Afraid to Fly (Anchor Point #2)(8)

These days, instead of flying aircraft on the other side of the world, my days were spent pushing paperwork, setting up presentations, and teaching classes that bored me more than they did the students. A few years ago, that would've been my idea of hell. Now? It kept me sane and employed. Might never get promoted again thanks to some incidents surrounding my divorce, and a good night's sleep would be rare until I died, but I had a job. For that alone, I happily embraced daily death by PowerPoint.

Didn't hurt that I had a seriously attractive coworker who didn't seem to be far from my mind these days. I squirmed in my chair. What I wouldn't have given just to . . . touch him. Lock a door, find a bed, make out until my lips were raw. My brain started sliding into one of the many fantasies I'd had about him, and the funny thing was, I almost never saw us tearing up the sheets. Just thinking about kissing him was enough to-

Someone knocked on my office door, startling me away from the schedule I'd been working on. "Come in."

The door opened, and . . . Oh dear Lord.

"Hey." I smiled, thankful my desk and uniform both camouflaged my hard-on. "How are you doing?" 

Travis smiled back. "Good. Good. I, uh, wanted to come by and say thanks again for getting us home after the ball."

"Don't mention it. You look like you're feeling better."

"God, yeah. Much." He tilted his head to one side, then the other, as if to show he had some mobility again. "Like I said, it's one of those injuries that likes to come back to haunt me. Could've picked a better night, though."

I was curious, but didn't press, and anyway, he wasn't done.

"Listen, the reason I came by . . ." He shifted his weight. "Let me buy you lunch or something. I really feel like I owe you for the other night."

I wanted to tell him he didn't owe me a thing, but the prospect of having lunch with him was too good to pass up. "Sounds great."

He smiled. Almost laughed. Like he'd been holding his breath while he waited for me to respond, and was relieved I'd agreed to go along.

Are you kidding? I'd be stupid to say no.

"Okay, well." He gestured over his shoulder. "I should get back to work. I'm having lunch with Captain Rodriguez and some blowhards today, but let's do something tomorrow. Say, eleven?"

Yes, please. "I'll be there."

"Great." He held my gaze for a second. "I'll see you then."

I nodded, trying not to compromise my cool exterior. It was lunch with a coworker. No big deal.

He started to go, but paused. "Oh, by the way, a bunch of us are going out to the O club tonight. You want to come along?"

The offer didn't sound nearly as appealing as he probably thought. I didn't drink-although God I wanted to-and I didn't particularly like hanging out with ex-pilots.

Tonight, though, I could handle being the only RAP around a bunch of smart-aleck flyboys. I could handle being around gallons and gallons of booze I couldn't touch. After all, Travis was going.

So I smiled. "Sure. Looking forward to it."





It still sometimes amused me-and on bad days, depressed me-how much our office resembled a normal, civilian environment instead of a military one. We even had cubicles, a watercooler, and the odd potluck for a birthday. If not for the uniforms and the framed photos of our uppermost chain of command, it would be hard to tell us apart from a corporation.

Exactly what I'd had in mind when I went to the Academy.

But, hey, at least I still had a career. There'd been some talk of medically separating me back when I got hurt, and I sometimes felt like I had the Forced Medical Retirement of Damocles hanging over my head, so I couldn't complain. Even if I'd traded my wings for an office and hadn't worn my flight suit in way too long, I had a paycheck and benefits I couldn't get anywhere else. If that meant working under fluorescents in a boring, pastel office complete with motivational posters on the wall? Fine.

I carefully twisted and stretched, trying to work out some of the tightness in my back. At least it wasn't as bad as the other night. Kimber and I had even discussed me retiring yesterday, but just the thought of it made my skin crawl. The Navy made a lot of postcareer promises on paper, but I knew too many people who'd been screwed in practice. When we stopped being useful to the military, the tumble down the priority list could be quick.

So, even if staying in meant working at a desk and making myself run a mile and a half twice a year, it was a job. It was the closest thing I'd ever have to stability.

Shortly before lunch, I was on my way back to my office after a meeting, and passed through the shared area between the training and admin departments. Clint and three of his people were discussing something beside the whiteboard where they scheduled all of their classes.



       
         
       
        

A few feet away, some of my guys were hunched over someone's phone.

One laughed. "That's insane!"

"Right?" Lieutenant Bailey grinned. "It looks even better on a tablet, but still-check this shit out!"

The group with Clint craned their necks.

"What're you guys watching?" one asked.

"Someone got a video of a terrorist training camp eating shit during an airstrike." Bailey turned his phone toward Clint and the others.

Clint grimaced and turned away a split second before the thump-boom! came from the phone.

"Aloha snack bar, motherfuckers!" Bailey said, and the group burst out laughing.

Except for Clint. And the petty officer standing next to him who looked like he was about to break a sweat. Or throw up. Maybe both.

"Lieutenant Bailey," I said. "Don't you have work to do?"

The red-faced lieutenant shoved his phone into his pocket as the others quickly dispersed. "Sorry, sir."

I turned toward Clint. The petty officer was still a bit green, but Clint had a hand on his shoulder and looked him right in the eye.

"You okay?" he asked in a quiet voice.

The poor kid nodded. "I'm good. Just, uh, wasn't expecting . . . um . . ."

"Why don't you go wrap this up?" Clint pushed a folder into the kid's hands. "Use my office if you need to."

The petty officer swallowed hard and nodded again. "Thank you, sir." With that, he hurried toward Clint's office, probably grateful for the escape and a moment to himself.

Clint met my gaze.

I raised my eyebrows. You okay?

He nodded subtly.

"All right." I looked around at the rest of the guys, who were watching me uneasily like some kids who'd been busted fucking off at school. "Everybody get back to work. And Lieutenant-could I see you for a minute?"

"Yes, sir," he muttered.

I shut my office door behind us, cutting off the muffled snickering from his coworkers, and faced him. Leaning against my desk, I folded my hands in front of me. "Listen, if you guys want to share that shit with each other on your own time and your own equipment, be my guest. But let's not pass it around here, all right?"

"They asked to see it, sir. I was-"

"Yes, I realize that. I was there. But LC Fraser and Petty Officer Vincent obviously don't enjoy watching or listening to-"

"What?" He laughed and gestured over his shoulder. "Fraser was a drone pilot. He used to do that shit, so what's he got to be-"

"It doesn't matter." I hardened my voice, hoping he caught the warning in my tone that I wasn't going to stay civil and calm for much longer. "It might just be that he doesn't enjoy watching footage of people being blown up. I don't care for it myself, and neither do some of the other people in the building." 

Bailey scowled.

I resisted the urge to sigh with frustration. Sometimes, it was like trying to keep kids in line. "Listen, you don't object to the policy of not slamming doors in the office, right?" I inclined my head. "Since you know damn well that can fuck with someone who's been to a combat zone?"

Bailey shifted his weight. "We're just having a little-"

"Let me rephrase that, Lieutenant." I looked him in the eye. "No more of that shit in my department, and it's not up for discussion. That's an order."

He stiffened a little, and nodded. "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

"Dismissed," I said through my teeth.

He gave another nod and left my office. After the door shut, I rolled my eyes and wiped a hand over my face. Sometimes the kinder, gentler Navy tried the hell out of my patience. I didn't mind seeing some of the abusive disciplinary methods go by the wayside, along with a lot of the hazing that happened in the name of tradition, but there were days when the old Navy really appealed. Like when I wanted to drag someone into my office, get in their face, and scream at them until their vocabulary was reduced to yes, sir and sorry, sir and won't happen again, sir. When I didn't want to explain myself or make an attempt to reason with the subordinates who, a decade or so ago, wouldn't have even thought about questioning a superior officer.

Cursing under my breath, I went around the desk and eased myself into my chair.

As I downloaded my overstuffed inbox, I glanced at the door the lieutenant had gone through. The military's old model had been effective in its own way, but it had been a hot mess too. Screaming in someone's face and finding out a moment too late they were irreparably traumatized by something that had happened on the battlefield six months ago-that didn't do anyone any good. And cultivating a reputation as a leader who screamed in his people's faces and ruled with an iron fist was a good way to intimidate subordinates into being afraid to approach him when they needed to. I'd learned that a few years ago from a close friend who'd lost a lieutenant commander to suicide.