American Bad Boy(13)

“It was a good night,” I admit to my reflection in the window as I watch the familiar Colorado scenery float by me. I haven’t been back here since I left for West Point about a decade ago. I’m struck by the little things that’ve changed almost as much as I am by all the things that never did.

“A good night,” Lopez snorts over his shoulder at me, rolling his eyes. “You should’ve seen this greedy bastard in there, those girls were grinding up on him like a Roman orgy every time he got a drink at the bar. Man, that Captain America name is gold too. Did you come up with that or what?”

I didn’t.

It was just insanely good timing that the news footage of the firefight in Afghanistan hit the media outlets at the same time as the blockbuster movie hit the screens. Once Cooper Sanders got back on the air, he did a segment about the “real Captain America” who saved his life. Well, that was that. Fox, CNB and everyone else picked it up and ran with it.

I don’t love it, being compared to a comic book character makes me feel uneasy about the men I lost. Like watching Thompson get his head split open like a walnut is the same as watching a scene in a movie theatre. Like my men who didn’t make it are just extras on a set. Like the flashbacks and nightmares are exciting little trailers teasing this summer’s big Hollywood hit.

Captain America feels like it’s downplaying what happened over there for the sake of a quippy nickname. It feels like we’re trading compassion for sound bytes. But, I can’t change it, and it makes the girls practically cum as soon as they lay eyes on me. Not that bringing ladies home was ever a problem before. But, Lopez is right, now it’s as easy as pointing at one, two, hell, even three of them and heading out.

“Nah, I picked it up from one of those news shows. Who gives themselves a nickname anyway?” I shake my head.

“Yeah, Parsons, who would do something like that? That would just be weird, wouldn’t it Captain Forrester?” Lopez twists in his seat again to face our driver, who looks a little red in the face.

“Shut up, man.” Parsons tenses his jaw and his shoulders stiffen. I can’t help but laugh.

“Seriously? I gotta hear this one. What was the name?” I watch Parsons silently plead with Lopez in a single look. For a second, I think the Corporal is gonna stop chucking shit at his friend and leave me in the dark. Then he turns around in his seat, his eyes are twinkling like a cat that caught a little bird to snack on.

“Yeah, man, what was it you wanted everyone to call ya?” He pushes Parsons, but the only response is a flood of red rising up the back of my driver’s neck as he stares straight forward, unblinking.

“The sperminator,” Lopez looks me straight in the face and answers. Parsons turns a shade of purple usually reserved for eggplants and stroke victims.

“You’re a dick, man.” He manages to push the words through his locked jaw.

Lopez starts laughing like a hyena and I can’t help but laugh too.

“What? Why would you even want that to catch on?” Tiny tears form in the corners of my eyes as I struggle to breathe through my laughter.

“I dunno, I thought chicks would think it sounded cool. Fuck I was seventeen, you think you can drop it?” Parsons snaps at us but Lopez and I keep laughing.

“Dicks.”

The scenery blurs by the car window like fragments of a dream. At least it’s not like my real dreams. Instead of the sand covered hell-hole full of bodies that I visit every night, I see the field I used to play little league on. Instead of the village that I keep walking into in my sleep, I see my old middle school.

Memories piece together and remind me of my roots. I haven’t been back since I left for West Point, I was on my first tour when my parents packed up and headed to the sunshine state for retirement, so I never had reason to come home. A decade has gone by and I try to distract myself with all the little things that have changed. That strip mall never used to be there. Those subdivisions are new. It’s all a nice distraction from the only thing left in Colorado I care about.

Lauren.

Giving my head a shake, I push the thought away. If I’ve learned anything over the years, it’s that there’s no shortage of pussy. After all, I got my leg blown off, not my dick. Although, there’s been many women who’ve tried to suck it off. Who am I to deny them?

After almost a year of intensive treatment at Walter Reed, the military gave me a choice: I could continue to be active duty or head out onto civvie street. It seemed like a no-brainer. I live to serve. Then I found out “active duty” meant desk jockey. Nope. No way I’m gonna stamp piles of paperwork for eight hours a day for the next fifteen years. Nothing against those guys, but I need something with a bit more adrenaline pumping through it’s veins. Something a bit more dangerous than maybe getting a paper cut.