Note: Fans of my previous work might do well to skip straight to the Author's Note on page four before reading. Otherwise, hope you enjoy!
Chapter One: It Really Wasn't My Idea
"So Alyssa told us to ask you what you did in the Navy without telling you that she told us to," the very pretty woman in front of me at the table grinned. "Said it was pretty macho but you wouldn't brag about it unless we prompted you, which I have to say is really kind of charming."
Naturally I blushed. My eyebrows went up as I looked over at my roommate and lifelong friend, who glared at Stacy with her jaw visibly clenched. Stacy just kept on grinning, glancing at Alyssa only for a moment before leaning forward on the table with interest. She batted her eyelashes at me from underneath her curly blonde hair. Another man would've had a hard time not staring down at the inviting cleavage presented by the plunging neckline of her dress. It wasn't entirely easy for me, either, but I was always more about faces. Hers was delicate, vibrant and gorgeous.
"Specifically, what she said was to not make it obvious that she told us to bring it up," elaborated Monica, who sat on my left directly across from Stacy. She was every bit as much of a knockout as Stacy, with short, boyishly-cut black hair and perfect mocha skin. Like Stacy, she was dressed to kill, clad in a flattering green dress that didn't reach all that far down past the hips. Like Stacy, she was hard not to stare at.
Alyssa had hinted at introducing me to a couple of her college friends awhile ago. I had seen pictures, but I didn't realize she was talking about
these
college friends. Moreover, the pictures hadn't done them justice. I knew her friends were pretty, but I didn't know they would be the sort that were so hot that men were often too intimidated to approach them. Hell, I would have been too intimidated, had Alyssa not invited them out to dinner with us.
Thank God I had shaved and thrown on a decent shirt. I had thought this was just casual.
Monica casually waved her spoon at Alyssa's glare. "And see, that glare she's giving right now? That means she's pissed at us for blowing it, but she knows it's funny so she's not really that mad. But you probably know that look, huh?"
"Oh, I know the look," I smiled. "I've gotten it a lot." I glanced over at my lifelong best friend, who in turn promptly kicked me in the shin under the table. I knew that was coming, too, but I took it in stride. I would have said she was even more beautiful when she was angry if I didn't still have the scar from the first time I told her that in high school. "That's her 'don't blow my scam' look. Mostly I got it whenever I talked to her parents."
"Yeah, we know about her family," Monica said with obvious disdain. "They all sound batshit crazy." She caught another glare from Alyssa. I wasn't even looking Alyssa's way at that point. I knew what it felt like to be next to the glare. Monica nudged my arm a bit, saying, "Anyway, the Navy thing."
I wasn't sure what to say right away. I paused, looking down at the remnants of the warm, deep-dish pan cookie between the four of us as all my nerves came back to me. Harassing Alyssa was second nature. Being the center of attention from stunningly hot women (Alyssa aside) wasn't. I don't think I was ever so nervous in all my life. It was all I could do not to let it show.
"I was a corpsman. That's the Navy's word for 'medic.' I ran around with a bunch of Marines, 'cause they don't have their own medics. Not a big deal, really," I shrugged.
Alyssa kicked me in the shins again. "Way to sell it, baby bro," she frowned. At twenty-five, she was all of four months older than I was, and we weren't at all related. But she had called me that from the beginning. It was a constant reminder of how I was categorized in her life. "He's got like a fat stack of medals in a drawer at home."
"Aw, half of those are for tying my shoes correctly," I countered, "and a lot of the rest are like group awards."
"Oh, now I
know
you must be a war hero if you're all shy about it," Monica grinned. I blushed again. She noted my color with a simple "Mm-hmf."
"Alyssa said you got hurt," Stacy said. "That's why you're out now, right?"
"Well..." I trailed off. "I got some shrapnel in the arm and leg from a bomb, but that's totally not why I got discharged. See, one night at a forward operating base, I'm hanging out with some of the guys and this one Marine manages to slice his hand open while he's opening a beer bottle -- don't ask, I still don't know. My gear is further away than one of the supply closets, so I drag him off to get him patched up. I just sit him down at a table in another room where there aren't half-drunk Marines being stupid so nobody would mess with him until I'm done fixing him up.
"Only when I hit the supply closet, I find the C.O. of the base standing there in the dark with one of the platoon leaders there, um, on his knees in front of him and the C.O.'s trying to pull up his pants."
"Both guys?" Monica blinked. I nodded. "Wow," she smirked.
Stacy giggled. "What did you do?"
I shrugged, unable to hold back my own grin. "Well that's really something I don't want to see, right? I mean I know instantly that there's just no way that turns out well for me, but it's too late now and I gotta admit, it's really funny. So I just say, 'I don't have to ask and you don't have to tell, sirs,' grab the peroxide and a bandage kit and head out to do my thing."
My company laughed appreciatively. I poked at the cookie with my spoon. "So then, three weeks later when I'm in the infirmary with my arm and leg cut up and they're deciding what to do with me and whether I can stay or if I have to go, the C.O. walks in, takes one look at my chart -- and I know damn well he doesn't know how to read it -- and he decides it's time for old Petty Officer McLoughlin and all his inconvenient knowledge to move on. Turns out he knew an awful lot of pretty influential people who got to decide stuff on my behalf."
"Do you regret it?" Stacy asked.
"What, not ratting them out?" I blinked. "Of course not. Whole problem is that they have to hide it in the first place. C.O. may have been a bit paranoid, but I can't say I blame him."
"No, I mean getting out of the Navy."
I shook my head. "Not really. On the one hand I felt bad about leaving the guys I was with because they were still going to be in a war zone without me, but past that I was about done with the military. I thought about trying to stay. I mean I'm really not crippled or anything. But while I was in the hospital, Alyssa sent me an email that just said, 'Come home!' in all caps, so that was that."
"Awww!" the two ladies responded. I blushed.
"Home didn't mean California?" Monica asked.
Again, I shook my head. "No, Alyssa's the only family I've really got. My family disowned me for being a fascist baby killer when I joined the Navy. Turns out I delivered two babies in Afghanistan and one in Iraq, so the joke's on them, I guess."
I put a spoonful of moist cookie in my mouth, expecting laughter. I got sympathetic stares instead. That made me self-conscious all over again. "Um," I mumbled, "I didn't mean to make that sound like a cry for help. Now I feel all emo."
Stacy smiled, reaching out to take my wrists and pull them down onto the table. She slid her hands up to my elbows as she looked them over. Her eyes looked up at mine. It was God. Damn. Sexy. "No scars here," she said very smoothly. "You don't seem emo to me."
"You've got scars, though, right?" Monica asked. She revved up the purr in her voice, too. "Do we get to see your scars?"
I blinked. I was, in fact, quite intimidated by these two women now. "I dunno," I said with all the courage I could muster, "is this a date? I usually save them for dates."
Monica's smile was sly. "Could be," she answered.
"We're pretty adaptable," Stacy agreed.
