Bacon helped his mom with her toilet, changed her flickering hall light, tightened her kitchen faucet, and triple-checked her locks. She lived in a not-so-great section of Chula Vista, so he worried, but she was close to the school where she worked as a teacher’s aide and to her favorite park, where she enjoyed the ocean views that her life in Kansas had sorely lacked. After he finished there, he thought about heading to a bar, trying the whole get-laid plan, but he just couldn’t summon enthusiasm for the endeavor and ended up coming back to the barracks, sober and frustrated.
And determined not to jerk off thinking about silver fox reporters with intense eyes and...
Okay. That happened. In like vivid detail too, a whole fantasy of blowing Bryant while on his knees, Bryant’s hand in Bacon’s hair, him saying filthy things in that cultured voice of his. Which was why when he woke up to the news that they were deploying, he was uncharacteristically embarrassed about his fantasy life and gave Bryant extra personal space as he greeted him at the base gates.
“We’re on a transport to a base in the South Pacific where we’ll do more training before being sent into the field.” He filled Spencer in as they walked briskly in the eerie early morning chill. “LT says to remind you that you can’t say which one in your reports. Most likely it’s not just our team on the transport, but expect a long, boring thirteen hours of flight time. You got everything you’ll need?”
“Yup.” Bryant patted the backpack he was carrying. He hadn’t overpacked, which was good. Bacon had his own bag, which he’d had ready to go, spidey senses telling him this call-out was imminent.
“Good.” Bacon kept his voice light and friendly, as if being nice was a way to outrun his guilt over fapping to the guy.
“Well, everything except coffee. Didn’t take the time to stop on the way here.”
“There might be some drinks for purchase on the flight. We’ll have to see what the loadmasters have.” Bacon did a quick calculation as to whether they’d have time to hit the mess hall on the way to the airfield and determined that the LT’s wrath wasn’t worth it. “Curly usually has caffeinated gum because he says it keeps him from puking on rough flights, so if you get really desperate, let me know and I’ll try to snag you some.”
Fuck. He wasn’t just being extra nice. Now he was talking too fast. And that stupid fantasy was going to haunt him all damn day.
“Appreciated.” Despite being shorter, Bryant easily kept up with Bacon on the walk across base to the airfield.
“You fly military before?”
“Not a flight this long. I took commercial flights in and out of the Middle East, but I flew in some helicopters and transports while there.”
“Well, LT says this flight is a C-40, which is basically a 737, but don’t expect an in-flight movie or anything like commercial comforts, although the flight crew will run extension cords down the aisle and I’ll try and find you a seat by an outlet if I can.”
“Appreciated.”
“You’re lucky. I figured they’d have us on a C-130J which is a cargo plane—huge, cold as fuck, and jumpseats only. We’ll have normal seats here at least, which is nice for a long flight.” Yup. Still rambling.
As they approached the airfield, Bacon spotted his team assembled near the terminal. The loadmasters and other flight crew would be responsible for getting them on the aircraft, but the LT had his own list of reminders before they loaded onto the bus that would drive them out to the C-40.
Curly looked particularly bleary eyed—he’d undoubtedly come straight from Rachel’s, and his pallor didn’t bode well for his stomach behaving during the flight. His bedraggled appearance had Bacon glad he’d forgone the bar scene in favor of helping his mother. At least he’d managed a few hours of sleep. Thanks to that fantasy...
But he couldn’t think about that right then. If ever. And he absolutely could not let such a lapse happen again. Rooster arrived moments before they boarded the bus, getting the evil eye from both the LT and the senior chief. He looked like he’d had about as much sleep as Curly, but was bouncing on his feet and couldn’t stop grinning.
“Someone got lucky,” Bullets observed as the bus took them across the runway to the plane. Beyond the C-40 was a giant C-130J that could easily fit Bacon’s mother’s small apartment building. Other planes and small vehicles darting about made the airstrip seem lively for how early the hour still was.
“Yup. And now we get to go kick some ass. It’s a fine, fine navy day.” Rooster smiled widely. “Worth giving up my day off for and everything.”
“There will be another chance to make your next video,” Curly assured him. Then seeming to remember Bryant’s presence, he turned toward Bacon and Bryant. “That’s off the record, man. We don’t need Rooster here going any more viral than he already has. His ego doesn’t need the inflating.”
“I’ll bet,” Bryant said dryly, then added, “I promise I’m not here to broadcast your personal lives. Human interest is part of what I do, yes, but Public Relations gave me very strict guidelines about what I’m able to share—no real names or identifying facts. So, yeah, your social media celebrity is safe.”
“Better be.” Curly looked like he be might be about to say more, but the roar of the planes as they got close drowned out their conversations.
“We board from the rear,” Bacon yelled at Bryant. “Stick close to me.”
“Will do,” Bryant yelled back as they exited the bus. Other personnel besides their team were on the flight, including a few space-A military family travelers. The flight crew made sure the families were seated together, then their team took the whole rear of the plane. As promised, Bacon found Bryant a seat near an outlet, but right as he was about to sit next to him, Curly called his name.
“Bake. Please come play cards with me. I’m too pumped to sleep and my stomach doesn’t want to let me read.” Curly was several rows behind them.
“Yeah, Bacon, you can ditch the babysitting duty while we’re in the air,” Bullets said, none too quietly. The LT and the rest of the team leadership were far to the front, though, and no heads swiveled. Still, it was rude as fuck and Bacon opened his mouth to tell him that.
“It’s all right,” Bryant said mildly before he could speak. “Go with your friends. I’ve got plenty to occupy me.”
“Thanks.” Bacon headed back to Curly, in part because he really didn’t want to spend the next ten-plus hours right next to Bryant, memories of that fantasy still lingering. He needed time to get his shit together. Leaving the middle seats open, he and Curly sat opposite Donaldson and Bullets, their usual card-playing partners. In front of them, Rooster and Shiny had somehow managed rows to themselves and looked ready to sack out.
Once they were underway, they played a few hands before Donaldson started running off at the mouth. He was a killer poker player, but man, Bacon was damn sick of his attitude of late.
“You know what I don’t miss? Lowe cleaning up at cards,” Donaldson observed. Lowe hadn’t played cards all that often, mainly keeping to himself, but when he’d played, he’d been a freaking shark, making Bacon glad they didn’t play for money.
“Shut up. You’re just pissed because he’s better than you.” Bacon kept his voice light, but he still wasn’t letting the slight pass.
“I’m just saying, we had just gotten back to normal, and then they gave us the reporter. W-T-F, right? It’s like they want us queered-up.”
Bacon waited a beat, but as usual, no one else spoke up. “Dude. It’s not catching. And Lowe’s a friend. Stop talking shit about him.”
“I’m not talking shit.” Donaldson held up his hands as Bullets dealt them all fresh cards. “I’m just saying I’d rather hang with you guys. That’s all. Don’t want a distraction.”
Come on, someone else say something. Please. He glanced at Curly, who was in the window seat, and his mouth was a thin line, but he was damnably silent. Why the fuck was it always on Bacon to be the PC police and educate these lunkheads on basic empathy?
“I don’t care who I hang with as long as they’re not jerks,” he said finally, voice tight. “Homophobia’s not cool.”
“I’m not homophobic.” Donaldson waved away the critique while the others stayed fucking quiet. Even Rooster, who hadn’t fallen asleep after all and was draped over the seat back watching them, was silent, face a thunderous mask. “I know people. I’m just saying when the chips are down, I know who’d I want next to me in the field.”
Curly, for the love of God, say something. You know I’ve had your six for a fucking decade now. As if he could hear Bacon’s thoughts, Curly opened his mouth and said mildly, “Everyone here has your sorry six, Donaldson. Now can we play?”
And with that, Bacon had fucking had it. He stood up. “I’m out.”
“What? Why?” Bullets blinked. “You’d seriously rather hang with the reporter?”
“At least he’s not talking smack about my friends.” And me. And with that, he strode up the aisle, cursing himself for not just coming out to the other guys right then and there. But would it fucking matter? Curly knew and apparently it hardly made him an advocate. Whatever his personal sexuality, Rooster had no problem with guys on social media ogling him, but couldn’t bothered to speak out either. Fuck. This. Shit. He clomped down the aisle.
He reached Bryant’s seat only to find him sitting sideways, feet up, long, elegant hands dwarfing the small laptop he was typing on. Grrr. There were other open seats of course, but none that would make his point as clearly. “Move your feet,” he barked in a low voice.
Bryant quickly swiveled, bringing his legs down, and moving his laptop case. “What happened?”
Bacon merely grunted in response. He wasn’t telling him shit. Just sitting here was message enough to his teammates.
“Off the record,” Bryant said gentler now. “You need to talk?”
“Nope. Just usual team stuff.” Unfortunately. “Nothing you need to report on. We’re still a team. We’re like brothers, you know? And sometimes brothers disagree, but it’s no big deal.”
Not that Bacon would really know about brothers—his much older half-brothers were both total pieces of shit. But it was true about his team. He was pissed at them now, but he’d still take a bullet for any of one of them.
“I’m an only child,” Bryant said with a shrug. “But I know what you’re saying. And it’s okay. I’m really not here to report on every little argument. I asked about it because you seem like a pretty good guy, and I figured you might need to talk. Not everything’s an ulterior motive with me.”
“I know and I appreciate that, Mr. Bryant—”
“Spencer, please,” he said firmly.
Spencer. It suited him far more than Bryant, and Bacon rolled the word around his brain, testing it. “Okay, Spencer it is. But I don’t need to talk.”
“All right.” Spencer gave another of those refined shrugs. He was wearing an outfit that looked like something out of a Patagonia ad—cargo pants, cotton shirt with lots of pockets. “So, how about you? You got a first name?”
“Nope.” Bacon wasn’t entirely lying, but he kept his voice light.
“Oh, come on.” Spencer’s tone was far more teasing than it had been thus far. “What do they call you back home?”
“Junior.” His gut roiled at the word and all the memories it contained. “But you try and call me that and I’m leaving your ass in the field, consequences be damned.”
“Okay, okay.” Spencer laughed. “Bacon it is. Is that even your real last name?”
Because he didn’t want to be a pissy bastard the whole flight, he forced himself to wink and joke. “That’s strictly need-to-know.”
“Got it.” Spencer smiled at him and something low unfurled in Bacon’s gut. Oh no. This was no good. He could not go liking this guy, not even a small amount. His transgression last night had to be a momentary lapse, not the start of any sort of hopeless crush. It was going to be a long damn flight and even longer mission, trying to keep his distance from Spencer Bryant.