MARY
He’s just… looking at me. It’s hard to read his expression, but suddenly it’s much harder for me to breathe and this little box that counts as shelter, sort of.
I don’t know what to do with myself. Other men I just give a nasty attitude, but he’s the reason I’m alive. I owe him something. Hell. I owe him my life. He’s literally my hero. And we’re just standing here, staring at one another in a way that’s more awkward than two tweens at a dance.
“I, uh…”
“Make yourself comfortable,” he says at basically the same time.
“That’s going to be a challenge,” I say. This is not a comfortable place. It’s not meant to be, I guess. It’s meant to be sufficient. And it is.
I sink down on the bed and look at him as he stands there for a second, then sits on his too. Our knees are almost touching. He clears his throat.
“I’m really glad to see you again, Mary,” he says. “I, er… wondered how you were getting on.”
“Fine,” I say. “I mean, good even.”
“Good.” He nods and slides his hands over his thighs. He has long legs, and though the motion is probably just to get the sweat and sand basically everybody is coated in out here off his palms, something about it draws my attention and makes me tingle between my thighs.
“So I know how I got here. How did you get here? Didn’t get the impression you were in the military last time we met?”
“Special forces,” he says.
“Green berets?”
“Different special forces,” he says in a tone which strongly conveys he doesn’t intend on telling me a damn thing.
“And your last name is Ares?”
That’s what’s written on his shirt, at least.
“Ken Ares,” he says, extending a hand across the awkwardly small space. “Nice to meet you.”
“Mary Brown,” I reply.
“Uh huh,” he raises a brow and shakes his head at me. “You expect me to believe your name is Mary Brown?”
“Well it is, so…”
“Not your birth name though, is it?”
“Not quite,” I allow with a small smile. I’ve changed my name several times in my life for several reasons. I like Mary Brown. It’s unassuming and sort of classical in a way. It doesn’t come with any expectations - unlike Ares. Jesus. What a name. If you married him, your name would be Mary Ares. The school girl thought runs through my head, and I banish it immediately. Women like me don’t get married. Especially not to men like him.
Ken is a very, very handsome man. Genetics account for about half of his appeal. You can’t get that frame he has without good breeding, those long legs and broad shoulders can’t be earned. But the rest of him, that’s pure hard work and hard living. He’s worked for his muscularity, and for each of the scars he has, one running down the length of his jaw to his neck. Is that new? I don’t know.
I have strange memories of him rescuing me. Some are so clear, little snapshots in time. Others are vague. For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t in imminent danger of death. The feeling I had with him has stayed with me. I conjure it up when I can’t sleep at night, when the memories threaten to overwhelm me, I remember how it was to be held in his arms… I felt safe.
But I was just a job to him. A job he did very, very well, but still a job. And I’m a job now, so I can’t let him see how much I feel for him. It would probably scare him away, make him hand me over to someone else.
“You hungry?”
“No, I was just in the mess, remember?”
“Right,” he nods and gives me a crooked little smile. “Of course. Well, you should try to get some rest. I’ll put the AC on for you. Best to sleep now. Morning comes quick here.”
When we were talking outside the mess, there was that flash of dominant arrogance. It was brief and he stuffed it away, but I saw it for a second and it’s made me curious. What is this man really like?
“I…” I take a breath “I need to thank you. For what you did for me. In Chile.”
He inclines his head a little. “It was my job, Mary. Pleased to do it.”
His job. Just like I thought. He’s not interested in me. Why would he be? He’s probably married to some pretty woman back in the States, with a gaggle of kids. These guys are never single, even if they pretend to be sometimes when the loneliness creeps in.
“Well, thanks,” I mumble. I’m embarrassed, suddenly shy. I thought maybe it might have meant something to him, but now I see that’s just crazy. A man like him, he’s a perfect specimen. He deserves a perfect woman, not a broken shell of one.
“No problem.” He flickers a wink at me, the double colored eye flashing beneath long dark lashes.
I smile and turn my head away. It’s hard to look at him. He reminds me of everything I’ve tried so hard to forget, and everything I will never have.
“I’ll leave you to rest.”
“I’m not really tired. I’ll just get some work done.”
I sit back on the bed, resting my back on the wall, and pull my laptop out. I have plenty more to write, deadlines to hit. Traveling through Afghanistan has been a hell of a journey, being handed from unit to unit. I’ve seen more than most people would want to see, and most of what I’ve written so far has been redacted heavily by command, but it doesn’t stop me from writing it in the first place.
“I want you in bed by nineteen hundred,” he says. “You’ve got an hour.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s eighteen hundred now, more or less, so you have an hour.”
“I won’t be sent to bed,” I say, my temper rising. “I’ll sleep when I’m tired.”
His brows draw down. His jaw hardens. Military types are more controlling than most. They get used to being told when to shit, when to sleep, when to shower, and they have no qualms about telling anyone who they think ranks below them the same. I’m going to set him straight before he gets into the habit of bossing me around.
“I told you that you’d do as you were told,” he says, a masculine growl in his voice.
“Well, I’m not. You can order your soldiers around because they agreed to the chain of command…”
“So did you. You would have signed up to it when you came as an embed. I can send your sweet little ass back stateside before you can close that laptop if you’re not careful.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
“I would. And I’d spank your butt before you went, too.”
“What?” My face flushes red all the way to my ears. Did he just threaten to spank me? What the hell?
"That’s ridiculous,” I say, my voice hoarse. Why is my throat so damn dry all of a sudden?
“It isn’t. I’m pretty sure it would be necessary in your case.”
Is he teasing me? I can’t tell. There’s warmth in his voice and his eyes, but I don’t know if that means he’s joking. Something tells me he isn’t.
“Listen,” I say, drawing myself up as erect as I can while sitting on a cot bed. “I don’t know what you think you’re playing at, but…”
“I’m not playing at a thing,” he interrupts. “I’m giving you fair warning, letting you know how this is going to go.”
“B… but… that’s…”
I wish I wasn’t blushing. I wish I didn’t feel as though I was shrinking right before his eyes.
“Never been spanked, have you.”
He says it like it’s a fact, which it is, but I don’t see the point of it. So what if I haven’t been spanked? Is he trying to say I’m weak or something?
“I’ve had a lot worse.”
“Oh I know,” Ken replies. “And that’s the point. You don’t know what a good spanking is. You don’t know what it would do for you, or what the point would be. You think I’m just threatening you with violence.”
“Well, aren’t you?”
“Not in the way other people have,” he says, his voice gruff, and serious, but also somehow comforting. “I might spank you before bed. Give you a taste of what’s waiting for you if you don’t do as you’re told.”
“You’re fucking kidding me…” I shut my laptop and stare at him. “Tell me you’re joking.”
He rubs his hands together and the corner of his mouth lifts in what isn’t exactly a smile.
“I’m not kidding, Mary, not at all. You don’t want to do as you’re told, I’m going to give you a reason to. Simple.”
“It’s not simple at all. You can’t spank me!” I truly can’t believe he’s serious. He’s talking about hitting me. I can’t believe it. I lift my laptop up and wrap my arms around it, holding it protectively in front of my body.