Everyone having sex is at least 18. This story is a work of fiction. I made it all up. Check reality at the door and enjoy it for what it is. Special thanks to goducks111 for his help and making this a better story.
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Chapter 1 - Help
I have just walked off base as a civilian for the first time in twenty years. There is no parade, no rush of the family to see me, no girlfriend in tears. I have no vehicle; I have been deployed most of my twenty years. No friends to take me somewhere, I am a loner. I never have been what you would call a people person. I was a top-notch soldier, trained in everything. I can fly, drive, or sail almost any vehicle. I can operate solo or in teams. You name it, I have been trained in it. I took every class they have; I am the most educated Ranger ever.
That doesn't make me the best Ranger ever. I was never better than average at anything. I looked, but never found anything I excelled at. Hence, all the training and disappointment. Both my commanders and I were disappointed in my performance. Therefore, I moved around a bunch, and that added to me being a loaner.
I have no medals and don't have nearly as many kills as others with my experience have. I did okay at saving money. I have no need to work for a while, but I want to. There is a decent looking motel across the street. I walk across the highway, dodging cars, and get a room. They have a dining room for dinner later. I get out my laptop, it's an older model, nothing special. I get online to check my personal email and Facebook.
Nothing new on Facebook and 178,893 unread on my personal email. I had been using my military email, so I didn't need my account ... until now. I sort by company and delete by the thousands. It's slow. The numbers are so huge, everything takes a while. Deleting 10,000 emails, that's like five minutes.
I delete, wait, un-filter to all, wait, filter on a name or word, wait, delete, and more waiting. I spent all night and until early in the morning to put a sizeable dent in the email. While un-filtering, a single email catches my eye. The subject says, "Help." Obviously, with a subject line like that, I must open it up.
I notice it's almost five years old. Damn. It's from my mom. She was an English teacher. So, when I see several spelling mistakes, and it's short, she wrote this in haste, "Your father is dead, I am taking JoAnn and Tammi to my brothers in Washington."
That's it. How did my dad die? Why are they in a rush? Why is there no more email from her? The internet and the local paper give me some answers. Five years ago, my sisters had just turned eighteen on the day, that's odd. On their birthday, my dad was gunned down in our driveway for no reason. That's odd as well.
I remember mom's brother living in some tiny town up near Seattle. The only thing memorable about that town is that it had a strip club, a big one. They were up near the headquarters of a large famous computer company. A lot of wealthy geeks up there with lots of disposable money.
I wonder if anyone would recognize me? When I left home, I was six feet tall but only 140 pounds soaking wet. I was a birdman, no muscle at all. I had darker brown hair, freckles, and my ears stuck out. I was Big Ears to the entire school and area. My lack of muscles was a considerable hindrance through basic training. I was a great runner but carrying a pack, lifting a gun, and climbing walls with said pack and gun were torture.
Over the years, my hair has been short, but my hair turned black. I outgrew the freckles, and my ears don't stick out as much. Maybe they do, but with my more prominent melon, it doesn't look as bad. I grew three inches and a hundred twenty pounds. I filled out some. Mostly, it's muscle, that hard work was like a twenty-year weight-lifting class.
Not everyone is as big as I am, I purposely lift weights to add bulk. Now, lifting anything is a breeze, it's the running I work hard at so I can meet minimums. For me, running was mostly desire. I needed to want it to stay in the service. It's part of why I volunteered for so much. You don't have to qualify if you are in combat.
Ok, new plan, bus ticket to Seattle and then a ticket to small-town USA. I spend several more hours deleting the email. Tomorrow at noon I need to catch a Greyhound for Seattle.
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Stepping on the bus is hard, there isn't much room. I am a big man while the seats and the aisle are small. The seating is far better than a plane. That doesn't help when the person next to me is bigger than I am. Every woman stares at me as I walk down the aisle, hoping I am next to them. Lucky for me, I am next to a small sixteen-year-old child traveling to her grandmothers. Her parents were recently murdered. She clung to me immediately.
We talked a lot about life and school. I pointed out how important a good education was. I wanted to be a good role model for her, this was an important transition in her left. She left the bus when I did ate where I did and slept when I did. I waited at the bus station until her grandmother showed up. I got a good hug goodbye, and then I waited for my bus. Twelve hours before a bus was going past the town I wanted.
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The door closes behind me, and I start my walk to the hotel. The bar looks the same, but everything else has changed. There is much more town here now. A motel, some restaurants, a few tourist stores, a police and fire station, and your standard set of buildings that all small towns have. Hardware, grocery, clothing, shoe, pawnshop, and a jeweler. The last one seemed odd. Can they really do that much high roller sales out here? Four gas stations close out the town. Two work on cars while two only sell gas. The bar/strip club is called Bella's. It looks run down, and I can hear the music out on the street.
I don't remember the brother's name or where they live. I believe that they still live here and eventually will be in town. I will recognize them and mom. The girls would have changed too much and probably went to school and never came back. I wouldn't recognize them anyways.
I get a room and then go to the diner where I can get something to eat. I go in, and there is a young woman there waiting tables and an older man on the grill. The woman is cute but a few pounds over-weight, many would call her chunky. I call her Lisa, it's on her name tag.
I say, "Hi, Lisa. I need a coffee, the special, gravy on the side, I like my fries crispy."
Lisa looks at me blankly, she can't move. The guy yells at her, and she jumps. She turns bright red and scribbles down my order. When I did get my order, I get a Coke, a hamburger, and tater tots. She didn't get anything right. It looks good, I am hungry, I eat it. Others are there, and she helps them. However, her eyes are on me all the time. The same is true of three wives and two daughters. What's the matter with this place?
When Lisa comes back, I use my loud commanding voice to say, "SIT. Why are you and every other female over age eight staring at me? Is something written on my face?"
Lisa smiles and says to me with a soft, quiet voice, "You are young and cute as hell. Only poor, old, and ugly men stop by. Guys like you spend all their time at the strip club. The two husbands, they're dirt poor, they can't afford the women across the street."
I smile at Lisa, "I need a chocolate milkshake. I haven't had one in over twenty years."
Lisa practically ran to make the milkshake. She ignored the customers. They didn't care, they are watching Lisa and me. She serves me the dessert. I slowly pick up my spoon, touching her hand as it's still in her hand. I spoon a spoonful of milkshake, raise it up, and then slowly bring it to my mouth. I slowly open my mouth wide to receive the prize. After licking the shake, I moan in appreciation of how much I like this milkshake.
Mmmm, mmmm, mmmm. As I say that, I roll my eyes, swirl my head, and then pop my lips in satisfaction. This is some of the world's finest over-acting, practically the definition. They are all eating it up. Then I make a motion like I am hot.
Lisa helps me out, "Our air conditioning doesn't work. You may have to take off your shirt."
