Hawkeye

So I realized that there was something juuust a little strange and sensually intriguing about Betsy Rydersen but I couldn't put my finger on it. I'm not the sort of guy who gets along with bossy women. Exhibit A: Margaret. She and I get along like oil and water most of the time, and it's only a heavy duty shaking up that gets us anywhere near a working salad dressing. Under it all yes I respect her and appreciate her but I don't like being ordered around.

Which is also why I and the United States Army don't get along. That's on top of their habit of killing people and sending me those who didn't get killed but now have their insides dangling around their outsides. I don't like being told what to do and never have. Not when I was a kid, certainly not when I was a civilian and definitely not now that I'm at the beck and call of Uncle Sam. I am my own man despite what anyone else thinks. It's part of what keeps me sane.

That and booze and women. The nurses around here will vouch that while I'm a swell guy and a peachy dancer, I'm not the type to accept the yoke. If Sidney was here he'd probably dredge up some incident in my past where I was burned badly in some ancient (thanks Carlye) romance and now keep a degree of emotional aloofness but I'd say he was full of whatever passes for bologna these days. Probably spam.

My point is, I like my bachelorhood. I like quick uncomplicated sessions of rounding the bases in the supply closet with women in the same frame of mind. There's a war on; who has time to get serious?

Since most people around here are somewhat like-minded, BJ being the boring exception, I've got company and up to now, my pick of the nurses. But for some reason I can't quite fathom, I'm finding myself intrigued by someone who doesn't fit the mold. And it's annoying the daylights out of me.

I suppose the smart thing would be to ignore her, but in a camp this small that's hard to do. Everybody runs into everybody at some point: Mess tent, showers, OR. We're one big family if not always a happy one. And I'll admit there's part of me that doesn't want to ignore her, not with those curves and that hair and damn it, those glasses.

They shouldn't do things to me. Most of the women I've known who wear glasses lean to the nebbish librarian side. In the movies that always means they become sex goddesses when you take them off, but I've found that in real life all it does is make them squinty and blind. That can be fun too in the right setting but with Rydersen I suspect the stereotype is true, which is keeping me up at night.

After noon we received our newest delivery of kids unfortunate enough to be in the line of fire, I was curious to see if I'd be paired with our newest gas passer but that honor went to BJ instead. They took the table front of me so I had a good view of my tent mate's derriere and a profile of Our Lady of the Anesthesia perched on her stool. I couldn't stare openly, not with fresh courses of shattered entrails being delivered to my table on a regular schedule but I did manage to get several glances in during the course of the day.

She was good. I will give her that; whatever else was going on with Rydersen she did know how to put her patients under and keep them steady, whether it was mask or line. Even on that wobbly stool she managed the job smoothly. My own this time was Paula; reliable but not always quick at the shift from patient to patient. I admit I was a little envious of BJ.

After the last kid was hemmed up just after sunset, I lingered at the sinks, hoping to catch Rydersen when she came to scrub down, and did. At that point we were alone and she swerved around me to the far faucet, smirking.

"Okay, you can run an Ohio pig with the best of them," I grudgingly admitted to her. "Point in your favor."

"Is that what you were thinking about the whole time you were sneaking peeks at me?" She murmured, running her hands under the water as I watched.

"Mostly," I shot back, happier to be on the banter level. This I could do, this back and forth thing. I had it down to an art. "What were you thinking about?"

I expected something about how overwhelming the surgery was, or about the wobbly stool but no, she just looked over the top of those glasses of hers at me innocently.

"About what you sound like when you climax. I'm guessing you're somewhere between a moaner and a growler-you just have that look, Ben."

Betsy

Bingo. He gaped at me, stunned, and I wanted to laugh because I don't think this man had been surprised in a very long time. Before he could recover, I pulled a towel out and dried my hands, adding, "None of my business of course, but you did ask."

"Jeeesus," I heard him mutter. It was fun to watch him try to figure out a good comeback, but before he could I slipped out, feeling smug. Mentally I counted in my head—three, two, one-and there he was at my elbow, trying to swivel into my path.

"Okay, I don't know what game you're playing but . . . don't!" He told me, spluttering.

And here's where the glasses came in handy again; I looked through them as wide-eyed as I could. "You asked a question and I answered it. Sure it wasn't particularly polite for me to be daydreaming about your sensuality but I wasn't going to lie, either."

"You," he glared at me, on the verge of pointing a finger. "Are bold. And it's weird. Girls aren't supposed to just throw statements out like that. It's unnerving and wrong and—"

"—arousing?"

"Yes! I mean no! Now look what you've done!" he was genuinely flustered now, spots of color high on his cheekbones. "The point is that's not something you say to a guy!"

"But," I pushed up my glasses. "It's the truth, Ben. I'm sure you're . . . big enough to handle the truth."

And again he did that frustrated little shift on the balls of his feet that let me know my words were definitely hitting him. I gave a sigh and added, "I'm sorry you're so bothered by the idea of me thinking about your body. I'll try not to do it around you, all right?"

"I'm not bothered. Bothered is the wrong word. I'm looking for disturbed," he told me. I could feel the erotic tension radiating off him now and suspected if I looked down between us . . .

"Not my intention," I fibbed. "Look, I will put all thoughts of you masturbating aside, all right? Friends?" I held out my hand.

Ben Pierce looked at my extended grip as if he wanted to either bite it or kiss it. Reluctantly he moved to shake, and the moment his palm pressed to mine I felt the heat seep against my skin. Burning up.

I said nothing. He said nothing. We kept holding hands long after we should have let go.

Then I lowered my voice, keeping to steady and soft. "I have to let go, Ben. Your hand feels good in mine but I need to go to bed and so do you."

He let go but didn't step back, and I took a moment to enjoy that blue gaze of his. Calmer now; I think just being allowed to touch me helped.

"What the hell IS is about you?" he muttered. "Forget a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma, we have Betsy Rydersen in our midst."

"I'm not hard to figure out," I told him. "Hell I'm not even very interesting. Gretchen is prettier and Helene has great dimples. I'm just a woman bold enough to admit I think about you pleasuring yourself even though I promised not to."

"Gah! You're doing it again!" he hissed, but licked his lips as well.

"Sorry, sorry it's just . . . is that the hand?"

"Rydersen!" this time I heard a tinge of humor in the exasperation.

"Duly noted," I told him with a quick wink and stepped away to catch my breath as I headed for the tent I shared. I needed the coolness of the night air for my own face at this point and it was hard not to gloat at how well things were going.

Men would say I was being a tease, but my aunt would assure me that it wasn't precisely true. I'd told the truth, and if Ben Pierce couldn't handle it, that was his hardship. I was betting he was headed somewhere private and that his little erotic session would be all the more charged because he'd be thinking of me thinking of him.

And that was nice because for a little while at least he'd be distracted and having some genuine pleasure. A small gift I guess, but because I'd told the truth, an honest one. At some point I'd find out if he was a moaner or a growler but for tonight it would have to stay a mystery.

For now.