Jordan

[loyaltoher]

Oh how you take us to the next level each chapter. I have so much respect for the skill you exhibit on themes, on timing, on bringing the current state of the character to a more nuanced, complex emotional and physical state. so much to think about….Wow! TY!

[lala2323]

This gets better every chapter. Thank you!

[nnjcpl2002]

Excellent work, C! Thanks. It seems that the Jordan/Rein saga is soon to take off! I'm sure it will be interesting to say the least.

[Shauncuckold]

Great writing. I love the cliffhanger. Looking forward to reading more.

Mr. Swan

[lkh96]

Can't wait for Jordan/rein saga and David's cuckolding era to begin. I am dying to find out how it ends....the best author on ohw !!

[Tire_Kicker]

C'mon Jared, you got this.

[Crushing]

In a weird way, it looked like a treble clef. At least the top half of one. Without the slight flourish at the bottom, of course.

Gil squinted as he looked down.

Yep. Where his body joined with Amy, there was a definite resemblance. A little treble clef when she raised up just enough to barely hold him inside. Then it disappeared inside her again…

Amy straddled her boyfriend's hips, her muscular thighs flexing effortlessly as she rose and fell. His own rigid member slipped in and out of her, the wet, parting cleft of her womanhood eagerly embracing him as her dance generated pleasure for them both.

Yeah, kind of like a treble clef.

Coincidental–ironic, even–as little it produced cute little squeaks from Amy's throat, manifesting as hums somewhere in the D flat major range, a full octave above middle C. Tonic and mediant pitches, mostly. Occasionally rising to subdominant…

"What?" Amy whispered, looking down at her boyfriend and giggling, the slick sounds of their union audible now.

"Nothing…" Gil snapped out of his analytical reverie and smiled up at her. He breathed deeply before gently grasping her splayed quadriceps with his long, thin fingers–not wanting to break her rhythm as the warm pleasure of her favor radiated down his cock and into his body.

That rhythm, of course, was a syncopated one–a half-beat echo of the much heavier thumps on the other side of the wall.

Amy sighed, grasping her small breasts and pinching her pink nipples between her fingers, her hair falling forward with her head.

The duet had become routine. A repeat, command performance.

It was almost Pavlovian, actually.

When the neighbor–the mysterious Mr. Rain–began unceremoniously plowing some woman on the other side of the wall, Amy and Gil…simply responded in kind.

The first time was spontaneous, of course. Unexpected. They heard Mr. Rain and a lady companion, and they themselves decided to couple on a lark.

And the level of pleasure was shocking.

The second time took the form of a joke. The noises started a couple nights later as they were drifting off to sleep. Why not do it again?

But when Amy mounted her boyfriend, when her eyes closed, her ears attentive to the rhythm tapping on the other side of the wall, when Gil's own fingers began mimicking a keyboard improvisation across her back, up her stomach, cupping her small breasts, and running an arpeggio down and between her thighs…as the steady rhythm enveloped them, Amy had experienced a profound and unexpected climax.

She was a little embarrassed by that. But both thought it best not to question it. Because both of them knew what it was.

After that, neither Gil nor Amy bothered to articulate the need they felt when they heard the noises through the wall. And neither cared what exactly generated the potency of their intercourse when Mr. Rain was engaged beyond their headboard. Each time, they simply echoed him, found their climax, and then collapsed into stifled giggles after it was over, holding each other tenderly in the dark.

Gil didn't need words to explain it. He had experienced this phenomenon in an analogous domain of experience on any number of occasions. Always while sitting in front of 88 faux-ivory keys, with another performer or performers positioned to his front and off to the right.

It was synergy.

Creative chemistry.

That strange blend of action and reception, simultaneous give-and-take that always seemed to transcend words while being intuitively understood by all participants. And the more astute audiences.

The magic part of good ensemble music.

He knew how to recognize it mainly because of how often it didn't happen. He couldn't count the number of times he had to sit with a violist, or a clarinetist, a flatlining choir or even a group of uninspired dancers, working his way dutifully through the requisite number of measures, beats, and tones as everyone merely plunked through their part of the piece. The technical result was generally passable. Applause usually followed, and it was usually more polite than anything.

But sometimes…and you could never completely predict when it would happen…the music would start, and the musicians would both tap into something together. The music itself would bind them in a unified–or at least a bonded–pair. They would start anticipating each other–dynamics, volume, the perfect little pauses for breath, all of it–it would just…happen.

Those were the moments. And you could always tell.

You could always tell.

He looked up at Amy's face, which held a fierce concentration as the melody sung by the other young woman through the wall raised in pitch. Whoever she was, she was clearly ramping up to orgasm.

And Amy was following.

Amy stopped bouncing on Gil and began to grind: her smooth, pale hips pumping gracefully forward, up a bit, then back.

Forward, up a bit, back.

Forward, up a bit, back.

3 beats on two…Treble clef. Key of D flat major.

Development…leads to tension…leads to…

Climax.

The woman on the other side of the wall wailed, and Amy's hand quickly rose to cover her own mouth. Her eyes scrunched shut, but her hips did not miss a nanosecond of rhythm.

A trained dancer never misses a beat. You can break her legs and she'll still finish on beat.

And Amy was a true dancer–she bucked as steady as a metronome.

Gil's own orgasm steadily rose as he felt his girlfriend's womanhood clutch him. Their motions continued, and the gentle pulses of Amy's delight drew out his own climax. He grunted, squeezing her thighs with his fingers as he released into the condom.

True to the routine, Amy giggled in delight as she fell forward onto Gil.

They panted together in the dark, their hearts slowing steadily as the rhythm thumped on behind their cheap IKEA headboard.

Amy continued to affectionately nudge her hips into Gil's as he softened inside her. Reaching carefully between them, he withdrew, noting the windy sigh of her contentment as he pinched off the used condom, tossing it into the bedside trash can before spreading his wide palm across her bare back and clutching her torso into his.

Amy cooed as Gil lifted their bedspread over her bare body.

Amy, petite as she was, got cold quickly. But under the covers, the heat of her face and torso continued to warm his body.

Gil didn't know for sure, but she seemed like she wanted more.

But she didn't say anything. Just ran her own tiny palms up and down Gil's long, thin arms, her warm torso dampening his own.

* * *

David's feet twitched slightly, impatient for the plane to reach cruising altitude.

His mind was in a tangle, unsure of where to start and where to end the email. And he couldn't open his laptop until the flight crew gave the go-ahead.

It was the first port visit since he started at Maersk where he hit nothing but walls. It was a disaster in consulting terms–utterly unproductive. He had submitted his report full of recommendations to all concerned, but he had no hope that any of them would be implemented, even with corporate pressure from above, as the ports in that region clearly ran on some sort of familial patronage and rather than a focus on efficiency or profit.

As David had no clear corrective for that, he was forced to admit his limitations. Three weeks of arguing in circles, of being misdirected by foremen and supervisors, and one time even being locked out of his workspace "on accident."

He wanted to compose a straightforward, professional email to Arne to get ahead of what he strongly suspected was inevitable failure.

A monotone ding sounded in the cabin of the large aircraft. The flight crew unbuckled from their jump seats and began to prepare the drink service. David bent down and reached into his carry-on bag to retrieve his laptop.

It was a long flight. Overnight from Istanbul to New York, then an hour layover to catch the regional jet home.

His face still burned with frustration. It had been a maddening three weeks, and the particular time difference between Turkey and home made daily conversations with Jordan problematic. Plus, she was in the last two chapters of her thesis, and highly focused. He didn't want to worry her with his own frustrations or worries, so he had forced an optimistic tone and kept updates to bare facts.

But the level of frustration–combined with the absence of data stemming from port and railway supervisors stonewalling him–made his nights lonelier than usual. And of course, his nights were Jordan's workdays, so he felt bad calling her. Even if she was wide awake while he stared at the hotel ceiling in the middle of the night.

He finished the email, which was brief, friendly, and governed by bare facts, and read it through.

Yes…that would have to do. He had been succinct, fact based, and professional. A small bit of frustration was probably discernible, but Arne liked to draw his own conclusions, and the information David had provided would make the dots easy to connect.

But the end conclusion was clear: there would be no real improvements to the Black Sea port system until the staff became more open to change.

For Arne, that meant a knot in a rope that David had thus far been successful in untangling.

David wasn't sure how Arne would react. He'd never failed on one of these trips before.

One thing was for sure. His usual return home would feel tainted.

David liked to go home to Jordan for his week off with a new revenue stream every time. He knew she didn't need that from him, and most of the time he either didn't tell her how much the incentive pay increase would be, or he played it off as no big deal. But he liked the feeling of returning home with more for her.

For them. For their future.

He read through the email one more time, took a deep breath, and hit the send button.

Gritting his teeth, he resisted the temptation to open the spreadsheets from the Turkey trip again. He knew what he saw, he knew why he reached the conclusions he did. He didn't want to tie himself in knots any more over this.

He closed his laptop and replaced it, reaching for his phone. He connected to the wi-fi and texted Jordan.

Should he tell her now? Or wait until they were together?

He opened the message chain between them–a rolling current of short and long expressions of love, of little cartoon symbols. Emojis, signifying playful, affectionate and occasionally erotic intent.

He'd wait to tell her. She might not even ask. She never did, actually. She didn't seem to care about money that much. Even though he always told her what he managed to achieve on his trips. He liked reporting to her, even though he knew she didn't expect him to.

He typed his message.

D: Hey Jo, I'm in the air. Should land in NYC in…10.5 hours. Then the regional. Looks like no delays, I should be home when we planned.

He waited. No response. He put his phone down and let his head loll back in exhaustion…

A buzz on his pant leg jolted him out of slumber.

How long have I been asleep?

He checked his phone…he had sent the text to Jordan 40 minutes ago.

J: So excited to see you honey! When do you land here?

David rubbed his eyes.

D: Probably just before dinner. Want to hit Curry Hut on the way home?

J: Maybe later…you're landing at 3:30, right? Why don't you hit this when you get home… Then we can get some Curry Hut takeout. Does that sound like a plan?

David grinned.

D: You have no idea…

David's face flushed. He loved it when she was eager.

J: It's a deal then…I'm glad you see it my way.

D: Yeah, absolutely. No argument there. You can pick me up from the airport?

He waited a couple minutes, then finally a response.

J: Duh. Text me when you take off from NYC, and I'll meet you at baggage claim like always. Then buckle up, business boy.

David's face flushed a deeper red.

"Would you like a cold beverage now, Mr. Stark?"

David looked up suddenly, blanking the screen on his phone.

"Um, yes. Ginger Ale, please. And an extra cup for ice, if you could?"

"Of course."

David looked at his watch, shifting in his seat as to rustle his stirring blood back down. When the flight attendant had moved past, he picked up his phone again.

D: Can't wait, Jo. I love you.

J:

* * *

The plastic totes were way bigger than she thought they would be.

It seemed stupid to realize that now. Like, when she bought them at Target, Amy wrestled both totes into the big red cart, then wrestled them out again at the checkout counter, and then into the back seat of her car when she got to the parking lot.

But somehow it was when she got them into the apartment that she realized she had a problem. Stuffing her clothes–the cheap ones–into one tote, and then when that one was full, the other, she had to plomp her rump down onto the lids to latch them shut. But then…she had two cumbersome, awkward plastic totes stacked unceremoniously in the corner of her bedroom.

Two awkward, ugly translucent boxes clearly stuffed with soft, cheap clothing.

It wouldn't do, but she had other priorities first.

Rushing back to her closet, Amy carefully removed the soft plastic film from her approved wardrobe. Some light formal things, including three business ensembles and a couple cocktail dresses, next to a row of casual wear. Mostly tans, creams, and light earth tones from The Row, Celine, a couple less well names, but all names from Saks, of course. All of them hung easily on evenly spaced wooden hangers.

On the shelf above–untouched Chanel ballet flats perched next to polished leather riding boots, Gucci loafers that matched her purse…

I could go on. You get the point.

Similar haste had led Amy to replace their Walmart-Gift-Card bedding with something more acceptable–high thread count Egyptian cotton peeking out under a spotless and brand new comforter from Crate and Barrel–the most expensive one she could find that worked in the color scheme of the bedroom. The dishes were what they were–no getting around that–but then the kitchen was cleaned, then cleaned again. It all sat sterile, and subtle but rare aromas wafted from the candles–opened, but not yet lit.

Amy took another glance around, pretending to walk into the room for the first time. The new curtains seemed good enough.

She'd hate them, but they weren't cheap. So they could at least fight about it. Better that than…most other things they could fight about.

Now Amy was frustrated to find she couldn't quite get any of her vacuum attachments to reach the little bits of dust bunnies that clung around the legs of Gil's upright practice piano.

It was an electric one with weighted keys–so no full size harp–but it was still quite heavy.

She grunted in frustration as she dropped to her knees and leaned forward to pick the dust bunnies out of the carpet, one by one. After accumulating a small handful, she carefully inspected the space, and, satisfied, she popped back up to her feet and dropped the little handful of lint into the trash can before taking it out.

After the dumpster lid crashed shut, Amy made her way back across the parking lot, checking her watch.

The former Mrs. Jepps, or "Trish," as she liked to be called–despite her actual name being Pamela Jean–was set to arrive in 90 minutes.

Amy shuddered at the thought of her mother in El Paso. She had only been once before, it was only for a half day, and it did not go well. Thank god she lived in the dorms then. But now she had her own place, which Trish didn't like.

Gil was teaching until 5:30 tonight, so he would not be able to meet Amy and her mother until dinner. Reservations were secured at the closest thing to a fancy restaurant Amy could find in El Paso.

It didn't matter, really. Of course Trish would find fault with everything. But the damage could be…minimized.

Amy pulled open the gate to the building and slipped inside, the latch catching the hem of her tank top. She adjusted it as the gate clanged shut behind her.

Shit. A tank top from the mall, set over some generic leggings–she'd take them off when she took a shower, but she'd have to hide those too.

Maybe just throw them in the dumpster on her back out to the car…

She opened her apartment door again, looking around.

Yeah, it looked like a diligent and undervalued immigrant woman cleaned it.

She hated that she knew that was her mother's standard.

As Amy made her way to the bathroom, where her chosen casual designer outfit was hanging and ready over the towel rack, she caught sight of the two large totes still imposing in front of the closet.

Shit.

Amy pursed her lips in frustration and sighed.

They couldn't be out, and there was really nowhere to hide them.

She could maybe shove them onto the porch, but if her mother stepped out there to inspect–and she probably would–that would not be good. That would be worse, because the neighbors could see. Her mother would call her trailer trash.

Not good.

Actually, that was an understatement. Trish finding two totes full of those clothes, and knowing that Amy was wearing them daily–that would be a catastrophe.

She was out of options. She checked her watch again. 84 minutes before she had to be at the airport.

She could rent a storage unit?

No. No time.

And she couldn't hide them in the car, either. Obviously.

A thought occurred. There was that spot off to the right of the laundry facility in the building–a little hook of a corner leading to a utility closet. If she could stack them there, she could probably get away with leaving them overnight. Enough time to let Gil slip away and maybe take them to one of his roommates' places later. Maybe.

Amy grunted in frustration. It would have to do. She was out of options. She leaned over and spread her arms wide to grasp the first of the totes. Attempting to lift it, her petite body tipped over onto the stack with an indignant squeak.

She grabbed the handle and pulled, the plastic crackling with indignity as it hit the ground. She dragged it over the carpet, stutter-stepping, heading backward toward the front door.

When her butt hit the front door, she stepped awkwardly over the tote before even more awkwardly wiggling the door open and shoving it the box into the hall.

Swearing quietly to herself, Amy repeated the process with the other tote, this time dragging it backwards out into the hall by the other. Glancing down at her watch, she realized that if she didn't hurry, she wouldn't have time to shower and do her hair.

Unacceptable.

Determined, but smarting from the rough red line from the sharp edge of the plastic handle digging into the pads of her fingers, she kept dragging backward, bent over, her small butt pointing the way as she tip-tip-tip toed the awkward box down the rough hallway toward the laundry…Until her small butt rammed directly into a wall.

Amy squeaked in indignation, unsure what had happened. She was sure she hadn't reached the end of the hall yet, turning around to look up and find that the wall was a man.

A particular man, in fact. The mysterious Mr. Rain.

Amy's eyes widened.

Mr. Rain was as tall as she remembered–certainly more than a foot taller than her. Maybe a foot and a half. And he had clearly come from the community gym–he was wearing a tight tank top and gray sweatpants, the cords from earbuds running into an ipod strapped to his long, muscular arm. Running her eyes down that arm, Amy could see a partially healed scar–a straight, clean scab clearly caused by a deep cut from a sharp edge.

He was sweaty. And bigger than she remembered.

"Oh my god…I'm sorry…" Amy shot upright and turned around, her small palm instinctively touching his chest as a sign of contrition.

Solid muscle.

She jerked her hand back and apologized again. "I'm sorry…I'm so sorry, I was just…ummm…"

"Need help?"

"Help?" Amy was flustered–herself sweaty, her blond hair unkempt from the frenzy of cleaning.

Mr. Rain gestured to the tote, with its brother tote clearly visible twenty feet down the hall in front of her apartment door.

"Oh, that. Yeah, I'm just…uh…I'm hiding them."

"Hiding them?"

Amy blushed. "Yeah. It's…a long story."

Mr. Rain's eyebrow cocked in interest. He didn't answer, just waited.

She couldn't identify why, but Amy felt a strange compulsion to confess everything to him.

"It's dumb. I'm…uh…my mom's coming to visit, and she hates how I dress. So I'm..um…hiding all of my clothes until she leaves."

Mr. Rain's eyebrow cocked slightly higher. Amy held her breath until his lips shot backward and up, exposing a row of straight, strong, white teeth. His head tilted up slightly as the laughter started.

Her blush deepened.

Shaking his head in appreciation with a wide smile, Amy all of the sudden saw something other than the stern, formidable tower of a man that she had seen before.

She smiled nervously, tucking her sweaty blonde hair behind her ear.

"Where are you hiding them?" Mr. Rain's voice boomed as it chased the laugh.

Amy's nervous smile faded. "By the laundry…that space around the corner by that door."

Mr. Rain shook his head. "Nah. The janitor uses that every night. He'll definitely throw it away. Just hide 'em at my place."

Amy's stomach leaped as she remembered the space from weeks ago. She had only seen it while in a haze of adrenaline, but she remembered it was sad, and a little scary. Bare of furnishings, no decoration. Just books, a bed, and bottles of liquor.

But Mr. Rain was clearly sober now, and he was probably right about the janitor…

"Come on…" Mr. Rain interrupted her train of thought. He bent down and lifted the tote clean into the air with one hand, walking toward the door of his apartment.

1E.

"I won't rat out your wardrobe choices to your mom. I promise."

"Okay…" Amy laughed nervously, following him as he slipped his key into his door.

* * *

Jordan shot upright in her bed. The warm, unfurled feeling that followed her gentle self-evocation lay latent in her limbs, but was soon eclipsed by the blood that shot through her body–following the thumping of her heart.

She stared down at her phone, eyes wide. The contact Captain Mark Rein seemed to slur in and out of focus at the top of the notification, and she blinked twice to make sure she was reading it right. The bedsheet, blanket, and comforter lay bunched around her waist, her naked shoulders, clavicle, and breasts exposed to the dim blue light of her phone in the dark.

Fingers trembling as she hesitated, she unlocked her phone screen and opened her messages.

M: Hey, it's Mark. Haven't talked in a while, just wondering how you're doing. I'm pretty well settled here in NC. Text me back if you want to chat.

Jordan found her mouth with her fingertips, the dim smell of her arousal rising into her nose as she reflexively covered her lips in surprise.

What do I do?

Jordan genuinely wasn't prepared for this. On the one hand, she had carte blanche from David–who was due back home tomorrow. They had discussed having her having a sexual relationship with another man, of course. The past three weeks had been a baffling, frustrating, horny mess of emotions as she navigated the messy threshold between loving, monogamous wife and faithful hotwife while David was half a world away.

That threshold was so messy that she basically gave up on the reality of stepping all the way over it again. The fantasy was enough.

But then Mark Rein texts me out of the blue…

Some mix of flattery and frustration flashed across her emotional field of vision. Where was this supposed to go?

Maybe he was in town…maybe he wanted to stop by?

Maybe he wasn't in town, and just wanted to check in like he said. He lives five states away, after all…why would he come back?

Jordan read the text again, searching for clues.

He's wondering how I'm doing…

Was it a general inquiry? A friendly check in? Was he lonely, or bored? Why reach out to her specifically? There's nothing overtly erotic about the message, but…

Jordan took a deep breath.

Should she text David and ask him if it was okay to talk to Mark? They had discussed him, but not as a real option, given the distance and their history.

She checked the clock on her phone. She couldn't text David now…he was supposed to be boarding a plane.

What could happen if she responded with a friendly text? Why was she so excited with him five states away? Why did this feel wrong all of the sudden?

She read the text a third time, analyzing it by category.

Friendly. General inquiry.

She could hold those boundaries. Keep it casual.

She typed.

J: Hey! Nice to hear from you, hope you're enjoying your new commander role. I've been thinking about you.

She looked down at the message before she sent it.

It was too forward. Thinking about him? Yeah, when masturbating.

Too much.

Maybe a point-by-point response? She deleted the first try.

J: Hey, yeah! Haven't heard from you for a while either! I'm doing good, hope you're doing well! Glad you're settled in NC! I'd love to chat and catch up if you want!

She looked over the second message. A cursory glance made her cringe. 5 exclamation marks, and only 1 complete sentence. Might as well text him a "desperate girlfriend" meme.

Best to keep it open, minimal. Maybe his next text would clarify intentions…

J: Hey, good to hear from you! I'm doing okay, what's new with you?

She hit send.

30 seconds into watching the three dots flash on his side of the text conversation, Jordan realized she hadn't breathed. She took a deep breath, which was interrupted with the next message.

M: Nothing particularly exciting. I've had command of Charlie Co for about 6 months now, and we're doing pretty well. It was an uphill climb for a while, but things are coming together. Definitely more fulfilling than babysitting cadets. But harder in some ways.

Jordan caught herself smiling. Why was she smiling?

J: What, you don't like being crammed into an office in a student union building dealing with college kid problems all day?

M: Yeah, that got old. Although I was telling my XO yesterday–sometimes smoking hot grad students come and tattle on cadets when they cheat on a test, and that can be a pretty big perk of the gig.

Jordan immediately felt her face flush.

J: Oh? You used the plural there for smoking hot grad students…were there also busty young doctoral candidates from the Mathematics or Biological Science department that turned your head while disclosing violations of academic policy?

Jordan smiled to herself as Mark's responses came quickly. They were falling into their established pattern of banter.

M: I'm sorry Ms. Simms, those files are classified.

Jordan cocked an eyebrow and giggled.

J: Permanently?

M: I'm afraid so, Ms. Simms. Although I will say that "busty" was never really my type…I prefer the petite athletic type.

Jordan slid from her seated upright position to lay on her back, settling in as she felt her nipples begin to harden.

J: That's new data to consider, Captain. We're narrowing the field of inquiry at least.

M:

J: You're using emojis!

M: Yeah, I'm learning. It's…had mixed results.

J:

M: So seriously, how have you been? How's your dissertation coming?

Jordan took a deep breath. She noticed that she hadn't stopped smiling since his first response.

J: It's good, actually. I've got 8 chapters done, I've got like…1 and a half to go.

M: That IS good. You're really cranking it out.

J: Yeah, well, a few hours a day every day. It accumulates.

M: I'm sure it's brilliant.

J: I'm sure you're wrong.

M: Time will tell, Dr. Simms.

Jordan's smile widened.

J: Don't jinx it!

M: How's David?

Jordan's heart softened.

J: He's good. Really good, actually.

M: Did he get that management job?

Jordan blinked, realizing just how much had happened in the past year.

J: No, actually. He got edged out by someone's nephew or something, but then he took a consulting job with a big international shipping corporation. He travels all over the world, fixing supply chain stuff. He's really good at it. And they pay him really well. I got a new car and everything.

M: Wow. That's…that's really incredible.

J: Yeah, and he started a business too. Basically a new way to do fleet vehicle maintenance, and they're starting to source materials for local government road crews and stuff. It's really taken off, they have like 50 employees already.

M: No kidding? I remember hearing about him starting something up, but wow. That's…really impressive.

Jordan paused, realizing what this must sound like to a man who had been her passionate lover in the not-too-distant past. But she couldn't help herself. Whenever anyone asked about her husband, she couldn't help but brag.

J: Sorry, I kinda gush when I talk about David. He's just really great.

M: He really is. Honestly, your husband has a once-in-a-generation mind. But you do too. You guys are a really good fit for each other.

Jordan stared at the message, a tear forming in the corner of her eye.

M: I'm really glad he landed on his feet. I figured he would, but I also felt really bad about how things went down and everything. With that guy on the docks.

J: Yeah…that was…not good.

M: But now everyone knows you can't keep David Stark down. Quite the opposite, apparently. You knock him down and he gets up and flies off.

Jordan nodded silently.

J: Yeah, pretty much. Hey, Mark?

M: Yup?

J: I'm glad to hear from you and everything, but is there a reason you reached out now?

Jordan held her breath as she watched the flashing dots.

M: I'm not completely sure, honestly. There's some weird stuff going on–internal politics mostly at the Battalion. Basically I've come to the conclusion that I need a girlfriend.

Jordan's jaw dropped, reading it again. Then again.

Then again.

* * *

Axe! Party of 3?

Gilbert stood up quickly, gesturing to the hostess. They had mispronounced his name, and he hoped that nobody noticed.

"That's us…" He walked quickly up to the hostess' stand.

The young hostess smiled, directing Gilbert, Amy, and "Trish" back to a table. It was placed slightly off center, not too near the entrance, not near the kitchen, and a window nearby, nominally meeting Trish's standards.

Amy had seen to it. She had made the embarrassing call when she made the reservation earlier that week, and was silently grateful that they remembered.

It was a nice steakhouse. Low candle light. Clean. Most of the patrons were well dressed. Amy and Trish both wore high end casual wear, of course. The kind of thing that always looked brand new and felt like it cost way too much–because it did.

Amy inwardly bristled at the facade, but couldn't help but smile at Gil as he pulled back a chair for her mother. He was dressed in well-fitting slacks and a sportcoat, a plain gray tie accenting his navy blue button up shirt. His hair hung almost to his chin, but was neatly combed–this time.

Gilbert looked good in suits. Strangely natural, which seemed to cut against his rural Oklahoma upbringing. But he dressed up for performances, and since he had that rare gift to command an entire auditorium when he walked on stage, a single spotlight following him until it rest on the lonely instrument…

It followed naturally that he looked good in suits. He was halfway in his element when well dressed.

Trish forced a practiced smile as Gil pulled out a chair for Amy, and when she was seated, plopped into a chair next to her.

The Manhattan socialite's eyes circled the room, quietly gauging the acceptability of every light, every piece of furniture, and every human being in her field of vision before resting on Amy. Her eyes lifted and a performative smile formed as she attempted to play the role of affectionate mother.

"I'm so happy to see you guys! You both look so happy."

"Thank you," Gil said, smiling back. "We're doing quite well, all things con…"

"Happy enough to break up Amy's skin care routine," Trish wryly interjected. "I guess when you're young and in love, you think you'll never age, huh?"

Amy's eyes dropped, her hand instinctively rising to touch her face. Gil cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Well, I suppose there's a reason Amy's not dancing prima." Trish picked up the menu and began looking down at it. "Much easier to hide blotchy skin behind the spotlight."

Amy blushed, taking her turn to clear her throat before looking back up. "It's only September, mommy. We haven't ramped up for any major productions."

"I think that's probably a good thing," Trish responded matter-of-factly.

Gil stole a glance at each, switching his focus back and forth between mother and daughter.

A physical resemblance was clearly there. A striking one, actually. It wasn't hard to see. Very obvious facial similarities. Amy even had her hair pulled tightly back exactly as Trish did, highlighting the similarities. And their outfits were clearly bought from the same small group of Manhattan boutiques. Body types were similar too–both were thin and had dancer's builds.

But there were differences.

And the main one was much less tangible.

It was something instantly discernible from an artist's point of view: Trish's face was total contrivance. It was like a third rate composer trying to riff on a Beethoven melody. All the elements of beauty were there, all held together by a technically careful, practiced performance. But the genius? Absent. Deep, compositional beauty? There was none of it.

Skin deep beauty only.

Underneath it all lurked a Mariana's Trench of mediocrity, which had festered in middle age to a constant fountain of bitter recrimination and dismissive judgment, paired with social sycophantism that invariably came out when she was in a room with other rich dilettantes.

"Trish" continued to passive aggressively berate her daughter. Unsure if or how to intervene, Gil found himself compulsively contrasting Amy's face to her mother's.

Younger, obviously.

Piercing, curious, ice-blue eyes. A button nose. High cheekbones. Delicate chin, small dimple on the right side.

And contrary to Trish's barbed observation, Gil knew Amy had a skincare routine. And while it may not be enough for the Upper East Side, by Oklahoma standards, it was extravagant. Her skin was incredibly soft and smooth. The envy of any other young woman.

But it wasn't expensive Swedish products that made her beautiful.

It was the aspect that, from his perspective, stood in such obvious contrast to her mother. And it was incredibly visible–to him, at least.

Depth.

Amy, like Gil, was obviously a born artist. It was clearly visible in those ice blue eyes. How they moved. How they focused.

Those eyes locked naturally on to things in the world: analyzing, comparing, reworking, compulsively and constantly creating.

She had the kind of curiosity that could never be stopped or satiated, and the discipline to bring her curiosity and passion into her own medium: dance.

She was an amazing dancer. Enchanting. Gil knew it for sure–he had seen her dance on her own in an empty room. He had played for her. When she was alone, when the music played only for her, when she felt it move through her–

Good god. It was a revelation.

On the other hand, when she danced with others, she held back. She was highly capable–flawless even–but she wouldn't let herself go. It was obvious. He knew it, and she knew it. They even talked about it sometimes, but she could never articulate why it was. She called it stagefright. Sometimes social anxiety. And that may have been part of it, or maybe just different names for it. But that wasn't it.

No, there was something holding her back. And now, watching mother and daughter across the table from each other, Gil knew what was holding her back.

"She'll have the salad with balsamic vinaigrette, and the salmon. Half portion, please."

Trish didn't even let Amy speak to the waiter when he appeared. Amy's golden ponytail fell forward as her head dipped again, blushing in shame. Gil cleared his throat again, looking down at his menu, his long hair falling forward to hide the indignant red rising in his own face.

"See?" Trish said pointedly to the embarrassed waiter, reaching across the table and pinching Amy's lower tricep. "She's pretty, but if she gets any fatter, she'll never dance in the front line."

* * *

A small crowd clutched around the wide, stainless steel oval, the conveyer's tongue gently spitting out black square luggage, one piece at a time.

David stood patiently, waiting for his own bag, marked with a neatly tied plaid bow on the handle. A trick that he had learned from Arne in one of their many conversations. Since so many bags looked alike.

An audible squeal shredded the bland silence around the baggage claim carousel, and David turned around to see his wife running toward him.

Jordan was wearing a sky blue t-shirt and dark blue jeans. Her hair was pulled back in a half-up ponytail, her gunbarrel blue eyes bright and excited.

And she was wearing makeup.

David dropped his carryon as Jordan threw her arms around his neck, kissing him deeply in front of the waiting airport crowd. Some standers-by were visibly touched, others visibly uncomfortable. All lost interest within seconds.

Jordan broke the long kiss and squeezed her husband tightly.

"Oh baby…oh baby. Welcome home. I missed you so much…"

She was flushed and euphoric, her eyes bright with joy as she leaned back to look at him. He smiled in spite of himself, his heart swelling at the sudden onslaught of affection.

"I missed you too, Jo. How are you?"

"Better now, mister. Where's your bag?"

"It hasn't come out yet. Shouldn't be long."

Jordan pivoted to stand next to him, grasping his hand eagerly, her other hand cupping lightly under his forearm. "How was the flight?"

"Long," David yawned. "But productive. Good to be home. Really good."

Jordan turned halfway to join hands sideways around his waist, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. David smiled and squeezed her back, smelling her hair.

"Oh…there's my bag…"

Ten minutes later, Jordan unlocked the squeaky-clean RAV-4 and David threw his bags in the back before plopping down in the passenger seat. Jordan started the car, still looking over her shoulder to back out, not using the backup camera.

David chuckled to himself, shaking his head.

"What?" Jordan smirked at him. "It's still new…"

"It's been like…six months."

"I take time to get used to change."

David laughed again. Her perfume hung latent in the air of her car. Her scent, the warmth of her skin, her laugh. It was intoxicating.

Fascinating how one can step out of one tight space, like an airplane seat, calling it as either hell or purgatory, and step into another tight space, and know it's heaven.

As Jordan paid the parking fee and the retainer arm lifted, David reached over and put a hand on her leg. She looked over and smiled again before turning into traffic.

"So…how did the trip go? How was Turkey?"

David dropped his head back in frustration. "I never want to go back. It was a disaster."

"Why? What happened?"

David groaned, rubbing his eyes. "Nothing. Nothing happened. And that's the problem. I went everywhere, talked to line workers, supervisors, managers…they all seemed cool and then did nothing. I had to send Arne an email saying that I just completely failed at this one."

Jordan's brow furrowed. "Did he answer?"

David sighed. "Yeah, he did. He actually said it didn't surprise him. There are some really impossible port and rail systems, and they saved them all for the second half of my rotation. I guess I got the easy ones out of the way."

"So you're not in trouble or anything."

David snorted. "Not really, no. I just…I hate the feeling. I feel like I let him down, let the company down. And honestly, I feel like I let you down."

"Let me down?" Jordan looked over in surprise as she merged onto the freeway. "That makes no sense, honey. How?"

David groaned again, and looked out the window. "I don't know, Jo. It's stupid."

"I don't doubt that, honey. But still, tell me why."

"I just…I like to bring back more money when I come home to you. It's like coming back from a hunt or something. I want to come home with a big deer draped over my shoulders. I don't know, I feel like a better husband when I've gotten a bonus or a new revenue stream or something. And tonight I'm coming back with nothing but salary and some sweets and doodads from the airport in Istanbul."

"So you think I'll be disappointed in you if you don't haul in a Santa Claus sized bag of money every time you come home?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

"Well," Jordan sighed. "I hate to agree with you, honey. But that part is very stupid. But the part about coming home from a hunt with something to eat. That's not stupid at all. That's just you trying to do right by us."

"I guess…"

"Look at us, honey. Look at me. Do I look hungry to you? Miserable? Poor? I'm driving a brand new car, and I don't even know how to use all the features. I haven't even looked at our bank account since we got married."

"You haven't?"

"Not seriously, no. I got curious a couple times, but I know there's always going to be enough in there."

"You do?"

"Of course…" Now it was Jordan's turn to snort. "So I just don't worry about it. I married David Stark. And David Stark does not let his wife go wanting. He will scrape barnacles off of ships in the arctic using a drinking straw to breathe to take care of his family. I knew it when we married. You will never, ever drop the ball as a provider. I know that."

David looked up, surprised. "You mean that?"

"Of course, baby."

David pursed his lips thoughtfully, leaning his head back in his chair.

"That's good to know, Jo. Thank you."

"You're welcome. But I do need something from you," she said flatly as she turned down the final road to their apartment complex."

"Yeah? What's that?" David asked.

"When I park this car, I need you to just leave your bags in here and head straight inside to the bedroom. I'm so horny right now, I'm about to crawl out of my own skin."

* * *

"So Gil, I hear you won a regional competition?"

Gil nodded earnestly. "Yes, but, uh…which one?"

"There's more than one?"

Gil shrugged modestly and nodded.

"Well then, I suppose the most recent one?" Ms. Jepps squinted one eye, her smile wry and unimpressed.

"Oh, the Southwest Academies of Music. Yeah. I placed first in that one."

"Southwest. Hmmm…Is the competition…high caliber?"

Amy's face burned in indignation, but she stayed silent. She knew where this was going.

Gilbert nodded again, tucking his long hair behind his ear. "Reasonably high. Some of the schools in Utah have very competitive programs. And it includes California, too–UCLA, UC Berkeley. Also some of the Van Cliburn judges were there."

"Trish" was taken aback. "Oh, I hadn't thought of that. So the competition included California, then? Los Angeles?"

"Of course. And San Francisco and Monterey. Both are hubs for high quality competitors. Some of the UC Davis performers were really good, too. One placed third. The competition was pretty stiff. I felt fortunate to even make the final, so when I won, I was pretty floored."

Trish was seated imperiously in the soft chair perpendicular to his position on the couch that Amy had so carefully cleaned with the vacuum, then with a lint roller, then with wet wipes, then with the vacuum again. Amy sat with a textbook's width of distance from her boyfriend, her back straight, her eyes down.

"Oh," Trish said flatly. "That's…better than I expected."

"Thank you…" Gil caught himself before laying an upward inflection on the last word, which would have clued her into his temptation to express sarcasm.

"And your teacher…they got you a different teacher, right? Not one of the regular piano teachers here?"

Gil nodded patiently. "Alessandra de Foglio. She retired from Austin, but she comes up every other week."

"De Foglio?"

"Yes."

"Did she teach anyone I know?"

"Possibly," Gil responded.

Trish raised her eyebrow, searching Gil for sarcasm, fatigue, or sass. Any indication that he was anything other than submissive to her probing questioning.

"Nikolai Burtynsky, mommy," Amy spoke up, knowing that her mother was fishing for status. "And Joani Silvestri."

"Burtynsky?" Trish was genuinely surprised. "He placed in the Chopin International, didn't he?"

"Second place in 1998," Amy said briskly. "And he's the Artist in Residence for the Philadelphia Orchestra now."

Trish's brow furrowed in surprise. "How long has…Ms. De Foglio been teaching?"

"She would say since Mussolini," Gil said, cracking a smile.

Trish responded with a performative smile of her own. Her face was brightening, increasingly impressed.

"She took her university position in 1970, mommy," Amy offered. "But she taught privately in Europe before that."

"She is officially retired," Gil said seriously.

"But she comes up here…from Austin?"

"Almost 600 miles, mommy," Amy leaned forward, seeing her mother's reaction shifting.

Gil nodded. "Every other week. She gives…a lot of homework. And she usually comes to my recitals."

"So why aren't you enrolled at the Julliard School, Gil?" Trish asked seriously.

Amy's face sunk into a deep red.

"If you're good enough for this teacher…Ms. De Foglio…"

Gil shrugged. "I never applied."

Trish recoiled in horror. "Never applied?"

"I'm from Oklahoma.I don't have any connections there. I could have auditioned, but it seemed like a waste of time."

Trish was speechless, her features frozen.

Amy spoke up, breaking the scandalized silence. "Gil? Honey? Why don't you play something for us?"

"Uh, sure. Of course…" Gil stood, walking toward the electronic practice piano. He unplugged the headphones, turning on the power and adjusting the volume before sitting down gracefully on the bench. "Anything in particular?"

"Maybe start with something sweet? Like Chopin's Raindrop prelude? What do you think, mommy?"

"That sounds nice…" Trish, still horrified, turned slightly to face Gil, whose back was now to both of them.

He took a deep breath, lifted his hands, and let them fall down to the keys, gently resting in starting position–in the key of D-flat major.

The melody was sweet, the bass accompaniment rich but simple. Gil's touch was evocative, beckoning. An invitation to experience a warm rain through the outer window of a cozy living room.

Even Trish was clearly moved as the opening melody hung in tension and Gil moved into the second key.

C sharp minor.

The rhythm was grave, almost funereal. Amy leaned forward, her eyes shining. As he seemed instinctively to do, Gilbert had created a tension in the air which seemed unbreakable.

Until an outside rhythm interrupted.

Thump, thump, thump…

Slow. Steady. Subtle enough that Trish didn't quite pick up on what it was. But Amy's face blushed a new shade of red.

Gil remained completely focused, utterly disregarding anything outside of the music.

Thump, thump, thump…

Amy was quietly horrified. She couldn't let on, and if Gil noticed, he wasn't showing it. He probably didn't register anything yet. But she knew when the last chords resolved, when his hands lifted off the keys, he couldn't help but hear…

Thump, thump, thump, thump…

Trish now looked a little perplexed, the sound continuing steadily behind the music. Gil continued to move through the steady drone of the C sharp minor section…but Amy noticed a quiet shift in Gil's rubato.

The rhythm in Chopin is always fluid, a little faster here, a little slower there for effect. Bringing out the harmonies, pulling the contours out of the melody…but Gil's rhythm was doing something different.

The right hand drones…the gentle, steady octaves in the midrange bringing out the bass melody seemed unconsciously to assimilate…began reflecting…

Thump, thump, thump, thump…

Semiquavers–two gentle drones to each thump…Gil's fingers fell naturally into the markers made by the obscene metronome, its dull incursion drifting through their bedroom wall and into the living room.

Was this on purpose?

Amy looked carefully for any sign of intentionality in her boyfriend.

There was none. He was in the artist's zone. His eyes were locked in the dead space between his hands, his concentration total.

Yet the rhythm, now holding perfect time–more like Bach than Chopin–still seemed deeply sensual. Still utterly Chopin. Despite the evening out of the rubato.

Thump, thump, thump, thump…

Amy thought of her encounter that afternoon with the mysterious Mr. Rain. How he flashed a genuine smile as he laughed at her helpless situation. At the tangled, sweaty mess of his long, black hair and thick beard. At the long and powerful musculature of his arms…

The key modulated back to D flat major, the opening theme returning to close out the Prelude. Gil expertly and effortlessly danced out the ostentatious elaborations of melody–so very Chopin–yet still led by another man's time, another man's rhythm.

Trish could not yet identify the metronome, and Gil seemed unaware of it, at least on a conscious level.

Only Amy felt the gentle pulse and identified its effects for what they were–the heat of blood rushing through her face, down her chest, and urgently to her core.

The final chords gently resolved, the synthesized piano sound dropped into silence as Gil's foot lifted off the pedal and his hands off the keys.

Thump, thump, thump, thump…

Now it was Gil's turn to have a jarring realization.

His own cheeks began to flush.

He knew he had to turn around. Trish was quietly applauding, Amy beaming behind her. Some kind of a bow was called for. He remained seated, but turned around on the bench and smiled, dipping his head politely and thanking them.

"What's that noise?" Trish turned to look at Amy.

Amy shrugged, the color in her cheeks moving down to her neck. "I'm not sure."

"Is the super working on something next door? It seems late in the evening for that."

"Maybe…" Gil nodded, eager to change the subject. "What did you think of the prelude?"

A long, thin wail broke out through the wall, the rhythm of the thumping unbroken.

A new voice. It seemed that in addition to the three different women who made regular trips to his bed, he had found a fourth, at least for the night.

Or, perhaps the fourth had found him.

Now it was Trish's turn to blush involuntarily. The three sat in awkward silence for a moment.

"It's…our neighbor," Gil admitted sheepishly. "He's, uh, apparently quite the Lothario." He chuckled nervously.

"I…I see." Trish's eyes seemed fixed on the closed bedroom door. The wail subsided into whiny, high-pitched panting as the source of rhythmic thumping began to form the beginnings of a picture in the mind of Amy's mother.

"I made some macarons, mommy…and I was able to get some of that coffee you like…" Amy leaped awkwardly up, walking stiffly into the kitchenette and reaching into the cupboard for the artisanal, finely decorated burlap bag with the special beans, purchased online and imported specifically for the visit. "Would you like some?"

"Yes, that would be…thank you, princess…"

Gil shifted uncomfortably, unsure of how to remedy the situation. More music would just draw more attention to the rhythm–either by falling into the pattern of the thumping or audibly contrasting it. He could try to draw the conversation into something different, maybe crack a joke about it to diffuse the tension.

The problem was, any solution would be momentary, and the thumping generally continued for at least twenty minutes, often extending into the half hour. One time Mr. Rain had gone forty-five minutes straight, with obvious small pauses. Probably to change positions? Amy and Gil didn't know, but whoever the girl under Mr. Rain was that time, she was likely a puddle of goo and cheap perfume by the end of it.

For their part, on that occasion, they liked the extended session. Mr. Rain had provided them with one wonderful duet, and then provided a powerful encore as his enthusiasm outlasted Gil's refractory period. Amy had squeaked in delight as Gil rose to take her a second time then…

Amy's back was turned, grinding the beans in a fancy stainless-steel grinder purchased solely for this visit. Gil couldn't see her face, but he knew she was blushing, her chest visibly flushed. He also knew she was consciously trying to hide it, for obvious reasons. He knew that if Trish wasn't there, they would have, without a word, responded to the music and stepped onto the stage together, as it were.

So the situation strangely felt wrong in two ways. Obviously, the awkwardness of the noises coming through the bedroom door (and the blank wall behind it) were creating a horrifically awkward tension with Trish in the room. She, for quite possibly the first time in her life, sat pink-faced and quiet in her chair, unable to judge, dismiss, or sarcastically eviscerate a social situation.

That unprecedented response from Amy's mother seemed to heighten the tension, complicating the other way it felt wrong. While both Gil and Amy knew it was strange, it felt like they were refusing a call. It was as if a conductor was already on stage, and Amy and Gil were restrained behind the stage door, unable to join the ensemble. The conductor had walked out, tapped the stand, tuned the orchestra, and empty bars of music were now being played without them.

On some level it simply felt wrong. Unconscionable, even, to refuse the cue and to not play their own scripted music. And seeing the flush, which he was sure was growing across the top of Amy's small chest, begin to make its way across the back of her neck, he knew she felt the same call he did.

"Excuse me…" Trish broke the silence. "I just need to use the powder room while the coffee brews."

"Of course," Gil responded. "Just across from the bedroom door there. Help yourself."

The middle aged Manhattanite stood stiffly, blushing as the silky sounds of her bespoke, boutique slacks swished while she made her way toward the bathroom door and shut it behind her.

Amy turned the coffee maker on, turning slowly and leaning back against the kitchen counter and looking across the room at her boyfriend.

Gil knew for certain she felt as he did.

Her ice-blue eyes seemed ready to melt in fire.

A good dancer never misses her cue.

A good dancer never misses her cue.

* * *

"Yes. Yes… Yeeeessssssssss….."

Jordan writhed on the bed, her pants and panties hanging off of one ankle, her shirt pulled up over her belly button and David's mouth clamped firmly between her legs. The auburn tuft of pubic hair puffed up just enough to conceal his nose, but she could still see his eyes looking solicitously up at him as she felt her orgasm approach.

She clamped the back of his head, squeezing tufts of his short hair as the relief spread out from her core. She exhaled, her eyes rolling back as her head fell onto her pillow.

David's eager licking continued to cause little jolts to shoot through her, which eventually faded from sheer pleasure to sheer sensation, causing her to giggle and gently push his head away.

And she noticed he'd gotten a fresh haircut. Probably at the airport.

Jordan's chest heaved, the sensation of cool relief swimming around her body.

Finally.

The reunion at the apartment had gone to plan–as much as you could call a horny fever-pitched conspiracy driven to near madness "a plan." She had dragged him to the bedroom without closing the door, turned around, and promptly jammed her tongue into her husband's surprised mouth. The messy makeout lasted about a minute before she began fumbling with the button of his slacks, then his fly.

An awkward shucking of her own jeans followed, then panties, before falling wackwards onto the bed, both garments still bunched around her ankles. She had managed to wiggle one foot loose from her jeans and panties while David, his small penis visibly erect, made his way between her legs.

Their physical reunion was one of those things that was difficult to put into words. She was literally hot waiting for him. Even his modest penetration felt electric, and his short burst of enthusiasm leading to the meager bead of ejaculation fanned her sense of warm connection with her husband.

Obviously the act itself, while deeply emotionally validating, was not physically satisfying. So Jordan's hands had gently stroked her husband's hair while he gasped on top of her, then, when he caught his breath, she gently guided his head down. He had crawled down to kneel at the edge of the bed, his hands clutching the hem of her T-shirt before kneading her inner thighs, a silent smacking of his lips on hers, giving rise to sensation, more sensation, moving her up, up, and up, until…

Now, David having tenderly kissed both inner thighs, both glistening with his saliva and her nectar, crawled up next to her and collapsed on his back. His glasses hung crooked off one ear, his hair was visibly tousled. Man and wife stared quietly at the ceiling-both still wearing shirts, both with pants and underwear bunched around ankles, both with their shoes still on and laced up.

Jordan, having caught her breath, began to laugh. David snickered alongside her as she cuddled up to him, kissing his neck.

"So…can you tell I've missed you?"

David nuzzled her back. "I'm getting that sense."

They lay quietly for several minutes. Then, David made a move to sit up. "I'll go grab the bags."

"Wait, baby." Jordan held a palm to his chest. He fell back down to a supinated position.

"What's up?" David turned his head, questioning.

"Hang on. I want you to explain some things to me, okay? Can you do that?"

"Yeah, sure. I mean, I'll try."

Jordan reached over and picked up her phone off the nightstand. She opened their bank account and lay back down on her side, her head on David's chest as they looked at the numbers together.

"What's this?"

"That's my salary deposit."

"It's a lot."

"Yeah. I mean, I'm not complaining."

"What about this one?"

David squinted. "That's a profit stake for the company. That's my 30 percent for…looks like last month."

"It's more than the salary…"

"This month it is, yeah. We'll see about next month."

"How long ago did you start that company?"

"Technically? About a year ago. A little less."

"How many employees?"

"53. Plus me and the other owners. A lot of that is from the road paint sales, though. That's going to be a good moneymaker. We're bringing on a couple new salesmen, we'll see if we can grow that."

"Impressive," Jordan responded. She scrolled down to the next deposit. "What's that?"

"That…that's your graduate student stipend."

"It's not very much."

"Well, I mean…you're still a student."

"I suppose…" Jordan scrolled on. "And that one?"

"That's the bonus for this month. From Maersk, for the last…I guess 5 port visits? I'm losing track."

"That's the biggest one yet."

"Yeah, that's the one I'm focused on growing."

"But it's so big already…"

"Well…" David explained, "I want to set us up as well as possible. Especially when we decide it's time to have kids."

"Mmmhmmm. I can see that." She scrolled on, noting the modest expenses coming from his debit card, her own charges, and of course the bills that he was quietly paying all along. Rent. Utilities. The subscription for her massages.

"And there's some stuff I can't see here, right? I know you're making some investments…"

"Yeah, that's a separate account. We can go over that too, if you want…"

"Maybe later…" Jordan put the phone down and began running her palm under his shirt, feeling his smooth, thin chest. "I guess there's just one thing I want to know, but I'm not sure how to phrase it."

"What is it?" David kissed the back of her head as she lovingly stroked his stomach, his chest with her fingertips.

"You've got such a huge brain…"

"You're one to talk," David laughed.

"Just listen to me, honey. I'm being serious."

David's smile faded into focus. "Okay…"

"You have such a big brain, you can turn hard work and analysis into money so fast…you're such a good provider, you're such a good heart, and you're so good to me…"

David's heart swelled at the compliments, but he paused, waiting for the question.

Jordan's hand slid down his body, through the tangle of his pubic hair, and pinched his penis as her head turned up, her eyes locking with his.

"So why is your dick so small?"

David's body jerked, as the shock hit his body before his mind fully processed it. Jordan, gently pinching him with two fingers, lovingly moved her hand slowly up and down.

"Sorry?" David choked.

"Honey, I love you. You're the perfect husband. But your penis is so small. And I love it like I love you. But how can that part of you be so small, when everything…intangible about you is so impressive?"

"I don't…uh…"

David's penis was hardening. Fast.

Jordan's eyes held him steady.

"I, uh…don't know how to answer that," he stammered.

Jordan sat up, lazily stroking him as he fully hardened. It didn't take long.

"Okay. But can I show you something?" Jordan asked, her voice quiet, almost yielding.

"Um…yeah. Of course."

Not letting go of him, she scrolled through her phone, pulling up a picture and showing it to him.

"Do you recognize these?"

"Yeah…I think so…"

"What are they?"

David cleared his throat. "They're uh, your, um…your boobs, right?"

"Are you sure?"

David nodded.

"Do you want to make sure?"

David nodded.

Jordan briefly let go of her husband and reached under the hem of her T-shirt, pulling it over her head. Her auburn hair fell through the neck, cascading down around her shoulders. She tossed her T-shirt aside and reached behind her, unclasping her bra with a gentle click.

The garment fell forward, exposing her taut nipples and perky B-cup breasts. She lifted the phone and showed David the picture again.

"So…are you sure?"

"Yeah…" David was struggling to breathe. "That's…um…those are, um…yep."

"Okay. I just wanted you to be sure before you saw this…"

Jordan closed out the picture to show that it was a thumbnail sent in a text message chain.

A message chain with Captain Mark Rein.

David's heart leaped.

"I sent this to Mark last night. He reached out to me, actually. Kind of out of the blue. We chatted, then it got a little spicy. So…you know…I figured…"

David nodded, electric excitement rushing powerfully up toward the tip of his modest manhood.

"He sent me this…" Jordan pulled up another photo.

A long, thick cock hung between muscular, copper skinned thighs.

Imposing, to say the least. Maybe even terrifying.

"It's big, huh?" Jordan asked gently, beginning to stroke her husband again.

"Yeah…"

"Bigger than yours. A lot bigger."

"Yeah…" David's breath was a whisper.

"And it's not even hard in this picture. I can tell you, David. It gets bigger when it's hard."

"Yeah…"

David was slipping into a trance. Jordan's head cocked to the side.

"I can't have sex with Mark right now, sweetheart. He's five states away. But I want you to know that I want to. And if I could, I would. Okay?"

"Okay…" David felt a powerful climax rising.

"I tried to find a new man to have sex with when you were gone this time. I tried a few things, actually. But I haven't found one yet."

"Okay…"

Jordan, two fingertips tightening, lowered her voice, her wrist motions picking up speed.

"But I want you to know that even though you are the perfect husband, and I love you, and I will never, ever leave you…I want a bigger dick than this, okay?"

David's face scrunched, a funhouse grin pulling his face into contortions as Jordan continued, as he approached the point of no return.

"And I'll find one. Soon. I promise, baby."

David tipped over the edge of the cliff, his nose whistling as he exhaled involuntarily, as his legs shot straight out.

Jordan whispered directly into her husband's ear as he briefly entered nirvana.

"I promise, baby…I promise…"

[Crushing]

Quick author's note: As you might have noticed by now, I'm doing some experimenting with incorporating elements of music and dance with the Amy and Gil storyline. We'll see if it works, but I think the scenes hit better if you're familiar with the music referenced. For this chapter, it's Chopin's "Raindrop" Prelude in D flat major. Recordings are pretty easy to find on You tube if you want to check it out before you read the chapter.

[loyaltoher]

Quick reader’s note: thank you!

[lkh96]

The golden goose.

[kiwiRob]

Thanks for another addition to this evolving story. Quite the ending!

[Guhunkadorn]

Thanks a lot Crushing. I sing in the church choir and now I may never look at a treble clef the same....LOL.

Love what you're doing with Gil & Amy, and your description of her mothers' speechlessness was priceless.

[user322]

Hello, your story is truly excellent! We're always eager to know what happens next! Thank you!

[Tire_Kicker]

Jordan is officially on the prowl... Awesome!

Amy is on the radar...

I miss Megan.

Great story Crush

[Luis]

I fear this amazing story will not be continued. It would be a shame if it were true.

[Crushing]

"David…"

The light was dim–dawn, not yet morning. Enough to see shapes, but without his glasses, the shapes were fuzzy. Through the haze of severe jet lag, the voice was fuzzy.

But angelic.

David felt a sudden pressure on his right thigh. Opening his eyes a little wider he saw Jordan, her button up pajama top unbuttoned, gently straddling his leg.

"Wake up, baby…I have something for you…"

David instantly felt the heat in his core rise sympathetically with her coy call.

She was using that voice. That needy, sweet, playful voice.

No wonder Odysseus' crew sailed to their deaths on the rocks. Some voices just…

"I'm up, Jo…"

Jordan whined, beginning to rock her hips back and forth, her crotch warming the top surface of his thigh. David's eyes widened as she realized her pajama bottoms were off.

As were her panties.

The heat on his thigh was bare womanhood–the gentle tuft of curly auburn hair downy soft on his skin as the friction between them grew more and more moist.

Jordan leaned down toward her husband, her hair falling forward. David instinctively reached up, cupping her soft breasts, running the pads of his thumbs over her stiff nipples.

Jordan giggled, her hips bucking gently, the dampness growing between them.

"Good morning, Mr. Stark…" she whispered playfully.

Her volume was low–very low. A half whisper. The kind of tone you reserve for hiding your naughty secret from someone in the next room.

She could not, however, hide the mild rhythmic creak of bed springs.

David groaned, breaking into a wide smile as the warm, soft skin of her breasts under his hands filled him with delight.

"Good morning, Mrs. Stark," he murmured.

"Mmmmm…" Jordan moaned playfully, dipping her hips a little more, emphasizing the friction as she humped his leg. "I woke up kinda excited, you know? And I thought…you know what? I could really use some good dick to wake up…"

"Yeah?" David whispered back, flushing.

"Too bad you don't have one…" Jordan leaned down, giggling as she kissed her husband.

David's eyes shot wide open, his ears beginning to hum as his heart thumped blood around his body.

"Oooh," Jordan winked, sitting upright again. "You liked that, didn't you?" She pulled her hair back over her shoulders, then shrugged off one side of her pajama top, letting it fall off her shoulder and exposing one breast.

David reached up again, squeezing her arms as she planted her palms on his chest.

"You know…Mark used to make me hump his leg like this…" Jordan whispered, half smiling. "Back when we used to…you know…"

She grinned wickedly as David's pupils, then his cock, swelled.

"It was a way to get me going…I really liked it."

Her grin shrunk to a coy smile as she bit her lower lip.

"His thigh was huge, though. Like…really strong. I know he did squats. And totally filled the bar with weights…I saw it once at the gym…"

Her head tipped up, and she stared off into memory.

"Yeah?" David asked, breathily. His erection was approaching the point of pain.

"Mmmhmm…" Jordan nodded, looking back down at him, her hips bucking steadily. "I'd do this for a while, and get super wet. Like…almost embarrassingly wet. And then I'd beg for his cock. Because it was like…I was so close to it like this, you know? It was right there in front of me…so big. Thick."

Jordan licked her lips absently.

"But he would tease me. He wouldn't let me touch it…he'd even slap my hand away when I reached for it. And I just…wanted it. Inside me. So bad…"

Jordan threw her hair back again.

"So I'd just hump him like this. To take the edge off, you know?"

She stared off into the distance again, her hips bucking faster. David's own breath hitched. Then hitched again.

"Yeah?"

"Mmmmhmmm…" Jordan reached down and pinched her husband's small, stiff penis between her two fingers. Rolling it gently between her thumb and forefinger, she leaned down and whispered directly in his ear.

"I'm not gonna beg for this one, though…"

David groaned and ejaculated, his own hips bucking involuntarily. Jordan smiled proudly, watching the small, cloudy dribbles bubble up, then slither down over her fingertips.

"That's it, honey. Let it go. Just like that…"

David heaved, then exhaled deeply, the dazzling sensation ripping through his limbs.

Jordan stopped her smooth bucking, then released his penis from her gentle pinch. Giggling, she fell forward, turning onto her side until she snuggled into her husband, resting her head on his chest as it continued to rise and fall erratically. She casually wiped her fingertips off on his shirt.

David blinked hard as he came back to himself.

"Baby…"

"I know…" Jordan rubbed his chest gently with the flat of her palm. "You take such good care of me, David. Now I'm taking care of you…"

David squeezed her shoulder as his breath began to stabilize. He felt a cold spot on his thigh, where Jordan's moisture lingered on his skin. He turned his face to kiss her forehead.

"What about you?"

"Hmmm?" Jordan sleepily continued to rub his chest with her flat palm.

"What about you, baby?"

"What about me?" Jordan murmured.

"Can I take care of you?"

David felt Jordan's head shake slightly. "Don't worry about me, honey. I want to focus on you for now."

David felt the cold spot on his thigh again.

Her arousal was real…it had to be. And now…she was crashing out again? What time was it?

He looked over at the clock, one eyebrow up.

5:13.

"You sure?" he asked, stroking her soft hair.

"Mmmmhmmm…" Jordan was fading back into sleep.

David blinked. She had woken early just for the romp, and now she was sliding back down into rest, happy in her husband's arms.

David squinted as the post-release endorphins settled his mind into a euphoric stillness. He tried to understand what just happened.

She knew just how to push his buttons, of course. But what motivated that? Did she want him, want to have sex with him and just got carried away? Or did she just want to please him?

She seemed very focused on him, but also genuinely aroused. She was really wet. Like…she had to have woken up that way before she roused him from jet-lagged sleep.

What was she dreaming about last night?

David felt Jordan's breath even out, warm puffs on his bare chest.

What was she dreaming about now?

* * *

Somehow she had managed to get the icing just right. It really did look just like a hardback book.

The overall shape of the sheetcake was simple enough, but getting just the right overhang, and the coloring to look like leather, making the sides look like pages…

Not to mention the cover art–a knight in dull-gray armor holding a drawn sword.

It was impressive.

It was Marky Poisson's big day. One year older. The candles on the book-cake resembled a reinforced squad formation–because his dad set up the candles and he couldn't help himself.

Two neat rows of five candles each, and one centered in front. The candles not yet lit, the birthday cake stood in the middle of the table flanked by boxes of various sizes wrapped in bright colored paper.

The whole display was earnestly tended by a busy grandmother–Megan's mother Teresa–who had flown out for the party as any indulgent grandmother would. She shuttled back and forth between the kitchen and the party tables, bringing food, chips, salsa…

The guests were mainly adults. A few colleagues of Megan's from the US Attorney's office.
And anyone with a leadership billet in Charlie Company was there. All the platoon sergeants with their wives or girlfriends. All the platoon commanders were there, of course, some of them stag, others with a date. A couple squad leaders that were advanced MMA students of Jared's, lower-level instructors themselves. The battalion supply officer and a platoon sergeant from Bravo company–both of whom were black belt instructors, just not as highly ranked as Jared. Everyone who had kids brought them.

The backyard, though boasting ample space, was pretty full. Every adult held an open beer, most of the kids were either bouncing in or orbiting around the inflatable bounce house. JJ was centered in that crowd, literally bouncing off the walls. The banter all around flowed freely.

Noticeably lacking a date was the Charlie Company commander, who stood just barely aloof from the crowd. It was hard to tell if there was a particular motivation for his stiff demeanor–if it was the professionally aloof posture held by a commander relative to subordinates, or if it was his natural stoic personality, or if there was some extraneous reason.

Obviously some speculation circulated about it–mostly in whispers from the corners of mouths.

Yet fewer people noticed that someone else was mirroring that aloof posture: the birthday boy himself, who sat quietly on the steps to the entrance of the bounce house. A ten year old girl–the oldest daughter of the supply officer–happened to be hanging on Marky's every word as he explained the plot of the most recent Redwall book he was working through.

He usually didn't like talking to girls, but this one seemed to like reading, so he indulged her. For her part, she seemed genuinely interested in the book, but perhaps a touch more interested in the tall, quiet birthday boy.

In any case, both agreed to forego the wild abandon of the bounce house.

After all, that was kid stuff.

Captain Rein, looking noticeably different when out of uniform, worked overtime to appear casual while averting his gaze away from Megan. This was particularly hard today: she was an absolute vision in autumn casual wear–a light, earth-toned sleeveless button-up linen top tucked into light khakis, accenting her athletic figure without lewdly exposing it. Her long black hair hung loose: straight, smooth, and shiny, her easy conversation and airy laugh sailing over the conversational hum of the crowd.

Not to mention that supermodel smile…

Nursing his beer, the captain snuck a smile as he allowed himself to watch Marky as he earnestly explained the intricacies of fantasy knighthood to the enraptured, tow headed girl next to him on the bounce house steps.

It was worth a secret smirk. The captain knew full well: Explaining a good book was a serious business.

Mark began dutifully to make the rounds, politely making small talk with the men under his command, all of whom nervously hoped that their wives or girlfriends wouldn't say anything catastrophic to their CO.

The CO, in turn, chatted amiably with the wives and girlfriends, all of whom were none-too-subtle about weighing the gravitas and competence of the man who might order their men into harm's way.

And some of them may have entertained a fascinated glance at the captain himself. A glance that may have lasted a second or two longer, and run up and down his tall frame just a bit more than was socially necessary.

"Uncle Mark?"

Mark turned around to see the birthday boy, ill-at-ease in the stiff new polo shirt and crisp, clean jeans with a braided belt his grandmother made him wear for the big day.

"Hey bud. How's the party?"

He shrugged. "It's okay, I guess. Mom made my favorite cake."

"German chocolate?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah, that's my favorite, too," Mark observed. "Not sure why. I got some…German ancestry. I guess it's in the genes or something."

"Yeah, it's good." The boy leaned back against the wall. "Hey Uncle Mark, can I ask you something?"

"Sure, bud. Shoot."

Marky's brow furrowed. "I'm named after you, right? Because you and my dad were in the war together?"

"So they tell me." Mark smiled and took a sip of his beer.

"So…my mom said your name is actually Marcos. But my name is Marcus. What's the difference?"

"That's…an interesting question."

Mark began to panic internally. "We should ask your mom."

He waved her over.

Megan, flushed from the duties of hosting, was grateful for a quick break. She grinned at the summons and made her way over.

"Hey there, troublemakers. What's up?"

Mark grinned back. "The birthday boy's got a question that only you know the answer to."

"Shoot," Megan squinted playfully at Marky, suddenly distracted by uncertainty, and a few other mixed emotions that come with kids' birthdays.

He was going to be as tall as she was before too long...

"Why is my name Marcus and his is Marcos? What's the difference?"

"Well," Megan paused, looking up at Mark. Their eyes held for a moment, wondering what this meant.

She looked back down at her son. "Actually, honey, your name is Marcos. That's how it is on your birth certificate. We just always called you Marky because you were cute and little, and it fit. But the name is the same, and I guess we were just lazy and didn't correct you when you started spelling it with a "u" on your homework."

The boy looked up at his mother thoughtfully. "So…I really do have the same name as Uncle Mark?"

"Looks that way, bud." Mark chuckled. "And…it looks like you've been spelling your name wrong for…well, for years now."

"Can you call me Marcos then? I think I'm too old to be Marky anymore."

Megan's eyes flickered, unprepared.

She blinked once, slowly.

"Um, sure honey. That's…fine. Just don't get mad at me if I forget sometimes…it's gonna be a hard habit for me to break."

"Is that okay with you Uncle Mark?"

"Yeah. Yeah, buddy. Of course it is." Mark caught a hint of a crack in his voice.

He thought for a moment, then continued. "I gotta be honest, bud. I…kinda wish my mom could be here to see you say that. She really liked that name."

"Really?"

"Yeah. She did. That's why she gave it to me in the first place. And she…she would've really loved you, buddy. You're her favorite kind of person."

Megan blinked again, stunned.

She had to move on before the tears came. Recovering herself, she gestured subtly to Mark in the direction of the driveway.

Mark nodded in understanding, pulling a small, fist sized package wrapped in brown paper out of his back pocket. He extended his hand to the smaller Marcos.

"We're gonna break the rules a little bit, bud. I want you to open my present first."

"Really?"

"Yeah, go for it."

He looked up at his mother, who nodded permission. The boy tore into the wrapping paper, uncovering a tight coil of flat nylon material. He looked confused as the wrapping paper fell away to reveal…

"A leash?"

"Yeah. You know, a leash." Mark smirked.

"Um…thanks Uncle Mark. But…we don't have a dog."

Megan's eyes glistened as Mark's smirk broke into a grin, looking down at the confused birthday boy.

"You sure about that, bud?"

"Yeah…"

"Well, we'll have to fix that. Follow me."

* * *

"Your order is ready, Mr. Stark. Do you need a hand getting it out to your car?"

The donut shop counter girl indicated toward a stack of donut boxes, a half dozen large coffee dispensers lined up in front of them.

"Um…yeah, actually. That would be really handy. Thank you."

Thirty minutes later, with the donuts and coffee set out neatly on the back table as people came in, David was taken aback by the amount of backslapping from the small crowd of men in matching black polo shirts–ages ranging from just out of high school to nearing retirement.

All seemed to swarm around him, greeting him warmly.

"Good morning, Mr. Stark."

"Hey, Mr. Stark! Good to have ya back…"

"Mr. Stark! Thanks for the coffee and goods! Really hits the spot…"

"Heya Mr. Stark, where'd you jet off to this time?"

David smiled and gripped hands as they were offered. He felt out of place, not having a polo shirt like everyone else. After getting lost in greetings, he felt a strong hand grip his shoulder from behind. Turning, he saw a brand new, shiny Breitlinger watch attached to Hamad, who sported a fresh haircut and barber-trimmed beard.

He grinned widely, pulling David in for a hug.

"You back…welcome back, my friend."

"Hey, Hamad! Where can I get one of those shirts?"

"I got one for you…right in my bag…" Hamad reached in and pulled out a brand new polo shirt with the company logo embroidered. David held it up.

"It's a beauty."

"My cousin did logo. You like?"

"Yeah, it's slick. Good font. And I like the colors."

"Try it on. Very comfortable."

"Really?" David raised an eyebrow at Hamad.

"Yes! The meeting doesn't start for ten minutes. Everyone is just shooting shit…go try!"

David grinned down at the fistful of shiny cotton-poly fabric.

He had received and worn company shirts before. Employees at his father's car lots always wore company gear with STARK MOTORS screen printed on it, and he always wore it too when working the broom or handing out wrenches in the shop.

But this was different. This was his company. He started it–even though his role in it was performed from a distance.

David couldn't let his grin fade all the way as he stepped back through the assembling mechanics and slipped into the bathroom. Closing the door behind him, he unbuttoned his dress shirt and shucked it off, quickly pulling the new polo shirt over his head.

Looking in the mirror, he tucked the shirt into his slacks and smoothed down the front, his eyes settling on the embroidered logo over the right breast.

STARK AND PARTNERS

He allowed himself another smile, seeing his own name in a logo.

Take that, dad…

He pushed the thought away, rolling up his dress shirt and stuffing it in the shoulder bag he brought to carry his laptop. Taking one last look in the mirror, he walked out of the bathroom and back into the meeting, which was just about to start.

He was shocked by the impromptu cheer and applause that broke out as he walked to the front of the room.

"Lookin' good, Mr. Stark!"

"Hey, Mr. Stark likes the logo! I told you!"

"See! I told you Mr. Stark wasn't a suit. He's one of us!"

David didn't know how to react, so he just grinned and nodded, sitting at the front next to Hamad, picking up the meeting agenda prepared for him.

The room fell silent, and David realized that they were waiting for him.

He froze for a moment. He wasn't prepared for this…but it was clearly his meeting. Hamad was deferring to him. Clint was in Albany, pitching a sale to the New York State Department of Transportation for paint and surfacing.

He was in charge of the meeting.

He looked back and forth at the rows of quiet mechanics, all wearing shirts with his name on it.

He felt like running.

You have such a big brain, you can turn hard work and analysis into money so fast…you're such a good provider, you're such a good heart, and you're so good to me…

Jordan's voice slipped into his mind's ear, and it wasn't long before her head, cocked to the side and locking eyes with him, drifted in front of his mind's eye.

Those sweet-but-brilliant-girl-next-door features, her slim, athletic frame, her silky voice…all stroking his ego, and stroking his chest, among other things.

He felt his spine stiffen, remembering her words. Jordan had absolute confidence in him. Total admiration for what he could do in this sphere. As playful and transgressive as that conversation turned out to be, she was absolutely sincere about her feelings.

She was counting on him. To provide.

This room was his. This business was where he did battle for his woman. And these men were his troops.

She said so. And that was all he needed.

He blinked once, and snapped back into the room.

"Alright gents," he said confidently. "Let's get going. We all know Clint's pitching big new business today, and we obviously wish him well. So since he's gone, I guess I'll grab the reins today."

He looked around. Nobody objected. The entire room was fixed on him, waiting for his direction.

David cleared his throat. "I see there's a new business item…something about a foot in the door in the snowplowing market? Jeez, if that's true we might need to bring in another couple sales guys. Who's got details on that?"

* * *

Camp Wilson always looked vaguely Soviet after dark. Row after row of dull, symmetrical utility buildings, most of them cylindrical K-span huts resembling giant tin cans halfway buried in the desert.

The orders were routine–the battalion was not working up to a deployment this time–but desert training was desert training. And moving an entire battalion from one coast to another for a month of training in the Mojave desert was definitely a major production.

Mark stepped off the front bus, one of seven vehicles assigned to his company and the attached support units. Looking around, he immediately saw Jared, square jawed and steely, his wiry streetfighter frame noticeably contrasting the bulkier platoon sergeants who were flocking around him.

The company gunnery sergeant had been at the camp since yesterday, part of the advance party to prepare for the rest of the battalion. Jared began barking orders as the company began to cluster around him. A stack of gear began to grow, neat and orderly in formation, parallel to the line of buses. Weapons counts commenced almost automatically as marines waited for direction.

Mark felt a hand clap on his shoulder from behind.

"Brings back some memories, doesn't it?"

Mark turned sharply to see Lieutenant Colonel Wolfe, the battalion commander. He quickly saluted, then shook his hand.

"Yeah, I admit it does a little bit, sir. Man o man, were we green last time we were here together!"

Wolfe chuckled. "I know you were one of my platoon sergeants, and I remember Poisson was in third platoon too. He was a fire team leader, right? One of yours?"

"Squad leader. And yeah, he was my number two back then, too."

"Really? I thought we promoted him after we got in country."

"No, he picked up sergeant after we got back, but he was a squad leader the whole time. As a corporal. One of two."

Wolfe nodded, remembering. "Interesting times, those were."

Mark nodded back. They were indeed. The last time Mark and Jared were at Camp Wilson, they were anxiously awaiting orders off the bus, not giving them. The plate of their responsibilities was much smaller. Even if it didn't feel like it at the time.

The last trip to Camp Wilson was also the first time that Jared tentatively offered his wife to his best friend.

That's how it all started–some off-duty texts, exchanged while a young Sergeant Rein huddled next to the shower hut…

Funny how things come full circle.

Mark politely saluted as Colonel Wolfe walked away to the next company.

Mark remembered those texts.

The nervous, yet undeniably heated attraction. The taboo of it.

Due to the scandal without a name, he hadn't taken Megan to bed in a couple months now. In fact, he hadn't had sex since they had taken a public step back from each other.

For some reason it was harder than he expected to not have her. And it wasn't just sexual frustration. It was deeper than that. Mark had joined this unit, had come to Camp LeJeune sort of expecting…he didn't know what exactly, but something resembling family life. A kind of extended domesticity to fall around him. And he still had that–at least in his interactions with the two Poisson boys and their parents.

But things felt weird between the adults now. Mark felt a sadness he couldn't quite articulate and didn't dare express. And he suspected Megan felt something similar. The fact that they were careful how they interacted in public put further strain on all three of them.

Although it seemed that the red-hot phase of the rumor mill had died down in the runup of field exercise preparations. The silver lining to the heavy cloud of disappointment.

"Excuse me sir, I've already told Gunny Poisson, but Company C is assigned huts 12 through 15."

Mark broke out of his reverie to see the battalion supply officer, a first lieutenant with a clipboard awkwardly clutched in his left hand, holding a salute and looking up at him.

"Very well. Thank you, lieutenant." Mark returned the salute and began walking over toward Jared and the platoon sergeants as Lieutenant Jenkins, his executive officer, stepped off the bus and joined him.

"Jenkins, I want us burrowed in and settled twenty minutes before the next best company."

"Aye sir." Jenkins stepped off quickly to gather the platoon commanders as Mark stepped up to the circle around Jared. All snapped to attention and saluted.

Mark returned the salute and looked back and forth. The gear was stacked, the company milling around waiting for orders. The other companies were still stumbling groggily off their buses further down the road.

"Gunny, we've been assigned huts 12 through 15. I'd like to be settled while the rest of the battalion is still looking for their keys. Make it happen."

Jared nodded gravely. The platoon sergeants waited expectantly for the senior non-com to break the order down, but he seemed to hesitate.

"Gunny?" Mark cocked an eyebrow.

"Sorry sir…" Jared cleared his throat. "I was just thinking about what stationery to use before I formally invite everyone here to fucking move."

Mark grinned and laughed. The platoon sergeants echoed.

"Fuck you, Frenchie…" Mark shook his head.

Gunny's eyes shot toward the cluster of platoon commanders walking toward them, following the company XO. Wanting to execute the captain's orders before the junior officers got involved, he skipped the chain and stepped three paces to the side, in full view of the company. The milling crowd fell silent.

Jared's voice was gravel and salt. The now all-too-well-known don't fuck with me voice.

He casually pulled a candy bar out of the breast pocket of his uniform, unwrapping it.

"First and second platoon, hut 12. Third and fourth, hut 13. Officers and staff NCOs in 14, gear in 15. You have until I finish this candy bar to get every last piece of gear and swinging dick off this deck, or I'll shove it up the last guy's ass."

He took his first bite, looking back and forth at the silent marines, tense for the go order.

He chewed once, then twice.

"Go."

The company exploded into action. Squad leaders, fire team leaders, platoon sergeants, all found their men, barking orders and questions back and forth, and each marine grabbed two or three bags and sprinted down the dirt path to their buildings.

The captain stood silent, observing the melee.

Organized chaos. The best kind. He looked at Jared, nodding approval.

Mark's phone buzzed once in his pocket.

New message.

From Megan Poisson.

* * *

The fortress wall of library books had extended beyond the bounds of Jordan's desk. Forming a tall, tight U-shape around her laptop, it tumbled down onto the floor, precariously stacked towers rising above the level of the desk.

Her hair pulled back in a half-up ponytail, she gripped a pencil in her teeth. Balancing an open book on her lap as she typed, Jordan paused to turn pages, then type again.

Distracted.

But…Almost there. Maybe 25 more pages…

Jordan adjusted her glasses, looking around briefly and noting the near emptiness of the room. Most of the grad students had opted to leave town around spring break. She had thought of going home to visit her parents, but it was David's week home. So of course she wouldn't miss that.

And she was on a roll lately. With her writing. And David had to do his monthly group meeting today, and that always turned into a full workday for him, so she decided to come in and write.

Patrick was there, four carrels down, also buried in a book with one hand on his keyboard. And Lara was there, across the aisle with her back turned and her headphones on. She was set to defend her dissertation in the history department next week. So Lara was dead to the world–oblivious to everything in the world other than the Albigensian Crusade.

Jordan was nervous. And not a little scattered. She had run her half-dozen miles or so on the track that morning as was her routine. But the spring break track crowd was sparse. And older. With the exception of Patrick, whose exercise routine overlapped with hers.

As always, she had smiled and waved politely, but they hadn't talked much. Both had earbuds in, lost in their musical and podcast worlds.

But Jordan was distracted. A distraction that was low-key but constant, and growing steadily since that night in the red basement. Her tension was intensified by the disappearance of the girl in the mirror, then intensified more by David's renewed openness about his desire to be cuckolded, and then set on fire by her recent text exchanges with Captain Rein.

So it was on or about the sixth lap around the track that Jordan caught herself openly staring at Patrick–his lean but toned runner's legs, his flat abs which were visible when his workout shirt would periodically ride up a few inches, his handsome face, his long fingers…

It was time.

Whenever Patrick turned away slightly, she began strategically letting her eye wander down toward Patrick's running shorts, evaluating what he–recently single–might be working with.

She couldn't tell for sure. He didn't look like he was hung like Mark Rein. But then again, who was?

But he definitely had more going on than her husband. Which, ironically, her husband would love.

She wasn't in love with Patrick. She didn't even have a particular crush on him. He was just…hot.

Like…he looked like he could deliver in bed.

It was a thought she would have banished in instinctive horror only a year ago. Hell, only a month ago she would have pushed back on it with every ounce of moral strength she had. But she no longer recoiled at the instinctive thought process that seemed to be governing this decision. She had a dull ache between her legs. It wouldn't go away. It was constant, and, coupled with the stress of her dissertation, her teaching load, her husband's consistent absence, his inadequacy when he was home, and her own growing hunger…

Mark was the perfect answer. But Mark lived five states away. And he wasn't coming back.

Something had to give.

She had made the decision at the end of her run this morning. Sprinting six miles a day wasn't doing it any more.

Patrick was single now. Patrick was available. Patrick would be discreet.

She had showered and dressed on the way to the office, intentionally leaving her bra in her gym bag. Then she walked, dazed, to the office carrels to work on her dissertation.

She was going to wait for Lara to leave. But Lara wasn't leaving.

She hadn't typed a new sentence in more than half an hour. Her cheeks burned. When she finally worked up the courage to speak, she didn't allow herself to look up.

"So…how's it going? Since…you know…"

"You talking to me?" Patrick looked up, pulling his headphones down to hang around his neck.

"Yeah…" Jordan said, still not looking up.

"Oh." Patrick replied. "I mean…not bad. Being busy helps. And…well, you know."

"Yeah, I know." Jordan chuckled, removing the pencil from between her teeth. "I'm with you there. Busy busy busy. But it's a big change. You doing okay?"

"Yeah. Depends on the day. Honestly, things weren't great before we broke up, so it's kind of a relief. But kind of not."

"I can imagine."

Patrick sighed, leaning back in his chair. "You ever have a bad breakup?"

Jordan paused to think. "Not…really. I didn't date many guys seriously before I met David. But there was one that…well, it was a weird situation. But he just…moved away. And that hurt more than I thought it would."

Patrick nodded sympathetically. "Yeah, it's kinda like that. And it's kinda lonely. You know, since she moved out."

"Yeah, I bet."

Patrick half smiled, then turned back to his work.

God…she had to admit it.

He was handsome.

Like a K-pop star from a music video or something. She felt her nipples begin to harden as her heart rate rose.

She took a deep breath.

It was now or never.

"Well," Jordan said before he put his headphones back up, "you don't have to be single to be lonely."

Patrick smiled and nodded.

He wasn't getting it.

"My husband's gone three weeks out of every month…"

"I bet that's hard…" Patrick replied politely.

Jordan cleared her throat, trying to hide the frustration stemming from Patrick's obliviousness. Her cheeks were flushed, her heart pounding, and her nipples were beginning to be visible through her t-shirt…a thing she would usually try to mitigate in the name of modesty.

Not this time.

"So…I get lonely sometimes…" She turned to face Patrick directly, sitting straight up and pulling her shoulders back slightly.

"And…stressed, you know?"

Patrick's head turned slowly toward her, his pupils dilating.

Jordan's face was red as her eyes darted toward Lara's back to ensure she wasn't listening or about to turn around. Once assured, she returned her eyes forward, making eye contact with Patrick, whose eyes were trying not to look at her breasts. But he was a moth to a candle.

Jordan said nothing, instead choosing to reach behind her and pull her hair clasp out. Her auburn hair tumbled down around her shoulders. She let him look at her quietly for several seconds, allowing the tension to thicken before cutting it.

"I'm sorry you feel lonely, Patrick…"

* * *

"Zipper!"

Megan stood on the back porch, shaking the small bag of dog food. Seconds later, a gangly, floppy eared puppy bounded out from behind the swingset, with JJ chasing wildly behind him. The pair cleared the steps and slid across the wood planks, bumping into Megan's ankles.

"Sorry mommy…" JJ's breathless, perfunctory apology was punctuated by the rapid panting of Zipper, the new family puppy.

The pair scrambled to their feet, and, after Megan slipped a treat into the puppy's mouth for obeying when she called, boy and dog scrambled into the house, tripping over each other.

At last, an even match had been found for JJ's bizarre energy.

With the notable downside of muddier floors, Megan observed to herself as she crossed the threshold and slid the porch door shut behind her.

Dinner was done. It was homework time. The dining room table was covered in papers–her briefs and Marky's–wait, no…Marcos'–homework. The gangly eleven year old briefly broke from his book to scoop up the puppy that was whining at his feet.

"JJ…you got poop on him!"

"It's not poop! You're the poop! It's just mud from the tree spot!"

The boys began to argue as Megan tossed her older son a box of wet wipes. Cradling the puppy in his lap, Marcos ignored JJ's loud protestations and delicately began to wipe down the floppy ears and loose puppy skin, neck to tail.

"Shower…then put on pjs…" Megan pointed a muddy JJ down the hall as he whined and stomped a small trail of grimy footprints down the hallway.

"He's such a spaz…" Marcos lamented.

"You love that he wears Zipper out so he can do puppy snuggles with you…" Megan retorted gently, smiling to herself. She sat down and picked up a highlighter.

"Yeah, I guess…"

The two worked in silence, the sound of the shower running down the hall providing a soothing hiss as the now-clean puppy slowly fell asleep in her older son's lap.

Marcos returned pencil to paper, carefully crafting his thought, his eyes darting back and forth from book to blank page. Now almost invisible under the table's edge, the puppy began to snore gently, the crown of its head and floppy ears just cresting into view from the other side of the table.

Megan carefully set the highlighter down and lifted her phone to take a surreptitious picture. Marcos didn't notice. She set the phone down gently and prepared to send the photo to Jared. Then, thinking again, she changed the recipient to Mark.

She felt like she should write something.

But although the rumors had died down, they weren't out of the woods. It would have to be investigation proof…

She began typing carefully.

Dear Captain.

I hope the Mojave desert is treating you well. Didn't one of you get a tarantula in your boots last time you were there together?

Things are good back here at Casa de Poisson. If you look closely at the photo, you might see the top of a familiar, sleepy head just under the tabletop.

The boys love Zipper. All I hear is how cool Uncle Mark was for finding Zipper, and how much we love Uncle Mark. And I agree with both statements.

It was a perfect birthday present. Even with the increase in muddy floors. You nailed it. I don't know what we would do without you in our lives. Thanks again.

-Meg

She hesitated before she sent the message. Closing her eyes for a moment, she switched her brain to attorney mode, and began imagining herself prosecuting the case.

The tone was good. Affectionate. Friendly. No doublespeak, no code. The way old friends talk.

Occasion checks out. A thank you for a birthday present. No casual references to the birthday boy's paternity. "Uncle Mark" is used multiple times.

Too much?

No…perfect.

Overall vibe? A grateful mom and longtime family friend. Affection without transgression.

She could probably tear it apart in a courtroom. Especially with some hard contextual evidence. But…she could also defend it.

She looked up again, seeing Marcos' furrowed brow as his careful cursive filled line after line of school paper. The puppy began yipping in his sleep, still draped over the boy's skinny legs like hanging laundry.

She looked down at the screen again.

Her heart twinged. She wanted to say she loved him. She missed him.

She shook her head to herself, then hit send.

Precisely at the moment where JJ tore back into the room with wet hair and spiderman pajamas, yanking the sleeping puppy off his older brother's lap and sprinting back down the hall.

"Hey!!!" Marcos dropped his pencil and took off, following the trail of wet and muddy footprints down the hall.

* * *

Good evening, Captain.

Mark looked down at the glowing screen and smiled to himself.

A text from Jordan Simms.

He sat up in his cot, boots off but not yet in his sleeping bag. His space was semi-private: thin plywood had been set up by supply marines to surround his sleeping space in the open K-span hut. Similar arrangements, although slightly narrower, had been made for the other officers: Lieutenant Jenkins, his executive officer, and the platoon commanders further down. The senior enlisted marines slept in a wide row near the front of the but, but with no privacy walls. The comparatively spacious partitioning stood in stark contrast to the other huts, where Charlie Company marines were crammed like sardines in long, tight rows.

The way that Mark and Jared were all those years ago.

"Sir?"

Mark broke out of the memory, seeing Sergeant James, one of his platoon sergeants standing at the opening of his makeshift room.

"Yeah…what's up?" Mark stood to meet him.

"Firewatch is set, sir. Nothing but coyotes."

"Very good. Anything else?"

"No sir."

"Good. Tell Gunny P to kill the lights at his convenience. Have him report to me if any hiccups happen before we roll out for the week tomorrow."

"Aye sir."

Sergeant James turned to leave. He was clearly confused as to why the CO asked him to relay a message to his superior.

Mark wasn't letting on why. But he could hear Jared on the other side of the long, steel K-span hut. He knew he was on the phone with Megan and the boys. He knew the call would end if he stepped into the room and everyone snapped to attention.

And…he had already gotten a…disappointing text from Megan.

Warm, yes. Affectionate, yes.

But distant.

Lawyer vetted.

He wasn't upset. Just…disappointed.

Before the dumb scandal, he had been feeling a pull toward a deeper bond with Megan. Especially since he had been making inroads into being a bigger part of Marky's life.

And now she was thinking about their communications with her lawyer brain. Limiting their connection. Strategically.

It was smart. The right thing to do.

But although he would never admit it out loud, it hurt.

Sergeant James was on the other side of the hut now. Mark pulled out of his phone and read the text from Jordan again.

Good evening, Captain.

He smiled again, leaning back down on his cot, whipping up a response.

Good evening, Dr? Simms?

He didn't have to wait long for the three dots, indicating an incoming response.

J: Haha, not quite yet. And it WILL be Dr. Stark-Simms. I'm keeping the hyphen. Pretty proud of my other half.

M: Fair enough. When do you defend your dissertation?

J: Not sure yet. Working on the last chapter now. Summation. They schedule the defense after the committee approves the completed draft.

M: That's a big deal.

J: I guess.

M: You don't think so?

J: I don't know. Doesn't seem real yet. How's the North Carolina swamp?

M: Actually, I'm in California. Mojave desert.

J: Really? What are you doing there?

M: Training.

J: Really? In the desert?

M: Yup.

J: Figures.

Mark squinted at his phone.

M: What figures?

J: That instead of you being 1400 miles east of me when I'm horny, you're now 1600 miles west of me when I'm horny.

Mark snorted, covering his mouth and looking around to see if anyone heard him.

M: Wasn't expecting that.

J: Yeah, what can I say…

Mark chuckled, shaking his head. He slipped into his sleeping bag, then turned onto his side.

M: Lonely?

J: No, actually. David's right here. Asleep. Jet lag.

A picture popped into the text feed. Jordan, laying on her side, her hair loose and hanging down. Button up pajama top, with an extra button undone.

Just for him.

Behind her was the pronated form of David Stark, asleep, his head turned away.

Mark shifted his weight, smirking as he typed a response.

M: Ah. No energy?

J: No, he's plenty ardent. Just…you know. Can't quite finish what he starts.

M: Ah. So this is his week home? How's he holding up?

J: Yep. He's home this week. And you know David. He's a machine. He had his monthly business meeting today…he's killing it. They're growing like crazy, they have two divisions now. And they're talking about starting a parallel business for snow removal. Maybe some other things too, down the road.

M: Wow. Are you guys going to be the Rockefellers in like ten years?

J: Quite possibly. He keeps pulling things together, and he just…finds ways to make money. Honestly, I can't even keep up with all of it.

M: Impressive. Did you know he was gonna be a titan of industry when you married him?

J: Nope. Just a really…sweet guy. He was just going to be a CPA–he delivered flowers to get groceries, remember?

M: Oh, I remember. But it was always pretty obvious he was going to sprout wherever he got planted. And I agree, sweet guy. Lucky you.

J: Yeah. Also, really good at housekeeping. Better than me, actually.

M: Bonus.

J: Oh yeah.

Mark hesitated, then decided to go for it.

M: So…any particular reason you reached out tonight?

Mark was nervous as he hit send. The blinking dots faded in and out. She was clearly thinking about a response.

J: Honestly, kind of complicated. But mainly the horny thing. I've been…fired up lately. Just thinking if you were anywhere around…

Mark's heart leaped. He stared at his phone for a moment.

M: David's cool with that?

J: Definitely. He's kind of re-embracing the whole cuckold thing. We're kind of ready to…you know, do that again. And after we had those talks…about you needing a girlfriend and everything, I guess it kinda lit my fire. But you're in the desert…

Mark pursed his lips in frustration.

M: Damn. I wish I could teleport you to this dull steel and concrete hut. We could have some fun.

J: Yeah, if only we had transporters. Like on Star Trek…

M: Yep. Although we do have cameras.

J: I suppose we do.

Mark was midway through typing a response when a picture bumped its way into the text chain. The pajama top was unbuttoned, gently pulled apart to reveal her firm, petite breasts.

M: I like.

J: I'm glad. Anything else I can do for you?

Mark shifted his weight in the cot again.

M: Take off your pants and panties.

Thirty seconds passed before another photo appeared. Her top was still on, and hung mostly open…and her left hand slipped between her legs as her right hand held out the camera. Her eyes pleaded with him.

M: Sweet holy God…

J: Yeah? Rethinking those transporters?

M: If wishing makes it so. I would make sure we would break this squeaky cot…

J: I love that idea…Although now I have this image in my head of riding your cock and some giant desert spider climbs up my back. Kind of kills the mood.

M: There's a non-zero chance of that, actually. Also, there's like 9 other dudes in here.

J: Ah. Yeah, that might kill it for me. I like privacy.

M: I know you do.

J: Damn.

M: Yep. Damn.

The mood died. Just like that. He felt like she was waiting for the right response. He didn't have it.

Mark waited for Jordan to respond. Things felt awkward, and it was unclear where this was going. Finally, he typed out another message.

M: So…David's back on the cuck horse then?

J: Yeah, I don't think he ever really got off of it. It was more my thing. I was pretty scared. And feeling guilty. And…a whole existential spiritual moral crisis. Obviously…I'm kinda past that now.

M: So you've been on a journey. But without a teleporter…

J: Guess I'll just be horny. Unless I can find another handsome boytoy to ravish me.

Mark smirked.

M: That can't be too hard. Are they in short supply?

J: It's surprisingly hard to find statuesque men sporting big, thick, juicy man-meat who can also make jokes about Star Trek.

M: So…short supply.

J: Yep. And I'll cop to it. I've been looking. Guess I'm going to have to find some local, but second-rate stud to address my horniness issue.

Mark froze.

She was right, of course.

He just didn't like thinking about it. And he didn't know how to respond to it. His thumbs hovered over the screen.

The lights went out in the hut.

Jared had called it. The company, minus the carefully set firewatch, was ordered to bed.

The glow of his phone screen dimly illuminated Mark's face.

Hesitating.

* * *

"It's stuck."

"Nah, it ain't stuck. Just wiggle it a little."

"I'm tellin' you guys…it's stuck!"

"Quit being a little bitch and just yank that shit out…"

Private First Class Martin Jacobs was indeed stuck. Or, more accurately, his foot was stuck, buried in a hole of his own panic, as he had thrashed in the sand under the tilted Humvee.

The Humvee, on the other hand, was indisputably stuck. Nothing ambiguous about that one. Both the front and back wheels on the driver's side had slipped off the road bank and were sunk–almost to the axles–in sand. The Humvee was tilted to the left side, not tipped over, but no longer on the road.

It looked precarious.

Holding on to long tradition, after the vehicle slipped off the bank, the junior marine in the vehicle was unceremoniously handed the folding shovel and shoved underneath the vehicle to dig it out.

The time-honored custom of making the new guy do it.

Lance Corporals Jones and Johns–who often exchanged nametapes just to fuck with their sergeant's head–had been laughing about this as they smoked their cigarettes on the high side of the Humvee. They were disinclined to listen when Jacobs began complaining about his foot.

Part of it was avoiding what was coming. They all knew they were in some trouble. They all knew that after the cigarettes were down to stubs, someone would have to get word to the rest of the convoy that they'd be late. Someone would have to answer for the vehicle slipping off the road. And the folding shovel was clearly not going to get the job done–they'd need another Humvee to pull them out for sure. So there would be that hassle. And if Gunny P heard about it, they might all get new boot-shaped assholes for it.

Johns flicked his cigarette off to the side and stomped it out, re-slinging his rifle before gesturing to Jones to follow.

"Stay tight nugget," Jones called over his shoulder to Jacobs. "And keep digging."

Desert training.

Camp Wilson. Twentynine Palms, California, smack dab in the middle of the Mojave Desert.

50 miles west of the middle of nowhere. Two weeks into the four week rotation.

Jacobs muttered quietly–some curse vaguely directed toward his recruiter–as he ignored his wedged foot and continued hacking away at the sand underneath the rear wheel. The footsteps of his fire team comrades slowly faded.

He dug more. Chipping away at the hard pack to get at the soft sand above it.

Until he saw the back wheel slip further down the incline.

Shit.

Jacobs wiggled his foot again, to no avail. The struts on the vehicle began to groan.

"Hey..Johns? Jones? Guys?"

The hiss of collapsing sand dropped the Humvee another six inches. The tilt of the vehicle went higher.

"Guys? Anyone?"

Panic crept into his voice, and he began to furiously dig around his foot, hitting a large rock–clearly the cause of his inability to move.

The sand hissed again, and the roll angle of the Humvee flirted with the point of no return.

"Help!!!" Jacobs was yelling now. The weight of the vehicle had transferred entirely to the rusty suspension of the wheel next to him. The strut made a terrifying cracking, moaning noise. He reached up and opened the door in front of him. With the vehicle pushing past a 45 degree tilt, It fell open hard, smacking his helmet and dazing him momentarily.

Jacobs didn't track much for a few seconds. He heard some metal clanging, what sounded like a low grunt as the vehicle passed the tipping point. He winced, holding his forearms over his head before feeling a hand grip the handle on the back of his flak jacket, yanking him up through the open door and into the collapsing vehicle.

A strangely quiet hiss was the only sound. The ten thousand pound vehicle was eerily quiet after the padded thomp when it fell full onto its side in the soft sand. Jacobs squeezed his eyes shut, then looked down to see his stuck foot still attached to his body, now wedged in the space where the door opened to the sand. The rock that held his foot had flipped on its side.

He could move easily, but it hurt a little.

"I thought you guys were gone…" Jacobs called up, reaching down to pull his foot out of the now-softened sand.

"What guys?"

Jacobs looked up again, startled at the familiar but unexpected voice.

Shit.

"Captain Rein, sir…I, uh…"

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I mean, yes sir."

"Is your foot okay?"

"Yes sir. At least I think so."

"Good. Get out of the humvee. It's still unstable."

"Aye, sir…"

"You need a hand?" The voice was low and patient, but clearly annoyed.

"I think I got it sir…"

"Good."

Jacobs struggled to stand in the sideways vehicle, reaching up and finding the opposite–now top–door closed.

The door was closed.

Which meant that Captain Rein–who clearly was the one who pulled him in, didn't reach through the other door, but hopped on the top of the humvee and reached down through the gun turret to save him.

As it was tipping over.

Which meant that if it had kept rolling, his commanding officer would have been squashed like a bug. Because of him.

Shit.

"You good?"

The CO's voice was low, calm. The annoyance was gone from his tone. The adrenaline edge was already fading.

"Yes sir…I thought I could get through the other door, but it's shut.

"Yeah. Hang on."

More light clanging. Then a heavy click, and finally a squeal as the opposite door opened vertically. Captain Rein–still not visible from Jacobs' perspective–grunted, throwing the heavy door up, until it stuck open.

"Hurry up."

"Aye sir…" Jacobs grabbed his rifle and slung it, gripping the folding shovel in his other hand before climbing out and tumbling over the far side of the vehicle.

Collapsing awkwardly on the ground, he scrambled to his feet to stand in front of his CO.

Captain Rein was a full head taller than him, and his dark sunglasses made his expression hard to read. He was in full tactical gear: kevlar helmet, flak jacket, frog suit, full combat load of six magazines of rifle ammunition and a cluster of grenades with a 6 inch K-bar knife, an M4 tactical rifle with scope clipped to his vest and an M9 Baretta clasping his right thigh.

It was a field exercise, so everyone was suited up in tactical gear. But the captain looked different than the other officers in tactical gear for some reason.

Way, way scarier.

"I'm sorry sir, we had…the bank collapsed. I was, um, trying to dig it out."

"You climbed under a tipping vehicle, and tried to dig out the tipping side?"

"Yeah. I mean, yes sir. It wasn't really tipping when I started, though. And then my foot got stuck."

"Where's your squad leader?"

"He's at the front of the convoy. It was just fire team 3 out here. We were doing a flanking maneuver when we got stuck."

"And you're alone?"

Jacobs didn't answer. He didn't want to get his teammates in trouble.

Mark sighed. "Relax, Jacobs. No one's in trouble. I'm guessing your brilliant partners in crime went to get a tow vehicle?"

"Yes sir."

"Alright. We'll just hang here till they get back."

The captain moved to the front of the vehicle and sat down, leaning back against a rock. "Have a seat, marine."

Jacobs uneasily sat down a few feet away, his back straight, his eyes sharp and focused. He stayed attentive, unsure of what to do or say.

Mark grabbed the radio handset velcroed to his shoulder strap.

"Charlie 1, this is Charlie Actual. Report on move status."

"Charlie Actual, Charlie 1. Battalion has us holding position. Another two hours, probably."

"Are we ready to move?"

"All ready, sir. Just waiting on the order."

"Good. We got a tipper on Signal range. My coordinates. Get a tow vehicle out here. Actual out."

"Affirm Actual. Inbound. COC out."

Mark replaced the handset and slapped his thigh with a half grin. "Looks like we got some time, Jacobs."

Jacobs hazarded a nervous smile. They sat in silence for a moment.

Jacobs, with the adrenaline of his own close call slowly fading, began to realize how close he came to disaster.

He also began to think about the upper arm strength it took to pull his entire body into a collapsing vehicle as it rolled–all with only a single hand hanging through a gun turret.

"Uh, thank you sir. For…"

Mark swatted the air. "Don't worry about it."

They sat silent for a moment.

"So…what do we do now?" Jacobs' voice was clearly apprehensive.

Mark looked back quizzically. "What do you mean? We wait for a tow vic and plop this rusty fucker back onto its wheels. Then we keep rolling."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"Nothing else?"

Mark half grinned. "You want to know if you're in trouble?"

"Yes sir."

He chuckled quietly, shaking his head to himself. "Did you learn any lessons about digging out a vehicle that's hanging over you?"

"Oh, yes sir. Definitely."

Mark grinned to himself. "I'll tell you what. We get this thing running again, and we'll forget it happened. Deal?"

"Uh, deal. Sir. Thank you, sir."

Mark chuckled again, pulling his canteen out of its pouch and taking a deep swig before passing it to Jacobs. The young marine took a drink and handed it back.

"You almost met God back there, son."

"Yeah, I guess I did, sir."

"You a religious man, Jacobs?"

Jacobs shook his head. "Not really, sir. No. I used to go to church on Christmas sometimes with my grandma."

"Yeah, I went a lot as a kid with my mom. She went all the time. She was a true believer. I never got into it much myself."

They sat silently for a moment.

"Sir?"

"Yeah."

"Why do you ask?"

Mark pursed his lips thoughtfully, removing his sunglasses to clean them with his shirt. "No particular reason. I've just been thinking about it because I've been reading the Bible lately. I'm not really religious, but I'm a big reader, and I'd never actually read the Bible before. It's the most widely published book in the world, and I'd never read it. It started to feel wrong. So I've been giving it a go."

"Oh, yeah. I guess, kinda."

Mark smirked and replaced his canteen. "Anyway, there's this part right at the beginning, when it says God created humans. It says he created the man first. All by himself. Then he kinda…realized he did it wrong or something. Said that it's not good for the man to be by himself. So he made the woman. Made the man fall asleep, ripped out one of his ribs, and made the woman out of it. Then put them in the Garden of Eden together. And…well, then shit really hit the fan. Apparently."

Jacobs laughed. "I didn't know that's how it went down."

"Yeah, that's what it says. But that little line–it's not good for a man to be by himself. There's really something to that." He gestured toward the upended Humvee. "I've…been thinking about it a lot lately. And I think you might've just figured out one of the reasons why it's not good to be alone."

"Yeah. I mean, yes sir. I can see that."

"Of course the two dipshits that were with you put you up to the task that almost got you killed. So being with someone can be a disaster too. Apparently. So there's that side of the argument…" The captain smirked.

"Yes sir." Jacobs didn't know how to answer. The desert silence dragged for several minutes. Jacobs' mind began to wander, as it seemed like they had run out of things to talk about. The captain pulled out his phone, looking at a single text message for a while before putting it back in his jacket pocket.

"You got a girlfriend, Jacobs?" Mark broke the silence.

"Yes sir."

"What's her name?"

"Ashley."

"You treat her good?"

"I try, sir."

"Good."

They sat in silence for another moment, a distant look in the captain's eyes. The sound of engines became audible, moving toward them until one, then two squad Humvees rounded the corner.

Mark replaced his sunglasses and stood up, gesturing for Jacobs to follow suit. "On your feet, Jacobs. And let me do the talking."

"Aye sir…"

[elvis_is_my_daddy]

Your writing is second to none. Looking forward to when you publish so we can start correctly paying for the talent you share with us

[nnjcpl2002]

Great work, C. Thanks. Of course we're eager for "the rest of the story!"

[lkh96]

Can it be a weekly update ??
I can't wait this long again. The best story on OHW so far.

[Tire_Kicker]

29 Palms (The Stumps) was where we took FROC school after basic. It is located by Joshua Tree. Did some tank and artillery training exercises there as well. Hot as hell during the day but the temperature drop when the sun goes down will kill you...

Semper Fi Devil Dogs!

[chinookfan72]

I’m curious how Crushing is going to solve the distance between Jordan and Mark. I can’t see her moving to Wilmington and teaching at UNCW, my money is on everyone going West to Camp Pendelton and UCSD as I learned they have a top 15 psychology program, which would be more inline with Jordan’s prestige once she gets her PHD.

[Crushing]

"The mission scores thus far are head and shoulders above A and B companies. And Weapons company could barely find their keys. All in all, the first three training evolutions have been an unmitigated success for the company."

The Charlie Company executive officer, Lieutenant Jenkins, concluded his summation of the training to date confidently.

He was a good officer. His confident bearing betrayed competence, not insecurity. And he was a striking figure in his own right–standing just under six feet tall with his dark hair in a short, tight cut.

Just not quite as striking as his CO.

"Very well." The Charlie Company commander preferred succinct reports. Details would be provided if needed. If asked. "Anything else?"

Captain Mark Rein sat at the head of the folding table opposite the open floor where Jenkins stood, the company leadership arrayed on the long sides of the table flanking him.

"Nothing else to report, sir."

"Maintenance issues?"

"Nothing significant, sir. The tipped Humvee has been checked out. I know you were concerned about the left rear strut, but the mechs cleared it. It's good to roll for the rest of the exercise, at least."

"Good. Now. About that…"

Mark's voice trailed off pointedly, a clear indication that he wanted an answer before he finished asking the question.

"Second platoon. Sound off." Jared's voice popped up on cue. His tone was sharp–gravelly.

"Aye, gunny. Yes sir."

Sergeant Thomas, the second platoon sergeant spoke up.

“This afternoon Vic 3 from third squad deviated from the convoy on orders to check flank security on Signal range en route to the staging area before the main battalion movement. Apparently the road gave way on the east side and the Humvee tipped on its side. Johns and Jones went to get a tow vehicle and left Jacobs to secure the vehicle, main gun, and radios. I believe that’s when you found them, sir.*

“More or less…” Mark’s face remained stoic.

“I’ve prepared a recommendation for non-judicial punishment for Johns, Jones, and Jacobs, sir.” Second Lieutenant Mayfield, the second platoon commander slid a small clip of papers down the table toward the head. Mark slapped his hand down on the pile, picking it up to read it.

“NJP? On what grounds?”

“Destruction of government property, sir.”

Mark didn’t look up from reading the brief. “Didn’t we just hear a report that maintenance cleared the vehicle?”

“I didn’t know that at the time I typed my recommendation, sir.” Lieutenant Mayfield cleared his throat. “But I think good order and discipline is still best served…”

“There are two roads to good order and discipline, lieutenant,” Mark interrupted him. “Pain and paperwork. And paperwork is an absolute last resort in Charlie Company.”

He tossed the clip of paper aside as Lieutenant Mayfield sat back uneasily in his chair.

“Thomas.”

“Sir…” the platoon sergeant sat up, visually eclipsing the lieutenant behind him.

“This is…third fire team, in third squad. Correct?”

“That’s correct, sir.”

“After we break here, have the three marines in question report to Gunny Poisson. He has my leave to use his creative discretion in ascertaining what went on and applying a remedy. That’s how we’re fixing this situation. Thereafter, I expect you to instruct your marines to use the fucking radios we issued instead of taking unwarranted and dangerous midday strolls through the desert. Understood?”

“Perfectly, sir.”

“Very well."

Mark looked at Mayfield again, annoyed.

“And I’ll refrain from asking where your platoon commander got access to a fucking printer in the middle of the goddamn desert. But as his senior enlisted advisor, I will remind you that you should feel free to educate him on differences between field and garrison priorities.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Very good. Anything else?”

The company staff remained quiet.

“Very well. Get the boys fed, give them space to relax, and set a firewatch. We need to be ready to roll out for the final evolution at 0500 on Monday morning. Dismissed.”

* * *

"Almost done?"

"Very much so…" David leaned over his laptop, sitting upright in bed.

Jordan left the door open halfway, letting the air move through the apartment. Turning back to face the bed, she felt a sudden twinge of fear, which she stifled with a smile.

David looked up briefly, seeing his wife in an advanced state of undress. "Are you hot? Is the thermostat still stuck?"

"Yeah…" Jordan sighed. “It’s not boiling hot though. Sometimes it’s perfect, sometimes just a little annoying.”

"I gotta get on the landlord to fix that…"

Jordan turned on a nightstand lamp, then walked back to the door to turn off the bedroom light before walking back to bed. She was nearly nude–stripped to a teal lace bra and matching panties; her lean, soft body reflecting the warm lamplight coming from David's side of the bed as she picked up the edge of the bedcovers on her side.

The heat wasn't the reason for her choice of wardrobe. But David seemed too busy with work to receive her overtures at this exact moment.

"So what's the emergency?" Jordan inquired, sliding under the covers.

"Not so much an emergency…more of an opportunity. Clint has a foot in the door with New York State, we might be able to bid to supply road paint. For the whole state."

"Wow. That would be huge…"

"Massive," David agreed, not looking up from his laptop. "I just have to confirm price for supply and calculate enough cushion in the markup for a profit. It's got to be low enough to win the bid, but still cover the cost. But variable shipping rates from Brazil…it's messing up my model. I think I've about got it figured out, though."

"Okay. When you're done, I have something I want to talk to you about."

"Of course, Jo…just let me paste in this table…then wrap up. Five minutes?"

"Of course, honey. I'm not going anywhere…"

His fingers clicked quickly across the keyboard as Jordan lifted a book off her nightstand.

Ten minutes later, David grunted in satisfaction and slapped his laptop shut, slipping it carelessly onto his nightstand before flopping back on his pillow, his head next to his wife's.

"Sorry honey, I just wanted to get that out before I crash out. Clint's out at drinks with someone in the governor's office right now, and needed it right away. I don't know how he does it…"

"Good thing he works for you…" Jordan put the book back on the nightstand.

"No joke. That guy's paid for himself already. And then some. So what's up? You said you wanted to talk about something?"

Jordan turned on her side and looked into his eyes for a moment. She seemed too nervous to talk.

"Jo?"

"Yeah, honey. I…just…I'm thinking about how to approach this."

"Approach what?" David's eyes narrowed, intrigued.

Jordan cleared her throat, looking down, then forcing eye contact again.

"David…"

"Yeah?"

"How serious were you about starting again?"

David took a deep breath. "Starting…"

"Yes."

David's heart raced with excitement. Was she serious?

He exhaled. "Pretty serious. But only if you're comfortable. I don't want you, you know, just for me…"

"I found a man." Jordan interrupted him. Her face was dead serious, and she managed to hide most, but not all of the fear she felt.

David was stunned.

"W…wait…"

Her eyes searched his, surprised at the sense of deep connection. It was like opening up the outer gates of his soul, and all of the sudden she could see right into his deeper parts.

She leaned in.

"I found another man to have sex with, honey. You're going to be a cuckold again."

David's hands clenched involuntarily as the ringing in his ears began.

"You're serious?"

Jordan nodded gravely. "A man I know… is available…for that. But only if you're serious."

David swallowed. Jordan looked down and began to touch his chest, running her fingertips affectionately up and down his torso as his breathing stiffened.

"So…" Jordan looked into his eyes again, "are you serious?"

"Yeah." David's voice barely broke the threshold of a whisper.

"Okay." Jordan stopped teasing him with her fingertips and laid her palm flat on his chest. "You sure you'll be okay?"

David nodded, his eyes down. "Who…"

"I'm not going to tell you who until after I go to bed with him, honey." Jordan put a finger on his lips. "But he's good. He's a man I know, and you know him too…just less well. And I'm attracted to him. You know, physically. And earlier this morning I made my intentions known, and we…we made out."

David's heart seized, then caught itself in a gallop. "You…already?"

"Mmmhmmm," she hummed, slipping her palm under David's shirt. David always yielded to skin to skin affection. She leaned over and kissed him gently. Then once more, again, gently.

"It wasn't for too long. But yeah, we made out, he felt around my body, and I…touched his dick."

"You…touched his dick?"

"Yeah, honey. Is that okay?"

David's hips shifted, signalling a desire to be touched. Jordan knew the signal.

"Not right now, honey. We're going to take some time to process this…then we're going to let you release, and then we're going to process it some more. Okay?"

David nodded, squeezing her wrist as she continued to rub his chest. He kissed her deeply. She reciprocated, her tongue delicately slipping in to dance with his.

"You know I love you more than anything in the world, right honey?" She said, pulling back to look him in the eye again.

His pulse had equalized. Elevated but stable.

He nodded quickly.

"Okay. So…I just have one question for you, and then you can ask me whatever you want, okay?"

"Okay…"

Jordan took a deep breath, then braced her palm on his chest, pushing herself into a seated position perpendicular to her husband. David saw her nipples stiffening under the translucent teal lace of her bra.

"You're leaving on Sunday night, right?" She asked earnestly.

"Yeah. Hamburg."

"Okay." Jordan cleared her throat. "So…do you want me to cuck you before you leave? Or do you want me to wait until you're in Europe?"

* * *

They had heard legends about the tattoos. How many of them there were, how intricate the layering was.

Lance Corporals Jones and Johns stood nervously outside hut 14. Outranked, PFC Jacobs stood silently behind them. Looking through the open door of the K-span, they saw their senior enlisted leader wearing fatigue bottoms and boots with no shirt as he did a field wash.

Gunnery Sergeant Jared Poisson didn't turn around as he heard them approach. He immersed his undershirt in cold water, lifting it up, wringing it out, then immersing it again.

“Get in here.” His voice wasn’t salt and gravel. It was calm. Almost warm.

That couldn’t be good.

The three young marines quickly and quietly slipped into the hut, standing quietly at parade rest and waiting for Gunny P to speak.

He unrolled his shirt, scraping some wet mud off the cotton material as he spoke.

“Johns. You’re senior here. What happened?”

Lance Corporal Johns cleared his throat. “We were checking flank security and the bank gave out. Once it tipped, we went to get a tow.”

Another dip for the shirt. The groaning sound of twisting wet fabric followed by the sound of dripping water made Gunny’s silence even more unsettling.

“You didn’t just radio?” He asked finally.

Silence.

Finally, Jones spoke up.

“We thought we could get a Vic with a tow strap around the next bend in the road, Gunny. Handle it quietly. If we called it in, everyone would know. Even battalion.”

Jared looked up at the trio for the first time. “You wanted to keep it quiet?”

Silence.

Jared shook out the damp shirt and draped it over the edge of his cot.

“Anything else you’re keeping quiet?”

“No, Gunny.” The three answered in unison.

Jared looked slowly from one to the other. He shook out his shirt, inspecting it and frowning.

“I appreciate your wanting to handle stuff at the squad level. Tipping a Vic is not one of those things you handle on your own. If shit breaks, I need to know, Cap needs to know. We gotta get parts and mechs to fix it. Can’t have a broken Vic running convoy that we don’t know about. That could really fuck things up. Got it?”

“Got it, Gunny.”

Jones and Johns stole a side eye glance at each other. Why was Gunny being so chill?

It wasn’t like him at all.

“Anything else you want to tell me? Any details you might have forgotten? Or left out?”

“No, Gunny.” Johns shifted his weight uncomfortably.

Jared turned and faced the trio. The tattoos on his torso were even more intricate than the ones on his back. Centered on his left pectoral were the numbers 3-2. For some reason, they seemed to be the icon around which the rest of the artwork revolved. They stood out in contrast to the letters, words, and lines in various languages and fonts that ran the circuit of his skin.

He looked at Johns, squinting, then moved to Jones. Jacobs still stood silent behind and between them.

Jared's eyes settled on Jacobs.

“PFC Jacobs.”

“Yes, Gunny.”

“You were driving the Vic when the bank gave away.”

“Yes Gunny.”

“You need to learn to watch the damn edge of the road. You’re assigned to third shift fire watch for the rest of the week. 0200 to 0400. You’re gonna lose some sleep.”

“Aye, Gunny.”

“Now get out of here, and report to medical, have them look at your ankle.”

“My ankle? I’m…uh, I’m good, Gunny. Nothing wrong with my ankle.”

Jared squinted again. His voice lowered menacingly. “Look at me, Jacobs. Think about who you're fucking talking to. You know how many rounds I've spent in the ring? You think I can’t tell when a man is off balance? Left ankle, dipshit. I could see it with my fucking back turned. Get it checked. Right now. Dismissed.*

"Aye Gunny…" PFC Jacobs nervously turned and left the hut, his limp barely perceptible. He left Johns and Jones behind, staring expectantly at Gunny P.

Jared cracked the knuckles on his right hand and took a step between them. Both winced.

He thought for a moment, then cracked the knuckles on his left hand, then his neck. His voice dropped register down to salt and gravel.

“Last chance. Anything else you want to add? Anything at all?”

Johns’ eyes widened. Jones shook his head weakly.

Jared took another step forward. Within arm’s length. Both marines now stood in the kill range of Gunnery Sergeant Jared Poisson. And they knew it.

Jared growled audibly. But he didn't reach for them. Didn't strike them, trap them in a hold, or throw them across the room. Which they fully expected him to do.

Instead, he simply spoke:

“Report to Captain Rein. Both of you. Immediately. Tell him I sent you.”

* * *

The squealing always started as soon as the door opened.

Aisha ran up to Jordan, throwing her arms around her neck and kissing her cheek, a mixing spoon still in hand. David stepped aside, smiling so the two friends could embrace as Hamad stuck his hairy arm through the doorway, grasped his hand, and pulled him into the house for a back-clap hug.

"So good to see you again, my friend."

"Likewise." David clapped his friend's back before they stepped back.

"So, this is the place, huh?" David looked up at the high ceiling in the front room, then down at the freshly finished hardwood floors in the entryway, and the soft new rugs under the living room furniture."

"Yep. This is the place," Hamad nodded proudly as he led David around the front room, pointing out the various features–bay window, LED lighting, woodwork cabinetry and trim with filigree inlay.

None of it was custom, but all of it was new. And the house was in a nice neighborhood. Four bedrooms, two bathrooms, a basement bonus room. The garage had enough space to store Hamad's tools, and his service truck could fit in with the door closing behind it.

"Oh my goodness, I absolutely love it!" Jordan gushed to Aisha as they reviewed each color choice in succession: paint, trim, curtains, rugs.

Little Fatima was toddling around the room in pink overalls, stepping shakily around the coffee table with a soft toy clutched in either hand.

Hamad beamed with pride showing David each room in the house, one by one. Ever interested in the way things fit together, David delighted Hamad with rapid fire questions, eventually covering every square inch of the property, every possible question.

Except how much the house cost.

Everyone knew that Hamad and Aisha could not have afforded a nice family home in an upscale neighborhood a year ago. Now, with Hamad's ownership stake in the company, they could do so easily. They had achieved their dream, a decade or more ahead of schedule. And that wasn't even the best news.

"How far along are you?" Jordan asked Aisha.

"Four months," Aisha beamed. "We don't know if it's a boy or girl yet…we want the surprise."

"Boy." Hamad said matter-of-factly to general laughter.

"We have a girl, and she's beautiful. Now it's time for a boy."

"If only it worked that way…" Jordan smiled. "I was the first born, and my sister came three years later. I still remember my dad crossing his fingers before my little brother was born. Seven years of trying."

"If Fatima grows up smart and beautiful like Jordan, I'll take another girl," Hamad conceded, picking up their giggling toddler and waving the little group into the kitchen.

The heavy smell of rich spices filled the spacious kitchen. Jordan extended her arms out to little Fatima, who leaned in to land on her hip while her father sat down at the counter next to David. Both women chatted pleasantly as Hamad opened his new laptop, taking a tutorial from David as he began to learn the new software they were using to track jobs, dispatch, and increasingly important lately, new sales.

Hamad was a quick study, but he wasn't even in David's league. He marveled out loud at how much information David could keep straight in his head at a time.

After about half an hour while dinner was cooking, Hamad learned the basics of the program, but felt like he'd need to review all of the sheets, data, and tutorials two or three more times before he really got a grasp on the business. Maybe four or five times. He was grateful Clint was there to pick up the slack so he could focus on dispatching mechanics, but as the business was growing into new areas, Hamad felt the need to keep up. Especially since David wasn't there very much.

"Ready!"

Aisha's voice broke into Hamad and David's informal business conference, and the little party of five sat down to eat a delicious, savory meal. Jordan, trained pastor's daughter that she was, kept polite conversation going without dipping too heavily into the pedantic depths of her own interests and research. Baby names and school preferences were the major topic of conversation. As was their shared love of a particular true crime podcast.

By the end of the evening, no one felt their welcome worn out, and no one felt imposed upon. The house was beautiful, the little family was growing, and everyone knew David Stark was the main driver behind their success.

But nobody had to say it.

"I'm so sorry, but we do have to get going. We have a thing at 9." Jordan checked her phone as the conversation hit a lull.

"An appointment at 9? Why so late?" Aisha asked.

"It's just a movie, but I really wanted to see it with David before he takes off for Germany. It won't be in theaters when he gets back next time."

"Of course," Hamad stood up, and everyone followed. "But thank you so much for coming…and take some sweets for the movie!" He scooped some homemade baklava into a sandwich bag.

"Oh, definitely!" Jordan stuffed the bag into her purse. "Thank you so much…and again congratulations! On the home, and on the new member of the family!"

Smiles.

Hugs.

No affectations, just genuine affections before the young couple retreated happily down the clean new driveway to Jordan's Rav-4 as Hamad and Aisha waved from the open door, then closed it.

"Here." Jordan tossed David the keys in the quiet dark of the nice new neighborhood, pointing to the driver's seat.

David was confused. No alcohol was served–and Jordan rarely drank, for that matter. Why..?

He opened the driver's side door and sat down, adjusting the seat and the mirrors, looking over to see his wife rummaging in her bookbag tucked behind the driver's seat. Finding a small brown paper bag, she pulled it out of her bookbag and set it on David's lap.

"Here."

David looked down at his lap, confused. He looked back up at Jordan, whose gunbarrel blue eyes were fixed on his, with a small, shaky, nervous twitch just under their surface.

He opened the bag and reached in, pulling out a clean, crisp, pink lady apple. On it was a strip of masking tape with writing on it.

He turned the apple to read it.

157 Dyson Street.

He looked up at Jordan again. Her nervous eyes had spread to a nervous smile.

"Okay, honey. Are you ready?"

* * *

“Oh my God…”

Sergeant Mark Rein flopped onto his back on the hotel bed, drawing in a deep breath before his chest was covered with a clompy carpet of sweaty red hair. A pale, freckled hand clasped the left curve of his rib cage, pulling a thin, feminine body to cuddle up close to his right side.

Sergeant Rein exhaled.

“Let’s do that again soon…” a voice floated out from underneath the tangle of red hair.

Mark cracked a smile as Molly giggled at her own suggestion.

“I’m down with that suggestion. Obviously…” Mark grinned down into the tangled mess of red hair before she lifted her head to kiss him.

She exhaled deeply. Pure contentment.

"I'm always surprised at how much I enjoy having 25 cc's of Mark Rein DNA in my body…It sounds gross when I say it out loud. But I really, really like it."

Mark's grin widened. "25 cc's? Is that a lot?"

"You're a very ardent young man…" Molly quipped.

He kissed the top of her head affectionately as they caught their breath.

The hotel room sank into the calm silence of afterglow before Mark spoke up.

“So you got the whole week off?”

“Kind of.” She dropped her face onto his chest again. “I just scheduled my shifts so I had five days off. And I know you have some time off since you just got back from deployment. I wanted to be with you. Next weekend is going to suck though, stacking shifts…basically bookending two weeks. I'll be a zombie…”

“Well, fuck it. I’ll cover a shift. How hard could being an ER nurse actually be?”

She slapped his chest playfully.

Mark felt his heart rate even out, Molly's torso rising and falling steadily on top of his.

She spoke again, her voice shifting from playful post-coital bliss to concerned girlfriend. She couldn't help it. He'd only been home from deployment for a little while, and he was worrying her.

“So you’re being court martialed? That’s for real?”

“Yep. Like most military bullshit, it’s all too real.”

“But you just got back from deployment. Can’t it wait?”

“Apparently not.”

“And they’re saying you did something to your CO?”

“Yeah. I mean, platoon commander, but yeah. But I didn’t.”

“I know you didn’t…” Molly propped herself up on her elbow.

Mark set his jaw in silence.

“I know you didn’t, honey. I’m just trying to understand what they're saying.”

“I know.”

“What do you think is going to happen?”

Mark shrugged. “Can’t say.”

“Well I’m gonna be there. I want to support you…even if it's bullshit.” Molly's tone was determined as she drew little figures with her fingertips on Mark’s chest. She continued, her tone increasingly indignant.

“I still can’t believe they’d do that. I was talking to Megan earlier on my drive down. And she was telling me some more of the stuff you did for Jared over there. She talks about you like a superhero. You should get a medal, not a court martial.”

Mark shrugged again. “I don't care about medals. Just…hopefully I get acquitted.”

“You will.” She laid back down on his chest.

They lay together in silence, her small, smooth frame clutching his body under the fine hotel sheets.

“My mom died when I was in combat training. After boot camp.”

Molly’s eyes shot open hearing his confession, but she didn’t lift her head.

It was usually like pulling teeth getting him to open up about himself. She didn't want to jinx it, so she waited. She felt his chest rise under her cheek as he prepared to continue.

“I knew she was sick. Just didn’t know how bad. She said it was stage 1 when I left for boot. She came to graduation after basic. She seemed kinda tired, but okay. Turns out it was stage 4. I never saw her again after graduation.”

“Jesus Christ, Mark…” Molly propped her body up again, looking at him. He stayed silent, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. "Nobody told you?"

"Father Ramirez…he was our priest…he was with her when she went, I guess. He tried to contact me, but I was out in the field, and the message didn't get through."

Molly couldn't fully react, her hand covering her mouth for several moments of painful silence before saying the only thing she could think of.

“Mark…honey…oh my God, that’s horrible!”

Mark shrugged, his eyes fixed.

“So once I hit the fleet, I had nobody." His voice was flat. "Just Jared. Then Meg. Now you.”

Molly sat up, scooting forward and leaning over his blank eyes. As she was nude, her petite breasts sat exposed above the crumple of blankets around her waist. Mark didn't look at them…

Now it was her brow's turn to furrow.

He always looked at them…He loved her body…

“Honey…look at me…”

Mark’s eyes lifted to meet Molly’s as she reached down to grasp his face with both hands.

"Why didn't you tell me this before?"

Mark shrugged again.

"Didn't feel like the right time. It's just…with the dreams I've been having…I mean…I've been having these weird dreams…"

“I know, honey. We've talked about them.”

“Not all of them are about Afghanistan. She’s…she's in my dreams sometimes too. Just…walking away. And I can't catch up to her. And now Jared and Meg are leaving…and you got into Johns Hopkins…"

"And you're going to beat this dumb little bullcrap court thingy…" Molly interrupted. She wouldn't let go of his face, her thumb gently rubbing the scar on his jawline. "And then when you're cleared, you'll get your orders up to DC, or Quantico, or somewhere nearby. And you'll have your friends, and you'll have me."

Mark looked up at her. Pale. Exposed.Concerned. Solicitous.

He looked down at her naked torso.

He loved her freckles…lightly dusting the modest swell of her breasts, then increasing in density as they rose over her shoulders.

Looking up, he saw the overhead light creating that back-lit halo effect with her red hair that always softened him.

That always did the trick. Especially when she smiled…like she was doing now…

He reached up and grasped her forearm, his large hand wrapping all the way around it.

"Yeah. Yeah…it'll be okay. As long as we're together…"

* * *

"I know you're excited. And you should be excited. It's a big deal, and a big step. For all of us."

Jordan Simms, her tangled hair pulled back in an awkward ponytail, her dinged up, oversized glasses set awkwardly halfway down her nose, looked up nervously as her grandmother gave her stern but loving direction.

"I know it's just an overnight trip, but it's your first one. And I know the boys and the girls are in separate rooms. But boys and girls have a way of finding their way into each others' rooms. You should know that. And you should know nothing good comes of it."

Grandma Simms was old school, but kind. Grandpa Simms had died when Jordan was only 3, so she only had pictures. But dad talked about him a lot. A good man, and good to grandma. Now, with dad visiting Mrs. Lewis in the hospital, and since mom had to take Nathan to the doctor after his sore throat, Grandma had come over to get her ready for her first overnight trip with the cross-country running team.

"I know, Grandma…" Jordan said, sighing. "I won't let any boys into my room."

"You'll have a roommate, won't you?"

"Yes, Grandma."

"Do you know her? What's her name?"

"Ashley Silver."

"Is she a good girl? Does she go to church?"

"I think she's Jewish, actually."

"That's fine. She doesn't go run around with boys, does she?"

Jordan shook her head. "No. I don't think so, anyway."

"Good." Grandma Simms nodded approvingly as she zipped the plastic bag shut, sealing up Jordan's sandwich. "I think I might have picked up a bag of Cheetos you can take for your lunch tomorrow?"

Jordan's eyes lit up. "Really?"

The Simms household rarely stocked junk food. It was too expensive, and it wasn't good for your body–God's temple.

Grandma Simms surreptitiously snuck a snack sized bag into Jordan's backpack with a smile. Jordan smiled with excitement as the colorful bag disappeared into her bag, resting on top of her dog-eared copy of Jean Jacques Rousseau's Social Contract.

"Now remember sweetheart. They boys might ask you all sorts of things, and you should always be polite…but you never go to their room. Not to watch a TV show, not to help them with homework. Nothing. Remember, curiosity killed the cat."

Jordan nodded gravely, watching as Grandma Simms uncapped a pen and wrote on a scrap of paper, tucking it into the front pocket of her lunch bag. She caught a glimpse of it before it was folded in half.

PROVERBS 31:10-31

She knew the reference well. She had to memorize all 21 verses for her 14th birthday last year.

"Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above rubies…" the first verse began.

Jordan had memorized all 21 verses much faster than the other girls in her class. They all thought it was because she was Pastor Simms' daughter, and she had just read it a hundred times before. While both of those things were true, it wasn't the reason she memorized the important passage first.

She was just…really good at memorizing things for some reason.

"Don't worry, Grandma. I don't really like any boys. I'm just going to read like I usually do."

"Good. Now…remember to always do your best, and winning isn't as important as being honest."

"I know, Grandma."

"Okay, do you have your overnight bag?"

"Yes, Grandma."

"Toothbrush? Toothpaste? And a case for your glasses?"

"Uh huh."

"Pads? Just in case?"

"Yes…"

"And what are you going to be sure to never, ever do?"

"Go into a boy's room, or let a boy into my room."

"Good. What's the eleventh verse of Proverbs 31 say?"

Jordan sighed. "The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her…"

"Remember, you never want to give your husband reason to distrust you. Even your future husband. I know you haven't met him yet…but remember…you should love him more than anything in the world. And his trust is worth more than gold."

"I know, Grandma."

"Okay, Jojo. Let's get in the car, and we'll take you to your bus."

* * *

“Shit man, we got off easy.”

Lance Corporal Jones waited until hut 14 was well behind them before making the observation.

“Yeah,” Johns agreed. “I thought we’d get…like…seriously fucked up for a minute there.”

“Why’d Gunny tell us to see the cap?” Jones asked.

Johns shrugged. “Probably paperwork. A reprimand or something. Cap was there after the Vic tipped, so they can't just sweep it under the rug. We wasn’t there, so he’s looking for someone to take the heat. Covering the paperwork.”

Jones wasn’t convinced. “I never heard about Cap Rein laying paperwork. Not really his style.”

“Please…” Johns retorted. “He’s an officer. They always lay paper. It's what they do. If Gunny passed on fucking with us, he did it because the CO told him too. It’s obvious."

They walked in silence before Johns wrapped up his thought:

"Joke’s on both of 'em, though. Like I give a shit about a reprimand.”

Jones was less convinced. But as they were approaching the makeshift chapel, where the company clerk said the captain was, he kept it to himself.

He gingerly pushed the door open, seeing a lone man in uniform sitting in the front row of a room full of empty chairs, reading.

“Sir?”

Mark’s head jerked around toward the door. Seeing the two young marines, he set down his book and stood, his head nearly scraping the ceiling of the chapel tent. He looked mildly surprised at the interruption, but he didn’t speak.

“Sir…” Jones continued tentatively. “Gunny P told us to report to you.”

A brief silence as the captain's brow furrowed.

“I see.” Mark walked toward them. “Interesting.”

Both marines straightened to attention as he approached.

“As you were,” Mark put his hand up. “Step outside.”

The two junior marines obeyed and stepped outside, followed by their commanding officer, who put his cap on as he crossed the tent's threshold. He led them to the side of an adjacent building, out of plain sight from the main walkway, then turned to face them.

Five o’ clock shadow marked the Charlie Company commander's wide jaw, and a look of fatigue saturated his reddish brown eyes. All in all, it was a weary, pained face that sat above symmetrical silver bars pinned to his collar.

Lance Corporal Jones nervously kicked the dirt as Johns attempted to break the ice.

“Gunny gave extra fire watch to Jacobs, sir. Then he sent him to get his ankle checked out.”

“His ankle?”

“Yes, sir,” Jones added. "Gunny said he could tell Jacobs was walking funny. Musta hurt it when the Vic tipped.”

“When was that?”

Johns and Jones looked at each other. “When the bank gave out, sir.”

Jones saw a small flash of emotion cross the captain’s eyes.

He couldn't quite place it. Just noticed it.

"So it tipped when the three of you were in it?"

"Yes sir," Johns said tentatively.

“And you don’t remember him hurting his foot when the Humvee tipped?”

Two heads shook in unison.

Mark nodded. “I see. So why did Gunny want you to talk to me?”

“We don’t know, sir. We thought maybe something was wrong with the truck. Or maybe…”

“Paperwork?”

Mark crisply finished Johns’ thought for him.

Johns shrugged. “Well sir, we thought…”

“That if you didn’t get pain from Gunny, you’d get paperwork from me?” Once again, he spoke over them.

Silence. Then Jones:

“We honestly didn’t know, sir.

Mark nodded thoughtfully before responding in a genial tone.

“Did either of you know I was enlisted before I went for a commission?”

Jones and Johns looked at each other, surprised.

“No, sir. We didn't know that.”

Mark smiled. “Yeah. I was, actually. Total mustang. In fact, I was Gunny P’s platoon sergeant. Back when he was a corporal.”

“Really?” Johns laughed, surprised.

The laughter was cut short by the wind rushing out of Johns, his diaphragm collapsing in sudden shock.

Adrenaline rushed through Jones as he saw his squad mate thrown back against the wall, the result of a long arm slamming into the sternum at jackhammer velocity.

Captain Rein had decisively shifted posture–from aloof but approachable commanding officer to aggressive assailant. In total control of his victim, his right arm stuck straight out, his long, powerful torso leaning forward to press the hacking, squirming Johns against the concrete wall behind him.

“You thought I was gonna drop paper? You thought wrong…" he growled. "Who the fuck do you think taught Gunny P about pain?”

Johns began coughing uncontrollably, clutching the captain’s forearm desperately as his uniform blouse was crushed in Captain Rein’s grip.

Mark’s head shot sideways, locking onto Jones’ shocked gaze.

“You half tipped your Humvee,” Mark said flatly. “It was still on four wheels, and you ordered Jacobs to dig it out. You knew the Vic was tipping. You didn’t help him when he got stuck. And you walked away. You left him alone.”

Mark let go of Johns, who collapsed into a gasping, sputtering heap against the wall. The captain, whose eyes had earlier only flashed anger, now positively burned with amber rage. He began walking menacingly toward Jones, who commenced backing nervously away.

“You left him alone. You left him there to die.”

Jones took two more steps back, getting ready to run.

“Stand fast.” Mark ordered, his low growl returning.

Jones seized on the spot, snapping to attention. Mark approached, towering over him, chin to chest.

“Listen closely, Jones. Do not mistake me for some corporate climbing academy asshole…”

Mark’s voice dropped further. He grabbed Jones' left trapezius and clavicle in a wide, strong grip, beginning to squeeze.

“You fear Gunny P. And you should. Because he can beat your ass without breaking a sweat. But I am not Gunny P."

Jones' eyes widened as he felt the pressure mount between his commander's pinching hand. He began to tremble from pain, unsure of how much pressure it would take to snap his clavicle.

However much pressure it was, he was absolutely sure Captain Rein could produce it.

"You disregarded the life of one of the marines under my command…”

Mark stopped to breathe, holding the pressure steady as he measured his next words.

Jones was paralyzed. Johns still struggled to catch his breath, not yet standing.

Mark inhaled deeply and continued:

“You put a Charlie Company marine’s life on the line like that again, you leave one of my men alone to die like that again, and I won’t beat your ass like Gunny P.”

He bent to look down directly into Jones’ eyes, modulating his voice down to a menacing whisper:

“I will fucking kill you.”

He stood up, releasing Jones from his grip and straightening his hat as Johns struggled to his feet. He turned so he could see them both flanking him, cowering. He spit on the ground and cleared his throat, speaking in full voice for the first time–a clear, crisp baritone.

“You leave one of my marines alone to die in the desert, and the only paper coming from my desk will be the letters I send to your mothers lying about the accident that ended you.”

Johns heaved in breathless panic on his left side. Jones trembled in fear on his right.

He glared once more.

Left again.

Then right.

“Have I made myself clear?”

* * *

The car ride to Dyson street was quiet.

Jordan looked out the window, attempting to feign relaxed conviction while her heart pounded out of her chest. She knew David's face was reddening, his tongue tied. She knew the complex neurochemical knots being tied between his head, heart, and penis. She let him squirm a little, knowing that if he asked her to call it off, she would.

She also compulsively thought of her own experience earlier that week, in the empty stairwell on the east side of the building where her student carrel was, when she and Patrick…

God, he was hot. She hated to admit it. Taller than her. Thin. Toned. Long fingers, which had managed to fondle her breast under her shirt, tweaking her nipple as they kissed.

The feel of his penis as she slipped her hand down the front of his pants. Long. Thin. Hardening, but not fully hard when they heard the fire door slam open a floor below them.

Blowing apart like contra-polar magnets, Jordan and Patrick quickly straightened themselves and made their way back into the office.

Lara didn't even look up.

But after Jordan told her husband, after he agreed to a cuckolding before he left for Europe, texts were exchanged. Plans were made.

And the heat and tension in her core grew day by day.

Day by day.

Day by day. Steadily…ever since that night when the doorway to the red basement yawned open, ready to devour her.

The last night she really had a heart-to-heart with the girl in the mirror.

The car came to a stop at 157 Dyson Street in front of a small house–one of many shared by clusters of graduate students, usually three or four at a time to save money.

David put the Rav-4 into park. Jordan's heart pounded, and she fought to maintain her calm facade as she turned to look at her husband.

"Ready honey?"

David cleared his throat, then nodded.

"Yeah."

Jordan picked up the apple from the dashboard, peeling the tape with the address off of it and handing it to her husband with a nervous smile.

"Eat all of it, honey. It won't kill you. It looks delicious, actually."

"Okay." David's hand shook as he took it.

Jordan took in a deep breath, then exhaled. "Okay. Here we go. You sure you're ready?"

David's whole body was shaking now. He nodded, then, grasping the apple in his left hand, nervously took a bite.

Jordan looked down, noting the small tent in the crotch of his pants.

She smiled. For the first time since they left Hamad's house, her smile was spontaneous. She put her left hand on his right hand.

"So you just wait here, okay? I'll come out when I'm done."

"Okay…"

She rubbed the back of his hand with her thumb. "And David?"

"Yeah?"

"I know you're going to be excited. But it's a public street…" she gestured toward his obvious erection. "So…don't do anything that could get you arrested, okay? I'll take care of you when we get home."

"Okey dokey…" David's face burned.

Jordan sat still for a moment, looking into her husband's helpless, pleading eyes. Steeling herself, she leaned across the center console and planted a delicate, tender, slow kiss on her husband's lips, the pads of her right hand fingers resting gently on his cheek. She pulled back a few inches, looking as deeply into his eyes as she could. Looking for any resentment, any anger, any sign that this wasn't what he wanted.

She found nothing.

Jordan smiled nervously again, then turned to step out of the car. Shutting the door behind her, she began to walk to the door on wobbly legs, looking over her shoulder at David in the driver's seat, his expression some kind of cross between a trapped animal and a helplessly horny teenage boy.

She waved.

He waved back.

She approached the door, feeling her mind suddenly separate from her body, if only briefly. She watched her right hand rise up, clutch, and knock three times on the door.

She heard footsteps approach, and the clack of the deadbolt turning.

Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above rubies…

[Guhunkadorn]

Hmmmm...thinking I just read three timeframes: Jordan in teen years; Mark approaching Court Marshall; and present day Mark engaged in field exercises & David and Jordan re-entering the cuck scene.

Anyway, loved it, thanks as always.

[Crushing]

Correct. Sorry if it’s convoluted, I’m trying to layer in formative memories from characters’ past to give context to major breakthroughs in the present. So Mark and Jordan’s present timeline is paired with a flashback to Jordan’s teenage years and Mark’s earlier relationship with Molly. Sorry if it’s confusing!

[loyaltoher]

Molly’s red hair and freckles……..a man with passion, loyalty, a leader in everyway…..Jordan’s mirror dominatrix, her loyal cuck. An excellent unfolding of lives impacted by this man.

not confusing. a spider couldn’t weave a more touching, emotional web.

TY