure of how to answer.

"Let me phrase it a different way…" Pack rephrased. "Is this behavior going to escalate, or can we trust him?"

Chen looked over at Mark. They locked eyes for a moment. Mark, not usually one to break a rock-like military bearing around superior officers, betrayed a barely perceptible plea to his superior.

"I trust him, sir," Chen said confidently.

General Pack gritted his teeth for a moment, then turned to walk away, leaving Mark behind.

"Detail, stand down. Colonel, return this marine to the front."

"Aye, sir."

The guards lowered their weapons and Mark got up from his knees as General Pack and his entourage started going through the gateway into the base.

"Thanks for the ride, sir…" Mark called out to the general.

"No problem, dumbass…" he returned cheerily over his shoulder.

* * *

David had left early to work.

Jordan had fallen asleep alone, crippled by the indecision that followed her early return from Bible study, her subsequent encounter with David in the doorway, and her later conversation with her father.

Her feelings were like a mixed cocktail still spinning in the blender. Indignation at David's weakness. Or revulsion at his disgusting display. Or horror at his betrayal. Which phrase she used to describe the act seemed to depend on the feeling she was having at the moment. And that feeling shifted rapidly as she grappled with her own admission of weakness, disgusting display, or betrayal. The difference between her and David's–whatever you want to call it–was that hers was brazen, rubbed in his face, went on for weeks, and resulted in injury and humiliation on his part. The difference between David's and her–whatever–was that she was unaware and unconsenting, walking in on a transgression that excluded her entirely from her husband's sexual preferences.

Both situations were terrible. It was a mess. She just couldn't deal with it then. She couldn't face him that night.

She had hoped that getting some sleep would clear her head. That she would wake up, meet David in the kitchen for breakfast, that they would apologize to each other and he would hold her again.

She badly wanted to be held. Even for one night, she missed being snuggled in bed as she fell asleep. It was her favorite part of married life.

David had offered to talk, of course, but she wasn't ready. Her emotional blender was still spinning, and if David were foolish enough to stick his hand in there too soon…well…

Anyway, he slept on the couch. And he was gone when she woke up. Early to work.

She fixed herself some cereal, made some coffee, picked up the lunch bag off the table, and then took her insulated mug from the counter as she headed out the door to school.

Most of the students were gone by now, so the campus was likely to be deserted. The arduous task of grading final papers and exams now hung like a depressing fog over an otherwise beautiful day. The drudgery of grading would drag out the day for sure. It might even go on for a week, depending on how well she could focus. And given last night's events, a long day of focused productivity seemed unlikely.

Now, as she pushed the outer door of their apartment building open and turned to walk toward campus, all she could think of was how to tell David she had cheated on him.

A particular phrase seemed to intrude on her stream of consciousness, over and over again.

"I just…can't believe I'd do that," she thought to herself.

Jordan was struck with a sudden sense of deja vu.

That phrase.

She had said/thought/heard it before. It was inextricably tied to her own voice. It seemed to echo in her memory. Several times before, that phrase echoed in her memory, invoking different, but all recent experiences. Each memory contained the same phrase, but with different emotional valences.

Nodding amiably to passers by, she took a sip of coffee as she approached the crosswalk onto campus. She hit the crosswalk signal button, then stepped aside to wait before crossing.

Yes, she thought. Nearly identical words, only slight differences in verb tense and emotional valence. The signifiers of each word pointed in wildly different directions depending on the context of feeling and situation. What did it mean?

I can't believe I'd do that.

This version of the phrase, the one in the here and now…this particular "I can't believe I'd do that…"

A fixation on memory in the present tense. I, now, am remembering a "then" as if it were now, and judging myself in the present based on that memory in the past. That's what the phrase means. Here and now, I judge myself based on my past.

Jordan's analytical mind went to work on the syntax and the emotional color of her own inner monologue:

I (subject of sentence, self-referential indicating that identity..her own perception of herself as a moral being…is the core of the meaning of the utterance)

can't (simple present tense)

believe (simple present tense)

I would do (present tense referring to a past conditionally)

That. (object referent–the crux of the utterance)

"That."

Reference to a specific act with a strong emotional valence of disbelief and disgust.

Referentially tied to the "I" as the subject of the sentence, indicating that the disgust felt is because "I" have done something…disgust-ing.

Therefore, as a result of the object of the sentence, i.e. as a result of "that," the subject of the sentence, the "I" is disgusting.

Now, test the phrase. Rework it. Try present tense, reformat the utterance in a simplified emotional valence.

Because of, or as a result of that, I am disgusting.

I am disgusting. Me. Jordan.

I am disgusting.

Jordan's stomach turned as she took another sip of coffee, barely noticing the pedestrian walk signal changing. She crossed the street and walked under the arch of the campus entrance, still mulling over her own words.

So much for the here and now, the present utterance. But "that" referred to a thing in the past, naturally invoking a previous version of the phrase, nearly identical in form, but radically different in context, and therefore, meaning.

"I can't believe I would do that…"

The phrase echoed in her memory. When she said it back then, the emotional valence was a potent mixture of fear, apprehension, and excitement. Like sitting down and clicking the retaining bar into place right before a roller coaster starts moving.

The words were identical. The "I" still referring to herself, the "I" that, at that time, was presently unable to believe that "I," Jordan Stark-Simms would do…"that."

This time, however, "that" was not a vague reference to something disgusting in the past. The "that" of this memory was very much present at the time. Centered in this memory, as it was centered in her vision, was a clear physical object referent. Namely, in the middle of her outstretched fingers curled in a gentle grip, "that" was a large, erect penis.

"That," was in fact, the first penis she had seen in real life other than her husband's, and which she now felt growing hard while the skin stayed pleasantly warm and soft to the touch of her hand.

But no, she thought. A correction of term referent is needed at this point. In this instance, the "that," referred not to the penis itself, but to the act of her gripping the penis. Her hand gripping a new cock, one that strongly contrasted that of her husband in various dimensions of size and presentation.

It is an important distinction, Jordan noted to herself, since Mark's cock was not the "that" that later caused her moral revulsion. It was, rather, her interaction with the member, not the member itself.

"I can't believe I would do that…" she had mumbled to herself before answering Mark's invitation to inspect "that" more closely.

To smell it (surprisingly not unpleasant. He must have had good taste in body wash). To stroke it awkwardly at his encouragement, as tunnel vision thickened around her while gentle moans signaled his pleasure. To–much to her own shock–instinctively lean forward and lick the tip of it as a healthy gob of viscous fluid seeped out and threatened to dribble down the side.

Her first taste of semen.

Followed moments later by an eruption that frankly scared her.

Too accustomed to David's excited dribbles, Jordan–even in her tunnel-vision focus bordering on hypnosis–was jolted back into sanity as thick ropes erupted from Mark's large cock and cascaded down around her gripped hand.

Then followed the familiar utterance, yet again. A slight grammatical variation on the earlier utterance, now notably missing the conditional modifier, and simplifying both the statement and the emotional valence.

"I can't believe I did that."

Stunned disbelief, the effect of "snapping out" of "that", of soberly confronting a crossed moral threshold. Realizing that "I" had, in fact, done…"that."

"That," of course, had now changed form. "That" was now physically present as thick, viscous pools attached to streams running down her hand, wrist, and forearm. A liquid memento of what was, by any sober definition, a major transgression on her part.

Flummoxed, she apologized to Mark (who laughingly insisted that no such apology was necessary), then began searching his office for napkins or paper towels. Unable to find any, she had darted out into the dark, empty hallway of the ROTC offices and into the bathroom to wash up.

The harsh fluorescent lights burned her eyes as she opened the door to the empty bathroom and made her way to the sink, only to encounter her own look of shock and confusion in the mirror.

As she turned on the water, her eyes fixed on the residue of her sin: a thick, white liquid running down the back of her hand, the thickest pool nearly completely covering the abductor pollicis transversus, i.e. that delicate muscle group between her thumb and forefinger, the very part of her body that had snuggled the thick circumference of another man's cock for the first time.

Stunned, Jordan froze at the sight of the mirror.

With the water running, Jordan's conscious intention was to wash away the evidence, but was for some reason fixated on the pooled and streaming semen on her hand and forearm. She looked into the mirror again, into her own dilated eyes, and lifted her hand to her mouth, hastily licking up a thick gob off the back of her hand.

The taste wasn't pleasant. A thicker, more voluminous portion than the smaller drop she had playfully taken straight from the source earlier. It wasn't revolting, either. It was just…new.

But she was shocked to find her heart thumping powerfully in her chest.

She licked again, targeting another, thinner pool between the knuckles of her first and second fingers. Then, her hand now shaking with some unknown emotion, gave several quick licks to clean the few streams running down her forearm to her wrist.

The visible remains of her sin now gone, Jordan carefully and quietly washed her hands with soap, and dried them. She avoided her own eyes in the mirror as she scrubbed.

Then, again, the phrase.

I can't believe I would do that.

A return to present tense. The semen now gone, the "that" had again morphed into self-directed disgust as Jordan snapped out of the memory and turned down the walkway toward the campus building to her shared office space.

But her analysis was incomplete. One more instance of that phrase echoed in her mind. One she wanted to avoid…

Deep in the roleplay phase with her husband, well before the flurried encounter in the empty ROTC offices, but well after the faceless movie stars of her fictional liaisons had evolved into "Mark," and then finally becoming Mark without scare quotes, Jordan had been shocked as David, through hazy eyes caught up in the narration and the loving caress of her pinched fingers, expressed for the first time his earnest desire to be cuckolded.

Having previously–and clearly–established that any such indulgence in David's fantasy on her part would be strictly imagination based, she had burst into tears that her husband would think such a thing were possible.

If this was what he wanted, he married the wrong woman.

David's furious backpedaling sought to reassure Jordan that his desire was not literal, that he was merely trying to push gently on the edges of the fantasy, to bring the savor of reality into their roleplay. That he certainly never thought of her that way.

That he didn't believe she could ever do "that."

Some time later, after more crying, more reassurance, and more desperate cuddling, with the erotic fog of roleplay having long since dissipated, Jordan had locked eyes with her husband and made the deeply felt truth of her stance on the matter crystal clear:

"I just…I can't believe I would do that."

This utterance…the first of the three chronologically, bore the emotional valence of moral certainty. Of long held conviction flowing from a confident moral identity.

A firm stance that "I" cannot, would not, will not do "that" and still remain myself.

Jordan snapped out of the memory again, walking into the building and turning up the stairs toward her office. She sighed audibly. Her stomach turned again.

She found herself wishing that she could claim that it had been a long moral battle from that earlier moment of moral certainty to the uncanny moment in the mirror. That a long, drawn out process had been necessary to lead from the moral certainty of memory 3 to the giddy, sexually playful exuberance of memory 2. That the journey between the identical phrases with opposite meanings was long. Difficult. Studied.

But the truth was, Jordan admitted to herself with another sigh, less than a week had passed between the night when she castigated her husband for thinking she was "that kind of woman," and the night where she tentatively but willingly gripped Mark's cock for the first time.

Less than a week between never doing "that" and doing…exactly…"that."

She felt sick to her stomach as she walked through the door of the shared work space for psychology graduate students and made her way to her desk.

She blinked tears to herself as she sat down. If she were to focus on the task of understanding and correcting herself, she had to complete the analysis. Otherwise she would be distracted all day by the moral horror of her actions and what they meant.

"So, Mrs. Stark," she thought to herself, "time to wrap up your thoughts."

Tentative conclusion: Reordering the syntax of the same utterance in memory two–the excited one that led to the encounter in the mirror–one can remove the unnecessary conditional modifier from "I can't believe I would do this," since the deed was–regrettably–not hypothetical. If she hadn't so instinctively created emotional and moral distance between her identity and the cock she was gripping, she would have more accurately said, in the simple present:

I can't believe I'm doing this.

Present tense. One more breakdown of the phrase and meaning.

"I" (subject again, highlighting moral self-evaluation as the central function of the utterance)

Can't believe (simple present tense, indicating current, real world, very much not hypothetical action)

I'm doing (tying the moral act directly to the doer.) In this case, "I am doing" refers, Jordan, to your very own trembling, feminine fingers pumping up and down around Mark's stiff cock as you bite your lower lip sympathetically with the gentle, masculine moans resulting from "that."

Or more accurately:

This (relative pronoun, indicating moral and physical proximity rather than using the implied moral distance of "that").

"This." "I" did "this." An act that seemed strangely inevitable once started, as if it had its own built in momentum. An event that seemed to draw her along rather than wait for her to decide when to start. An event that culminated in the shocking force of a powerful ejaculation from a large, stiff cock–the combination of which awakened a new, latent layer of fascinated desire in Jordan's psyche.

One that she was not prepared to deal with at the time.

Or, for that matter, was she prepared to deal with it now.

So…she thought, sitting down at her desk…a pattern arises from these memories if analyzed chronologically. A familiar arc of feelings guides the same sentence said three times to three different emotional destinations in three different contexts.

I can't believe I would do/did that/this.

1) Moral horror arising from moral certainty. (fantasizing with David)
2) Sexual excitation strong enough to cause a near-delirium of tunnel vision (first sexual experience holding Mark's cock)
3) Moral revulsion as the transgression from the earlier moral certainty is contemplated. (Here, now, and present moral revulsion directed at myself, Jordan, the "I" of all the sentences. The one constant of all these phrases.)

She sighed, depressed, as she booted up her laptop. Watching the screen flicker on and the operating system load, she arrived at a preliminary conclusion:

Hypothesis: The moral and emotional arc that followed her evolution through step 1, 2, and 3 seemed like it could only mean one of two things in terms of her own moral identity.

The first possibility was that her identity as a moral, Christian woman, fiercely devoted to her husband and her faith is in fact her real identity, and the emotions that make up step 2 are a departure from her moral self. The result of some kind of temporary insanity, as she had contemplated earlier. The solution in this case is daunting but practical: to work on herself, discover the roots of that insanity, and remove the impulses to avoid any more reprehensible behaviors. Ideally, the outcome would reinforce her true identity as a moral, Christian woman fiercely devoted to her husband and faith.

The second possibility was that she didn't in fact know who she was. That her real moral identity was revealed in step 2, unleashed by the crossing of the moral threshold. That she was actually–deep down–a sexually craven woman unable to control herself despite her more sober desires to be, or at least her desire to appear to be, fiercely devoted to her husband and her faith. Therefore, steps 1 and 3 were an elaborate attempt on the part of her ego to mask her true identity…to convince herself that she was something–a good person and a faithful wife and Christian–which she simply was not. That she was a hypocrite of the highest order who was either doomed to go crazy with sinful desire, or that she was a harlot who would only find psychological equilibrium by freely indulging her most powerful sexual appetites, all the while living in exile from the faith that she loved.

And, in all likelihood, destroying her marriage to the man she loved.

Both options were deeply troubling. Her stomach turned again.

She thought briefly of what she stood to lose. Memories of her father preaching love and the brotherhood and sisterhood of humankind from the pulpit, swimming at the lake with her family, her wedding day with David, her voice lessons with Mrs.Dolly, coming home to the smell of David's cooking, snuggling during Star Trek…Who could leave all that behind?

Who would want to?

Following hot on the trail of that sobering question, an unwanted, intrusive image flashed in her memory. Again, the image of herself…Jordan…looking in the mirror as she transferred a healthy gob of semen from the back of her hand to her tongue.

Was that a sparkle in her eye?

Jordan shuddered.

Very troubling.

* * *

The armored convoy out to third platoon's patrol base wouldn't leave until the next day. Mark was ordered to report to the Battalion physician to get his wounds checked and redressed. But he had no sleeping bag, no extra clothes, and nothing to do. Wandering around the base for a time, Mark eventually found an empty cot with no bedding on one side of the bombed out school and stretched out to go to sleep.

He was just drifting off when he heard his name down the hall.

"Rein."

Mark's eyes jolted open and he shot to his feet.

"Evening sir."

It was rare for Mark to encounter another marine nearly eye to eye and pound for pound. Lieutenant Colonel Chen was almost Mark's size exactly, and had a similar, if older physique. So the physical similarity, coupled with the fact that Chen was Mark's commander's commander's commander, put Mark immediately on a back foot.

He stood stiff, waiting for his battalion commander to speak.

Chen stepped back and sat down on the old cot, patting the spot next to him.

"Sit down, Rein."

Mark sat warily, keeping his back straight to emphasize attention and respect.

The colonel locked eyes with Mark again.

"Well?"

Mark cleared his throat. "Well, um…thank you sir, for sticking up for me with the general. That could have been a career ender for me."

Chen nodded, saying nothing.

"And…I feel fine, it hurts a little when I chew and grip stuff too hard, but I'm at 98 percent. Maybe more."

Chen nodded again. Mark waited for him to speak. Nothing came.

"Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?"

Chen cleared his throat and nodded one more time.

"Rein, I'm glad you're okay. And I've got your back. Count on that. But I need you to get mine."

"Sir?"

"I actually do need you back at the head of third platoon. Wolfe needs you too. I've informed him you're back. He was glad to hear it."

Mark nodded respectfully. "I'll do my best sir."

The colonel continued. "The kinetics are getting hotter north and east of your position. Charlie company is doing well, but they're skittish after the ambush your patrol fell into the other day. Seems like the local Taliban are getting aggressive, planning some more ambitious stuff. Seeing you disappear on a medevac helicopter made your boys nervous. They'll be happy to have you back. Your job is to help them find their balls again."

It was the longest Mark had ever heard Chen speak at a time. He didn't know what to say.

"Understood, sir. I…I'll do my b…"

"Your boy Poisson…"

Mark raised his eyebrows, uncertain at what was coming next.

"Corporal Poisson. I've been watching him for a while. He's good stock, he's trying hard. But he's not cutting it."

"I'm sure he's just finding his sea legs, sir. I have total confidence…

"He's a number two man." Chen interrupted. "Do you understand what I mean?"

Mark shook his head slowly…"I'm not sure I do, sir…"

Chen sighed. "It's a hard thing to realize, especially when you're friends with one of them. Some guys are number-one guys. True leaders. Some born, others made. Lead from the front, inspire hope, loyalty, greatness. But some guys are followers, not a leading bone in their body. But some…some are just number two guys. They'll lead, but they can't be leaders. They'll accomplish everything you need them to do, but they can't be the guy. Their place is right next to the guy. That's where they belong. As long as they're in that place, they do great. Exceptional, even. But that's their place. That's your boy Poisson. He's got everything you've got. Grit. Fight. Brains. Dedication. But he's a number-two man."

"I think I understand, sir. But I think if you gave him a chance…"

"No, Rein, this isn't about who's gettin' promoted or who will have the most opportunities. There's loads of opportunity in the world, and in the marine corps, for number-two men. Tons of 'em. More opportunities than there are for number one guys, in fact. But they need to be in their place. Put 'em where they feel right, and then watch 'em work miracles. That's what we gotta do."

"I…I'll have to think about that, sir. I appreciate the advice."

"I'm not done, Rein. I know something went down between you two…the look on Poisson's face when he gave his first report after you got lifted out…He feels responsible, and you left it in a bad place. Whatever's going on there…fix it. That's an order."

"Aye sir. I will."

"Good. Convoy leaves at 0700 hours. Be on it."

"Aye sir."

The commander stood up and began to walk away. As he rounded the corner, Mark called out to him one more time.

"Sir…just…"

Chen looked back at him and stopped walking.

"How…with a number two man…"

"You get a good one, it's real simple. You just tell them exactly what you expect. Then you take off the leash and step back. They take care of the rest. They are great leaders, as long as they have someone above them taking the full heat of responsibility. Give him the reins, then tell him you're still in charge. He'll surprise you. Then you focus on actually leading. Use your eyes and ears twice as much as your mouth. Expectation trumps straight direction every time if the leader is trusted. You don't need to say shit. Let your number two do that. It'll work. Trust me."

Mark nodded briskly, beginning to understand. "Thank you sir. For everything."

He nodded one more time and disappeared around the corner.

0645.

The next morning's convoy was lined up at the base exit fifteen minutes before departure. Mark had triple checked he had formal permission to be on the convoy's manifest, then took his seat in the back of an armored vehicle, waiting for departure. The compartment was unfamiliar–Mark was used to riding in the front passenger's seat as vehicle or convoy leader. The back was dark and cramped. Especially for a man of his size.

The convoy all started their diesel engines together with a vaguely musical metallic grinding sound that reverberated stronger with each additional engine. Within minutes, they were through the security wiring and out among the Afghan people.

As windows to the outside not being available to look out of, Mark had to guess where they were located at any given moment based on the vehicle's turns. Now they were probably on the south side of the Market…now crossing the bridge…now climbing the hill…

Eventually the convoy arrived at his patrol base. Mark closed his eyes briefly as he felt the vehicle shift into park, and took a deep breath. When the "all clear to exit" call came back, he opened the back compartment door to step outside.

He was not anticipating the entire platoon–minus those on guard in the towers–bunched around the outside of the vehicle. When the light burst into the back compartment, he blinked painfully as the collective cheer of several dozen dusty marines greeted him. Stepping down onto the dusty ground, his arm back in the sling following the battalion doctor's orders, he smiled awkwardly as his marines slapped his back or fist-bumped his left hand.

Jared was the last to greet him, holding his rifle and pistol with its holster.

Both weapons, sling, and holster were Immaculately cleaned.

"Thanks, man. How you holding up? How's the head?"

"I'm good, sergeant. Glad to have you back, how are you holding up?"

"I'm good. Hey, you got a minute later to…"

Mark stopped himself as he realized the crowd of marines was silent again, listening. He looked around, unsure of what to do. Realizing Jared was also waiting silently, he shook his head briskly and snapped the pistol holster around his thigh with an audible click. Then, he slipped his rifle sling over his head and stood up to his full height, looking straight at Jared.

"Corporal Poisson. Report."

Jared briskly gave an account of the last few days, the fallout from the ambush, the state of food, ammunition, and guard shifts, and informed him of a video call with Captain Wolfe at 0930.

Mark listened intently, jaw tense but not clenched, and nodded when the report concluded. Then he turned to the platoon.

"Break's over, ladies. First and third squad, be ready to pump out on patrol in fifteen minutes. One-five minutes. Gear and water. Go."

The platoon scattered, and Mark began to make his way back toward his own quarters in the hut. He was going to take Jared aside, but he had scattered with them, ostensibly to check on his own fourth squad, who was on guard rotation.

Or possibly to avoid Mark.

He wasn't sure.

Mark took a deep breath and sighed as he pushed the door into the hut, then found his cot more or less the way he had left it.

Except…

There was a small box neatly placed next in the center of his cot.

Mark darted to the cot and fumbled to pick it up with his left hand, resting the weight on his right hand in the sling.

The address line read: To Sergeant Mark (Hulk) Rein.

From: Molly Cohen.

* * *

The department secretary had placed the exams for Professor Lukacz's Introductory History and Principles of Psychology lecture class, along with the papers for her other class, in separate manila envelopes in Jordan's correspondence box. She sighed as she lifted both envelopes out and walked back to her desk, opening the one with the exams first. She reached for a red pen in her bookbag and clicked it open before getting to work on the top test.

She was less than halfway through the first test when Patrick Lin, her graduate student colleague, walked in with his own set of manila folders. He, too, sighed as he sat down and opened the first envelope to remove a stack of paper. He looked down the row of desks to Jordan and sighed loudly.

Jordan smiled.

"How far in are you?" He asked.

"About halfway through the first one. I just got here," Jordan responded matter-of-factly.

"I'm so jealous you're farther along…" he groaned.

"Barely…" Jordan laughed back.

"Every little bit helps…" he insisted, smiling.

They worked in silence for a few minutes, only the sound of pen skritching standing out from the hum of fluorescent lights.

Patrick cleared his throat. "I have a student who spelled Freud F-R-O-O-D."

Jordan smirked. "Isn't that how they spell the cereal name? Freud Loops?"

Patrick snickered again. "Frood Loops. Test your oral fixation…"

Jordan laughed out loud.

The silence returned as they continued work. Then Jordan:

"This student said that Erikson's biographies were a Netflix series originally written for the History Channel."

Patrick snickered. Then returned:

"This student said Pavlov was the founder of Behaviorism, since he worked with dogs. I guess they think dog training and Behaviorism are the same thing?"

Jordan giggled.

"This student thinks penis envy is the same as erectile dysfunction."

"No! Really?"

"Yeah…" Jordan giggled. "Right here. Listen: 'question-How does the concept of penis envy fit into Freud's schema of gender and development? Answer-because if you can't get hard you feel like a woman and you get jealous.'"

Patrick laughed out loud.

Jordan joined him: "Think about it…A student…an adult…wrote that on a paper for me to read. I'm thinking of giving him half credit for style."

Patrick snorted. "Well, strictly speaking…a thing that doesn't exist…can't…you know…I mean, to not have a penis, and then live with the knowledge that the penis you don't have is also inadequate–that could mess you up. Let the neuroses roll, right?"

Jordan grinned. "I wouldn't expect a man to understand the concept of penis envy. That's only for us."

"Oh yeah?" Patrick grinned back. "Feeling a little incomplete, are ya?"

Jordan rolled her eyes, still smiling. "Oh, you have no idea. All girls–all women just wish they had penises. Pine for it, day after day. You just don't understand the pain we go through…"

"Maybe not," Patrick smiled as he returned to grading. "Although…"

Jordan looked back down at her work, still smiling. "Although, what?"

"I don't know. I've always wondered what it would be like to have two of them. So I think I do understand penis envy. At least a little."

Jordan's head dropped to her desk, giggling. "You did not just say that…"

Patrick grinned again. "You can't tell me in all your years of envying the penised folk, that you didn't once…just once…wonder what it would be like to have two penises. And not just one?"

Jordan's laughter tipped up in pitch and volume, until she threw her head and body back in her chair, holding her sides.

Patrick grinned, thrilled that his joke had landed so well.

When she finally stopped laughing, she sat up and wiped her eyes. "Oh my gosh, thank you. I needed that."

Patrick nodded proudly, turning back to his stack of papers. "Glad I could help."

* * *

The box itself was unremarkable. A standard military care package in a standard box provided by the US Postal Service. 8 ¼ x 11 ¼ x 6 inches. White cardboard with blue lettering. Identical in every way to every other care package handed off a truck to an eager servicemember.

But Mark's heart fluttered as he held it. It was the first package he had received while deployed.

Or ever.

The first of an anticipated zero. The feeling was, naturally, unexpected. It was similar to the feeling he had when he saw an email from Molly in his inbox…that fluttery feeling, that involuntary deep breath that felt like the first bite of a juicy steak…that feeling was back, but a little bit stronger as he held the physical box in his hands.

He was touching something she had touched. In a weird way, however distant, it seemed like she was there with him.

It was a welcome feeling. After the drama of the last few days, he found himself thinking often about being back in the beach tent with her. Feeling the warmth of her cheek on his chest. Hearing her giggle as she hastily took off her clothes for him. The deep feeling of contentment after releasing inside her–soaking in the afterglow as she clutched the back of his neck before he withdrew his cock from between her legs.

After the stress of the last few days…he craved it.

Mark pulled out his pocket knife and cut the box open.

The first thing he saw was a small bundle of socks.

He broke into a wide smile as he lifted to inspect them. Black, noticeably fluffy, and with little blue hearts on them.

Interesting.

They weren't regular military-issue socks, they were much softer, but still looked like they would fit and extend above his boot tops.

Mark eagerly unlaced his boots to try on the socks.

"Hmmm…" he heard himself cooing as he slid them on. They were comfortable. Good socks were as good as gold out in the badlands. The little blue hearts were…a little distracting. But also a little endearing. He dove back into the package, pulling out individual items and arranging them on his cot, all the while with a big smile on his face.

A handful of candy bars. Snickers, Three Musketeers, M&Ms.

Two boxes of Slim Jims.

A manila envelope containing a letter from Molly, and even a letter from Lucy, along with a crayon drawing of a dinosaur from Max. He set the letters aside and kept going.

A package of razors. A medium sized package of granola. And laying flat at the bottom–

A couple of pictures. One–a wallet sized picture of Molly. It looked like a graduation photo from nursing school–it was clearly a studio photo. She was wearing dark blue scrubs and had a stethoscope hanging around her neck. She was beaming at the camera, her red hair pulled back into a working ponytail.

Mark picked up the other picture. This was candid photo–and he was in it. It was a picture of him and Molly from the back. The two of them were walking on the beach toward the ocean in their swimsuits. Mark smiled again as he looked up and down the back of her mostly-exposed body, her copper hair swishing across her back and shoulder, the string of her bikini top tied together behind her neck and under her shoulder blades, the bottoms tightly hugging and partly revealing her soft, cute butt.

The photo showed the two of them looking toward each other, the profile of their faces clearly visible. Molly appeared to be laughing, an open mouth smile betraying her delight. There was a smile on his face, too. The fingers of her right hand were gently curled around the inside of his left elbow.

Good picture. Chris must have taken it.

At least he was good for something, Mark smirked to himself. He set the photos down next to the candy bars and looked over his haul of goodies.

He smiled again. He hadn't received a package before. Usually he was the charity case, the one that other guys would share their goodies with. Now he had a box of his own.

He couldn't stop smiling. The pressure pulled on his stitches.

Having cataloged all of the goodies in the care package, Mark opened the letters.

First, the carefully neat handwriting of Lucy.

Dear Mr. Rein.
I'm writing to you because my parents have informed me that you are in a war. I read some books about wars, and many of them have letters that girls write to boys in them, so I thought I would try to write a war letter.
My school started two weeks ago, and I like my teacher. My desk is on the right side of the class, and I have a new glasses prescription that helps me see the board better. I'm better at reading than Math, but my dad helps me with Math now. He's really smart at Math.
My little brother is in school too, but he can't sit still. He's new, and I told him I couldn't sit still when I was his age, either, but he says it's different because I'm a girl. I just think he's ridiculous.
My mom has been helping me with the book you told me about. I got Don Quixote from the library, but I had to check the spelling when I wrote that. So far I like it. It's funny, especially how the main character sees things that aren't there. I also like how he dedicates his adventures to the lady of his dreams, but he hasn't met her. So I like it so far, but it's really long.
Please be safe in the war and don't go too close to the bad guys. I hope we can do another vacation to the beach where you take us on boats and treasure hunting again. That was fun.

Kindest Salutations,
Lucy Cohen

The last "n" in the signature line terminated in a massive flourish with both overlapping and interlacing lines that extended to cover the remainder of the lined page.

Mark's grin pulled the stitches on his chin as he read Lucy's precocious prose. He couldn't believe she was actually tackling an 800 page novel. She would almost certainly grow up to be a genius.

Mark's heart quickened as he reached for the other letter. Once he got it open, he took a deep breath, then…

Dear Mark,
I feel weird handwriting a letter to you in addition to email, but Lucy insisted. She also insisted we use fancy paper, but I don't have any in the house. Add it to the shopping list, I guess. And Max wants you to know that is his best triceratops.
I hope I did the package right. I looked up advice on military care packages online, and they were helpful. I hope the pictures aren't too forward, but I realized you probably didn't have any. Lucky for us, Chris was doing his pervert thing and got some good shots of us together. Don't worry, none of them get racier than that, I checked his whole camera roll to make sure.
Things are still weird with me and Chris. I'm weighing my options, and I think he knows it. He's definitely trying hard. Harder than I've ever seen him try, but I think you scared him. But also think we flipped a different switch too, one with some very weird sexual tendencies. I don't know how I feel about all of that. And I don't know if you want to hear that, but you're kind of the only person I can talk to about it, so I hope it's okay. I'll leave out the details, though.
Overall, things are going okay here, probably better than where you are. Like I said, I've been doing some overtime, but Chris has a paying project now, so he's busy coding most days when the kids are at school. He's also been helping Lucy with her Math, which is a first. She's loving the attention. On top of that, I've been reading Don Quixote with her. She's determined to get through it. I have to admit, I'm laughing as I read through it. It's fun.
I'm not sure what else to say, other than that I'm thinking about you. I like it when I get an email from you, I get excited to open them. I even reread them sometimes when I don't hear from you. It feels good to hear your voice in my head.
I really enjoyed our time together, and I'd like to see you again when you get back. I'm not sure how to make that work, but I thought you should know that if you want to spend some time together after you come home, I'd like that too. Even if it is just to tie me up on a picnic table.

LoveBest,
Molly.

P.S. Please stay safe out there, Mark. I did an overtime shift in the ER last week, and it made me worried for you.

Mark looked again at the photos she sent, then reread the letter one more time. The palimpsest in the signature in particular–she had tried to write over the word "love" with the word "best." It didn't cover it entirely, though. He touched the letters "love/best" on the paper, wondering what she was thinking when she wrote over it. Was it an accident? Just the muscle memory of signing off a letter with the word "love?" Or was she afraid of saying something she didn't mean? Or maybe she was afraid of saying something she did mean?

He felt a cyclone of contradictory emotions. He and Molly–he didn't quite know what they had. They really didn't know each other that well, but the short time they had spent together was intense.

He hadn't felt this way about a woman before, but the obvious encumbrances of his deployment and her family…he wasn't sure where he stood. And not knowing where he stood, he wasn't sure how to get where he wanted. If he even knew what he wanted or where that was.

He looked at the photo again. Whatever he felt, it was strong. He missed her. He wished they were together, but he would never bring her here.

Maybe he could tell her that. Would that be going too far?

* * *

Patrick left after lunch. She enjoyed the banter with him, he was a nice guy. They had started the program together, and had some shared classes. But their separate research areas and mentoring professors meant that they didn't collaborate very often.

Just friendly colleagues. He always made her laugh though.

Unless plans had to change based on circumstance, they were both amping up for their final year before graduating as Ph.Ds. Both had had their dissertation prospecti approved, both had finished their coursework. Both were slated to begin teaching their own classes next year, and, fingers crossed, completing and finishing their dissertations at the same time. So while they didn't work together in the strictest sense, they shared experiences, and their path to the profession seemed to move parallel: same direction, same speed. Travel companions in early academia.

So it was always nice to chat. But Patrick usually left a little before noon, opting to have lunch with his girlfriend and then work from his home during the afternoon. Other grad students had come in, all of which were cordial with Jordan, but none particularly friendly. It was a work space, after all.

So, come noontime as Patrick was leaving, Jordan had stepped out onto the lawn in front of the building to eat the lunch David had packed. Yes, even though she made him sleep on the couch, David still packed a nice lunch for her, leaving it on the table so she saw it. Nutritious, tasty, and a nice note proclaiming his love.

He really was a great husband. His heart was so…uncomplicated. Attentive. Devoted. Sweet. Whatever he focused on got his absolute attention and utmost care. Jordan felt that way when he fixated on her…his love was total. Consuming. In a good way.

That's why it was so disorienting to imagine him masturbating while looking at other women on the internet. It seemed so at odds with the way he looked at her. Was she wrong about the totality of his devotion? Was he faking it, all the while lusting after every big-boobed girl with shiny hair that popped up in a google search?

Was she not enough? What did they have that she didn't? Why did she have to compete with them? How could she possibly compete with them?

She hated this feeling. Confused. Powerless. Insecure. She wanted to slap him, but she also wanted him to hug her tight and promise her it would never, ever, ever happen again.

She knew that their sexual politics had become…unconventional. Although it was not without his consent. Willing consent, in fact. She had done some sexual experimenting with his blessing. His encouragement, in fact. She had a nagging sense of the unfairness of it–that she had romped in the garden of earthly delights with another man, that she had openly lusted after him, and that David wasn't allowed to even look at other girls.

Maybe it was hypocritical. Definitely, it was unfair. Or at least…unequal. Briefly entertaining the possibility that she could grant David the same liberty he had granted her, Jordan's stomach turned with revulsion. The mere thought of David with another woman…

No.

Just no.

Her indignation rose, and she determined to put the thought from her mind. She picked up her phone and opened her email app.

Her inbox was predictably arrayed with junk mail, students begging for paper extensions well after the deadline, a couple bills, an ad for a new Netflix series.

One message jumped out. It was from Aisha, Hamad's wife. Jordan's brow furrowed as she opened it.

Dear Jordan

I write to say thanks! I am not believing this. Hamad said we got the first money from the new business and he showed me. I looked at the number and said is this for the month? And he said no this is for the week. He says that David got so many clients and they have more work than they can do, that they are trying to hire more mechanics. Hamad is talking to all his friends, and he says it's all because David runs the business so well!

I just thought to write because I am so happy! This is such a blessing for our family! Hamad said we could start to save for our own house if business stays busy like this!

I just wanted to thank you for David and your help. Me and Fatima are dancing! This is so exciting!

Love Aisha

Jordan felt her heart soften and her eyes begin to mist.

Apparently the business was going well. David had expressed cautious optimism, but she never knew what that meant.

He was probably excited to tell her about their first successful billing cycle when she came home. He probably had the bank app up on his phone, ready to show her the windfall. A conversation that was awkwardly preempted.

Darn it.

Jordan sighed and opened up her text messages and composed a new one:

J: Hey baby, I love you, but we need to talk about last night.

The message was barely marked as read before his response popped back.

D: I'm ready to talk. Whenever, wherever. I love you, Jo.

Jordan smiled tightly, considering her response.

J: Just be home for dinner, regular time. I love you too.

D: Okay. I'll be there.

J:

D:

* * *

The next day after Mark returned, having returned from afternoon patrol, Jared's squad was set to take on guard duties in just a couple of hours. He took off his helmet and shucked off his flak vest, setting them down next to his cot–set at one end of the long tent, closest to the door from 12 other cots occupied by his juniors.

He only had an hour or so to rest before having to supervise the 24 hour guard shift. He sat down on his sleeping bag and tipped over onto the makeshift pillow of rolled up clothes. As he did, he felt a plastic crinkling under his body. He sat up, fumbling under, then through his sleeping bag until he found an unopened bag of peanut M&M's.

He looked at the yellow bag in his hand, unsure of what to do with the obvious peace offering.

He didn't know how to feel, or what to do with this. While showing strong promise and definite skill and ability as a leader, Jared was often crippled by uncertainty. Uncertainty that took the form of insecurity–an emotional state that he fought ferociously to hide, often overcompensating with aggressive or hostile displays of overconfidence.

It usually worked. Nobody could hear the inside of his head, but it was full of recriminations and second guesses. Only Megan knew about his emotional tendencies…she was the only person he felt safe enough with to be honest. She knew when he was floundering in anxiety. She knew all of his tells. So when he told her that he was called up to be platoon sergeant, she was far more concerned than proud. She heard the angst in his voice. The crippling self-doubt that might lead him to implode, lose face, mess up his career…

Maybe get himself killed.

All of the catastrophizing thoughts that always accompanied an anxious stream of consciousness.

She had reassured him, told him she was proud of him, called him invulnerable, the ultimate warrior. She did all the things that usually help…but all of those things were usually accompanied by the offer of her body as a physical comfort. Megan's sexual appetite was an intense emotional validator for Jared. When he could tell she wanted him…he felt like Superman. When they would finish, he felt like he could take on the world.

But they couldn't have that now. He had received a promotion he didn't want, he didn't feel ready for. And he didn't have his woman to build him up every morning and talk him down every night.

Thank god Mark had basically hijacked a helicopter to come back 3 days after the ambush.

Thank god he could go back to being a squad leader where he felt more comfortable.

Thank god there had been no firefights. Jared had laid awake dreading the word "contact" coming over his radio. Or a bullet coming for one of them.

The plastic package crinkled between his fingers.

A clear peace offering.

Things had been less cold between him and Mark since he got back, but it was still awkward. He had disrespected Mark, then Mark had saved his life, and then he had failed at Mark's job.

It was a disaster.

Still, knowing that his body was destined to be full of bullets before Mark threw him like a rag doll off that half wall…

He didn't have a word for the feeling. Grateful. Embarrassed. A little in awe, and a little resentful. All of those things together.

He stood up and walked out of the tent toward the command hut. Knocking on the door, Lieutenant Macintosh opened the door in nothing but his shorts.

"Afternoon, sir. Is Sergeant Rein available?"

"Yep. He's in his bunk. Everything go okay this afternoon?"

"Yes sir, all good. I've got an after action report if you'd like…"

"Nah, give it to Rein. I'm busy." He walked back to his cot and flopped down. Jared followed him through the door. Mark was sitting up on his cot across from the Lieutenant. When he saw Jared, he folded up a piece of lined paper, tucking a photo in between the folds before sliding them both in his breast pocket and folding the pocket closed.

"Afternoon, Sergeant." He held up the package of candy. "This from you?"

Mark turned to sit sideways on his cot, setting his boots on the ground. He nodded uncomfortably. "Yep."

"Okay. You want to talk?"

Mark nodded, then looked over toward the platoon leader. "Sir, I need a moment with Corporal Poisson."

Macintosh grunted. "I'm platoon leader…anything that needs said, I should hear."

Mark flexed his jaw. "Sir, I think we might interrupt your enjoyment of The Sopranos over there. Maybe take your laptop out somewhere else where there's less noise?"

The lieutenant looked moodily over his laptop screen to see Mark's eyes filled with menace. He gave an exasperated sigh and relented. Mark and Jared watched awkwardly as he fumbled to put clothes on and stomp moodily out the door.

"That fuckin' guy…" Jared muttered as the door slammed behind the lieutenant.

"You have no idea…" Mark responded, patting the cot next to him.

Jared sat down.

"I got a taste while you were gone. Dude…what the fuck…"

Mark smiled. "Dude, you have no idea. He watches the weirdest pornos at like two in the morning. Full volume. Deranged shit. Like, barely legal girls with clowns. Actual, literal clowns. In makeup, red noses, everything. It's…baffling."

Jared snorted. "Are you serious? No shit? Oh my god, really…"

Mark nodded, brow furrowed with a half smile. I can't get to sleep, all I here is clown fucking and Macintosh jacking off…and then when I finally do get to sleep, my dreams are like…insurgents are around the corner, but when I come up on them they're being fucked by clowns…then my mom shows up and yells at me for failing Algebra…it's so weird. I'm having the weirdest time here, Frenchie. It's torture living in this place. Like…literal psychological torture."

Jared laughed out loud. Mark's reversion to his nickname had lifted much of the awkwardness between them. "Wait…do the clowns have like…makeup on their dicks too? Or just their faces?"

"I don't know, I haven't actually seen it…I can only hear it. It's just like girls moaning…'ooh Sprinkles, give me more of that clown dick…' and then like a bike horn sound. That's all I know."

Jared snorted again. "That's fuckin' wild, dude."

"Yeah…"

The humor had cut the tension, but it soon returned. Finally Jared spoke.

"Thanks for the candy, man. Was that in that box you got?"

"You saw that?"

"Yeah. Is Molly that girl you met on leave?"

"Yeah."

"Cool, man. That's…that's awesome. Good for you."

Mark cleared his throat. "Look Frenchie, I overreacted when you called me out. I shouldn't have done that."

Jared nodded. "Water under the bridge, man."

"No, it's not. Shit's weird now, and the ambush made it weirder. But I came back because…I don't know, I got nowhere else to go. I just don't want you to feel like I didn't trust you to take over. Because I do."

Jared nodded again, a lump rising in his throat. "Thanks man, I really appreciate that. But I'm glad you're back. Everyone is. And…I'm glad you…did what you did during the ambush. I was a dead man. I owe you."

"You don't owe me shit, Frenchie. I did it all on instinct. I'm sorry I rang your bell. I really didn't mean to. Your head okay?"

"Yeah…totally fine. My ears rang for a little while after they medevaced you in the helicopter, and I threw up like an hour later. Doc said I might have a mild concussion, but I was good to go by nighttime. I'm fine. So seriously, don't worry about it."

Mark nodded gravely. "How was being platoon sergeant? You were only on for a few days. You get a taste for it?"

Jared grimaced. "I'm just…glad you're back, man."

"You don't want the job?"

"Maybe someday. Not today."

Mark nodded and paused for a moment. "That's too bad, Jared."

"What?" Jared didn't understand.

"I need you to basically keep on. I'm taking over, but I need a number two. It's why I was micromanaging so bad earlier. I can't delegate. But I can't be everywhere. I need someone who I know can take over in a second to basically make sure everything's tight in every room I'm not in. You've proved yourself. So you're my number 2 now. Understand?"

Jared blinked in surprise. "No. Are you leaving again?"

"No. I'm still in charge. I'm staying right here. I'll deal with Macintosh's clown porn and the brass, and the day to day shit. I'm still running the platoon. But I need you to anticipate what I need when I can't get to it. In every room I'm not in, on every patrol I'm not on. Every guard shift I'm too busy to supervise…you are to make sure things run the way I want them to run. Don't wait for my orders. Do what I expect. If I'm not available, you're the guy everyone goes to now. Understand?"

Jared nodded. "I don't know if I'm ready."

"You're ready. You're ready because of two things: first, you're perfectly competent, and second, I'm here with you. Everything you do, you're doing under my supervision. I'm still responsible for everything. I'm still the guy. You're my extra eyes, ears, and hands. You don't need to prove yourself to your guys, to the other squad leaders, to Macintosh, to Wolfe, to Chen, or to God. Just me. You focus on me. I'll handle the rest."

Jared nodded, a sense of pride and purpose welling up in his chest.

"Good." Mark nodded back, standing up. "Now go get Arnie and the other squad leaders in here. I'm gonna make it official."

* * *

4:30. The alarm on Jordan's phone went off.

She sighed in faux relief as she clicked her red pen shut. She had finished the comparatively easy final exams, they were now tucked back into the manila envelope.

Now came the much more arduous task of grading the final papers. She had gotten through a few of them, but at least another day would have to be devoted to finishing them. Maybe more.

Jordan sighed as she tucked the papers into the other envelope and placed both envelopes and her laptop back in her book bag to leave. Glancing at Patrick's neatly kept desk, she smiled to herself remembering his Freud penis-envy joke and walked out of the office.

She was not looking forward to the talk. Dealing with David's porn-fueled romp was going to be awkward, and he knew she was hurting from it. But she couldn't be okay with it. She couldn't get there. As unfair as it might be, Jordan was ferociously indignant that David would be aroused by another woman. That was simply unacceptable to her.

But she also continued to grapple with the monster of hypocrisy. The fact that David was beyond permissive of her lust for Mark ought to soften things in a situation like this, but it just didn't. Her heart hurt and her stomach was filled with rocks when she saw his erection while looking at that screen.

She honestly didn't know how he experience the same horror and revulsion thinking about her and Mark.

Having read up on it, she understood the psychological phenomenon of compersion, of cuckoldry. She just couldn't wrap her head around it.

And before she saw what she saw last night, she could observe and even indulge David's behavior and fantasies without entering that same emotional space.

She just couldn't watch him have eyes for others. Now that she had seen him masturbating to other women, the revulsion for his fantasy grew strong and held deep. How could he do that? How could he like that? How could he enjoy her…doing what she did?

Jordan's mind snapped back to the intrusive memory of that morning. Standing in the bathroom, scooping semen off the back of her hand with her tongue.

She couldn't remember if she had looked in the mirror before she began cleaning her hand, or if she began cleaning her hand, and then caught sight of herself in the mirror.

The difference seemed important psychologically. On the one hand, if it was the latter scenario, where she caught sight of herself as she cleaned her hand, then she was simply responding to some primal curiosity, and then shocked herself by catching herself in a gross, humiliating act.

On the other hand, if she looked at herself and then began cleaning…she wasn't sure what that meant. Almost as if she wanted herself to see herself in a gross, humiliating act. If that were the case, then it was almost like there was another woman in her–one that genuinely wanted these gross things, and further, wanted her–the good Jordan, to watch her depravity.

She genuinely couldn't remember which one it was. She felt more certain this morning when processing the memory, but she was less sure now. She definitely remembered the complex emotions she felt as the salty, still-warm-but-cooling viscosity pooled in the hollow of her tongue. Curiosity, excitement, revulsion, even a little self-horror. The emotional flavor profile was complicated, but it also felt strangely deep.

Holding eye contact with herself in the mirror, she had watched her hand fall and her lips close, hiding the secret in her mouth before her tongue lifted, the tip touching the roof of her mouth, causing Mark's semen to flow back into her throat before her epiglottis flexed to cover her airway, inviting Mark's semen into her body for safekeeping. She remembered the shock at seeing the subtle contraction of her throat.

Swallowing.

She definitely remembered being shocked at the feeling that followed as her epiglottis extended to uncover her airway, as her tongue dropped down and her mouth opened to breathe again, Mark's thick semen safely on its way to her stomach.

It felt…

Natural.

Reaching the crosswalk at the edge of campus, Jordan shuddered. With the comfort of some physical and emotional distance, as well as time, she was extremely uncomfortable with that feeling.

One was not supposed to feel so right about something so wrong. It was simply unacceptable.

She also realized that the "two Jordan" theory she had been developing had some traction to it. The more she thought about the mirror episode, the more she realized that there were multiple voices in her, contradicting each other. That in some way, there were two Jordans in the room. Something the mirror had shown, but she had been unable to see until now. That the complexities of her emotions, the sense of both wrongness and rightness crashing over each other…there really was something to it.

It wasn't just a sexual self vs a regular self, though. There wasn't just sexual Jordan and non sexual Jordan. She was confident about that. She didn't feel that way every time she had sex. She didn't feel the deep chaotic swirl of conflicting emotions at all when she was having sex with David.

When she was with David, she simply felt happy, loved, accepted, excited. She felt warm, safe, loved. Even euphoric. A clean emotional palate. Purely nourishing emotional food.

No, her other self was…some other way. Maybe a subset of her sexual self that stood in opposition to her normal, more familiar self. Something that had made itself known that night. The night where Mark was promoted to Captain. That night where he and Jordan went for a coffee and pastry to celebrate. Where Jordan had intended to spin a sweet little fiction about a sexual liaison to feed to her husband in bed. Where she hadn't planned for or anticipated crossing any real moral boundaries whatsoever. Where they had stopped at Mark's office to pick up a uniform item he needed before dropping her off at home. Where they had shared a new kind of look in the dim light of his office. Where he had kissed, and she had kissed back.Where she had asked to see another man's penis for the first time. Where she had felt another man's penis for the first time. Where her trembling hand had brought pleasure to another man for the first time.

Where Dr. Jordan had met Mrs. Hyde in the mirror.

She couldn't tell David about this.

She couldn't.

[nnjcpl2002]

Great work, Crusher! It's a strong story, but it's even stronger because you are a talented writer. And you are treating seriously complicated subject matter. Thanks for your efforts.

[Johng1953]

I'm convinced you are a published author. Maybe not in this genre.
But if not, why not? You are certainly good enough. Maybe you'll tell us one day.
But whatever, thank you for this amazing story!

[Crushing]

Thanks for the encouragement, all. This installment is a two for one, I finished the first chapter last week and realized it was kind of a bummer as a standalone, so I waited until I finished the second. I'll upload them in two separate posts.

[Crushing]

A half eaten bowl of store brand macaroni and cheese sat cold on a sea of red shag carpet–a spoon still jutting out awkwardly to the side..

Next to the bowl was a pair of deeply worn pajama pants, with a once-colorful print of vibrant red, yellow, blue, and green dinosaurs, now faded with the knees worn down.

Above the pajama pants was a loose shirt, white, with a green Tyrannosaurus Rex prominently centered, with bits of fake cheese sauce daubed in messy little bits beneath the collar.

Occupying that combined hodgepodge of dinosaur pajamas was a little boy, age six, clutching a red stuffed Triceratops named Tony.

Directly in front of that little boy was a television, with a grainy thrift store VHS playing The Land Before Time for what was easily the hundredth time.

"David, scoot back from the screen, sweetie. You'll burn your eyes out."

The little boy wordlessly clutched his dinosaur and scooted back several feet until his back was to the edge of the couch.

The little boy's mother flipped silently through a magazine while the boy adjusted his glasses every few minutes, fixed on Little Foot and his friends searching for their new family in the Great Valley.

The glasses were a size too big. They kept sliding down.

He would grow into them eventually.

At some point in the evening the door opened and Dad came home.

"Hey, buddy? How's Tony? How's the dinosaurs?"

Ricky Stark, owner and operator of Ricky's Car Jam, a used car lot one town over, was accustomed to asking easy questions that he really didn't care to know the answers to.

David answered with a monotone grunt while his father flipped through the mail on the kitchen table.

"I think it's bedtime, pal. Turn off the TV."

"It's almost done."

Ricky gave an exasperated sigh. "You know this movie, buddy. You seen it before. Let it go. Take Tony and get up to bed, okay?"

Still looking down at the opened mail, he walked toward the television to turn it off, stepping right into the half eaten bowl of macaroni and cheese. The contents tipped up and spilled out, dropping greasy cheese product onto the red carpet and coating Ricky's shoe.

"Mother FUCKER!" Ricky roared as he kicked the bowl into the wall. The shattered fragments splintered outward, tinkling into the carpet fibers.

Bits of macaroni still clung to Ricky's shoelaces. He whirled around to face Mom. "Why is there fucking food on the carpet, bitch? Can't I come home to a clean house?"

David winced as Ricky stomped toward them. Mom stood up, defiant. "It's not like we can do family meals, Ricky…you're never home! Guess you had to work late again. Who was the "client" this time? Claire? Becky? That…whatever, that Chinese girl? Who were you fucking this time, Ricky?"

"Fuck you, bitch. You don't even know what I do for this family. Sit the fuck down."

"I'll sit when I feel like it!" She was shouting now.

"I said sit…down…" Ricky growled.

"Make me…" Mom growled back.

With the force of his whole body, Ricky shoved Mom into the couch. She sat still, glaring up at him.

"Yeah, that's right. Stay down." He began to walk away, then leaned against the wall to take off his soiled shoe.

He inspected the gunk on the leather and wedged in with the shoelaces. Then, whirling around, he threw the shoe full force at Mom.

"And clean this shit up!"

The heel hit Mom in the face with a noticeable thok, just under her left eye. She lifted her hands to cover her face, nursing what would soon be a bruise.

A small metallic tuuoog bounced off Ricky's cheekbone.

The spoon.

The one from the now shattered bowl of macaroni and cheese. The impact of the spoon caused Ricky's head to jerk back involuntarily.

It didn't hurt, just stunned him briefly. When he looked back down, he saw David, still clutching his triceratops in his left hand, standing with a set jaw and a closed right fist.

"DON'T THROW STUFF AT MOM!!!" he shouted, his young voice cracking from the enraged pitch of his voice.

Ricky bared his teeth and picked up the spoon, walking intensely toward his son. He smacked the back of the little boy's head full force, catching the arm of his glasses on the forward swing. They flew off, the plastic frame half folding and clicking awkwardly onto the carpet.

David dropped his toy and charged his father with the whole force of his body. Crashing against his knees, he stopped dead, and Ricky picked his whole body up by a fistful of his t-shirt and the waistband of his pajama bottoms, and threw him bodily onto the couch.

David flailed as he fell face forward onto the furniture, his mouth smacking directly into the hard arm of the couch.

There was screaming. And blood.

Mom jumped in between Ricky and David, stopping the onslaught to follow.

"See what you did, bitch?!?" Ricky shouted, pointing at the little boy weeping and bleeding from the mouth.

Mom didn't answer. Just stood there between her husband and her son with her eyes down.

Ricky backed off, chuffed, and turned to walk out of the living room.

Mom turned around to check on David.

"It's okay, baby…let me see. Oh, looks like it hurts, I'm sorry honey. Mommy's sorry."

There was a lot of blood. Most of it coming from a split upper lip, which was swelling rapidly. Mom ran to get ice from the fridge and put it in a sandwich bag, then grabbed a handful of paper towels. "It's okay, sweetie…just hold these to your lip, the blood will stop in a minute. Can you open your mouth for a second?"

David opened his mouth. No more blood, but his top front tooth was knocked loose. She reached in to wiggle it. David whimpered.

"Hold still, sweetie, I'm just gonna…" Mom pinched the hanging tooth between her finger and thumbnail and jerked gently. It popped out with a thuck, and she showed it to David. "See? It's okay…it's just a baby tooth, honey. It was on its way out anyway. See? The others will fall out, and they'll grow back. Everything's gonna be fine, okay?"

"Uh..huh…Okay…" David blubbered in agreement.

Mom wrapped the ice bag in a rag and pressed it against his upper lip, holding the paper towels in place against his lip and upper tooth cavity.

"Now honey…I have to tell you something very important. Can you listen very carefully?"

David nodded, wiping tears out of the corner of his eyes.

"We don't want to get Daddy in trouble, okay? You don't want to get Daddy in trouble, do you?"

David shook his head meekly. "Uh-uh…"

"Okay, sweetie, that's good. So when you go to school tomorrow and they see your lip, they'll ask you what happened. So when your teacher asks you tomorrow, just say you were playing dinosaurs, and you fell and hit your lip. Okay?"

"Okay…" he blubbered.

"Say it for me, okay? Just say it once just like I said it."

"I…I wuh…was playing dinosaurs, and I fuh-fuh-fell, and I hit my l-lip."

"Good. That's good, honey. Just like that. Now…here's Tony…Just hold that there nice and tight against your lip, and we can watch the rest of Littlefoot."

David took the stuffed toy and clutched it tightly to his chest with his free arm.

He sat down again, still clutching the dinosaur under one arm while holding the ice pack against his face with the other. As his whimpering died down, he found comfort watching Littlefoot and his friends trudge on through the grainy VHS resolution in search of the Great Valley, pursued all the way by the ever lurking, ever threatening Sharptooth.

* * *

"Nice socks, man."

Mark looked up to see Jared grinning at him. He had just pulled up the socks and was pulling his boot tops open to slide his feet in.

"Ha! Nice catch. You like them?" He broke into a wide smile as he lifted his feet up slightly to show them off. Black, noticeably fluffy, and with little blue hearts on them.

"Yeah, I do. Good shit. Adds a nice flair to your whole outfit. Just a little hint of the feminine. Just a touch, you know?"

"Fuck you…" Mark grinned, pulling his boots on and lacing them up.

"Just don't let gunny see 'em…" Jared warned. "He'll flip his shit for being out of uniform."

"Gunny ain't gonna see shit…" Mark muttered defiantly. "And I don't give a shit if he does. I like 'em. They're soft."

Jared grinned back. "Where'd you get them? That…uhhh, that Molly girl send you socks in that care package?"

"Yeah. She's a nurse. And believe me, nurses understand footwear man. They don't fuck around with that."

"That's awesome man. So you're keeping in touch with her. That's cool."

"Yeah, I'm gonna hit up the morale tent tonight after the patrol's over. Head over there with second squad, do some laundry, see if she sent an email. Maybe call her if I have time."

"No shit…look at you, man. Calling a girl back. Little Mark's growing up on us…"

"Fuck you, Frenchie…" Mark chuckled. What are you doing here anyway? I've got to get you and Arnie's shit together for the patrol, I'm already runnin' late…"

"That's why I'm here."

"What? Something wrong?"

"No, we're just ready to go. Waiting on you now."

Mark blinked up at Jared. "You serious?"

"Yeah, man. Both squads are assembled, gear checked, water, everything. I already went over the frag order with everyone. We're good to go. Just waitin' on you, boss man…"

"Really…" Mark said, surprised.

"Yeah man. You were serious about that number two man thing, right? Just doin' my job…"

Mark raised his eyebrows, impressed. He finished lacing his boots, then stood up and threw on his new flak vest (the last one had to be retired when they found the bullet holes in it), his helmet, his pistol, and rifle, then headed out the door. Jared was on his heels.

The two squads were neatly lined up, patiently waiting. Mark walked quickly up and down the line. Weapons and magazines were freshly cleaned. He tapped water bags as he went. Full. No hanging straps. All radios working.

Holy shit.

Mark looked back at Poisson, who stood waiting for his approval. They exchanged a quick nod and Mark turned back to the assembled patrol.

"Corporal Poisson, clear us with company. We're heading out."

"Aye sergeant…"

* * *

Underneath the interlocking mash of metal bars that made up the jungle gym–halfway between the slide and the monkey bars–six year old David Stark sat huddled and fortified, knees tucked up to his chin, arms wrapped around his knees. It was a tight space under there, difficult for bullies to access, as one would have to crawl to get there. Any prospective attacker would have to be on their hands and knees to throw punches or kicks or put their hands on him.

Advantage: Defense. A temporary tactical advantage.

It was recess time. Respite for some, liberation for others.

Brutality for David.

This time the little assholes made fun of his glasses–the ones with a fresh crack in them. Since they had fallen off last night, his mom didn't have time to get him some new ones, and with the crack in the lens, she couldn't repair these. Stealing them off his face, the bigger boys played keep-away until they got bored, then the biggest one simply threw them on the ground, leaving a big gash in the non-cracked lens. As he bent down to pick them up and put them back on, they attacked him again.

Weakness is instinctively spotted by predators. They generally hunt in small packs at that age. David had eventually escaped, with just some torn pride, and torn clothes.

Under the jungle gym, David winced as he heard the gravel shift near him.

Were they coming again?

Leering sideways, he saw the approaching figure: two pale knees attached to black saddle shoes. The knees bent down to reveal a sky blue dress. Presently, a pale face with light freckles and auburn hair braided in pigtails presented itself at David's level. He squinted in suspicion with his one free eye while she looked inquisitively at him.

"Can I come in?" she asked.

David said nothing, burying his face between his knees.

"Please?"

Not lifting his face, David's skinny shoulders popped up and down in a quick shrug.

The little girl crawled under the jungle gym and sat quietly next to David.

"I'm McKenzie. I like dinosaurs too. What's your name?"

David didn't move. He didn't respond.

"My favorite is the Brachiosaurus. It's fun to say Bra-a-a-akiosaurus. It sounds like I think they sound. Bra-a-a-ak!"

David remained locked in place for a moment, then a little voice rose up, muffled between his clenched knees:

"Brachiosaurus. They're herbivores. It means they only eat plants."

"That's gross," she replied. "Do you think they like candy?"

David's head popped up from between his skinny knees. "Duh…"

"Yeah, you're right. It's a stupid question. Everyone likes candy."

"No…" David insisted. "They didn't have candy back then. Just natural plants like leaves and stuff. They ate them off of tall trees. That's why their necks were so long."

"I guess you're right," McKenzie responded after some thought. "But I bet some of the leaves tasted like candy. They probably liked those leaves better than the other leaves."

David lacked the data to refute that, so he just dropped his head between his knees again.

After a moment, McKenzie held out her hand, and opened her palm up with an offering.

"I found this. Do you want it back?"

It was a small, stubby red cloth cylinder with a tuft of cotton fluff sticking out of the bottom. David lifted his head to see, then quickly dropped it again. McKenzie patiently held out her hand, waiting for David to respond. Gradually, his skinny knees parted, revealing the hidden stuffed Tony Triceratops, its front horn ripped from its nose.

David drew the toy out and sheepishly took the severed horn from her hand. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," she said, matter-of-factly.

"If you want, I can take it home and my mom can fix it. I'll bring it back tomorrow."

"No, it's okay. I'll fix it."

"Do you know how to sew?"

"No, I can't sew. I'll tape it."

"It won't look right."

"It's okay."

"Okay. But if you want, my mom's a good sewer."

They sat in silence for another moment.

"Did those boys hit your lip?" McKenzie asked?

David shrugged, then shook his head silently.

"So what happened?"

David shrugged again.

"OK. So what's your name?"

"David." He said, burying his face between his knees again.

"I'm pleased to meet you, David. I just moved here. My dad's a marine, so we move around a lot. What does your dad do?"

"What's a marine?"

"They're like GI Joes, but real life. They fight bad guys. But also, they smell kinda bad sometimes."

"Oh. My dad's a businessman. He smells like cologne."

"Okay."

The bell rang, summoning everyone back to class.

McKenzie crawled out from under the makeshift crawlspace and offered her hand to David. Ignoring it, he crawled out and stood next to her, getting a good look at her face for the first time.

She was pretty. She had blue eyes, but a little dark. And some light freckles across the bridge of her nose. She squinted earnestly at him.

"David, would you like to be friends?"

"I don't have any friends."

"I know. I saw the boys pick on you. But if you're friends with me, nobody will pick on you. Girls are more powerful than boys."

"No they're not."

"Yeah huh."

David shrugged ambiguously.

Friends with a girl? It was unheard of. But making friends with boys wasn't working out either. And she liked dinosaurs…

McKenzie stuck out her hand.

"I promise I won't ever be mean to you, David."

David hesitated again, then stuck out his hand to match hers. McKenzie grasped it and shook it. They began to walk quickly back, heading to line up for their class.

As they made their way, David discreetly handed the stuffed toy and severed horn over to the little girl in the blue dress.

She accepted it discreetly, tucking Tony under her arm.

* * *

Dear Molly,

I thought about calling, but I did the math, and it's like 2 in the morning where you are. So I figured I'd just type up a little note. I Hope you're doing well, I hope work's good, and the kids are good.

I got your package earlier this week. I just wanted to say thanks. I didn't tell you this before, but I've never gotten a care package. My mom passed away right before I joined up, and I think I told you my neighbor Benny died when I was in 9th grade. I had some friends from high school that joined up around when I did, but we lost touch. So it actually means a lot to get something from you. I don't mean you have to send stuff because you feel bad for me, but I don't know. I just like to get stuff from you. It's like a little piece of you came out with me. I really like that.

Candy and jerky are always great to get, good way to break up the food routine we get out here. If you even want to call it food. And the socks are amazing. So comfortable. One of my guys was giving me shit for looking feminine, but I don't care. If it's comfortable, that's all that matters. Thank you.

I loved getting the note from Lucy and Max's dinosaur picture. That was a nice surprise. The dinosaur picture is hanging on the dirt wall by my cot now, so you can tell him that. And Lucy writes really well for her age. I hear the lisp in her voice when I read it. It's fun for me.

I really liked those pictures you sent. Is that a graduation picture from nursing school? You look hot in scrubs, girl. Get a man all hot and bothered…and I like that one of us on the beach. I look at them both when I can.

I don't know, I just miss you I guess.

Okay, enough mushy stuff. What's new out here…my roommate is our platoon leader, a lieutenant. He's pretty weird, and he and I don't get along very well. The good news is, he's really lazy, and so he doesn't really get in the way unless there's a higher ranking officer around for him to show off to. They all know he's worthless, though. But he's really, really weird.

I promoted one of my squad leaders, I guess kind of unofficially. He's still the same rank he was, but I made him my number two. He's really growing into it. He's also my best friend from boot camp, but that's not why I promoted him. He's just a really good number two. We were butting heads for a while, but I respect my guys when they call me out. He's the only one that always does, so I figured it's a good time to give him some responsibility. And he's definitely stepping up.

I'm doing okay. Nobody thinks I'm wet behind the ears anymore. We've done a lot of pretty serious clearing operations, and a ton of regular security patrols. I haven't lost any guys. We did have an incident where one of us got shot, but thankfully the injuries were minor, just some stitches. Just a hazard of the job out here. I do get nervous about IEDs, though. Those things are everywhere. We've found a few dozen of them in the last few months, and we're trying to stay vigilant. But a couple of the other platoons in Bravo company haven't been as lucky.

I don't want you to worry, though. I'm staying safe. I want to do well out here, and I want to bring all of my guys home in one piece. And I'll admit it, Molly. I want to come home and spend time with you. I hope that's okay. Thanks again for the package. I really do appreciate it. Let me know how you and the kids are doing, I want to know.

I miss you, Molly
-Mark

PS-just a thought…if you get the urge to send another package sometime, send some little hard candies, we hand them out to the little kids in the village here when we patrol. They're good to have around.

PPS-Also, just another thought, feel free to ignore it, but if you want to send some more photos, I wouldn't mind seeing a little more of you, if you know what I mean.

* * *

This time there were spreadsheets. Beautiful, wonderful, wildly informative spreadsheets.

David smiled broadly as a sea of number filled rectangles filled on his screen. He took off his glasses to wipe the lenses on his sleeve, then returned them to their place.

Nice, (comparatively) neat spreadsheets detailing every expenditure. Accounts payable…employee salary and benefits…facility maintenance fees…accounts payable for oil, fuel, tool replacements…and the all too hilarious "miscellaneous" category…all the goodies.

It was like stealing an opposing team's playbook the day before the Super Bowl.

Having heard about how much his school district client had projected in budget savings over the next school year, an adjoining county comptroller had reached out to David proactively, wanting in. This included the school district, but also included county vehicles, the sheriff's department, road maintenance equipment, snow plows, fire trucks. Each with nice little dollar signs attached to them.

If David could land the deal.

He had taken a full day to respond to the email, not wanting to seem too eager, or worse yet, too desperate. But after a week of back and forth, David had managed to convince the prospective client to send him the budget and expense sheets for all vehicle maintenance for the last three years to see if he could submit a favorable bid.

It was enough to make him salivate, especially after the backslapping he'd received from Hamad and the guys that morning. Everyone was pretty happy with their first pay/profit sharing checks.

So things were going well, and this contract alone could more than double their workload. Hamad was running out of friends to recruit, but David's visit to the vocational program had gone well, with 4 new applicants ready to jump on board next month. And Hamad's friends had friends. So David was comfortable making a bold move toward growth.

David's hands shook noticeably as he scrolled through the spreadsheets, taking notes on a paper notepad next to his laptop keyboard. Despite the exciting prospect in front of him, David had trouble focusing. He hadn't slept the night before, and the third cup of coffee wasn't helping. He shook his head and blinked hard, taking a third run at organizing the data in front of him.

An office would have been nice. He was seated, legs crossed kindergarten style in the gravel, hunched over a half stack of bus tires hastily assembled to give him a work space. He was wearing his work coveralls, a ball cap pulled down over his glasses. He was analyzing spreadsheets while the others turned wrenches, drained oil, and cursed at cross-threading lug nuts on the school bus lot around him. Every few minutes, he would leap up and run over to wherever the mechanics were working: fetching a specific tool, or clearing away dirty oil pans or bringing fresh ones.

Hamad was set up nearest to David's work station, bent deeply into the yellow engine compartment working on a major repair.

David's mind kept running back to last night. Jordan had burst through the door unexpectedly and caught him in an embarrassing moment.

She had clearly been deeply hurt and hadn't talked to him since.

He had tried to talk to her through the closed door of their bedroom, but she wouldn't answer. He had knocked to invite her out to talk, and she wouldn't respond.

Horrified at having hurt her, David had sat on the floor outside the door, knees tucked up to his chin, arms wrapped around his knees. While he occasionally made his way back to the couch to sleep, he would always think he heard her move, and he would run to meet her.

But she never came out.

Eventually, he just fell asleep next to the bedroom door in that same awkward upright fetal position, hoping she would come out.

At one point, he heard her talking on the phone, but he couldn't tell who she was talking to or what she was saying. All he heard for sure was sniffling, a sure sign she was crying.

To say he felt like scum would be an understatement. David was utterly disgusted at himself. Thinking of how he was caught…seeing Jordan's blue eyes widened in shock, tears of bitter disappointment forming on the inside corners of her eyes before she ran past him into the bedroom…

It was gut wrenching. Like finding blobby goop of dog excrement in the bridge of your boot soles. You almost want to throw the boots away.

By the time the alarm had gone off on his phone, David's head hung limp between his knees, certain that he had torpedoed his marriage. He had risen, showered, and changed into his coveralls before making Jordan's lunch and leaving it on the table. He tried to write a note to stuff into the lunch bag with the food, but he didn't know what to say.

It was an early start, as always. Hamad liked to start work at 6. David agreed–the first few hours of cool morning light were always the most productive. The other mechanics arrived at 9, and David always helped Hamad with some routine work until they arrived. Not a certified mechanic, David always made sure Hamad inspected everything he did before signing off on it.

At 9, David ran around the lot getting everyone set up and dividing up the day's workload. He fielded calls for the part time work, and drove by the concrete company to check in with customers before a work appointment the next day.

It was a whirlwind. He had just finished dropping a used oil drum off just after lunch when the second email came through. From the county. The huge new client. Potential client, anyway.

They were following up with him. Not the other way around.

It was a good sign. Returning to the bus lot, he informed everyone he had some bids to do before setting up the "desk" and diving into the spreadsheets.

Only he couldn't focus on them.

Jordan's eyes blinked in horror at him from the computer screen.

"David!"

His mind raced, running wild with the myriad catastrophes that could await him when Jordan finally talked to him again.

If she ever would.

"I can't believe how disgusting you are. You're not who I thought you were…"

He could imagine the bitter recrimination in her voice. The disappointment.

His heart sank.

"I'm so glad I discovered who you really were before we had kids…"

She was right. She could have any man she wanted. Better men were a dime a dozen. More handsome. More successful. Not gross, like him.

"I'm leaving. I think that's what's best for both of us. Good luck, David…"

David nodded sadly to himself.

The spreadsheet swam in front of him.

He tried to focus.

Sheriff's Department vehicles needed a lot more maintenance than any of the others, it seemed. More miles, more major issues, some body repairs. It made sense, but if he wasn't careful, they might lose money on that part of the deal. And body work wasn't something they were set up to deal with. Might need to subcontract on that, or see about recruiting some body guys on a job-by-job basis.

New problems…Natural byproducts of vigorous growth. Good problems to have, even if they could be daunting.

"I love you, David. You're my hero…"

This particular intrusive thought, unlike the hypothetical catastrophes that parroted Jordan's voice, that last thought was real. A real memory–something she had really said on another occasion involving spreadsheets.

The night they had invited Hamad and Aisha over for dinner, when they had sat down to work through the idea for this business.

After Hamad, Aisha, and Fatima had left, Jordan had said…

Yeah, that's it. That was it...

She had, lovingly and unprompted, whispered her confidence into his ear, then sat down across from him at the table.

She had…walked into the kitchen in pajama pants.

And a tight, thin t-shirt. With no bra.

David savored the memory of her body in that moment. In that shirt, her breasts defined the shape of her shirt, and not the other way around. Delicious.

No…intoxicating. Her nipples were more than hinted at through the thin cotton blend…

"I love you, David. You're my hero…"

She had whispered it lovingly into his ear, then sat down across from him.

She was so sexy that…even though he could only access the sight through his memory, he thought his head might explode.

She had sat down and…clicked open a pen…and had been writing in a steno notebook…

While eating a pink lady apple.

That was it. The apple.

Whatever happened to that letter, anyway? It wasn't the one that Vinny had snatched, it was right after that, but before…

That letter was in his lunch bag when he got attacked. After he got back from the hospital, the lunch bag had been cleaned out. He didn't know how, or by who. Hopefully Jordan secured it. He didn't get the chance to read it, though.

His heart fluttered at the thought of what was in that last letter…then raced in panic when he realized that Jordan would never whisper that phrase in his ear again.

He wasn't her hero anymore.

Now he was just…her perverted, disloyal little worm of a husband.

Maybe soon-to-be ex-husband.

Shit.

Breaking his intrusive stream of consciousness, one of the new mechanics called for a fresh oil pan. David raced to comply, then returned, poured the used oil into the fresh drum, and then sat down and tried to work again. But no matter how much he squinted at the spreadsheet on the screen, all he could think of was the fading sound of…

"I love you, David. You're my hero…"

He would never hear those silky caramel words from Jordan's lips ever again.

His heart raced, his breathing picked up.

He had to call her.

He picked up his phone and pulled up her contact on the screen.

His thumb held steady over the call button, trembling.

He couldn't do it.

Tears formed, which he quickly wiped with his trembling free hand.

A small electronic ding accented a cartoon text bubble on his phone screen, jolting David out of his frozen posture.

From Jordan.

"Hey baby, I love you, but we need to talk about last night."

David's heart nearly exploded. She said it! She said she loved him!

He had a chance.

She wanted to talk. Jordan wanted to talk to him!

A vague but pressing memory leaned into David's consciousness as he quickly typed the response–an echo of the excitement he felt at this moment. A memory of Jordan touching his hand for the first time, saying

"Yes, David. This is a date."

His body warmed in the memory of that moment.

Arguably the greatest moment in his life. Easily in the top 10.

But this moment…this one was up there, too. The moment in time where she gave him a chance at a second chance. His thumb hastily pressed send on his response.

D: I'm ready to talk. Whenever, wherever. I love you, Jo.

David stared anxiously at the phone as Jordan typed a response.

It took several years to arrive.

J: Just be home for dinner, regular time. I love you too.

David hungrily responded.

D: Okay. I'll be there.

J:

D:

David paused on the send button, realizing how neurotic that last response seemed. He deleted all but the first heart, then hit send.

D:

His head swam. She wanted to talk! All he could hope for was…yes, he could throw his weight into an apology and promise to make it up to her.

Suddenly the collection of spreadsheets was visible again. Head still abuzz at the good news, it remained difficult to focus. But not impossible…

"Do your work, David…"

Another warm memory…her next words…after she had whispered that he was her hero…

Yes, he remembered now. She sat upright in that chair, in that shirt…god, that shirt. She had the tip of the pen between her lips as she contemplated her writing. The pink lady apple was on the table between them, two bites missing. She had looked up at him under her eyebrows, noticed his eyes flitting back and forth between her face, the notebook, and the curves of her breasts through her shirt.

She had treated him to a sweet caramel smile.

"Do your work, David…"

David dove back into the spreadsheets, a new intensity of focus gripping him by the eyeballs.

* * *

Dear Mark,

I'm glad you got the package, and I'm glad you liked it! I wondered if it would be weird to send stuff from the kids, but it seemed like you guys bonded so well, and I can't keep Lucy from getting involved in anything, so I figured I'd just embrace it. She wants to know whether her war letter was up to your standards. I don't know what that means, so good luck answering.

I love your updates. It sounds like you're doing as well as you can in a nasty, scary situation. I'm glad your friend is doing well, too. It must be a good thing to have a good friend backing you up like that. And I'm sorry to hear about your friend that got shot! If he really is okay, he's lucky. Just stitches after a gunshot wound…that's really lucky. And I'll keep all my fingers and toes crossed about IEDs. I can't even imagine what that's like.

Also, sorry to hear about your roommate. I've never had a weird roommate, or even a roommate at all. It must be pretty stressful to have a weird, difficult roommate. And if he's an asshole, then it's a special kind of hell. Wait, I actually do know what that's like, now that I think about it. :-) I just described life with my husband. Well, at least until a couple of months ago. He's getting better, though. I have to admit it. He is apparently in the process of trying to patent and sell some software he's working on, so he's pretty busy. Still making time for the kids though, which is good. And he's been treating me a lot better. After years of putting up with his garbage, I don't want to trust it, but it's starting to feel like he's turning a corner. Things are getting a little less unpleasant around here. I still don't know what to make of it, though.

Max is getting in trouble in school. He's just a little hellraiser, apparently. He's a good kid, but he can't sit still, and he won't raise his hand. I've been called by the school 5 times this month, and met with his teacher twice. I'm sympathetic, I know he can be a handful, but I'm just not sure what they want me to do. Neither of my kids will sit still when they're bored, but Lucy at least finds productive outlets. Max just sort of spins like that Tasmanian Devil character in Loony Tunes. Now that I'm thinking about it, it occurs to me that you might have been like that as a kid. Just a guess though, I don't really know. But if you were a Tasmanian Devil kid, did you learn to sit still eventually? And if so, how?

Lucy is doing well, they're talking about having her skip a grade. I'm not sure how I feel about it, I know she's bored but I'm worried about her not developing social skills for her age. Chris thinks it's a great idea, and who gives a damn about social skills, but of course he'd say that. Frankly, Chris is the exact cautionary tale I'm worried about Lucy repeating. She does spend a lot of time at the city library, so I think she's getting a lot of access to what she needs if she gets bored. But still, I want to do the right thing for her. I don't know.

I'm sorry, I just realized I spent the last paragraphs just dumping parenting problems in your lap, but I don't have a whole lot else to write about. Work is okay, and I don't do much socially outside of PTA things. And don't even get me started about PTA bitches…they can get nasty.

I'll admit it Mark, I'm kind of impatient for you to make it back here safely, since I was hoping you could supplement my social life with some welcome variety. I'll admit to thinking about you late at night sometimes, and wishing you were with me. I miss you too. Please come back safe.

I miss you,
-Molly

PS-I'll see about putting together another care package, and I'll try to include the stuff you mentioned. I brought up the picture request to Chris, and he got really excited (weird, I know). Anyway, he set up an appointment for me next week to do a session of boudoir photography. Have you heard of that? If you don't know what that is, I hope you'll like the surprise. I'm doing extra leg lifts and crunches to get ready.

PPS-I really hope you like it, because I'm super nervous to do it. Kisses, Molly.

* * *

"An extra order of Nan, please. And a medium Mango Lassi."

David smiled gratefully at the young woman punching up the total at the register. He handed her his debit card as he eyed the steaming chicken smothered in rich, earth toned sauces, the fluffy white rice, and the airy bread being ladled, paddled, and wrapped into containers and set in a white plastic bag. The phrase THANKYOUTHANKYOU was emblazoned in a wall of all caps text up and down the sides of a bag tied expertly at the handles by the cashier as she handed him his card back. He signed the receipt as the bag was placed in front of him.

Jordan knew all the names of the people there. He wasn't as good at that. Of course she would be. It was her favorite Indian restaurant, and she often stopped here for lunch.

David nodded gratefully one more time as he lifted the bag of Jordan's favorite food and hastened to place the bag in the passenger seat next to the bouquet of Jordan's favorite flowers–pink peonies–which was in turn set in front of the box of Jordan's favorite chocolates–Cadbury salted caramels.

David–now clearly identifiable as the man who hoped he was still Jordan's favorite person–eagerly hopped into the driver's seat and shut the door. He glanced at the car clock as he turned the key.

4:00.

He would probably get home first, which would give him time to arrange all this stuff to surprise her. He wasn't quite sure how this evening's conversation would go, but surrounding himself with all of her favorite things couldn't hurt his chances.

Pulling onto the main road, David's mind wandered back to their wedding. She had looked so beautiful, and her face was absolutely beaming. She had grinned in spite of herself walking down the aisle toward him, her arm tucked in her grandfather's elbow and holding her white bouquet.

He remembered looking at her through her veil. She seemed so happy to be looking back at him. He remembered wanting to see her eyes more clearly, and then feeling his whole heart lift as the veil came up over her face and was tucked behind her…He remembered her deep blue eyes sparkling at him.

It had been a beautiful day. Even his surly father hadn't managed to ruin it. Not for lack of trying, of course. But Jordan's father was surprisingly adept and misdirecting Ricky Stark's more dramatic misbehaviors. Apparently they teach that sort of thing in pastor school.

David stopped at a red light, leaning forward to see if he could make a right turn on red. Clear. Another five minutes and he would be home.

He remembered those same sparkling eyes during their first dance. He remembered just thinking over and over…

"I can't believe this woman would want to be with me at all. And now we're married! She's mine forever!"

"Hopefully forever…" David's thought snapped back to the present, turning into the parking lot of their apartment complex. He gathered up the food, flowers, and chocolate after lifting his shoulder bag into place, and made his way into the apartment.

"Jordan? Honey? You home?"

Silence.

Good. He made it home first. He checked his watch. 4:20. He'd have to hurry. He ran to the kitchen and found the glass vase, filling it with water and snipping the base of the peonies so they fanned out voluptuously over the neck of the vase. He turned the oven on warm and stuffed the takeout food in to keep it from cooling. Then, placing the vase in the center of the table, he leaned the box of chocolates up against the front of it. Then he dashed into the bedroom to put down his shoulder bag, and caught sight of himself in Jordan's full length mirror.

He looked atrocious. Still in blue coveralls covered in grease. He had smudges on his cheeks and he was wearing his scratched glasses. He looked down at his hands.

Grime under the fingernails.

David dashed into the bathroom and turned on the shower. He shucked the coveralls, then jammed his hands under the faucet while the shower warmed up. Scrubbing under his fingernails, he periodically raised his trembling hands to inspect them, then set them down under the water again.

He remembered his trembling hands on their wedding night. The noticeable tremor as his hand caressed the front of her bare torso–only just revealed to him. He remembered how intoxicating that sight was, how her skin warmed when he kissed her after touching her naked breast for the first time.

She was still exactly as intoxicating, he realized. Still. Maybe more. How long would that last? Probably forever. As long as he could get those sparkling eyes to look at him the way they did through her bridal veil–-she would always be intoxicating.

He leaped in the shower, letting the grease run down around the drain as he washed himself.

They had showered together on their wedding night. What turned out to be an erotic slow dance under the gentle stream of a hotel shower had actually started to make up for an accident–he had powerfully jizzed himself the instant she touched his penis for the first time.

She had played it off as flattering, but she was clearly a little amused. She seemed to like having that powerful of an effect on him.

She had invited him into the shower to clean up, where she had casually pulled her jeans down and stepped out of them, her panties following soon after. She had looked over her shoulder with a touch of insecurity while revealing her smooth, tight, curved butt, then let her body follow her face in turning to give her husband his first full, delicious drink of her nudity.

Good holy God in heaven. It was too much.

David had been frozen in place, his twitching penis stiffening again as she smiled and took him by the hand into the shower, then gently shut the curtain behind them.

David shook off the memory and quickly finished scrubbing himself, flicking his small, stiff member to get down. The sudden intense rigidity was going to greatly complicate the upcoming conversation. He hoped the gentle violence would convince "little David" to take a back seat for the evening while he hashed out a difficult conversation with the woman of his dreams.

David toweled off, gathered his dirty clothes, then ran back into the bedroom. Dropping the dirty coveralls into the hamper, he suddenly wondered what to wear.

What's the dress code for major apologies? Was there a style guide for groveling? He didn't know.

Probably slacks and a button up shirt.

No time to iron, better find one with no wrinkles…

Church shoes. Definitely.

A tie?

Too much?

Not enough?"

He realized that if he did decide to wear a tie, then the question of which tie befits a major apology would likely burn up too much time.

He finally decided to just leave the top button opened and forego the tie.

He checked his watch.

4:40.

She would be home any minute.

He dashed back in the bathroom and spritzed a little cologne, walking through the mist, then combing his hair. He found his good glasses and put them on, made final adjustments, then headed out to the kitchen, where he hastily emptied the takeout boxes into neat serving dishes and set the table for two.

Dammit. Forgot the church shoes…

David sprinted back to the bedroom and shoehorned the shiny leather onto his feet. Hastily tying, he briskly returned to the living room/kitchen to find Jordan standing in the doorway, one hand on the doorknob, with wide eyes and her mouth hanging open in surprise.

"David!"

[Crushing]

"Hi Jo…uh…welcome home…"

David's tone was tinted with uncertainty. Jordan stood in the doorway with her hand over her mouth.

"I…I missed you, Jo. How was your day?"

Jordan said nothing, still holding her hand over her mouth and walking toward the table. She lifted up the box of chocolates, then wordlessly set them down. Dropping her hand from her mouth, she gently touched the flower petals brimming the vase.

Then, she turned to look at David, a gentle gleam in her eye.

"You got me pink peonies…" she said quietly.

"Yeah, well, uh…yeah. I did. I went to one of the flower shops I used to deliver to, I knew they had them because…you know…anyway…"

"Shut up, honey."

"Okay." David closed his mouth obediently as Jordan sauntered over to where he stood. She gently extended her arms around his neck and pulled him close. He mirrored the action, gripping tightly around her back.

They held each other tightly for a moment in silence. Then, not breaking the embrace, Jordan asked:

"That smell. Is that Curry Cottage?"

"Ummm…yeah. Murgh Curry. Boneless. And some Naan."

"You got my favorite food."

"Yyyeah?" David responded, unsure of where he stood.

Jordan sighed deeply. David, heartened, began to relax. This was her contented sigh. She had many different sighs, but this was his favorite version. It was the sigh she gave when she melted into her husband's arms after a long day.

She relaxed her embrace and stepped back to kiss him deeply. He drank in her kiss, his heart floating.

Jordan leaned back, locking his gaze with hers. "I missed you last night, David."

"Oh, god, I missed you, Jo. I'm so glad to hear you say that. You have no idea."

Jordan smiled warmly, then let go of her husband, turning to sit down at the table. "Have a seat honey, I'm hungry. And somebody got my favorite food…"

David hastened to sit across from her, heartened by her playful tone. They said grace and dug in, both plates full before he dared broach the question:

"So am I out of the doghouse?"

Jordan stopped her fork halfway to her mouth and looked up at him. Then, resuming, she took a bite of chicken, and chewed with her eyes closed in ecstasy at the warmth and the taste. Then, swallowing, she opened her eyes again.

"Not yet. But this…" Jordan used her fork to gesture toward the material tokens of David's love and contrition that literally filled the table, "this is a pretty good start."

* * *

Two weeks had passed since Mark had made Jared's elevated status official. While neither said it out loud to the other, both Mark and Jared were worried about the resentments it might cause among the other squad leaders. However, since the added duties entailed no real promotion, no pay increase, but instead more responsibility without any clear material benefit, Jared was surprised to find that nobody actually wanted what he now had. As a result, nobody resented him.

Rather, they simply watched him. Watched to see if he could rise to the challenge. He had clearly struggled for the few days that the platoon sergeant was gone, but now that Mark was back, he seemed perfectly comfortable taking charge. His leadership style, however, contrasted sharply with Mark's. Where Mark was calm and friendly, Jared came off as sharp edged and hostile. Where Mark preferred to stand back, supervise, comment and correct when necessary, Jared would simply step in and work alongside, whether that was cleaning weapons, counting inventory, filling sandbags, or whatever needed tending to on the small, dirt-rimmed patrol base in Kandahar province..

Where Mark's solo leadership was respected, and even catching the clear notice of everyone up to and including Battalion command, the combination of Mark and Jared at the helm tightened the ship even more. Mark stepped almost entirely into the role of platoon leader, as Lieutenant Macintosh avoided work, responsibility, or even basic hygiene wherever possible. Mark was the primary point of contact for company command, and was soon included on the nightly company level call. Outside of the command center, Jared could always be found keeping two watchful eyes on every man, every bullet, every nook and cranny on the base, waiting for Mark to step out the doorway and give instructions for the next day's patrol orders.

So by the day that Mark's stitches came out, Charlie Company's third platoon was the model unit in the battalion. More than a hundred successful patrols, over forty enemy killed or captured, over sixty IEDs disarmed, zero fatalities, only two battlefield injuries. And those two battlefield injuries –Mark and Jared–were quietly leading the most disciplined, most successful platoon in the region.

That platoon had fallen into a solid routine of success, and their leader (on paper), Lieutenant Macintosh, was thrilled. It seemed to run almost entirely without him. He could hop on any convoy to the bigger forward bases and spend time at the morale tent, he could watch pirated movies on his laptop, he could work out at the improvised gym set up by Mark and Jared on one side of the patrol base whenever he wanted. And by joining on the occasional patrol–always with Mark, who did the actual work of planning, executing, and debriefing–he could credibly report a string of successes for his own fitness reports.

Lieutenant Macintosh had one duty that he never delegated, however, and that was the nightly report to the company commander. Which is why Mark was surprised when Lance Corporal Jett, who was on radio watch, approached Mark as he was supervising food preparation for next day's breakfast for the platoon and called him into the communications tent one night at about 2200 hours..

"Sergeant Rein, Captain Wolfe is on secure channel, and he wants to talk to you."

Mark raised an eyebrow. "Did Macintosh do the report?"

"Yes, sergeant, a couple hours ago. But he said to get you."

Mark nodded across the tent to Jared, who returned the nod as Mark turned to hasten toward the communications tent. He sat down near the radio and picked up the handset.

"This is 3-1, go ahead."

"Good evening, sergeant."

"Evening, sir. What's up?"

"Clear the tent, sergeant."

Mark looked over toward Jett and gestured with a jutted chin to leave the tent. Jett nodded and stepped out, closing the flap door behind him.

"Tent is clear, sir. Go ahead."

"These orders are for you, sergeant. You will carry them out exactly as I give them. Understood?"

"Yes sir."

"You will be at the battalion forward base tomorrow at 1500 hours. You can either convoy here with a full squad or simply patrol in that direction, arriving no later than 1445 hours. There will be a meeting with other members of the company and battalion, and third platoon will need to be represented at that meeting. Since Lieutenant Macintosh is ill, you will take his place. Understood?"

"Almost sir, I wasn't aware the lieutenant is ill…did he report..?"

"I'm not privy to the details of his illness, sergeant, all I know is that he isn't fit to travel tomorrow. You will be there in his place. We don't want this meeting to interrupt his convalescence. Can you carry out these orders?"

"Of course sir. Anything else I should be aware of?"

"Not at this time. Don't be late."

"Aye sir."

"Good. Company out."

Mark hung up the handset and furrowed his brow.

"Jett, get in here."

The young marine unzipped the tent door and stepped in.

"Resume your post."

"Aye sergeant."

Mark walked out toward the command hut, wondering what he wasn't being told. He stepped in the door to find Macintosh in his shorts again, trying to cobble together a burrito out of the elements of a half dozen open MREs. Mark scowled at the food waste, but the lieutenant greeted him jovially.

"Hey man, look at all this stuff I found!"

"I see that, sir. Are you feeling okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Why, what's up? Do I look sick or something?"

Mark hesitated, his eyebrows crinkling slightly. "No sir, you look fine, I just get the sense something's going around. I'd recommend washing your hands often."

"Good call, Rein."

"Anything I can do for you tonight, sir?"

"Nope, I'm good."

"All right, sir. Good night."

"Night, Rein…"

* * *

"So…"

"So…"

David and Jordan exchanged the same meaningless word, naming the dense awkwardness of the meal.

Jordan took another forkful of curry. "Seriously, honey…"

"Yeah?" David said hopefully.

"This chicken is to die for. What's your secret?"

David smiled awkwardly. "About 35 bucks, handed directly to the right people, I guess."

Jordan smiled back. "Seriously honey, thank you. For all of this. It's very sweet."

"My pleasure, Jo."

They ate in silence for another few moments. Finally, Jordan cleared her throat.

"So, what happened yesterday?"

David returned quickly, having braced for the question. "I screwed up, honey. I crossed a line. I have no excuse, I just need to own it."

Jordan paused, chewing thoughtfully. "And what would 'owning' it entail? What do you mean by that?"

David squinted, unsure of the question. "I guess just that I don't want to make excuses. Or blame anyone except myself."

"Okay…" Jordan said, warming up slightly. "That's a pretty good start. But I think you know I'm going to want to go deeper. My psychologist's instinct, right? Tell me more."

David hesitated. "I don't know what more you want. I'm just…I'm just really sorry, honey."

Jordan rolled her eyes. "Baby, I know that you jerk off sometimes. You're a male in your twenties. I'm not naive. Honestly, most of my reaction was shock. Most of it."

"Okay…what was the other part of it?"

"Other part of what?"

David cleared his throat. "You said most of your reaction was shock. What was the other part? Of your reaction, I mean."

"Oh." Jordan paused, chewing thoughtfully. "Honestly? I was pretty mad at you. I'm still a little mad at you. But I feel a little dumb about it, so I'm just going to try to get over it."

"Dumb? Why do you feel dumb? I don't understand…"

"Really, David? You really don't understand why I'd feel dumb about getting mad at you for looking at other women?"

"No…I think you'd have every right to be mad."

Jordan stared blankly at her husband across the table.

"I really don't understand, honey. Help me out here…" David said, perplexed.

"Really?" Jordan replied, dropping her fork noisily onto her empty plate. The volume and shrill pitch of her voice surprised them both. She took a deep breath and tried again, softening her delivery.

"Really, David? You don't think it's a tiny bit dumb that I would flip out over you looking at other women on the internet after…"

David blinked, starting to follow. "After..?"

Jordan's voice dropped to a mumble, her eyes falling to her empty plate. She picked up her fork and began tracing the tines on the bare porcelain, the sound softly but painfully cutting the silence.

"After, you know…after I did…what I did with Mark."

David's features softened, and he didn't respond. She stole a glance under her eyebrows to see a concerned and loving look on her husband's face, his eyes utterly free from judgment.

She wasn't sure exactly what the look meant. It was either total love and acceptance flavored with concern for her own feelings, or it was absolute forgiveness flavored with a desire to make her feel entirely wanted.

Or something in between.

Whatever it was, Jordan felt utterly unworthy of it. She dropped her fork on the plate, buried her face in her hands, and began to cry.

David leaped up from his chair and ran around the table. He grabbed Jordan's shoulders and pulled her close to him, her head leaning sideways on his sternum. She continued for a few moments, then composed herself.

David dropped to his knees as she dropped her hands from her face, uncovering tear stained eyes. He took her hands in his and looked up at her.

"Jordan. Baby. Look at me. I love you. Nothing has changed. Nothing. I don't see you any differently. You're still the incredible woman I married. I wake up every day thanking God that you agreed to be with me. Except this morning. I woke up this morning peeing my pants out of fear that you'd leave me."

Jordan let out a choked laugh, wiping her nose and eyes on her sleeve before returning her hand to David's.

"I wasn't going to leave you, David. I'm just…I don't know what happened to us with the whole Mark thing. We both just…went crazy or something. I just don't feel right about it, and I feel like I got you fired and hurt. I just saw you in that hospital bed with your teeth…" She began to cry again.

"Baby, honey, no…" David cooed. "You didn't get me fired, I quit. You didn't get me hurt, some jerk at work did. None of that was you, baby. None of it."

She slowed down and started sniffling, wiping her face again on her sleeve.

"Look, Jo, look here, baby…" David insisted, forcing a grin and tapping his front teeth. "I got better ones. They're fine. I'm okay. And I hated that job anyway. You did, too, remember? And the business is going really well…that's how I was able to get you the flowers and the dinner."

Jordan sniffled again, looking around at the nice things David had brought her. She nodded uncertainly.

"That's right, Jo. See? Nothing's broken. Everything's good. In fact, everything's better! I love you more than I ever did. It just keeps growing. Every day. I love you more every single day."

Jordan blushed as David planted a deep smooch on her cheek. She was silent for another moment, holding her gaze down at their hands clasped together in her lap.

"So…" she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "if you love me, why do you need to look at other girls?"

Now it was David's turn to look down, ashamed.

"I know it sounds stupid, but I was thinking about you, and I got impatient. So I went online to see if I could find a woman that looked like you."

Jordan rolled her eyes. "Really, David? You were doing so good until now. You really expect me to…oh my gosh, I can't believe you."

Jordan stood up in a huff and stormed down the hall.

"I'm not lying, Jo, I promise. It's embarrassing, but it's the truth."

Jordan stopped and turned around, her eyes hardening. "You're really going to say with a straight face that of all the women in the world, David, that you can get through internet porn, that you only wanted to look at Jordan Stark? Or her doppelganger?"

"Yes. That's exactly what I'm saying."

His eyes weren't lying. Jordan found herself morbidly curious.

"Bullcrap. Show me. Did you delete your history?"

"No…" David said honestly. After you…after it happened, I just kind of paced around the apartment all night. I closed the browser windows, and then used the laptop for work today, but it should still be in the history."

"Okay. If you're so sure, show me."

David's face reddened, not wanting to reveal his shame to his already angry and humiliated bride. But he complied, pulling the laptop out of his bag and setting it on the table. Jordan walked behind him and watched him open his browser history. He found the entry and showed her.

"See? It's right here. You can see all my search terms. This is what I was watching when you came in. There's the time stamp, a few minutes before you came home."

Jordan leaned in to see. Timestamp: 7:42.

Checks out.

Title: "Brunette Hotwife with Bull."

"Open it." Jordan's determined tone was edged with insecurity.

David sheepishly opened the web page. The scene opened to a naked woman, likely in her thirties, undressing a muscular man in a suit. She had brunette hair, dark blue eyes.

Jordan watched, carefully scrutinizing the features of the woman in the video.

"Well, I'll give you this: she does look a little bit like me."

"See?" David insisted, pausing the video. "I know I shouldn't have done it. And I won't do it again. But that's what happened, honey. I swear. She looks just like you."

Jordan nodded, looking up from the laptop to her husband. Her lips pursed slightly.

"She has bigger boobs than me."

"Yeah, I know…" David said without thinking. "But other than that, she's got some good things going for her, don't you think? Look at her eyes…they're so much like yours, it's just…mmm…"

David caught himself. He looked back to Jordan, who had a surprised half smile on her face.

"Oh no, honey, I didn't mean…"

"Shut up. You mean to say you wish she looked like me, and not that you wish I looked like her?"

David paused, unsure of how to answer. Finally, he let it out.

"Well….yeah, honey. I mean…duhhh…look at her…then look at you!"

Jordan's eyes glistened and her smile widened. "So if the lady on the sexy video looked more like me, she'd be hotter?"

"Honey. Yes! Duh! If she looked like you, she'd look…I guess…perfect. Yeah. She'd look perfect."

Jordan's cheeks flushed at the compliment, her eyes progressing from glistening to sparkling.

David, sensing he'd found a vein of truth to mine, jammed his shovel deep and hit gold.

"I don't need this woman…" David said, closing out the browser window. "I don't need any woman when I have you. You're a goddess. To me, and to any other man with eyes."

Jordan's features softened visibly. "Really?"

"God yes, Jordan. All I want is…I just want to worship your body every night. Forever. And every morning. Forever. If you'll let me…"

Jordan bit her lower lip, blushing more deeply and nodding slightly.

"Okay, Mister Stark. That's a good answer. So if I really am…a goddess…" She shook her head slightly and giggled, her auburn hair swaying gently.

"If I really am a goddess…how'd you like to worship my body tonight?"

David didn't respond immediately. His face dropped the importuning expression and took on a grave expression with deep conviction.

"I'd give everything I've ever owned and everything I'll ever earn to worship your body for one night, Jordan."

Jordan's eyes widened as the earnest look in her husband's eyes hit the deep of her heart.

Without another sound, she gently took his hand and led him to the bedroom, the door gently clicking shut behind them.

* * *

Mark was surprised to see Captain Wolfe waiting to meet him as his patrol finished the count-off inside the wire of the main battalion operations base. They had done a joint patrol with an adjacent platoon, and had plans to trek back after a brief respite at the battalion base.

Nobody but Mark knew about the captain's orders. Turning to Corporal Arnold, Mark gave the respite order.

"Arnie, tell everyone to take an hour, get some water. If they want to hit the morale tent, that's fine. But be ready to head back at 1600."

Arnold acknowledged and the patrol dispersed.

"Good afternoon, sir. Hope I'm not late."

Captain Wolfe nodded. "Not at all, Rein. Come with me, and don't open your mouth. Let me do the talking."

"Aye, sir…"

The two walked together into the repurposed school, walking down a long hall toward an area Mark had never been before. Pushing through double doors, Mark saw a wide array of large monitors, clusters of laptops, and communications devices packing an open space…what was probably a cafeteria when the school was functioning. A large drop down screen on one end of the room had a satellite image of the northern area of operations, including Mark's own platoon's base and patrol area.

Captain Wolfe pointed to a plywood rack for weapons. "Drop your gear on this rack and come with me."

Mark hastily unclipped his helmet and flak vest, hanging them in a plywood cubby and stacked his rifle underneath it. He moved to sit down in a group with the captain, recognizing the lieutenants in charge of first, second, and fourth platoons, all giving him stink eye.

"Where's Macintosh?" One of them asked.

"Sick." Captain Wolfe didn't allow Mark to answer. Mark simply nodded nervously.

Within moments the doors opened again and everyone snapped to their feet as Lieutenant Colonel Chen walked in with his operations officer, Major Harris. Everyone waited for the battalion commander to sit at the head of the room. After he sat, they followed, silent in anticipation. Major Harris remained standing and began the brief.

Mark looked around and realized he was the only enlisted man in the briefing. Officers everywhere. Platoon leaders, company commanders, battalion officers…This was clearly a brass-only meeting, and Captain Wolfe had corralled him into it.

What was going on?

"Good afternoon marines," Major Harris began. "I'm sure you're all aware that insurgent activity is heating up everywhere, and this area of operations is no exception. We have reason to believe that the main thrust of this surge in activity for our AO, and much of the region, stems from…wait…what the fuck is he doing here?"

Major Harris interrupted his brief to look directly at Mark.

All eyes turned to him.

"Where's Lieutenant Macintosh?" Major Harris demanded.

"He's sick, sir," Captain Wolfe interjected.

"Is that so..?" Major Harris growled. "How convenient. Wolfe, this is an officers meeting. A full command briefing. I did not authorize any substitutions…"

"It's just the succession protocol, sir…" Captain Wolfe began.

"Shut up, Wolfe." Major Harris cut him off. "I wasn't asking you. Sergeant, pray tell, what is Lieutenant Macintosh's diagnosis?"

"Major." Colonel Chen's spoke evenly, but briskly from his seat at the head of the briefing table. Given his usual silence in meetings, he startled everyone. "Proceed with the briefing."

The Major turned around to face Chen, incredulous. "I'm sorry sir, my directive for these briefings was to follow strict chain of command protocols. I wanted the officers here to brief and counsel. I believe Captain Wolfe is undermining my orders."

"Very well." Chen responded calmly. "I wasn't going to do this, but here we go." He turned to the assembled officers. "Is anyone here not familiar with Sergeant Rein's record thus far on this deployment?"

No one responded.

"I'll take that as a no," Chen said flatly. "So now I ask this. Can anyone here say with a straight face that they'd rather have Macintosh here to plan an operation like this?"

A strained laugh rippled through the room.

"That's what I thought," Chen concluded. "Major, your protocol does not meet mission requirements in this case. I'm overriding it. Briefing personnel assignments are now at the company commander's discretion. Mission before politics. And before you get started, Major, I'm well aware of who Lieutenant Macintosh's father is. Just in case anyone in this room is unclear, they can take notice: I am in command of this battalion, not some limp dick who sits on the House Armed Services Committee."

The room fell quiet. Major Harris' face was red, unaccustomed to being publicly corrected. Colonel Chen didn't say another word, just directed a look at the Major, who resumed the briefing.

"Yes…okay…uh…where was I. Ummm. Okay. Well," he turned to indicate toward the map. "There is significant intel identifying this village as the center of enemy operations for not only this AO, but most of the province. We have reason to believe that most of their weapons and IED manufacturing material are located somewhere in the village. However, we've got a double bind. When we go into the village with platoon strength, we're met with shocking force. When we go in with company strength, they scatter, and then we don't find anything. We need to find a way to do a big and small operation at the same time."

He paused to look around the room again. Then, clicking the remote in his hand, the map changed to show graphic symbols superimposed on the map, with unit designations now surrounding the village.

"Our intention is to surround the village with battalion strength. Alpha and Bravo companies will blockade on the North/East and South/West roads with their open poppy fields, denying enemy egress if they try to run. Charlie Company will cordon the village proper, but only after a single patrol goes in as bait. The patrol will go in to distract them long enough for us to make a bigger move. If they think they can beat us, we're gambling on them staying to fight just long enough so we can surround them, flush them out, or squeeze in with reinforced company strength and take them where they stand."

A murmur rippled through the assembled leaders as they squinted at the map, taking notes as to where each officer's units were marked on the map.

"Battalion Intel will provide you with specifics for time, movement, placement, armament, egress, and so forth. But this is the big picture idea. Any questions?"

"Just one, sir…" a young captain answered. Mark looked over at him, recognizing him as the commander of Alpha company. "Who's the bait platoon?"

Major Harris deliberately avoided eye contact with Mark as he answered:

"Third platoon. Charlie Company."

* * *

David and Jordan lay in bed, a thin sheet covering their naked bodies in the early summer heat. David lay on his back, his arm loosely wrapped around the back of Jordan's neck, his hand resting on her shoulder blade. She fully accepted his embrace, who lay front side down with her head resting on his chest, along with the palm of her left hand, while her left leg draped over his.

David's repose was one of happy exhaustion. Jordan's was a repose of anxious need.

She listened to his steady heartbeat and the slow draw of his breath, eyes open, her face gently riding the subtle rise and fall of his narrow chest.

He had fulfilled his promise to worship her body. And then some.

At first his attention was desperate. But as he grew in the confidence of her forgiveness, of her acceptance of him as her lover, David's appetite grew ravenous. He grasped, teased, squeezed, pet, licked, and nibbled her all over. She had never felt so desired before.

He said he'd give anything to worship her…

Jordan blushed at his earnest words. They clearly weren't just a line to get out of the doghouse. Jordan had married a man who viewed her body as perfection. The intensity of his devotion lit her on fire, her cheeks flushing, her skin heating, her heart racing. After more than an hour of hungry foreplay, she had, impatiently but gently, pinched his stiff penis and guided him between her legs.

She had felt her whole body light up as he entered her. She had reached around his neck, and locked her ankles behind his waist, wanting to squeeze him with desperate affection until they became a single body. He had responded powerfully to her embrace, shuddering violently with his whole body as she felt a small, weak stream of his best effort dribble into her body.

Consumed by the high heat of her body, David had remained rigid, until all at once he melted into her tight embrace.

Jordan's emotions had diverged at that point. On the one hand, she held the embrace earnestly, accepting the man she loved–and his offering in her body–with genuine, affectionate enthusiasm.

On the other hand, that heat in her body, that tension in her body, that flush in her skin, all remained. Like a powder keg packed with potential energy needing only the right touch for a powerful kinetic release, she simply held her husband as the possibility of that touch slipped away, relaxing into peaceful slumber.

He had kissed her gently. She had needily returned the kiss, watching the mist rise in his eyes as he rolled off of her onto his back. She rolled to meet him, laying her head on his chest, as he crooked his elbow around the side of her neck and slipped under the waves, sinking from a dream come true down into a more conventionally unconscious, although still happy dream.

Jordan's left hand twitched, then tightened involuntarily into a claw on his chest. Her wetness still had contact with her husband's thigh. She gently bucked her hip forward, enjoying the electric warmth of his skin still between her legs.

It felt good. It helped stoke her warmth a little…

Yeah, this might work.

She bucked again, still gently, the warmth rising between her legs. She bucked again, a little less gently and closed her eyes.

Yes…

Yeah, that's it…

She bucked a little more urgently, drawing an unexpected groan from her sleeping husband. She stopped immediately and flattened her palm again to gently rest it over his heart. Steadying his slumber.

She thought about waking him. About asking him to go again. He wouldn't resent her. He'd try to give her what she needed.

But even if he lasted longer, it seemed unlikely he could…

Jordan sighed in frustration, trying to redirect her thoughts to the deep emotional fulfillment of their extended foreplay. The look in David's eyes as he kissed her, then kissed her again, then kissed and nibbled his way down her neck, her torso, her stiff, pink nipples…burying his mouth in the hair covering her swelling mons, licking eagerly between her legs before moving down her thighs. The kisses to her feet as he rubbed them. The gentle kisses to her back, to her shoulders…

He would have gone all night. That's how much he loved her. How much he wanted to show his love. He would have foregone all pleasure for himself.

All night, if she wanted.

But she wanted more, and he eagerly gave it.

Or, tried to give it.

And he tried so hard…it was beautiful. The sheer effort.

The level of emotional fulfillment experienced that night was incredible. She felt. So. Deeply. Loved.

So why this lingering tension? Her left hand began to close again, involuntarily.

Gently, Jordan removed David's hand and snaked her way to the edge of the bed. She stood up and walked noiselessly to the door, carefully turning the knob so as not to wake him. She tiptoed down the hall and slipped into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her and turning on the light.

The sudden light found her facing the mirror. Her hair was a mess, tangled and a bit frizzy. Some strands were definitely sweat soaked, matching the fading drops on her forehead.

It was the deep flush of her cheeks that really startled her. A flush that crept down her neck and spread boldly across the top of her chest. Her nipples were still stiff, with small marks nearby where David's enthusiasm had turned playful nibbles into passionate, yet still somehow gentle, bites.

Jordan giggled to herself, relishing the level of enthusiasm her body aroused in her husband. She ran her hands up her torso, briefly caressing her breasts, and pinching her nipples, giggling again as the small shock radiated out and down from the pinch.

Almost without thinking, her right hand slid back down her torso, disappearing below where the mirror could see, and cupped her light brown thatch. The pad of her middle finger found a gratifying spot between her folds: swollen, damp, electric to the touch. Jordan saw her facial expression change from playful to focused. As her features tightened, she caught herself looking into her own eyes.

Hello, Jordan.

Crap. Not again.

Jordan's finger began to work slowly, crosswise between the folds of her swollen lips.

That's right. That's the spot. Well, one of the spots, anyway.

"Shut up."

She said it quietly, but out loud. She didn't want to engage with this insanity right now. She had had a good night with her husband. Full stop. She closed her eyes, focusing on the feeling.

It worked for a moment, until the silence began to distract her. She opened her eyes, catching her own gun barrel blues in the mirror, earnest but ever so slightly manic.

There's no need to be rude, sweetie. We're on the same team.

She stopped touching herself. "You're not real. You're a psychological avatar I created to create moral distance from myself. You're just a fiction to help me avoid taking responsibility for the terrible things I've done."

She didn't hear anything for a moment, until she began to feel silly for challenging a fictional mirror-girl.

Wow. This was stupid.

You're probably right. But that doesn't make me any less real.

Crap.

"Yes it does. It means exactly that. You are only a projection of unresolved issues. Just go away."

If you wanted me to go away honey, you shouldn't have stopped what you were doing just now.

Jordan shifted her weight uncomfortably, pulling her hand from between her legs, turning on the faucet and washing her hand. Unsettled, she forgot to turn the water off as she dried her hand on a towel, catching her eyes in the mirror again.

Oh, honey. I think we both know that if you push me away, I'll just go deeper into your subconscious. Then I'll come out in new ways. Weird ways. I can be very creative…

"This is crazy." Jordan whispered, closing her eyes again. She held them squeezed shut before whispering again:

"What do you want…"

Silence.

She leaned forward and opened her eyes again, this time closer to the mirror.

That's better. Look right at me, honey. That way we can really talk.

This was insane. Jordan sighed, then whispered back: "I'm listening."

Good. Here's the thing, Jo. If you want to talk about me existing to create moral distance between you and what you've done, sweetie, I think you need to admit the logical conclusion of that. You and I? We're the same. And we want the same thing.

Jordan's breath quickened.

It's okay, honey. I can help. The best thing about me? I can help make myself go away. You just have to cooperate. And more good news: I've got all the footage right here. I can pull up anything you need to take care of us.

Jordan blinked at the intrusive memory rising as she stared at herself in the mirror.

It was Mark. Naked, his powerful body towering over her. The view from the bottom.

Oh, here's one. Remember this view? Remember how strong his jaw is? Remember kissing that? Touching it? Oh, and how small it made us feel when we saw it from below. You know, when we were looking up at him from down on our knees?

Jordan squeezed her eyes shut, reaching between her legs again.

The warmth quickly rose in her body again as the pad of her middle finger found her stiff clitoris.

Oh, you like that memory. Good, so do I.

Jordan's breath became more rapid as she rubbed herself more vigorously.

Would you like to hear his voice, honey?

"Yes." she whispered quietly.

I'm sorry, honey. I can't hear you.

"Yes," she said out loud, but still quietly. The water faucet drowned out her voice, and most of the sound of moisture sloshing between her legs.

Okay, honey. Here it is.

Jordan. Hold still. Stay right there. Don't move.

Mark's voice. Deep. The rumble vibrated to heighten Jordan's arousal.

Mmmmm…isn't that nice? So deep. Rich timbre. Powerful. That tone of…mmhmmm…command. And that was what he said, right? Right before he did that thing on our face?

Jordan, eyes still squeezed shut, felt the heat rise desperately inside her as her finger vibrated back and forth between her legs.

We had our eyes shut that time too, right? He told us to shut them? That was sweet of him, wasn't it? Making sure we didn't get any in our eyes…

Jordan held her breath as her orgasm rose powerfully. Desperate to meet it, she opened her eyes while her finger flew roughly back and forth between her lower lips.

Remember how warm it was when it hit our face? Remember?

"Huuuhh…" Jordan grunted quietly.

And then he let us lick it off…

Jordan's orgasm peaked.

As her body stiffened to lock in ecstatic tension, Jordan barely glimpsed a gleam in the eye of her counterpart in the mirror before her eyes closed again involuntarily. Her mouth locked open and she grabbed her crotch tightly, the intense warmth radiating up her body beginning to ebb.

With the tension draining from her limbs, Jordan leaned wearily against the sink.

She opened her eyes again.

The woman in the mirror seemed tired.

And she seemed like…herself.

Just Jordan.

Tired, but relaxed.

The gleam was gone.

And the voice.

"Where did you go?" Jordan asked through heavy breath.

"Jordan?"

Jordan snapped upright to a knock on the bathroom door.

"Jordan, are you okay?"

She jammed her wet fingers under the running faucet again. "I'm fine, honey. I just…lost my contact lens case."

"It should be in the medicine cabinet where it usually is."

"Okay, thanks honey. I'm gonna take my contacts out and I'll come back to bed," she called through the door.

"Okay baby. I love you. Come let me snuggle you."

Jordan smiled genuinely, reaching for the contact lens case behind the mirror. Closing the mirror, she saw herself again. Just herself, still flushed but now relaxed, ruminating on the deep emotional fulfillment of having a husband who adored her.

She sighed deeply, turning off the faucet and reaching for a hand towel.

* * *

"Charlie Company."

"So you're the captain of Charlie Company?"

Jordan sat across from Captain Rein, quizzing him on the specifics of his news. The promised night of Star Trek 4 had come, and Mark and Jordan were talking. In public. As friends.

"Yes, but there are many charlie companies. Every battalion has a few companies, designated Alpha, Bravo, Charlie. And captain is my rank,not my title. I'm just the commander of one particular 'Charlie Company.' One of many."

"Ah, I see. When you told us the other night, I didn't really know what that meant."

"Yeah, it's gonna sound weird to civilians. We organize our lives by unit numbers, stacked up and down a hierarchy. I'm getting a command somewhere pretty close to the bottom."

Jordan laughed. Mark's casual humility was predictable, but charming.

"Hey, honey…sorry I'm late!" David hustled up to meet Jordan, who stood waiting with Mark in front of the movie theater.

"Hey baby…" Jordan leaned in to kiss her husband. "You're not that late. Mark was early, and I was exactly on time. He was just telling me about the new promotion."

"Oh yeah? You mentioned a transfer, where to?"

"Camp LeJeune," Mark replied. "North Carolina Coast. I've been offered a company command under an officer that I served under a while ago. Guess he wants me back."

"That's great! Are you excited?"

Mark was surprised at how easy David's manner was. Usually cucks were awkward around him in public. Maybe it was their shared love of Star Trek.

"Yeah, excited's a good word to describe it, I guess. Commanding an infantry company was my main career goal when I decided to become an officer. Now that I've got it, I just have to avoid screwing it up, I guess."

Jordan laughed, tapping him on the shoulder. "You're going to do great. I've seen what you've done with those cadets. How much harder can an infantry company be?"

Mark laughed back. "Oh, you have no idea…"

David grinned, catching sight of a thin woman in a dark blue form fitting sundress walking toward the group. She looked to be in her late twenties, dark brown hair, bright blue eyes, strong curves and large breasts. Walking up behind Mark, she tapped him boldly on the shoulder, and he turned around.

"Rhiannon…glad you could make it…" Mark said brightly.

"I hope I haven't kept you waiting," she responded, betraying a husky vocal timbre and a smooth English accent.

Jordan was visibly taken aback by her arrival. She was gorgeous. Distractingly so. Mark reached behind her waist and gently guided her into the now completed circle of the double date.

"Rhiannon, let me introduce Jordan Stark-Simms, and her husband David. They're friends of mine, fellow Star Trek nerds. Jordan, David, this is Dr. Rhiannon Davies, she's a visiting professor of sociology. She'll be joining us for the evening."

"A pleasure…" she extended her hand to David to shake hands, then repeated the action with Jordan.

"I think I've passed you in the hall, but we haven't had a chance to meet properly." Jordan offered.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I don't think I noticed you…do you teach in another department?" Rhiannon answered.

"In a manner of speaking, yes. I'm in my final year as a doctoral candidate. Psychology."

"Ah…I see. Different floors in the same building. And of course, you're stuck in those dreadful graduate offices. Packed in like sardines, aren't you?"

Jordan smiled and nodded. "It can get a little cozy in there sometimes."

"Well…keep at it, darling. You'll take your degree and join our ranks soon enough."

Jordan smiled and nodded warmly again, deftly parrying the condescending tone of Rhiannon's last comment.

"And what do you do, David?" Rhiannon turned away from Jordan.

"Me? Uh, nothing really. I guess business. I do business."

Rhiannon raised a perfectly coiffed eyebrow, indicating curiosity.

Jordan jumped back in, willing to supplement her husband's awkward modesty.

"He started a business that manages regular maintenance for fleet vehicles. School buses, city buses, long haul trucks, stuff like that. It's brand new, but he's already gone from one full time mechanic to five, and they keep growing. Right honey?"

"Yeah, that's right…" David nodded, beaming. He always felt fifteen feet tall when Jordan bragged about him to people.

"Mechanics? Trucks…How nice…" Rhiannon replied, her voice trailing off. "Well, Captain, do we set sail now?"

Mark smiled ambiguously. "We have a few minutes before the movie starts, I thought we could get some popcorn, then settle in. There's a nice pub a few blocks down where we can grab a drink or even a meal after it's over. If everyone's up to it."

"Lovely," Rhiannon spoke for everyone. "Shall we then?"

Two hours later, the foursome emerged back onto the street. It seemed that everyone enjoyed the film, but for different reasons.

"I was intrigued by the premise…" Jordan started. "The central problem is communication, the inability of an advanced civilization to communicate with an outsider, and the need to go to extraordinary lengths to secure an extinct species to aid in that communication. Establishing new media of communication by reaching into the past, an extinct species. Fascinating."

"Fascinating? Hardly…" Rhiannon chuffed. "I'm afraid I simply can't suspend disbelief to that extent. But I loved how terrible it was…just delighted by the sheer camp value of it all. Wooden acting, bad writing, shoehorning whales into it all. It's like a train wreck…you can't look away…" She laughed at her own joke.

Mark nodded politely. "I think there are a few levels where the film can be enjoyed. I agree it has a distinctly 1980's aesthetic, which can be a little weird to see now. And Shatner can be hard to watch sometimes. But I also agree with Jordan about the premise. I think like a lot of Star Trek, the situations they encounter raise some interesting questions about how humans navigate unique problems."

"About whales and alien probes? Please…" Rhiannon laughed again.

"David, what did you think?" Mark asked, trying to steer the conversation away from his date's disdain.

"Me? Oh, I liked it. But you know me and Star Trek. I always love it. I love everything about it. And it was really fun to see it on the big screen. I've only ever seen that one on TV. So this is a real treat for me. I'm just glad we could be here together."

Knowing that he knew more about the series than anyone in the group, and possibly anyone alive, Jordan was touched by David's childlike response. She grabbed his hand, beaming as they began to walk down the street to the pub.

Once seated, the conversations began in earnest, ranging widely from the film, to current events, to career ambitions, to music, to economics, and even to anthropology in science fiction. Throughout the otherwise pleasant conversation, Rhiannon peppered the exchanges with alternating jabs: on the one hand fawning on her date, missing no opportunity to rest a hand on his arm or pat him on the shoulder or chest, and on the other hand subtly demeaning Jordan and David. Starting as she did before the movie, she poked fun at David's pedestrian business, at Jordan's as-yet incomplete degree, then moved on to mock their appearance: Jordan's hair, her t-shirt, a small stain on one leg of her jeans, then David's crooked glasses and the traces of grease under his fingernails.

At length, the practiced patience of a pastor's daughter wore thin and Jordan rose to use the restroom. She needed a break from the insufferable busty English academic. Unfortunately, following the girl code, Rhiannon rose with her and they found themselves in the ladies' room together.

After emerging from separate stalls, Rhiannon approached the large mirror over the row of sinks, pulling out a small compact to touch up her makeup. "Having fun tonight, dear? I'm so glad we could double date."

Jordan looked down at her hands, squeezing soap bubbles up between her fingers. She thought about not answering. But at length, this woman's blatant disrespect of her husband got the better of her.

"You know, we're not so stupid that we don't understand all the little digs you've been throwing at us all evening. I don't know what your problem is, but whatever it is you're trying to do, I don't think it's very nice."

"Of course it's not nice, darling…" Rhiannon said, leaning forward to touch up her mascara. "But you're also not so stupid that you don't realize that I haven't said a single untrue thing to you all evening."

Jordan's face burned as she turned to face her. "I don't even know you. What did I ever do to you?"

Rhiannon kept her gaze fixed on the mirror. "Don't be stupid, Jordan. I didn't agree to go on a date so that he could look at you all night."

"What?" Jordan asked, incredulous.

"You heard me. You might pretend not to notice, and that ninny husband of yours may be so wrapped up in daydreams about spaceships and Klingons to notice, but for anyone else, it's as plain as the sharp little nose on your little freckled face. And don't think I don't see how you look at him."

Jordan was aghast, her head jerked back and her mouth hung open in shock. "I have never…"

"Save it." Rhiannon cut her off. She tucked her mascara pencil back in her clasp and clicked it shut before turning to face Jordan directly for the first time. "Here's what's going to happen, darling. I have a colleague sitting at the bar, and I'm going to pop over and say hello. Professional courtesy, you know how it is. You can say your goodbyes to Mark, and take your hubby home, and then I'll take Mark home and spend the rest of the evening making sure he forgets all about you."

Jordan's mouth closed, and she blinked back tears of shock. Unsure of what to say, her lips pursed in indignation.

"Do hurry, dear," Rhiannon said, heading toward the door. "And don't worry about Mark holding on to your memory. I can be very memorable when I'm enthusiastic." She pulled the door open and walked through it, her hips swaying ostentatiously.

Jordan took a moment to blink her way back into the present. Instinctively, she turned away from the mirror, carefully avoiding any more unexpected encounters with…other women…that could complicate the evening. Then she walked out of the bathroom, seeing Rhiannon glancing at her sideways from the bar while chatting amiably with someone. She crossed the room and sat down again at the table with Mark.

David had, inconveniently enough, gone to the bathroom.

Mark looked sheepish. "I'm sorry…she's just someone I met at a faculty mixer, I didn't know…"

Jordan put her hand up and shook her head. "Don't worry about it," she said wearily.

"I'm really sorry." Mark cringed.

"I said don't worry about it." She looked up at him and smiled. He really did seem sorry.

"So…" she started again after a moment of awkward silence. "What now? You gonna take her to bed? Shame all men to follow? That sort of thing?"

"I mean…that was the tentative plan. Now I'm not so sure."

"Come on, Mark. Release your man-beast. Pound her until she forgets she's British."

"I think that would probably take a while…"

Jordan laughed in spite of herself, then the silence rose again.

"So you're leaving…next week?"

"This weekend, actually. Movers are showing up at the condo tomorrow. I have to check in at the battalion on Tuesday. I'll leave Sunday night."

Jordan nodded. "That's quick."

Mark shrugged. "That's the military."

Jordan stole a glance over at Rhiannon at the bar, still throwing side-eye in her direction. David still wasn't back yet.

"You want to come over tonight?"

Jordan started, her eyes widening. "What?"

"You heard me." Mark's voice was low. "I don't like her. She's mean. Come home with me."

Jordan smirked. "So you're going to call me in from the bullpen because your starting pitcher is mean?"

Mark smirked back. "Yeah, I guess."

Jordan shook her head in disbelief. "You live a strange life, Captain Rein."

Mark looked down in silence for a moment, then spoke softly.

"I want you, Jordan."

Jordan's face began to warm. She, too, looked down, afraid to meet his eyes.

"I…I can't."

More silence.

"Okay."

Mark began drumming gently on the table as Jordan saw David emerge from the men's room.

Jordan stood up from the table, lifting her purse from her chair back and slinging it over her shoulders.

"Well, Captain, I suppose this is goodbye. It really was a pleasure, and I wish you all the luck in the world for your move and your new charlie company command."

Mark rose with her. She extended her small hand, which was grasped by his much larger hand. She looked up into his eyes, shocked to see something in them she had never seen before.

Was it fear?

Need?

Longing?

She didn't know.

But he clearly wanted something from her, and it wasn't sex. Or at least it wasn't just sex. Whatever it was, she knew that the window was closing to give it to him.

He didn't let go of her hand.

"Jordan. Please…"

David had not yet reached the table, but was only seconds away. Jordan's heart raced, a pit grabbed her stomach, and tears rose into her eyes.

She wasn't prepared for this reaction. There were emotions rising in her that she didn't anticipate.

Jordan blinked back tears again. "No, Mark. I'm sorry, but this is the end."

[Jacko]

Nice chapter. I'm just disappointed that the Rhiannon bitch was British

[MustBeDenied2]

Dayum. Two more great chapters. Thanks, Crushing!

MBD

[nnjcpl2002]

I really didn't think that Jordan could turn Mark down.
In fact, I'm skeptical and eager for the next chapter.

[mattyg_2671]

Nice chapter. I'm just disappointed that the Rhiannon bitch was British

Yeah, why are baddies almost always British?!

[nnjcpl2002]

Wow! This is really getting complicated....in a very good way tool
Hey, I used to be a stud like Mark, with a way with the ladies.
About 40 some years ago?? Ha! Not quite, and I'm glad I didn't get caught. At least not too often.

Thanks, Crusher, for the hot as well as fascinating story.