I tugged at my tie on the way up Mark’s front steps. I didn’t wear this suit often, and it was weird to be wearing it now. It fit right, and the material was soft and comfortable—more than I could say about the shoes—but I was used to jeans and T-shirts.
Oh well. It was just one evening.
I rang the doorbell and continued fussing with the tie and cuffs until footsteps came jogging down the stairs inside. When Mark opened the door, he had a towel around his waist and droplets of water on his chest and shoulders. “Hey. Sorry.” He kissed me quickly as I stepped inside. “Got home late.”
“It’s all right. You want me to wait down here while you get dressed?” I winked. “So we don’t end up being even later to the party?”
He bit his lip, but nodded. “Probably a good idea.” He looked me up and down and grinned. “Especially when you’re dressed like that.”
“Mmm, and when you’re dressed like that . . .” I playfully tugged at his towel.
Mark laughed, swatting my hand away. “Behave.”
“Why?”
He quirked his lips. “Good question.”
I chuckled, and I knew if we kept this up, we really would wind up with that towel on the floor. So I let go and nudged him toward the stairs. “Go. We gotta get out of here.”
He pouted briefly, then leaned in to kiss my cheek. “Help yourself to anything in the fridge. I’ll be down in ten.”
“Take your time.”
We exchanged smiles. Then he headed up the stairs and I went into the living room.
Mark’s cover was sitting on the coffee table beside his wallet and keys. The sight of it made my hackles go up, but I silently talked them down. It wasn’t a big deal. My bullshit with the Navy was far enough behind me that it was time to get over it. That started tonight.
Well, it had started a while ago, back when I’d decided to see Mark even though he was Navy. Tonight, I’d be in the same room with all the shit I’d left behind when I’d been discharged, and I would handle it. I’d be fucking fine because it had been long enough, and Mark was worth it.
I pulled my gaze from his cover and wandered to the wall where he’d recently hung up some framed photos. Family, by the looks of it.
On a bookshelf, there was a small photo I hadn’t noticed before. It was him with his arm tightly around a petite redhead. He was in his dress whites, and still a lieutenant commander, so it must have been several years ago now. Possibly around the time I was discharged, but I tried not to linger on that thought.
They were embracing in front of an aircraft carrier. It looked like a homecoming—lots of people hugging in the background, with flowers and balloons and service members in their dress uniforms. His arm was around her shoulders, wedding band gleaming in the sunlight, and they both smiled for the camera.
This must have been his ex-wife during one of those rare happy times in their marriage. I stared at the picture, waiting for the surge of jealousy, but it didn’t come. In fact, I felt the opposite of jealousy, if there was such a thing. My boyfriend had a photo of himself and his ex-wife on display, and I . . . I liked that. Whatever shit they’d been through, they’d come out on the other side as friends, and he’d made peace with it enough to have a picture of the two of them in his house.
In fact, I kind of wanted to meet her. Maybe not now, but someday. I was curious about this woman who’d been through hell and back with Mark.
Heavy footsteps came down the carpeted stairs. Then dress shoes clicked on the hardwood floor, and I turned around just as Mark appeared in the living room doorway.
Oh.
Wow.
Okay, yeah. This was a good start if I wanted to get over my issues with the Navy.
He’d be even hotter if I put him on his knees and—
I cleared my throat as I looked him up and down. “You know I’m going to be tearing that off you later, right?”
“I’m counting on it, sweetheart.” He hooked a finger in my waistband and pulled me closer. “When you’re ready to leave, you just let me know.”
“Mmm, I will.” I slid my hands up the almost-black suit jacket, letting my fingers catch on the gold buttons. “Can’t promise we’ll make it to dinner.”
Mark groaned, squeezing my ass through my slacks. “Maybe we should just stay home.”
Oh, that was tempting, but I’d said I would go, and it wouldn’t look good for an XO to not show up.
“No.” I shook my head and straightened his tie. “We’ll have plenty of time when we get home. Let’s go.”
“We will. But first . . .” He took his hands off my ass, wrapped an arm around my waist, and kissed me. I wondered if he’d meant for just a short kiss. More than a peck, but maybe not this. Whatever. I wasn’t going to argue if he wanted to tease my lips apart and slide his tongue past mine.
He drew back and our eyes locked. Oh fuck. He was too sexy for words. That uniform needed to be on his bedroom floor right now, and he needed to be . . . hell, I didn’t care. Under me, on me, in me, over me—just get me naked and do stuff to me. Now.
He muffled a cough and broke eye contact. “We should go.”
“Right.” I cleared my throat too. We both fussed with our jackets, and I wondered if he was also trying to accommodate a hard-on. Good thing we still had to drive over to the party. Neither of us was in any condition to be walking into mixed company.
As I got in the passenger seat of his car, I unbuttoned my jacket. “You know I’m fucking you senseless when we get home, right?”
“I sure hope so.” He sounded sultry and a little breathless. “Think we’ll make it past dinner?”
I raked my eyes over him. “If we do, we’ll probably wind up screwing in the restroom.”
Mark just shivered and put the car into reverse.
Mark drove us down to the Holiday Inn. It seemed like kind of an anticlimactic place to have a big military function, but I supposed there weren’t a lot of options in town. Not without going on base, anyway. Yeah, the Holiday Inn was fine with me.
We got out of the car, and I buttoned my jacket. I hadn’t worn this suit in ages, but it still fit nicely. Guess poverty was good for something; though if my mother saw me now, she’d lose it.
On the way inside, Mark put on his cover, adjusted it, and then offered me his elbow.
I regarded it uncertainly. “You sure? You’re in uniform.”
“It’s okay.” He smiled. “Long as we’re not making out or anything.”
“Damn it.” I took his elbow and smirked. “So much for the dance floor, right?”
“Are you kidding? We just have to wait until everyone else is drunk.”
“I love the way you think.”
We exchanged glances and continued inside.
As soon as we stepped through the banquet hall’s double doors, it was déjà vu. Military functions had a certain look about them. A certain vibe. Navy décor didn’t change much—a lot of blue, gold, and gray, with anchors and chains and pictures of ships. This event was on the formal end of the spectrum, with service members in dress uniforms and civilians in evening wear. Kind of reminded me of the Navy Ball, actually, aside from the Hail & Farewell banner on the wall.
The cocktail hour was still going, so most people were milling around with drinks in hand, waiting in line at one of half a dozen bars, or crowding around small tables. A few were already wobbling and getting loud. Yep—Navy function.
As we made our way through the crowd, it was kind of surreal to be wandering in a sea of uniforms.
Just like Navy décor, the uniforms hadn’t changed much. Not the dress uniforms, anyway. Enlisted still wore the classic Sailor suit. Officers still wore suits like Mark’s. The insignia was all the same too. I could still tell ranks apart at a glance, and I could even remember some of the rate insignia on the enlisted uniforms—master-at-arms, corpsmen, aviation techs, nukes, boatswain’s mate.
I didn’t see anyone with my old rate—aviation ordnanceman—and didn’t look too hard to find one. I still missed my old job—the one I’d done before volunteering for boots-on-the-ground combat—and that was a wound that didn’t need salting.
Mark and I found an empty chest-high table, and he turned like he was going to say something, but paused. He cocked his head. “You all right?”
“Yeah.” I cleared my throat. “Just a little déjà vu, I guess.”
Frowning, he slipped an arm around my waist. “Anything I should be concerned about?”
“No. No, I’m good. It’s just been a while since I’ve been around this kind of crowd.” I touched his arm. “I’ll be fine. Promise.”
He seemed uncertain for a second, but then he smiled and kissed my cheek. “You want me to go grab a couple of beers?”
“Sure.” I reached for my wallet, but he stopped me. I was about to get annoyed, but he shook his head.
“Open bar.”
“Oh.” I relaxed. “Okay, then. Um, I’ll have whatever you’re drinking.” I smirked. “So, Corona, right?”
“Am I that predictable?”
“Hey, you like what you like.” I shrugged. “Who am I to judge?”
“The bartender who probably silently judges everyone based on their drink order?”
I laughed. “Am I that predictable?”
Mark chuckled. He gave me a quick kiss, then headed for the growing bar line.
I stayed at the table and just kept taking in my surroundings. This was really weird, but I was determined to be okay with it.
Before I could get too lost in my own thoughts, someone tugged at my elbow. “Excuse me, could we get another round over here? Bud Light?”
I blinked “What?”
The man—a very large commander—held up an empty bottle. “Bud Light? Another round?” He gestured at five other people, all of whom watched me expectantly from their table.
“I, um . . .” I cleared my throat and nodded in the direction Mark had gone. “The line is over there, I think.”
“But aren’t—” The man straightened. “Oh! God. I’m sorry. I thought you were one of the waiters.”
I gritted my teeth. Of course you did. “It’s all right,” I said with a forced smile.
I hoped he’d go away, but instead, he extended his hand. “So since you’re a civilian, are you a contractor or are you here with someone?”
I grudgingly shook his hand, but I wasn’t quite sure what to say. Mark had been openly affectionate, and he was here with a male date, so I assumed he was out. I figured he hadn’t brought me as his date to pretend we were roommates or something. Still, I—
Mark picked that moment to materialize beside me anyway, his hand coming to rest on my back. “Hey, Harrison. I see you met my boyfriend.” The pride in his voice made my heart flutter, and I was probably blushing.
“Your— Oh. He’s here with you?” The commander smiled, gave my hand one more pump, and then let go. “John Harrison. This is my wife, Erika.” He introduced us to the others at the table before turning to me again. “So where are you from?”
Oh yay. This conversation.
“Mexico.” I took a deep swallow from the Corona Mark had brought me.
“Oh yeah?” John grinned and nudged me. “Better stick with us. You don’t want to get tangled up if ICE goes after the staff.”
“Commander.” The growl in Mark’s tone made my hair stand up.
The man blinked innocently. “Hey, I’m just saying.” He gave Mark a very unprofessional clap on the shoulder. “If I thought he was a waiter, then . . .” He trailed off into a shrug.
Mark’s glare finally cut through John’s boozy haze. The commander mumbled some kind of goodbye and herded his wife toward the bar.
Once they were out of earshot, I muttered, “Somebody must’ve been pregaming.”
“Uh-huh.” Mark rolled his eyes. “I think he and I will have a little chat on Monday.” He said it in what must’ve been his XO voice—harsh, low, and full of do not fuck with me. It gave me a goose bumps.
What would it take to get you to use that voice in bed?
I shook myself before I wound up with an embarrassing hard-on. That probably wasn’t the impression Mark needed either of us to make tonight.
With our drinks in hand, we wandered around the room, and he introduced me to so many people I would never remember any of their names. At one point, we stopped beside a couple who looked like they were in their late forties or early fifties.
He and Mark exchanged greetings, and then Mark gestured at him as he said to me, “This is Captain Hawthorne. My CO. And this”—he turned to his CO as he put an arm around my shoulders—“is Diego. My boyfriend.”
I smiled as I shook the CO’s hand. It was seriously never going to get old hearing Mark call me his boyfriend.
“Nice to meet you, Diego.” Hawthorne introduced me to his wife, Dana.
He and Mark made a little small talk while Dana and I sipped our drinks. As I watched them banter, it was kind of weird to realize Mark was so laid-back with his commanding officer. When I’d been in, the rank of captain had been so far above me I’d get a nosebleed just thinking about it. But they chatted like peers.
Because they were peers.
Because even though Hawthorne was the CO, Mark was the XO. He was also a captain.
Whoa. I was dating a man who was the same rank as his CO.
That was . . . kind of hot, actually.
I tried not to leer at Mark’s uniform. There’d be time for that later.
Right then, the CO turned to me. “So where are you from, Diego?”
My good spirits sank.
This again. Hooray.
“Mexico.” My cheeks burned, and I wasn’t sure why. How many times was I going to have to answer this question tonight?
His eyes narrowed a little, and he slid his gaze toward Mark. Something passed between them, something unspoken but vaguely hostile. Then Hawthorne faced me again. “Oh yeah? What part of Mexico?”
I tried not to squirm under the couple’s scrutiny. “Rioverde. In San Luis Potosí.” That was met with blank looks, so I added, “It’s about a hundred and fifty miles inland from the Gulf.”
The CO cocked his head. “That near Mexico City?”
“Not really. It’s . . .” Explaining Mexico’s geography didn’t really work. Most Americans knew Tijuana, Mexico City, Cabo, Cozumel, and Mazatlán, and even then, there was no guarantee they’d find them on a map. It was like using streets and landmarks to tell someone how to find something in New York City when they’d never been there. “It might be easier to show you.” I took out my phone and pulled up the map. After I’d put in the city and state, the little pin dropped on Rioverde, and I showed him the screen.
He leaned closer, tilting his head back so he could look through the lower part of his bifocals. “Huh. Never heard of that place.”
His wife smiled. “We went to Mazatlán a few years back. We thought Mexico was quite lovely.”
I smiled back. “It’s nice.” Or so I’d heard. Then again, I’d also heard that Mazatlán had deteriorated quite a bit. Not that I’d ever been there.
“So do you miss it?” Dana asked.
“Sometimes.” I miss not being an outsider. I miss not being scared of getting thrown out. “I left when I was fourteen, so it’s been almost twenty-five years. It’s changed a lot since then.” So has this country.
“Do you like it here?” Hawthorne asked.
I nodded even as I fought the urge to squirm uncomfortably. They were curious and making conversation, and they couldn’t have any idea how hard it was to talk about being homesick for a place I’d barely known. It was also impossible to predict how people would take it if I mentioned how fucking miserable I’d been for the last few years. A conversation could quickly turn into me getting lectured for being ungrateful, told how I should just go back if I hated it this much, and usually catching hell about stealing an American’s job. It just wasn’t that simple, but it was impossible to convince people of that. And considering it hadn’t been that long since someone else had mistaken me for a waiter and made a joke about ICE, I was on edge.
After some more small talk and handshakes, though, Hawthorne and his wife continued mingling, and we returned to our table. I tried to relax, but I couldn’t shake off the weirdness of the conversation.
I glanced at the CO’s back as I said to Mark, “I have a question.”
“Hmm?”
I turned to him. “Why did he act so weird when I said was from Mexico?”
Mark’s lips thinned, and he put his arm around my waist, a gesture that felt oddly protective. “I was asking him a while ago about, um, Sailors in your situation. Getting discharged without citizenship. I think he just figured out why I was asking.”
My blood turned cold, and I straightened. “Is he going to report me? Mark, he’s—”
“Relax.” Mark slid his hand up my back and squeezed my shoulder. “He’s way too political for that, and he knows it wouldn’t look good if he was responsible for a vet getting deported.”
“Not even someone like me?”
“No.” He held me closer to him. “It’ll be fine. I promise.”
I chewed the inside of my cheek. I couldn’t relax, knowing someone in this room knew my status, and the more I thought about it, the more anger boiled inside me. It didn’t even help to tell myself that Mark might very well have been right about Hawthorne. I’d spent enough time around motivated brass to know what he meant when he said the guy was political. At this stage in his career, Hawthorne’s image was crucial. He’d get all kinds of accolades for getting a hundred people like me deported, but deliberately getting a combat veteran kicked out of the country would be political suicide. That kind of shit outraged people. Not enough to actually do anything about it besides a few Facebook memes and strongly worded tweets, but they definitely didn’t like it.
Something sharp and painful dug in behind my ribs. I’d served my country—it was my country—and the only thing keeping a decorated officer from reporting my ass to the authorities was the damage it could do to his image. If he could get away with it, he’d probably be on the phone right now, having me and half the waitstaff unceremoniously escorted off the premises and out of the country.
And he knew about me because Mark had told him.
I glanced sideways at Mark.
You told him about me. How could you?
I tried to tell myself Mark couldn’t possibly understand what a betrayal that was, how vulnerable it made me, but it didn’t do a thing to cool the hurt and anger rising in my chest. I thought he’d understood how terrifying it was to live like this. I thought he got it. But now this. Fuck.
Someone made an announcement that dinner was about to be served, which jarred me out of my train of thought.
“Ready to eat?” Mark asked.
Not particularly, no.
But . . . fine. We’d have dinner. We’d get through the evening. And afterward, when there was no one around to overhear, we’d talk about this.
“Sure.” I forced a smile. Mark and I joined the CO, his wife, and a few other high-ranking officers and their wives at a table. I regarded Hawthorne warily, but didn’t say anything. Mark trusted the guy—or at least his political ambitions—so I told myself over and over the captain wouldn’t actually do or say anything. Still, I was a lot less comfortable than I’d been when we’d gotten here.
It only got worse as dinner started. While everyone at the table chatted, I looked around the room, and that painful thing dug even harder into my chest.
And I realized what it was—this was what I’d wanted. What I’d worked for. A uniform full of ribbons. Sleeves with stripes to commemorate years of service and chevrons showing I’d moved up the ranks. All the pomp and circumstance and ceremony.
I scanned the room, my heart dropping deeper into the pit of my stomach. Aside from what I assumed were some civilian contractors, everyone here was either military or married to it. The whole spectrum of a Navy career was on display. There were E-3s and E-4s who still looked optimistic and unscathed. The kids with their entire careers laid out in front of them. There were commanders and captains like Mark. People early in their careers, people on the verge of retirement—everyone.
Some had spouses or partners on their elbows, so it wasn’t like everyone in the room was in uniform, but I felt conspicuous in my suit. Without the stiff material or a row of medals to fuss with. The only evidence left of my career was the pair of shiny black shoes I wore—the one piece of my dress uniform I could still wear. The rest was gone.
I swallowed past a lump in my throat. I was at a Navy function, and someone had mistaken me for a waiter. Worse, while everyone else only had to worry about keeping food off their uniforms and not drunkenly saying something stupid in front of a superior, I had to worry about someone tipping off ICE. Either because they thought I worked here or because they’d figured out—thanks to my fucking boyfriend—that in the eyes of the law, I wasn’t supposed to be here.
I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth ached. Suddenly, I wasn’t so sure I wanted to be here. My knee throbbed. So did my head. It was like being in a room with someone I didn’t want to even lay eyes on, except every single person was that someone. A lot of people didn’t get it when I said the Navy was like an ex-spouse I couldn’t escape, but it was true. I’d given it eight years, and when it decided I wasn’t good enough and kicked me out, it had taken everything. Left me with nothing.
Coming to this party had been like running into an ex with his new lover. Not someone like Dalton who I loved and adored and wanted to be happy. Seeing him with Chris was sweet, and I was glad they had each other.
The Navy, though. Fuck. All those people wearing ribbons and insignia I should have had.
I didn’t want to think about it, but I couldn’t stop myself. Fact was, if things had been different, I’d have been an officer by now. Commander at least. Maybe captain, but it was hard to say.
It didn’t matter, though. I hadn’t stayed in long enough to go to Officer Candidate School. Or hell, even finish my degree. I’d had to put that on hold so I could go to combat. Then on hold again while I’d been on my second tour. I hadn’t been able to pick it up while I’d been recovering, and I’d been too busy healing to even think about my naturalization paperwork, especially since I’d taken for granted that I’d be reenlisting. I’d had no reason to believe that reenlistment was off the table until it was too late. Until all of it was gone.
Until I had . . . nothing.
These people had—and undoubtedly took for granted—the career and the education I’d been working my ass off to have. Some of these people probably hadn’t even been seaman recruits or ensigns back when the Navy had washed its hands of me.
There was a senior chief at another table with red stripes and chevrons instead of gold. From the stripes on his sleeves, he’d been in at least twenty years, but he still had red stripes.
So this was someone who had fucked up. Probably gone to Captain’s Mast at some point. Maybe even lost rank along the way. He’d done something, somewhere, and it was enough to keep his stripes red instead of turning gold after twelve consecutive years of good conduct.
He’d fucked up, and he’d still made senior chief, and he’d be able to retire with full benefits whenever the fuck he felt like it because he was already past twenty. He might even make it to thirty. He might even make master chief.
The really shitty part? If he’d been in that long, he’d been in when PTS was in effect. Which meant his career had survived the program that had caused the Navy to show me the door.
What did the computers see in you, and why didn’t they see it in me?
A lump rose in my throat, and I had to take a deep swallow of my drink just to tamp it down. That senior chief had done something to warrant red stripes, but he still had stripes to wear. I’d busted my ass, done everything I was supposed to do, and even volunteered for two fucking combat tours because everyone told me it would be good for my career. Now Senior Chief Red Stripes was sipping a high-ball in dress blues while I had a fucked-up brain, a fucked-up knee, and a fucking good shot at being deported if the wrong person noticed me.
Or if someone at my own damn table noticed me. Because someone here knew. Because Mark had told him.
I let my gaze slide toward Mark, and for the first time, the sight of him hurt. It wasn’t just an ache in my chest either. Every scar itched, and my knee throbbed, and my head thumped from too many thoughts trying to crowd their way in. Mark was sexy as fuck in that uniform, but that wasn’t why I wanted to tear it off him right then. I wanted it gone so he wasn’t Navy anymore. So I could look at him and see the man I was in love with, not all the reasons why my life had gone to shit.
But taking his dress blues off wouldn’t matter. Yeah, I could have him naked or in civvies for a while, but come Monday, he’d be in uniform again.
And even if he wasn’t in uniform, could I trust him now? Could I even fucking look at him?
Maybe.
But not tonight.
I pushed back from the table. “I need to go.”
“What?” Mark straightened. “Why?”
I didn’t answer.
I just got up, walked out of the ballroom, and kept right on walking.