This story takes a bit longer to get into the sex than some of my other stories, but then heats up quickly.
I snapped out a quick jab into the heavy bag, followed by grabbing the bag, holding it, and driving my right knee into it. I slid off and away from my bag to my right, then drove a hard left-leg sidekick into it. AC/DC provided the soundtrack to my workout on the heavy bag set up outside my brother's garage, with the hot Tennessee sun burning down on me. I was sweating and my breath was more ragged than made me happy as I drove punches and kicks into the bag. I was still recovering from some enforced downtime, courtesy of an IED that had ended my career in the Army and left me with a roadmap of scars across my body.
Sure, I could have stayed in the service. They needed cannon fodder badly enough the Army was willing to stitch me back together and let me stay in, but my days of storming the castle on the front lines were over. As far as I was concerned, that's what a Ranger is supposed to do so I had no interest in doing anything else. I'd tried a stint holding the hands of babies learning to be soldiers at Fort Benning in Georgia, but the little shits just made me even more sad and pissed off. That's how I found myself retired after 23 years in the Army, feeling angry and bored, staying at my brother's place in the suburbs of Nashville as I figured out what to do with the next act of my life.
The place was nice, and my brother Al was gone a lot. He's an entertainment lawyer representing some fairly big names, so he makes bank. His garage came complete with an apartment over it, so I was able to have my privacy and he was happy to have me stay as long as I wanted. I'd been there a few weeks and kept mainly to myself, not having met any of the other rich pricks who lived in the ritzy neighborhood. That was about to change, though.
As I pushed myself to make the heavy bag jump and shake, I saw the guy from next door walking down the drive to where I was working out. I'd seen him out and about—he and his wife were both runners—but had never so much as said hi to him. That was why I was a bit surprised when he ignored the main house and raised a hand in greeting as he came my way.
I stopped hitting the bag, taking a moment to catch my breath as he walked my way. He was a few years younger than my 41 years and fit in a long-distance runner kind of way, lacking the heavy muscles I'd built up over the years. He also had the kind of skin that bespoke fancy creams and spas, rather than the hot Iraqi sun, and he wore a pair of shades that probably cost more than my first car.
As he drew close, he held out his hand to shake and said, "I'm afraid we haven't met yet. I'm Sid."
I held up a hand to draw his attention to the bag glove I was wearing and said, "Nice meeting you Sid. I'm Joe." Stepping over to turn the radio down, which I managed because my gloves left my fingers free, I said, "What can I do for you?"
I was half expecting the rich prick to complain about my music or some shit, but instead he said, "I know Al is on the road, and my wife and I were wondering if you'd want to come over for burgers this afternoon."
Al was my brother, who was in Los Angeles for the week. I paused to consider Sid's offer. On the one hand, he looked like a fucking douchebag. On the other hand, I love burgers.
I was still considering when Sid decided to up the ante. "I just got a nice bottle of Woodford Reserve."
Hell, I couldn't turn down a free burger
and
good bourbon, so with a nod I said, "Sounds good. What time?"
Sid asked, "How's six?"
I had nothing going on and that would give me plenty of time to finish my workout and shower, so I said sure. Sid grinned and said, "Excellent. Bring your shorts—we have a nice pool. See you at six."
He headed back down the drive and I didn't think much more about him as I finished my workout. My body hurt in weird places these days, a combination of age and the injuries I'd picked up in Afghanistan and Iraq. I'd joined up at 18 and only a few years later the Twin Towers had gone down, so I'd spent most of my life killing people in places I'd never even heard of before enlisting. Still, I had a six-pack abs and there was very little fat on my 6'2" frame, thanks to hard workouts.
I showered, threw some board shorts and a tank top on, and grabbed a six pack of porter out of my fridge. I grabbed my shades on the way out the door and at a few minutes to six I was opening the gate leading to Sid's pool area. I could smell lighter fluid and charcoal but no burgers yet, and as I came around the corner, I saw he was futzing with the grill, still dressed as he had been earlier.
My attention was quickly drawn to his wife, however. She was wearing a bikini that left little to the imagination as she sunned herself next to the pool. I guessed she'd stand about 5'3" and she had perfect little B cup tits. I could see just the beginnings of a six pack on her abs—call it a four pack—indicating she was pretty serious about her workouts. She had dark, almost black, hair and her skin was more olive than the charred brown look some women get from too much time in the sun. She looked to be in her mid thirties, which was perfect as far as I was concerned. I prefer grown-up women instead of teens any day of the week. Too bad she had that giant rock on her ring finger, though.
As I paused to take her in, the woman I took to be Sid's wife noticed me. There was a pause and she may have been checking me out, but her expensive sunglasses made it hard to tell. At the end of a long beat, she gracefully stood and sinuously walked toward me, putting her hand out to shake.
I shifted the six pack I was carrying to my left hand and enveloped her tiny hand in my paw, being careful not to crush it. She smiled up at me and said, "I'm Julie, Sid's wife. You must be Joe, Al's brother. Glad you could make it."
Sid gave me a wave from the grill and said, "You can put your beer in the fridge there..." pointing toward a mini fridge. "Pop one open or grab one from the fridge—or would you rather go straight to bourbon?"
I laughed and said, "I'll wait until I have a bit of food in my stomach for that. Thanks though."
As I talked to Sid, Julie turned and walked back to her chair. She was wearing one of those bikini bottoms that only covered about half her ass, and what an ass it was. Although she was tiny, she had a perfect little bubble butt, and her legs showed signs of plenty of exercise.
Giving myself a mental shake, I headed over to the mini fridge, put five of my beers in, grabbing the bottle opener to pop the top on the sixth. I asked if anyone wanted anything, but Sid waved his mostly full beer in my direction and Julie held up a glass with some fruity concoction in it.
Sid said, "Have a seat—I'll get the burgers going in a few minutes."
Taking his advice, I grabbed a seat where I could talk to Julie and keep checking her out behind my shades. We started chatting and I learned about her marketing job and Sid chimed in periodically to talk about his work as an accountant, which bored the piss out of me. They asked about me, and I talked a bit about my time in the service, without going into too many details. It's always the same difficulty talking to civilians. What am I supposed to do, talk about seeing buddies blown up and the people I'd shot in far away lands?
It took Sid longer with the burgers than he'd suggested would be the case, so I had time to get a few beers in. Thankfully there were some chips to help balance the alcohol out, but I was even more thankful when the burgers hit the grill. As we drank and chatted, I learned that both of them were into fitness, no surprise there, and my suspicions about Sid being a douchebag were confirmed. He did everything but run inside and grab his bank statement to show me how rich he was.
Even worse, though, was the pandering "thank you for your service" bullshit he shoveled my way. I've never met a veteran yet who actually likes to be thanked for their service. It's always hard for me not to say something about how someone had to do it so people like Sid could sit around getting his balls waxed. Fucker didn't have a hair on him below his eyebrows, as far as I could tell.
Julie, on the other hand, came across as smart and interesting. I learned her olive complexion was from a combination of Mediterranean and Cherokee heritage in her family history. We talked workouts and I learned she had done some karate but these days stuck to kickboxing aerobics. I'd seen it enough to know that while the "kickboxing" bit was a load of horseshit, it's a good workout. I grinned and said, "Well, that helps to explain your rocking bod."
She just chuckled and said, "Well, coming from someone as fit as you, that's quite a compliment."
Eventually, we moved things over to the outdoor table to dig into the burgers Sid had cooked. I had to admit, they weren't half bad. What was more than half bad, though, was Sid's conversation now that he had time to focus on chatting. It quickly became apparent that he's one of those sort of men who'd never done anything manly in his life, so he liked to be around real men, hoping some manliness would rub off on him. He kept asking questions about my scars, what it was like to fight in a war, and a dozen other bullshit topics that made me want to tell him to fuck off.
Luckily for him, he had good taste in bourbon—which I'd switched to somewhere along the way—and his wife was a total smoke show. Petite girls and women who are fit had always been two of my things, and she rolled both into one package. The more Sid talked and the more I drank, the more I wondered what I would have to do to get into her tight little box.
Turns out, the answer was simpler than I'd thought. At some point, as the sun was starting to slowly sink down on that long summer day, she leaned way over the table to get something. Sid had been hitting the bourbon too, and to no one's surprise, he didn't handle it as well as I did. He laughed when she leaned over the table and said, "Careful honey, if you had any tits at all, that would have been obscene."
Sid then turned to me and said, "I've tried to talk her into getting a boob job, but she just won't listen to me."
I scowled and said, "Good, because her boobs are fucking works of art." Then I turned to her and said, "Well, as far as I can tell anyway. I'd be able to judge better if you took your top off."