Chapter 1
Learn to Fly - Foo Fighters
My name is McKenzie Bishop, and this is the last day I’ll ever spend in the Army.
I’m not sure what to think of it yet. I know I’m excited to grow a beard, smoke a joint, and do whatever the fuck I want to do, whenever the fuck I want to do it. But I’m scared too. Scared of leaving the only thing that ever made any sense in this life. Scared of never again making the kind of friends I made over the course of my six-year career.
And what the hell do I do now anyway?
“Do you know what you want to do after this?” the counselor sitting across the desk from me asks, as if he’s just read my mind. The Sergeant First Class rank pinned on his uniform, means I can't respond how I’d like to: “What's it fuckin' matter to you?”
No, the three stripes on my uniform collar means he gets to play this stupid little game. A few more years and I would've been at his level, but a few more years is what I didn't have left in me to give.
I can’t be bothered with the dog and pony show that is ACAP, or Army Career and Alumni Program—a week-long course that’s more likely to cause death by boredom than it is being a helpful transition tool. This meeting with the counselor is the last of it, and that fact does not go unnoticed. I can feel myself fidgeting in the seat, trying to pass along that I’d like him to just shut the fuck up and sign my checklist already.
"Sergeant Bishop?" the counselor says, tilting his head with a curious look.
"Sorry, Sergeant, I'm just not sure how to answer that."
"Well, you're twenty-five... plenty young to do whatever your heart desires. You've got the GI Bill. Disability checks. The world is your oyster, as they say." He smiles, a used car salesman's smile; too wide to be real, and he’s got just enough monotone to his voice to let me know he’s done this dance far too many times before. He doesn’t care for my answer. He just needs to fill these thirty minutes. I’m led to wonder what this man knows about the horrors of war; how each dreadful minute plays on a loop in your head. He doesn’t get how anticipating the future with anything but trepidation, after seeing the things I’ve seen, is nearly impossible.
“I’ve gotten accepted to a few schools along the East Coast. I need to talk with my girlfriend and figure shit out from there, I guess,” I respond, shrugging, much to the counselor’s displeasure. I reckon it’s easy for someone to underestimate the transition process when they’ve never had to do it. “Not sure what I want to do for a major yet,” I continue, pushing back the desire to tell him how pointless all this is. “Probably just start with Gen Ed courses and figure it out from there.”
I’m at a crossroads in my life; one I never anticipated. It’s not so easy for me to figure out what’s next. Not when I had planned on staying in the Army for at least twenty years before retiring as a Sergeant Major in charge of an infantry battalion, like my father, and his father before him. A rocket-propelled grenade at the end of my last deployment, and the shrapnel that followed, had other ideas. I could no longer serve as an infantryman; therefore, in my eyes, I could no longer be a soldier. I could never see myself like this man, sitting behind a desk, while others wearing the same uniform were fighting and dying in theirs.
I was born to fight. And when I lost that ability, I lost a piece of my identity along with it.
The counselor tilts his head again, a judgmental scrunch in his brows. “Anything spark your interest, at least?” he asks.
I ponder this for a moment, my gaze fixed on the cluttered desk before me and my mind lost in thoughts of future days, without a uniform. Without any real plan.
Shrugging, I shift my focus back to the counselor. “Nothing I can really think of. I’ve always enjoyed acting. Did a few plays back in high school and took some acting classes here in DC. Really enjoyed them. It’s something I could see myself doing long-term.”
The counselor passes a quick shake of his head as he grabs a stack of papers from the desktop.
“No,” he says, still eyeing the papers as he leafs through them. “You’ve got some great scores all around here,” he continues, eventually finding the paper he was looking for and setting it down in front of me. He looks over the top of his glasses at me, in that fatherly way that always grinds my fucking gears. I have a father, and a shitty one at that. I don’t need another one.
The counselor taps the sheet of paper with his index finger, grabbing my attention. I realize the sheet contains the results of an occupational strength test I had to take last week. “There are a lot of options here. Doctor, lawyer, intelligence. I mean, an actor…” He sits back in his chair and crosses his arms, his face scrunched in displeased scrutiny. “How many people do you think want to be an actor? How many roles do they have for—” He stops himself, his focus shifting from my prosthetic eye, surrounded by thick scarring that does well to attract unwanted attention, toward the papers in front of him. He clears his throat before looking back up at me, avoiding my prosthetic this time. “I mean, how many people are out there trying to make it as an actor? What are the chances?”
I keep my features relaxed, though on the inside, I’m envisioning a swift slap across this man’s cheek. And not a regular slap. A bitch slap.
In a steady tone, I say, “Sergeant Kemp, with all due respect, this is the last day I’m ever going to wear this uniform. It’s a good day, to an extent, but it’s a sad day, too. I don’t really care to get into a discussion about my future with someone I’ve just met, let alone someone who’s never been in this position. I’ve been living with myself for twenty-five years now. If I ain’t got a clue what’s ahead, I can promise you, you don’t either.” I push the test results aside and point to the paper the counselor set them on top of. “Now, you are the last signature I need on my checklist to finish out-processing, and get my ass outta here. I would really appreciate if you could do that for me and let me be on my way.” I find myself leaning forward in my chair, attempting to say more with my eyes than I am with my words.
The counselor studies me for a moment, creases forming in his forehead, as if he is trying hard to figure me out. I lean back in the chair, cross one leg over the other, and smile.
“Okay,” he agrees, taking the checklist in his hands, but his eyes still linger on mine. “I just don’t want to see you get lost out there.” He sighs, before grabbing a pen and signing the last empty spot on the paper, much to my relief.
“I’ll promise you this, Sergeant. Ain’t no way I’ll be any more lost out there than I was in here,” I respond, referring to Walter Reed and all the time I’ve spent rehabbing here. I point to a map of Iraq and Afghanistan he has tacked to the wall beside us. “And definitely no more lost than I was out there. Not even close.”
The counselor shrugs, resignation taking up his features, as he hands over the completed checklist. “You’ve got your own out-processing paperwork, correct?” He drums the pen against the stack of papers in front of me from which he pulled the test results, and I nod, standing from my chair.
“Good to go, Sergeant. Got everything I need.”
The counselor stands too, and just as I’m about to depart, he puts out his hand. I take it with my own and he pulls me in.
“Make us proud,” he says softly; his coffee breath is noxious. He motions his head toward my right shoulder where the American flag patch sits. “Make that proud.”
He lets go, passing a self-assured nod as he squats back into his office chair; one where he’s likely spent his entire career.
“I’ll try, Sergeant. I’ll certainly try.”
Packing up the last of my things into boxes, I busy myself as I wait for my girlfriend of nine months, Chelsea, to come by my barracks room. For weeks now, I’ve tried to talk with her about the future, our future; whether I stay here for her, or she goes with me to whatever college I end up choosing. She continually puts it off, though, often changing the subject, which unnerves me. I believe she loves me, I really do, and though I have a hard time understanding what love even means at this point, I think I love her too. Yeah, she can be a pill sometimes, and we don’t have very much in common, but she was around for some of the harder moments I’ve experienced over the course of my recovery. She put forth more of an effort than any other woman I’ve dated before; even if she doesn’t often try very hard to understand the complexities of my war-weathered mind.
Over the screech of shipping tape, as I seal up my box of medals and Army memorabilia, the last things I have to pack, I hear a soft knock at the door. I first grab the empty bottle of Jameson from my nightstand, setting it gently into the trash, and then I excitedly walk toward the door. Swinging it open, I see Chelsea standing on the other side, a slight smile on her face, and a tight dress clinging to her young body. High heels sharpen the curves in her toned thighs.
“Hey, babe.” I look her up and down for a moment, my eyebrows raised, before embracing her and peppering her neck with kisses. “You’re late,” I whisper, letting go and sidestepping to let her inside, shutting the door behind her.
Winking, I tease, “I’ve got most of it packed up already.”
She’s yet to say a word as she looks over the sealed boxes scattered throughout the small barracks room.
“I didn’t realize you had so much shit,” she finally says, laughing. She looks toward me, her smile fading and a look of seduction taking up her features.
“That’s because it would all end up in the closet every time you visited.” I laugh, and so does she; that cute little squeak of a laugh I’ve grown to adore.
I look her up and down again, the thought process belonging to my dick now. There’s no humor in how much I need her.
I quirk an eyebrow and say, “You look fucking gorgeous. And don’t even take this as a complaint. But that dress… did we have plans today I didn’t know about, or is this just a wonderful ‘last day in the Army’ surprise.”
“The latter,” she says, taking a seat on the edge of my bed and leaning back on her hands, pushing her tits out as she does. She crosses one leg over the other, slowly, and my eyes trace her leg from heel to thigh.
“Lucky fucking me,” I mutter, biting my lip and shaking my head.
“Oh, no. It won’t be Lucky who’s fucking you today.”
“Fuck, babe,” I breathe, my dick hilting in my shorts. “You are so fucking sexy.”
I dive onto her, throwing her back against the bed, and holding her arms to her side. I look into her eyes for a moment, appreciating the beautiful pools of aqua blue I’ve come to know and admire so well, before pressing my lips against hers. They are soft, velvety, and they bring my dick to the limitation of my gym shorts, throbbing against the soft fabric. I trail kisses down her cheek, across her neck and to her ear.
“I need you so fucking bad,” I whisper, taking her earlobe lightly between my teeth.
She lets out a heavy breath. Bringing her body flush against mine, she breathlessly whispers, “Then take me.”
I moan, pulling my head back and looking deep into her eyes. “You always know how to get me fucking hot and fucking hard.”
Leaning into her, I kiss her collarbone as I reach my hand behind her and carefully unzip her dress. Pulling it off, I admire the red tint to her face now, the hunger in her eyes. I’m hungry, too. Insatiably. And more than anything, I need to feel that perfect fit. I’m desperate for it. Regardless of the bumps in the road that have come between us, the sex has always been great. The angry sex, oftentimes, the best of the lot.
Exposing her flawless body, I notice she’s wearing my favorite Calvin Klein underwear and bra set, and I let out a quiet gasp, my dick aching now, meeting the spot just before pleasure turns to pain.
“The black Calvin’s?” I ask, a smirk on my face.
“Just for you,” she whispers, before stripping them off and tossing them to the floor. She then pulls at my shirt with desperate hands.
Tugging the shirt off, I toss down with her underwear and bra, quickly followed by my shorts, and lower myself back onto her, turned on by the feel of our bare skin touching. I tease her nipples with my tongue before trailing hot kisses down her soft stomach, and she writhes beneath me with a raspy moan. She trembles as my breath meets her clit… then my tongue, and she presses her hips up, guiding me around her core. And how I love to taste her; the sweetness of her cum intoxicating. Her body clenches as I run my tongue in circles around her sensitive bud. Her legs tighten around my neck, her hands grabbing fistfuls of hair.
Dropping her hands to my shoulders, her nails digging in, she begs, “Please, fuck me. Fuck me now. I need you inside me.”
The request sends a jolt from my stomach down to my rock-hard dick. God, I love it when she says that.
I take one last slow lick and then inch my way back up her body, leaving open-mouthed kisses in my wake. Blindly, I reach into my nightstand, my lips meeting hers, as I grab for a condom. Once my dick is wrapped, she clenches her legs around my waist, pulling me in so that the tip of my cock meets her entrance. I guide myself inside her, slowly. Throwing her head back, she gasps as I enter her fully, grabbing at her nipples and pulling them. I moan in pleasure, closing my eyes as I pull my dick out and then push it back in, slowly repeating the process; teasing her.
“Fuck, baby. Give it to me. Faster. I need it,” she breathes, pushing her body into mine; her muscles seizing around me.
Picking up the pace, in satisfying thrusts that send charges of energy up and down my limbs, my heart thumps in my chest; my skin is flush with desire. She grows wetter with each exhilarating plunge and the feel of it has me harder than I ever thought possible; so hard, it feels like my dick might just explode. And after a few more minutes of ecstasy, it does. I arch my back, a fistful of her hair in one hand and her supple ass cheek in the other as I come. Her hand covers her mouth; her eyes closed as she moans into her palm.
As I pull out, releasing a pleasurable sigh, she opens her eyes and lets her hand fall to her side, her face flushed and breathing heavy. I lean down and kiss her.
“I love you,” I whisper against her lips. “You feel fucking incredible, woman.” I shake my head. “So fucking incredible.”
After one more kiss, I stand, making my way to the kitchenette, and toss the condom in the trash. Heading for the fridge, butt-naked, I turn back to see Chelsea hurriedly putting her dress back on, a new nervousness on her face much different than the pleasure she previously showed.
Grabbing a water with my eyes still on her, I scrunch my brows. “Is everything alright?”
She doesn’t answer right away; instead, turning her back toward me. She motions behind her and whispers, “Can you zip me up, please?”
I take a swig of the water and then set the bottle to the counter. Swallowing hard, I approach her and zip the dress up slowly.
“What’s up?” I ask, and she faces me, biting her bottom lip, and her eyes trail the tiled floor.
“Ugh, I hate this.”
“Hate what, Chelsea?”
“This.” She motions between us. All of a sudden, my nakedness terrifies me. I feel completely vulnerable; unwanted.
Grabbing my shorts and slipping them on, I say, “You need to tell me what the fuck you’re talking about and you need to tell me quick. ‘I hate this’ isn’t something a boyfriend wants to hear after fucking his girl.”
“I can’t do this anymore,” she whispers.
“This?”
“Us.”
I look toward the bed, the sheets strewn about, and I scoff, shaking my head in complete disbelief.
“Then what the fuck was that? Was I just mercy fucked? Really?”
A tear rolls down her cheek, and I instinctively want to catch it with my finger, but I fight the urge.
“I d-don’t know,” she stutters, more tears running now. She crosses her arms, hugging herself… shaking. “I love you, Kenzie. I really do. It’s so hard bringing myself to this point.”
The ‘Kenzie’ really stings. She’s the only one I’ve allowed to call me by any variation of my first name since I was a kid.
“So, why are you at this point then, if you love me so much?” I question, a sharp heat trailing up my neck, the temperature in the room seeming to abruptly rise.
“How many times have I asked you to quit drinking?” she asks, her eyes on mine now; a new strength in her tone. “How many?”
“It’s not as easy as just clicking my fucking heels. I can’t just turn this shit off.”
“Have you even tried?”
“More than you give me credit for.”
“Oh really.” She smugly motions her head toward the trash can. I don’t have to look to know what she’s implying.
“That’s fucked,” I growl. Hesitating, I take a deep, calming breath before moving closer to her, grasping her elbows. “Chelsea, I’ve tried. I’ve done counseling. I’m taking my pills.”
“How long exactly did you do the counseling? One month? One and a half, at best. You half-assed it, and you know it. What about AA? What about the pamphlets I got you?”
I drop my hands to my side, stepping back and letting out an annoyed sigh. “Listen, I’ve told you already. I don’t like that kumbaya bullshit. That’s not me.”
“And that’s why you and I can’t be us anymore,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone.
“You have got to be kidding me.” I lower myself to the bed, dropping my head into my hands, and grab fistfuls of hair. “I just can’t even believe this. I can’t believe you mercy fucked me. I mean, really mercy fucked me.”
“I’ve gotta go,” she says, stepping into her heels, and I rest my hands on my knees, looking up at her and fighting back the tears that are trying to break free.
“Just like that then?” I ask angrily. “You fuck me, dump me, and then leave?”
“I did what I could,” she whispers, her voice cutting out. She steps to the door and turns, with her hand resting on the handle. “This has been coming for a long time now. I’m sorry, Kenzie,” she mutters, tears billowing in her eyes again. And with that, she’s gone, leaving me in a state of shock.
My heart pounds in my chest, my carotids pumping thickly. I drop my head in my hands again when the tears come, coating my cheeks and tumbling from my chin, down to the floor. As I choke back the tears, wiping an arm across my cheeks, my focus is gripped by the refrigerator and what’s inside.
A thirst possesses me.
After three shorts steps, the bottle is in my hands… the thirst is quenched.