There's an element of catharsis in morning sex for Jack.
Not a trace of last night's licentious performance lingered. It was honest and raw.
Divine.
In the blackness he couldn't see Aubrey, but he felt her, and her warmth possessed extraordinary power; burning his towering walls to the ground. Even if it was only temporary.
Her delicate fingers gripping the nape of his neck dissipated the furrow from his brow. His chest rose and fell as though it was natural, rather than the usual tight controlled breaths. Being inside of her is what it meant to be at peace and unguarded. The rare opportunity to soak in the moment, notice the mundane things he didn't realize he'd taken for granted. Like how her nipples were as hard as diamonds, yet they were still soft against him, or how she kissed the same spot on his shoulder every time he came.
Jack held Aubrey close, rolling his hips to hers in a lazy, albeit torrid cadence. Under the sheet, their sweat-slicked limbs tangled together in hopes they'd never have to separate. Desperate for this moment, this intimate connection, to never end. Their lips grazed. Jack seized the chance, crashing his mouth onto hers for a kiss that made the hairs on his arms stand to attention, left his head swimming, and his nerves scorched.
As he hit the spot inside her that erased all common sense, he hissed, her nails clawing into him. The surge of pleasure mixed with the delicious pain had him more alive than ever. His brain short-circuited as if his veins were replaced with live wires and his blood was the conductor.
Her back arched, breaking their lip-lock, but that didn't matter because a moan twisted with the luscious syllables of his name sputtered from her mouth.
Again, Jack plunged his hips.
Again, Aubrey cried.
Grabbing her cheeks, he kissed her. Jack knows her eyes are fluttering closed and that she's feeling the same blistering heat in her belly which he is.
They're so close.
"I love you, Jack."
Hearing her utter those three words never ceased to have the same effect on him—a dagger into the heart. He wanted to say it back to her. Why was it so fucking difficult to spit it out? He loved her more than anything and anyone. At least he thinks so. All Jack could do is hope Aubrey understood how badly he does.
A painful ache sheared his chest, and it hurt like hell. It's been hitting more often than he'd admit. The sign this is where he needed to be; the present, not the past. Nothing was going to change what happened, or give him back the pieces of himself he'd lost. Aubrey was his sobering reminder that no matter what, life goes on.
It was beautiful watching her stand so tall after falling apart. He wished he could do it, too. She never allowed her candied heart to slip between her fingers, which he fucking hated because he let the gratuitous violence swathing him turn him hard and bitter. Nor did she ever give up on anyone. Jack loathed that because she stayed true even when someone didn't deserve her at all.
Like him.
A shell of a man. But not just any shell. A spent bullet casing—the genuine consequence of something noxious.
Cold, calculated, chaotic evil.
She loves him, although he tastes of blood and war. His hands scarred from state-sanctioned murder yet she trusts them.
That's why he'd kill to protect her.
A woman like Aubrey, one who cares too much about someone as worthless and monstrous as him, needs to be sheltered, treated with special care. Jack wanted to be the man Aubrey deserves, and it gutted him to know he'd never be that for her. He had no idea how—his old man being such a shining example. But goddamn it, he needed to try.
Burying his face into the humid crook of her neck, Jack inhaled, intoxicated by her natural scent.
"Say it again," he barked. "C'mon, baby, say it for me."
He didn't want to hear those words—he needed to.
Aubrey was winded, chest heaving, battling for the next breath as the force of his thrusting became stronger.
"I love you."
His fingers bit into the back of her thigh as he thrusted, overtaken by violent euphoria. Before the sunlight of a new day caresses his skin, Jack snarled as he flooded her with viscous heat. He slowed the rhythm of his hips, milking every ounce of his orgasm.
Keeping his softening cock nestled inside her, Jack collapsed on top of Aubrey. While his head rested on her chest, he closed his eyes to bask in the tender aftermath he seldom allowed himself to savor. Licking his lip, the salty brine of sweat sank into his tongue, and he tried to even his breathing. Her fingers threading through his damp hair was helping him melt more into her. The strident beats of her heart hammering against her ribs echoed in his ears, and it was lulling.
It didn't take long before Jack was drifting, drifting, gone…
His eyes fluttered open. The intense heat and hovering fumes made them sting and water. The back of his throat felt like he'd swallowed rusty nails; the stench of gasoline and fertilizer drifted down the snow-covered street. A piercing ring bounced from eardrum to eardrum, splicing his brain. Every inch of his body hurt, the shock wave from the blast sent him tumbling hard to the ground.
Jack set his M4 beside him and took off his helmet, rolling over and curling into the fetal position.
"I fucking hate this place... cock-sucking-sons-of-bitches," he grumbled.
Reoriented, Jack rose to his knees. He blinked away the stubborn, involuntary tears, as he slapped his helmet back on, and looked around. That's when he saw it; the car—rather, what's left of one—engulfed in bright orange roaring flames.
"Sergeant Napier! Your leg!" Jack twisted to meet Jones' eyes, which were a kin to two piss holes in the snow. "You got hit!"
He watched Jones' mouth move, but he was slow to understand the words coming out of it. Jack shifted his attention to where Jones's finger pointed, finding a thick scrap of charred steel lodged in the meat of his outer-thigh. The dirty camouflage trousers he's been wearing for the last six days straight were soaked with warm blood.
He ripped the shrapnel out.
"Fuck," he hissed, tossing it to the ground.
Glancing to his left, Jack was relieved to see none of the other guys on patrol seemed too injured. But why would they be when he took the brunt of the blast?
Jones jumped to his feet, extending his hand to help Jack up.
"Don't be running your mouth about this to Hannah." Taking hold of the hand being offered, Jack hoisted himself up. Grabbing his rifle, Jack slung the strap over his shoulder before digging into the front pocket of his vest for a pack of unharmed cigarettes. "She'll say something to Aubrey, and that's one conversation I do not want to have."
Jack patted the many pockets for his Zippo; Jones struck his lighter and held out the flame for Jack to light his cigarette.
"Yeah, but think of the cock burn you'll have when you go home and tell her you got a Purple Heart."
Furrowing his brow, Jack gazed back to his bleeding leg. He winced when he prodded the wound with his forefinger. "A Purple Heart for this?"
"Flash that panty-dropping smile of yours, the lonely nurse suturing up that puny thing'll put you in for one."
"He's not wrong, you know." Both Jack and Jones straightened when First Sergeant Danny Baker approached. Baker wiped sweat from his forehead, smearing soot along his damp skin. "They hand those things out like fucking candy nowadays. Did either of you radio this in?"
"Wilson did, sir," answered Jones. The baby-faced Specialist from Mississippi readjusted the strap of his rifle on his shoulder. "Kilo-three is the closest unit; they're five minutes out."
Danny pursed his lips and bobbed his head, turning to Jack. "What do you think we should do, Napier?"
Jack's muscles cramped under the sudden weight being dropped on his shoulders. He fixed his helmet, wracking every corner of his brain for the correct answer, afraid of this being a trick question and looking like a moron in front of his commanding officer. Taking a drag of his cigarette, Jack stopped over thinking.
"Backtrack—a couple hundred yards. Just until Kilo can get here, then we advance." The odd butterfly in his gut fluttered its wings, leaving him a bit unnerved as he got a better look at all the derelict buildings surrounding them. "They're watching us. It wasn't an accident that fucking thing detonated once we walked near it. Jonesy, you and Wilson establish a base of fire on the rooftop of that building to my left, and watch our fucking backs while we retreat."
Unhooking the strap of his M4, Jones held it to his chest. "Yes, sir." He started walking toward Wilson but stopped short and spun around. "When we get to Kosovo, I better get an invitation to your Purple Heart pinning."
Jack licked his tongue along his windburned lips, shaking his head. He dropped the half-smoked cigarette pinched between dirty fingers to the ground. "We'll see. By the time they think about sending me home, you'll be cozy behind some desk in the States because you're getting too damn old to be out here."
"I'm younger than y—"
Jack saw the spray of bright red blood spurting from Jones' neck before the deep percussive pop in the distance.
A Serb sniper.
Baker, Wilson, Martinez, and Moore dove behind cars lining the street. Jack watched Jones fall to the ground, his hands clawing at the gushing hole.
"Jack!" hollered Baker. "Take cover!"
His feet were glued to the pavement. He couldn't think, breathe, or speak with Jones thrashing around like a fish out of water. Jones' face blanketed in shock—the pain hadn't set in yet—as he extended his hand to Jack. His mouth hung open as if he were trying to talk, and his eyes were wide, clouded with fear.
The ring of gunfire started. He cringed at the echo of glass shattering from the windows being shot out of the buildings around him. It took far too long for his training to kick in; Jack crouched behind the same car as Baker, never taking Jones out of his sight. He wanted to dart out and pull his friend to safety, unable to stomach seeing Jones lying there so helplessly.
"Jonesy!" yelled Jack. He was trying to stand up. "Stay down! I'll be right there to get you once we get support here!" Holding his rifle in one hand, Jack scrambled for the mic of his radio clipped to the vest. "Mayday, mayday, mayday; soldier down! I repeat, soldier down! Echo-five to two-three-two Charlie, we need a medic team!"
Jack's heart leapt from his chest and lodged in his throat as he dropped the M4 to shrug off his pack and dig for the GPS. He pressed the power button, and after what seemed like a century it came to life.
"Echo-five, what's your location?"
Jack answered, "Four-three degrees North; one-eight degrees East, over."
"Roger, roger; two-three-two Charlie en route."
Packing away the GPS, Jack put his pack on again. He gripped his rifle, watching Jones take slugs to the calf and lower back. Blood boiling, stars dancing in his vision. He gritted his teeth, popping out from behind the car.
The trigger pulled more effortlessly than usual. The vibration of each round exploding from the muzzle rattled his bones. The trifling sting in his shoulder from the kick was more rewarding than ever.
"Fuck you, motherfuckers!" roared Jack, shooting in the direction combatant rounds were coming from.
Despite clearing the magazine, Jack kept firing. Fat tears bubbled in his eyes as his brain registered Jones being riddled with bullets like a fucking target hanging from the rafters in a shooting range. Jack tumbled to the ground. It wasn't until his ass hit the frozen pavement did he realize Baker pulled him down by the waistband. Releasing the spent magazine, he popped in a fresh one and racked his rifle.
"Napier!" Baker yelled. "We told Kilo-three to get here with their Humvee to cover. We're gonna bound up so you're not walking out there by yourself to grab him."
As the words left Baker's mouth, bits of glass and hunks of concrete showered them, pelting Jack on top of the helmet. Dropping the M4, Jack scooped up a handful of snow, pressing it to his bloodshot, bloated eyes to wash away the dust. They stung so viciously, Jack wanted to rip them clean out of his skull. It made him stop thinking about the throbbing pain in his thigh, for the time being. He coughed; it was dry, chest-heaving.
"They're shooting RPGs from that direction," bellowed Wilson, pointing.
He reached for his radio again. "Echo-five to Echo-one; we're taking RPGs from the North of the blast sight… relay that we need air support. Two-three-two Charlie, I need a goddamn medic team to our location right fucking now!" Turning to Jones, Jack wanted to scream. He was still alive, though he stopped wriggling after being shot in the back. "Kilo- three, where are you with the Humvee so we can move?!"
A crackled, exasperated voice yelled over, "Echo-five, they've got us by the balls over here. IED's blew our shit half to hell."
Fuck.
Jack responded, "Roger that."
He checked his pockets to see how many magazines he had left. Only two. No way in hell enough to keep up at the rate they were shooting. Jack looked to the sky. Thick gray clouds loomed overhead. Muttering a useless prayer under his breath, he strained his hearing for any sign of screaming jet engines, or the cutting rotor blades of the medevac helicopter.
All he heard was muffled popping of rifles.
They were on their own.
If they didn't save their ammunition, they'd all end up like Jones.
He held up his fist, and the shooting behind him ceased.
Jack straightened, un-fastening the belt from around his waist. Then he shrugged off his pack and started emptying the pockets of his vest. Anything to make himself lighter. He needed to move fast.
"What in God's name are you doing?" asked Baker. He had his back resting against the dented door of the car, loading a fresh magazine into his M4.
"I can't just fucking leave him out there now, can I?" Jack snapped the chinstrap of his helmet, tightening it.
"Don't do it, Jack, I'm serious. Don't be stupid."
Stretching out his right leg, Jack re-laced his scuffed leather boot. "And I promised Hannah he'd come back to her. Alive."
"What about Aubrey? You made the same promise to her, too."
Resting one knee on the ground, Jack thrust his fist through the collar of his thick winter jacket and t-shirt, pulling out his dog tags. He broke the lower hanging tag free from the chain and shoved it into Baker's hand. "In my footlocker, there's a letter for her. Anything happens, you make sure she gets it."
"You'll be getting this later." Baker tucked the tag into a pocket of his vest as he shook his head. "If I have to give that to her, I swear to God..."
Jack chuckled, holding out his fist. "Make peace or die. You'll have my back?"
"Of course I've got your back, you fucking prick." Baker collided his gloved knuckles with Jack's bare ones. "Make peace or die, brother. Remember… run zig-zagged."
"Yeah, yeah. I'm not a Private anymore, First Sergeant. I know how to run."
"Just making sure." Baker slapped Jack on the side of the helmet. "Get some."
"Hey dickless!" Martinez yelled. He pointed to Jack. "Forrest Gump that shit—knees-to-chest, knees-to-chest. You've got the unit's only deck of cards on you and we wanna play poker later. Can't use 'em if they're all bloody."
Jack rolled his eyes.
At least someone has their priorities straight.
At the bumper of the car, Jack balanced his weight on the balls of his feet. He bounced, ready to make a break for it when there was a pause in enemy gunfire. It was a clear path; he only hoped there wasn't ice hidden beneath the black, slushy snow.
"Jack! Jack!" Hearing Aubrey's voice in the back of his mind, Jack squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. He needed to stay focused on staying alive; not thinking about being home. "Jack! Come on, Jack, wake up!"
Springing his eyes open, Jack was half-blinded by the soft glow from the lamp on the nightstand.
Aubrey straddled his hips, one hand resting on his chest while the other patted his cheek. Jack grabbed her wrist, sitting up.
How the hell did she end up on top of him?
Jack's breath got stuck in his throat when he realized where he is. In bed with Aubrey in Kansas. Far, far away from strife-torn Sarajevo.
Jerking free from her hold, Aubrey wiped beads of sweat from his forehead with the heel of her hand. "Are you okay?"
Jack slumped against the headboard. Has she always been this fucking stupid?
Seeing how Aubrey stared at him, Jack's body temperature sky-rocketed. His tongue darted out, moistening his sandpaper lips. Without realizing what he was doing, Jack touched the patch of puffy scar tissue on the outside of his thigh. It sizzled under his touch. A bevy of rabid bats flailed their wings in his stomach, bouncing between ribs and spine.
The tingling numbness in his hands was the first warning of the posthaste storm approaching.
Jack shoved Aubrey off of him, bolting from bed. Before the worst of it hit, he needed to get out of there, away from her. Aubrey seeing him like this—fragile and inadequate—would only make him drown faster in the wave.
Blood pounding in his ears, the thundering roar grew louder. Trying to put on boxers was almost impossible with how bad the trembling in his hand became. As he glanced around the room, it was like looking through a fisheye lens, then a kaleidoscope, his vision getting more distorted by the second. Dizziness set in at the same time as the loathsome cottonmouth, and Jack couldn't breathe no matter how hard he gasped for air.
Once the elastic band of the boxers snapped to his hips, his knees buckled. He dropped to the floor, half-supporting his weight at the foot of the bed.
"It was just a dream," he muttered. The grip he held on the sheet turned his knuckles bright white. "It was just a dream…"
It wasn't, though.
The heavy grief he wore like a second skin was real. As was the scar he carried around with him, a constant reminder. No matter how hard Jack tried to convince himself none of it happened, nothing stopped the flashes of his pale blue, blood-crusted, bullet riddled body.
As soon as the first tear broke free, the rest followed in an unstoppable stream. He tightened his hold on the quilt, straddling the fine line between losing grip on his dignity and pulling himself together enough to get away from Aubrey.
Jack's palms were so sweaty and achy, he couldn't hold on to the thin shred of self-respect anymore.
Tears flooded his face, cutting his cheeks like scorching scalpels, while his chest heaved trying to suck air through his strangled throat.
He looked at Aubrey, abhorring how she curled into a ball against the headboard, gnawing on her thumbnail. She gazed back at him, shell-shocked. Ill-equipped to handle the physical manifestations of the post-traumatic stress Jack spent too much of his time trying to convince himself and everyone else he wasn't suffering from. More anger bubbled in his belly. The last thing Aubrey needed to deal with were the demons he allowed to eat him alive, when she was dealing with her own.
Shame swallowed him whole.
"Oh God, Jonesy," he cried. "I'm so sorry!"
His words reverberated off the walls, shaking Aubrey's core.
Jack dipped his head, his mouth agape with strands of saliva connecting his upper and lower lips.
Using the side of her fist, Aubrey wiped away tears and fought her memories of the funeral which Jack had missed. She unfolded from the safety of the ball she tucked herself into, crawling to the foot of the bed to hop off.
There was nothing Aubrey could do—no magic words to mutter that would rip the pain out of his chest now and forever.
She reached out, curling her hand around his bicep, but he smacked it away.
"Don't you fucking touch me!" he roared.
His voice was guttural. Demonic.
A shiver shot down Aubrey's spine, chilling her to the bone. Him speaking like that was enough to make her almost recoil. This wasn't the time to cower. If she did, then she knew it was game over. Aubrey was ready for what had to be done.
Ignoring the jitters, Aubrey swallowed every ounce of trepidation he instilled.
She only had one shot at this. There was no wiggle room for error.
With reflexes faster than a cat's, Aubrey grabbed the nape of his neck, sinking her nails into his skin, at the same time taking hold of his wrist. She caught him off guard, shoving him down onto his belly, pressing the side of his face into the carpet. As she held him there, she straddled his waist and twisted his arm behind him.
Jack wailed from having his shoulder joint maneuvered in such a way he was sure she was going to pop it from the socket. Jack reached around, blindly feeling for any part of her, as he thrashed to get her full weight off of him.
He felt her ribcage. Balling his hand into a fist, Jack made a sad excuse of a swing and missed hitting her breast instead.
He swung again. This time missing her. Latching onto her thigh, he dug his thumb into a fresh bruise. It was enough to make her cry out in pain, but nothing close to jarring her.
"Get the fuck off of me! Aubrey! Get off!"
The longer it took Jack to fight her off, the angrier he got because his body was failing him. There was only one reason she was overpowering him: the anxiety wrecked him, mentally, emotionally, and physically.
"If you don't get off of me," he warned. "I promise it won't end well for you."
Not in the mood to hear his threats, she slid her hand into his hair, gripped the roots in a tight fist, then shoved his face further into the carpet.
Having him in this position, Aubrey knew she was playing with fire. Being trapped made the panic attack worse, but in retrospect it was a preemptive move. If she could hold power long enough for his return to baseline, there was no need to worry about his mood turning on her.
"What happened to Jonesy," she panted. "It wasn't your fault."
She tightened her grip, refusing to relent no matter how much he twisted.
Those words released the pin in the grenade Jack was trying to stop from detonating. He went limp, giving up the fight.
Jack's chest heaved, threatening to implode. Realizing how he was struggling to breathe, Aubrey rolled off of him. She helped Jack sit up and settled him between her legs with his back flush to her chest. She leaned against the bed for support.
Lacing her fingers with his, she took a steady, deep breath. "Breathe with me, Jack."
Aubrey sniffled, her heart breaking at the stifling sound as he tried the best he could to make his chest rise and fall in the same way he felt Aubrey's. Jack squeezed her hands so tight, it was a miracle he didn't break them.
"I didn't want to leave him there! I didn't!"
Jack threw his head back against her shoulder and screamed. It was a piercing mewl of a wholly broken man, one that ripped the soul right out of her. Aubrey kissed his temple. She hoped him feeling the familiar warmth of her body seeping into his would tear his mind out of Sarajevo. To some extent, it worked. Over and over Jack muttered out loud, reminding himself where he was, whose arms he was wrapped in.
For as long as he's right here, there's nothing that can hurt him. Aubrey'd let nothing bad happen.
"I know you didn't want to. Do you remember what I said? They left you there with no support."
"It is my fault, Aubrey!" The sudden rise in his voice startled her.
"What else were you supposed to do? If you and Danny hadn't decided what you two did, the outcome would have been far worse. Six caskets, not just one, would have gone back."
That hit him a lot harder than he expected. It was true the choice he and Baker made that afternoon allowed Jack to make it home alive. He wished Aubrey understood that even though only one casket flew to the States, that didn't change the fact all six of them died in the ambush.
After a couple of painfully silent minutes, Jack broke free from her hold and jumped to his feet as if nothing happened. He wiped the lingering tears from his flush, blotchy cheeks. Aubrey fought the urge to say something. The futile effort was bound to go unappreciated because there's no doubting he's too embarrassed to talk.
He's never spoken about it. Why would he suddenly start now?
Jack asked, "Did you cum earlier?"
Aubrey wanted to scream and rip her hair out. Her orgasm—or lack-there-of—was the furthest thing from her mind. It boggled her brain how that was the first thought he came up with after a near breakdown. But, if history with Jack taught her anything, it's that most things he did never made sense. His life was a series of arbitrary distractions to keep himself busy and unfocused on uncomfortable realities.
She pinched the bridge of her nose. "I didn't."
From the nightstand, Jack grabbed his dog tags and put them on before draping a clean towel he found in the laundry basket over his shoulder.
"Not my, uh, best work. I promise I'll get ya when I come home on Sunday, cupcake." Jack leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "I'm gonna jump in the shower so why don't you make me something to eat. We gotta hit the road soon. Formation's at five-thirty for a march, and my squad is probably already out there in full gear—" he lowered his voice as he dug through the dresser for a clean pair of boxer-briefs, more so talking to himself— "because we all know how fucking stupid Privates are. They hear four-forty-five, and they think that means show up at a quarter to four."
Aubrey had whiplash trying to keep up with him.
Pursing her lips, she looked over to the clock. It was three-thirty, and neither of them managed a wink of sleep. She couldn't fathom how Jack would survive a grueling morning of P.T., then make it through the demanding sixty hours of field training. She was exhausted from being curled up with Jack all night watching rerun after rerun of NYPD Blue.
As Jack shuffled out of the bedroom, still mumbling to himself, Aubrey hugged her knees to her chest. She rested her forehead to the boney caps and squeezed her eyes shut. Sucking in a breath through her nose and exhaling through her mouth, she tried to force the memories of the half-hour into the black hole she liked to keep most of her emotions.
The infamous afternoon in Sarajevo had been the closest Aubrey got to living out her worst nightmare—standing on the tarmac at an airport in a foreign city, watching the flag-draped casket be unloaded from a plane.
For Jack, not dying was the worst thing to happen.
Neither of them wanted to think of it ever again, yet it was impossible to forget.
Hearing the shower turn on, Aubrey stood up. She used the elastic band around her wrist to tie her hair into a tight, messy bun as she sauntered down the hall. The bathroom door squeaked when opened all the way, so Aubrey knew that would give her presence away, but when she stepped into the steam-filled room, Jack didn't poke his head out from the violet curtain like he normally did.
She just wanted to make sure he was halfway to being okay. The thought of him being away from home for almost three days after an anxiety attack made Aubrey feel sick. She wouldn't be there to give him his meds, rub his back, or remind him that everything was going to be okay, God forbid being in the field reminded him of being in combat.
Without his protest to stop her, Aubrey pushed the curtain back just enough to step into the tub behind him. His forearms were resting against the white tile and his chin dipped into his chest as the scalding water beat down onto the nape of his neck. This was one of the few ways he became grounded, drag himself back into the present and not linger too long in the past.
With his eyes and brain shut off to the outside world, Jack jumped out of his skin when hands gripped his sides and a pair of lips pressed to his shoulder blade.
"Goddamn it!" Tilting his head, Jack let the water pelt him in the face before wiping the beads away. "I told you to make me something to eat. What part of I have to be in formation by five did you not understand?"
Aubrey dragged the tip of her tongue along the curve of his neck, nipping his earlobe. "I thought you said formation isn't until five-thirty."
"Doesn't matter if it's five or five-thirty. You know how fucking squad leaders are… it's such bullshit, Aubs."
The thick strain coating his voice was almost too much for Aubrey to handle. Her chest ached, like someone drove their hand straight through her sternum and grabbed her heart, squeezing the utter life out of it.
Slithering her arms around his sides, she hugged him as tightly as she could. She pressed more kisses to his shoulder, tasting the persistent sweat that refused to wash away.
"Try to look on the bright side. In a few months, this'll all be over. No more formation, no more staff duty… no more deployments."
Jack reached for the bar of Old Spice soap. Even with Aubrey clinging to him, he lathered up.
"That's not the point. It's—it's the principle of it."
Jack relinquished the soap to Aubrey. She rolled it between her hands and set it on the dish once she had a good lather going. With a firm, yet relaxing pressure, she kneaded. The muscle in his back was so kinked, it was impossible to tell where the bony column of his spine ended and where the muscle began.
"I know it is," she said, sighing.
Aubrey smirked when a moan gurgled in Jack's throat. Her fingers never ceased to do the trick.
He spun around to face Aubrey, reaching behind him to change the pressure setting on the shower-head. It beat against him with such force, Aubrey was sure it would shoot straight through him at any moment.
"I fucking hate this base," he snarled. "My commanders at Fort Carson didn't even take the squad leader's position from me after I got arrested. All fucking politics here. You know what it is?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
Aubrey shook her head, curling her arms around her neck, bringing the front of her body flush to his. She ran a silken leg along his soap-slicked one. It didn't matter his mind focused on other things; she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling when his erection poked her hip.
So much for all the shit he threw at her last night about how she's not aging gracefully.
"I don't, tell me."
"All the officers… they're intimidated by me." Reaching behind Aubrey, Jack went for the body wash he loved smelling on her. He squirted more soap than he needed into his palm, sloppily rubbing them together. Most of the soap slipped down the drain, though when he got bubbles, Jack nudged Aubrey back so he could return the favor. Instead of working the knots from her neck, shoulders, or back, he made sure her breasts and ass cheeks were sparkling clean. "For Bravo Company, so many of the lieutenants and captains are my age, give or take a couple years, right? Well, something, uh, occurred to me—I've seen more action than all those West Point assholes. I know my shit. If they give me control of the squad, they know I'll have those Privates whipped into shape in a month and I'll make them look like sand-baggers."
Pushing Jack out of the way to rinse the suds off, Aubrey was inclined to agree. It wasn't the dumbest explanation he's had.
"You finished all the requirements of your Article 15 and the mandatory leadership courses, so have you heard anything on when you'll be promoted?"
"Nope. Not a fucking word." Jack moved Aubrey out of the way so he could wash his hair. "With my last tour in Bosnia, and then that short one I did in Serbia, I have all the points I need; my commanders just have to submit my recommendation to the board."
"And if they don't?"
Jack closed his eyes as he rinsed the shampoo. "If I don't hear anything by the end of next month, I'll put in a request for a PCS."
"And move again?" she whined. "Jack, we've barely been here for a year. I don't wanna pack up and move again when your separation date is so close."
"Too bad, cupcake. I don't want to leave without making Staff Sergeant, so if that means transferring to another base to make that happen, that's what I'm gonna do." He grabbed the canister of shaving gel off the ledge. "I'm not going to tell you again, go make me something to eat, because I still have to shave."
Aubrey didn't say anything. She nodded and stepped out. Not bothering to towel off, she just wrapped herself up in her terrycloth robe, which hung on the back of the door and tied the belt around her waist. Deciding there was one more important matter she needed to attend to before fixing breakfast, Aubrey opened the medicine cabinet and sorted his pills. Opening the shower curtain, Jack was using the small mirror suctioned to the tile wall as he worked the shave gel into a thin layer of foam over his face.
"Give me your hand."
Jack stopped what he was doing, looking at Aubrey like she sprouted a second head. It confused him who told her it was okay for her to be ordering him around.
"I'm sorry—who exactly do you think you're talking to?"
"I'm talking to you," she asserted. Aubrey locked eyes with him as she held out her fist. "I'm not gonna tell you again; give me your hand. I gave you an extra Ativan, so hopefully that helps keep your anxiety low for the day. You should be okay for the weekend because you'll be too busy to think about anything other than training."
Jack never thought it was possible to become overwhelmed with so many emotions in such a short time frame. He wanted to knock those pills out of her hand, then he wanted to knock her out for thinking he needed them in the first place, and for throwing his words back in his face.
Holding out his clean hand, the only thing keeping him from wringing her little fucking neck was reminding himself of how awful he had felt for days after the last time he hurt her. Aubrey opened her hand, and four pills fell into his palm. He closed his fingers around them, and they burned holes into his flesh. Stepping up on her tip toes, she kissed his forehead. As she moseyed out of the bathroom, Jack jerked the shower curtain shut. He opened his hand, staring down at the pills.
…hopefully that helps keep your anxiety low.
Without a second thought, Jack dropped the pills down the drain.
Fuck Aubrey for giving them to him.
And fuck the idiotic shrink who said he needed them in the first place.