Knobs E-Book

Scotty Cade

• Herausgeber: Dreamspinner Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 331

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

Angus Conrad (Gus) McRae is a privileged Charlestonian following family tradition and attending the Citadel, harboring big dreams of a military career. With the infamous Hell Week behind him, he quickly realizes being a Knob (a freshman cadet) is just as tough—especially for a man like Gus who must keep his sexuality a secret. Then a sudden dorm reassignment lands him with a roommate in the form of one of the football team's top players—working-class jock Stewart Adam (Sam) Morley—and life gets increasingly complicated. Gus can't imagine a man like Sam as gay, yet there's something between them—exchanged glances, the occasional innuendo. Sexual tensions rise, leaving them more than friends but less than lovers. Gus and Sam know there's too much to lose and they must keep their attraction hidden. If they fail, they risk destroying their hopes and dreams for a prosperous future in a military world that's not yet ready to accommodate masculine gay men.

Leseprobe

Knobs

By Scotty Cade

Angus Conrad (Gus) McRae is a privileged Charlestonian following family tradition and attending the Citadel, harboring big dreams of a military career. With the infamous Hell Week behind him, he quickly realizes being a Knob (a freshman cadet) is just as tough—especially for a man like Gus who must keep his sexuality a secret. Then a sudden dorm reassignment lands him with a roommate in the form of one of the football team’s top players—working-class jock Stewart Adam (Sam) Morley—and life gets increasingly complicated.

Gus can’t imagine a man like Sam as gay, yet there’s something between them—exchanged glances, the occasional innuendo. Sexual tensions rise, leaving them more than friends but less than lovers. Gus and Sam know there’s too much to lose and they must keep their attraction hidden. If they fail, they risk destroying their hopes and dreams for a prosperous future in a military world that’s not yet ready to accommodate masculine gay men.

First and foremost, as with everything I write, this novel is dedicated to Kell, my hero and husband of only two years, but my best friend and life partner for over the last twenty years.

It seems like just yesterday I spotted you up on a ladder in your Daisy Duke cutoffs, cleaning out your gutters, and once I got the courage to stop and introduce myself, well, let’s just say, “The rest is history.” You are my first thought when I open my eyes each morning and my last thought when I close them at night. Every book I write has a part of you, me, and us embedded deep within the pages. I love you with all my heart and couldn’t begin to imagine my life without you in it. Thank you for your continued support and encouragement. Always!

Also to my BFF, SJD “Jo” Peterson, who was the original voice behind Stewart Adam Morley. We’ve always wanted to write a story together and started working on this book as coauthors four years ago. But as close as we are as BFFs, our writing voices didn’t mesh very well. Since I was so close to this story, having spent a great deal of time at the Citadel and observing so many of these rituals first hand, she unselfishly relinquished the story to me with her blessings. Jo, I hope I did Sam proud. XOXO

And last, but certainly not least, to my friend and editor Andi Byassee. The way you take my literary children and force their words to make sense amazes me. Each book I write has a small part of my life embedded in the pages, and you instinctively know what those parts are, what to leave alone, and what to make better. But the most important thing is, when everything is said and done, the expressions on the pages are all mine. My voice and my words. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. XOXO

Preface

HELLO, ALL. Scotty here. I wanted to chat just a little before you join me on this journey. As I mentioned in the dedications, my BFF, SJD “Jo” Peterson, and I started out writing this book together. Kell and I were spending the winter on our boat at the Charleston City Marina, and the Citadel is walking distance from the marina, so I got to spend quite a bit of time on campus. I worked out at the gym, played racquetball at Deas Hall, and attended many of the Friday afternoon parades. Until Jo got here and saw it all for herself, I sent her endless photos and videos for her to get the feel of the place. The camaraderie was everywhere, and I literally got chills each Friday when I saw the parades. The marching, the cannons going off, the bagpipers. It was all just so overwhelming and emotional. Not to mention getting to watch hundreds of cadets in uniform covering the campus. Sorry. I digress.

Anyway when Jo arrived for a visit, we spent time walking the campus and observing all we could to make this book as real as possible: getting building locations right and most of all learning all we could about Hell Week.

But with all that said, the tough part about writing this book was the fact that no matter how wonderful the Citadel and the incredible men and women they release into the world are, “gay” is not a part of the curriculum there. From what I could gather, there are always a few gay people who attend, but they were never out or able to be themselves on or off campus.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mean gay men or women should walk the campus holding hands or making out, because none of that is acceptable whether gay or straight, but I just wish they were able to at least be acknowledged, supported, and embraced for who and what they are. Not that sexuality defines us, but it is part of who we are. Who knows? Maybe one day it will.

So in closing, just keep in mind the restraints surrounding these characters and how they struggled to just “be.”

I hope you enjoy!

Part One

Chapter OneLeaving behind the Comforts of Home

Stewart Adam Morley - Sam

SITTING OUTSIDE the Greyhound terminal, Sam fought to keep down the bile burning his throat. The offensive smell of diesel, billowing around him in thick clouds, was only part of what was causing his stomach to roll. He was about to step onto a bus that would take him away from everything and everyone he knew, leaving behind the comforts and familiarity of home.

Growing up in Southfield, just outside of Detroit, wasn’t always what he’d call comfortable. While some of the areas were nice, the block he’d grown up on wasn’t the safest. However, he knew the streets, knew what areas to avoid, and once he was behind the multiple locks on his front door, enjoyed a sense of security only home could provide.

He knew nothing about Charleston, South Carolina. The people were all strangers, the streets unfamiliar. Yet it would be his home for the next four years.

If I survive.

Yeah, that unnerving thought had played in his head a time or two or a hundred.

Sam leaned his head against the brick wall and closed his eyes as the nausea increased. He clutched his backpack in his trembling hands, his two duffel bags piled securely next to his feet. Jesus, what the hell had he been thinking when he’d accepted that damn football scholarship?

He’d been offered both academic and athletic scholarships to numerous colleges and universities around the country. Originally he’d turned them all down—too damn scared, too unsure—and chosen to attend the local community college. He’d taken the easy route, the safe one that was closer to home. However, his dream of attending the Citadel Military College, which began when he’d first seen a pamphlet one of the seniors had been tossing around during Sam’s freshman year, kept nagging at him. It refused to be silenced. He’d worked his ass off to keep his grade point average high, had a record year on the field as a senior, and after a year and a half of hemming and hawing, was thankful the Citadel was still interested enough in him playing for the Bulldogs to offer him a scholarship. Nothing like taking the road most challenging, he thought with a sigh.

“Greyhound 1125. Final destination Charleston, South Carolina. Now boarding.”

The announcement had Sam taking a deep breath, getting to his feet, and again wrinkling his nose at the horrible smell around him. He shouldered his backpack, grabbed his two duffel bags, and fell in line behind those rushing for the bus, his steps heavy and sluggish. He wasn’t in any hurry to start the twenty-four-hour ride. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to begin the next journey of his life. He did, and knew he was making the right choice. But he was still going to miss his mom, his brother and sister—even if they were pains in the ass sometimes—and his friends.

Don’t go. Just turn around and go home.

Sam hesitated for a long moment, again questioning what the hell he was doing, his head filled with doubt. The known versus the unknown, the easy versus the hard; the same battle he’d been fighting for the last year and a half. But like every other time he’d had these thoughts, the challenge was too exciting, too alluring, to ignore. He shoved that little voice away, pushed past the fear and doubt, and handed his ticket and duffel bags to the attendant.

“No turning back now,” he whispered to himself.

He’d never been away from home, and the anxiety over leaving what he knew wasn’t the only thing weighing heavily on him. He was twenty, and it was time, but the thought of his mom having to care for his younger siblings and herself without him around was daunting. He was the man of the house. He’d taken on that role at twelve when his stepdad had followed in the shoes of his real dad and split. No note, no forwarding address, just gone. Well, back then they hadn’t needed the lazy bastard. His mom and siblings had him. But now he was also leaving. Not like his father and stepdad had, but he was leaving all the same. It didn’t matter how many times Mom had tried to convince him otherwise, he felt like he was abandoning his family, his responsibilities, and it sucked. Down in the pit of his gut and the center of his chest, it sucked.

Sam found himself a seat toward the back of the bus, relieved when it looked as if he’d have the entire row to himself—at least on this leg of the journey. He popped in his earbuds and turned up the volume on his used iPod, a going-away gift from his mom, letting the soothing sounds of Joshua James help ease the panic that still gripped him. Taking in a deep breath through his nose, Sam let it out slowly through his slightly parted lips. He leaned his head against the window as the bus slowly pulled away from the terminal. The trepidation that had kept him from sleeping the night before, leaving him exhausted, combined with the rambling, rhythmic movements of the bus, made it impossible to keep his eyes open, and blessedly his brain shut down. He wrapped his arms around his backpack, head resting against the cool glass, and slipped into a fitful sleep before the bus even made it out of the city.

MOVING HESITANTLY, Sam walked through the archway that led to the center and heart of the Citadel campus. Twilight cast eerie shadows on Summerall Field, or the parade deck as it was frequently called. His pulse raced and even in the stifling heat, a chill ran down his spine. Sam wrapped his arms around his chest and forced his feet to keep moving. He could feel the icy tendrils of fear gripping him, the adrenaline pumping through his veins, demanding he flee, but something stronger compelled him forward. Men with shaved heads—dressed smartly in full-dress wool jackets, white trousers, spit-shined leather shoes, and cross belts forming bright white X’s across their chests connected to a cartridge box—marched silently past him. In one white-gloved hand, they held their weapons against their shoulders. To Sam’s horror, each one turned hollow eyes on him and pointed at him as they passed. The contempt on their hard faces made him shudder.

The grass was cool and lush beneath his feet as Sam rushed past the parading cadets, and for the first time, he realized his feet were bare. Not only was he shoeless, his pants were torn and filthy, as was his T-shirt. A sour odor emanated from his clothing, much like the stench of rotting garbage. He wiped his palms across the front of his shirt as he fled, trying to wipe away the dirt, only to find his hands were covered in filth and his actions doing little more than increasing the size of the stains. He looked and smelled worse than some of the homeless men he’d encountered back home in the downtown area. No wonder the cadets were so disgusted.

Keeping his head down, Sam moved quickly across the grounds. He’d been here before—he recognized the six-foot replica of the Citadel graduates’ class ring—but in the dusk it looked foreign, almost like a large humpbacked creature, poised to strike. The flags upon the tall poles flanking the east perimeter waved wildly, their shadows making the ground seem as if it had come alive, yet no wind blew. Keep moving. Go, go, go, a voice in his head screamed. You don’t belong here. Sam quickened his pace, ran past men in blue T-shirts and blue shorts with neon-yellow belts who stopped when they saw him to point and sneer. Go!

As Sam reached the center of the field, he stopped dead in his tracks. Not like hitting a barrier, stopping his forward motion, but rather as if he were suddenly glued to the spot. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and his heart hammered painfully as he scanned the area around him. A military vehicle sat in each corner. Tanks, a helicopter, a fighter jet—all pointed toward him, targeting him. Sam couldn’t see the occupants of the vehicles, but somehow he knew they were there, staring at him, pointing and sneering as the others had done. Sam jerked when a flash of light lit up the field. The men around him began to chant, too low for Sam to make out, but the tone was ominous.

“Ready,” a voice boomed from near a row of cannons.

The chant grew louder but remained incoherent.

“Set.”

“You don’t belong here.” Glowing eyes surrounded the parade field. “You don’t belong here.”

“Fire!”

The ground shook with the force of the explosion, the noise deafening, and Sam covered his ears and screamed.

Sam jerked awake and scanned the area with wild eyes, his breath coming in painful gasps. The woman in the next row was looking down at the knitting in her hands; the gentleman next to her appeared to be sleeping.

“Oh God! Just a dream,” he muttered and slumped back against the seat, working to get his pounding heart and rapid breathing to return to normal.

It wasn’t the first time he’d had the dream. Since visiting the campus back in April, he’d woken numerous times to the same explosion of cannon fire. He also knew the meaning behind it, and he was bound and determined to prove it wrong. He might be poor, a little unrefined, perhaps too brash, but he did belong at the Citadel.

Lying back, Sam closed his eyes. The dream still held him in its clutches. Flashes of hollow eyes and pointing, laughing figures danced behind his lids. He forced himself to relax, push down the unease, and focus on the positive. Sam turned up the volume on his iPod and lost himself in the slow rhythmic beat. It took a while, but he finally fell into a deep sleep—this time, void of nightmares.

One transfer in Cincinnati, Ohio, another in Knoxville, Tennessee, forced Sam to rouse, but other than that, he slept. Blessedly the nightmare didn’t return to haunt him. The entire trip was a blur, and the next thing he knew, he was sitting on a bed in a run-down hotel a block from the bus terminal, staring at… well, nothing at all really. Just staring.

Sam ran a hand through his hair and fingered the strands between his fingers. His stomach went all jittery when a thought crossed his mind. The nervous habit he had of playing with his hair wasn’t going to be an option for much longer. Not only would he be losing his civilian clothes when he entered the Citadel tomorrow, but his shaggy auburn locks as well. His hair would be cut to within a quarter inch of his scalp, and whether he’d be able to handle being a Knob or not, he sure as hell was going to look like one.

His chest tightened painfully, and he closed his eyes as he struggled with the new surge of panic that threatened to steal his breath.

Breathe in deeply…. Hold it…. Now let it out slowly. And again.

Sam repeated the mantra several times until he was able to calm down and take a lungful of air without having to work for it. Jesus, he was turning into a pansy. How the hell was he going to make it through the first week if he was going to freak out over something as simple as a haircut? It was just hair for Christ’s sake. It’d grow back.

Sam shook his head, doing a little mental chastising of his internal scaredy-cat. Or maybe it was his vanity that had him freaking over the loss of his hair. As he studied his reflection in the mirror hanging on the wall across from him, he realized this particular anxiety attack was indeed all about his vanity.

“So much for my pretty boy looks,” he muttered and pushed himself up from the mattress. Either way, he’d better get a grip on his crazy, or he’d be returning home before he could make it through the first week.

Grabbing one of his duffel bags from the floor, he set it on the small desk and opened it. He might as well do something to keep his mind occupied. After napping for the majority of his twenty-four-hour ride from Michigan, he doubted if he’d be able to get any sleep. As he pulled the contents from his duffel, he counted out six white crew-neck T-shirts, which he shook out and refolded before setting them on the bed. Next he pulled out twelve pairs of boxers, black crew socks, and white cotton athletic socks and stacked them on the bed along with the other items. It had been a struggle to purchase everything he needed to take to his new home, and he’d had to pick up extra shifts at the deli to manage it. Although his mom had offered to get everything he needed, he simply couldn’t allow her to. And he was glad he hadn’t, especially since she’d loaded up a ton of minutes on a prepaid cell phone for him.

The items on his list he was required to bring would have cost her an entire two weeks’ salary. She was already working two jobs and barely made enough money to get by. Instead he’d bought not only the clothes, boots, and shoes set out in the handbook, but also bath towels, washcloths, a pillow, pillow cases, four nonfitted white sheets, and twelve white handkerchiefs. He knew exactly how many items he had. He’d checked and double-checked them against the list the day before. With a disgusted sigh, he shoved everything back into his duffel.

Sam flopped down on the bed, threw an arm over his eyes, and groaned. While the nausea had subsided and the panic from earlier dissipated, he was now bored and, worse still, lonely. Damn, he wished he could call his best friend, Chris. Unfortunately he had to save the allotted minutes on his phone to keep in contact with his mom.

He briefly considered venturing out and visiting the city, but he had no clue where he would go. Still six months until he could drink legally, limited cash, and honestly, wandering around aimlessly would probably only exacerbate the loneliness.

“Screw it,” he grumbled. He grabbed the remote and hit the power button. He wasn’t alone; he had mind-numbing television to keep him company.

At some point the wearingly dull, repetitive, and snooze-inducing infomercials did their job, and the next thing Sam knew, he was blinking against the rising sun streaming through the windows of his small hotel room. He yawned and then stretched, his body protesting the inactivity over the last two days with a series of pops and snaps. He rubbed his eyes, got up, and headed to the shower. Time to get this adventure started.

IT SEEMED like ages had passed from sweating through the first interview, to getting his physical examination, to receiving the acceptance letter, and finally, to arriving on the campus of the Citadel. It was the morning of August 1, and here he was, standing in the parking lot at Johnson Hagood Stadium, clean-shaven and arms full of the few items allowed in the barracks.

The Citadel wasn’t near as crowded as Sam had imagined because the Citadel athletes, the Corps Squad as they were called, started their first semester and Hell Week one week earlier than the other cadets so they could begin practicing their sport when the regular semester began.

“Name?” a cadet asked.

“Sam… I mean, Stewart Adam Morley,” he responded nervously.

The mild anxiety he’d felt when he’d woken was now ramping up as he was handed a packet and given directions to his assigned barracks and company in a cold monotone voice from a cadet who barely looked at him. Not the warmest welcome he’d ever received. The campus was intimidating as hell in and of itself. Throw in the fact that he seemed to be the only new cadet who had no family with him, and he felt as if he were already being singled out as the outcast. No one said a word to Sam as he moved sluggishly along the sidewalk toward his barracks. The outcast feeling was a product of his own insecurities, of course. However, he knew at least on some level it must be true. How could it not be? All around him young men walked with their parents, their wealth obvious in the luxury cars they’d arrived in and the expensive appearance of their clothing. Sam could see it in their walk and in the way they held themselves, adding to Sam’s feeling of inferiority.

The one good thing about the morning was that it happened fast, in a blur of “go here,” “report there,” and “drop your bags in there,” giving Sam little time to dwell on his apprehension—or outright panic. He was told where to go and when, and he followed along without conscious thought, keeping his head down and his ears open.

Sam surrendered his civilian clothes and changed into the blue T-shirt, blue shorts, and neon-yellow belt he’d be wearing every morning for Physical Training, or PT as they called it. Once sporting the proper attire and with his CamelBak hydration system around his neck, he arrived in the hall a few minutes early. At 0800 hours the Academic Officer gave Sam and the others who’d been assigned to the Fourth Battalion, Tango Company, a tour of the campus. He was reminded once again by the magnificent buildings, the grandeur of the gardens, and the pristine condition of the campus that he was out of his league. He was a poor kid from the wrong side of the tracks who had been blessed with the ability to play a game and play it well. But that did little to help him feel as if he would ever fit in.

The tour ended back at the main hall. Sweat rolled down his spine and dripped into his eyes, causing them to burn in the stifling heat. The ungodly hot temperature of the South was a fitting backdrop because suddenly all hell broke loose.

The next phase of his introduction was the Cadre. He’d read about the group of cadets—made up of mainly juniors, some sophomores and a few seniors—who were forced to come back from summer break early to help train the Knobs. And from the looks on their faces, they didn’t seem very happy about it. There were about fifteen to twenty Cadre for every twenty or thirty Knobs, and they were all lined up, throwing uniforms at them and screaming. Constantly screaming. It was disorienting, but Sam followed along, flinching each time he was shoved or something was shoved at him.

He’d watched quite a few military documentaries, and the Cadre was very much like the sergeants he’d seen screaming and yelling at the new arrivals to boot camp. Which, come to think of it, shouldn’t shock him. He was, after all, currently on the campus of the finest military college in the United States. The thought was sobering. Amid the chaos Col. Martin R. Taylor was a constant presence. He was the Fourth Battalion’s TAC or Battalion Tactical Officer. He was the “adult” who any cadets who couldn’t take Hell Week could walk up to and quit. Although his heart was racing, his palms were sweaty, and he was frickin’ freaked out, Sam had no plans to ever utter those words—to the TAC officer or anyone else.

Quitting was not an option. It was the coward’s way out, and he was no damn coward.

Back in April when he’d visited the Citadel before making the choice to accept the scholarship, he’d been given some great advice from one of the upperclassmen. “Keep a good attitude, do what you are asked, stay focused, and realize that if your Cadre can do it, so can you.” Sam knew if he kept that advice close, he’d make it through this.

Sam had never been one to think too much about what he wore. Between family, studies, work, and football, he hadn’t had the energy or the desire to be a trendsetter. T-shirt, jeans, and running shoes were about the extent of his fashion sense. Still, he loved his hair. He was just vain enough that as he stood there watching the other new arrivals getting up from the chair with horror-stricken looks on their faces, rubbing their newly shaved heads, he was vibrating, resisting the fight or flight response surging through him.

Forcing his feet to move a step closer, he repeated his mantra. If your Cadre can do it, so can you.

He slid into the seat and a black cape was immediately draped around him. He saw the clippers coming toward him and dug his fingers into the vinyl arms of the chair to keep himself from bolting.

If your Cadre can do it, so can you. If your Cadre can do it, so can you, he recited mentally, over and over again.

He tightened his grip and shut his eyes when he heard the buzzing sound of the clippers, and he flinched when they touched the top of his head, but he swallowed hard and forced himself to stillness.

If your Cadre can do it, so can you.

He continued repeating the words until the sound of the clippers died and the cape was pulled away. When Sam opened his eyes, he caught his reflection in the mirror and ran a hand over his scalp, doing his best not to laugh at the Knob staring back at him.

Chapter TwoPushed to the Limit: Hell Week

ONE OF the things that had appealed to Sam about the Citadel was what was called the fourth class system, something all the service academies had at one time. Instead of four years of leadership development, the Citadel tortured you as much as possible during the freshman, or Knob, year. Sort of like plebes/rats at other military schools but considerably more intense as all the energy of the second and first classes focused on it. The third class joined in during the second semester to make life even more miserable. But the system meant only one year of hell instead of four. At least that was what Sam kept telling himself. At most other schools, after the first semester of each year, things calmed down, but at the Citadel every day apparently brought the same insane pressure. Only for your first year, though.

Jesus, was he delusional?

Exhausted, his neck sore from holding his chin to his chest all day, Sam crawled into his bed and pulled the covers up over his head. He only had about five hours before he had to be up, dressed in his PT clothes, and at McAlister Field House. No problem, he was falling into the darkness of sleep before his head even finished settling into his pillow, and as such he would be taking advantage of the full five hours.

A loud noise like someone kicking in a door jerked Sam into a sitting position.

“Get up! Get your asses out of those beds. Feet on the floor, Knobs!”

Dazed and confused, he blinked rapidly as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the harsh fluorescent light that flooded the barracks. Sam’s heart hammered, nearly leaping out of his chest as he did his best to figure out what the fuck was going on.

“Move, move, move,” another voice screamed.

Throwing off the covers, Sam got to his feet as he was told and tried to get a handle on what the hell was happening. Two upperclassmen were pulling clothes out of dressers and closets, a flurry of white socks, T-shirts, and boxers flying around the room. A third was pulling his bunkmate out of his cot.

“Drop and give me twenty. Now! Now! Now! Do it!”

Sam glanced up at the clock—0300 hours—and gritted his teeth. So much for five hours of sleep.

“You.” One of the cadets who’d been pulling things from the dresser poked Sam hard in the chest. “Pick this shit up. Now! Do it!”

Without a word, keeping the pressure on his jaw to keep the snarky comment that threatened from passing his lips, Sam quickly gathered up the discarded clothing and began shoving them back into the drawers.

“What the hell are you doing?” the cadet screamed, getting right in Sam’s face. His breath stunk of coffee. He slapped the clothing out of Sam’s hands. “Don’t you dare shove them back in the drawers like that. What the hell are you, a pig? Drop and give me twenty.” The man sneered.

No, obviously I’m a monkey. Sam didn’t say it out loud—although the urge was strong—he simply nodded.

“Oh, you’re a fucking deaf-mute.”

“No, sir.”

The man leaned in till their noses were practically touching. “Then you show me a little respect, or I will make your life a living hell. Is that understood, Knob?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now do as you’re told and drop!”

Dropping to the floor, Sam counted off twenty, keeping his eyes on the shiny black shoes just beneath his face. After he completed the last push-up, he stood, pressed his chin to his chest, and waited.

“Now, little piggy, let’s try picking this shit up again, shall we?”

“Yes, sir.”

Sam picked up a T-shirt from the floor, carefully folded it, and placed it on his bunk. As he continued to fold the strewn clothing, he kept his head down and his mouth shut. Greg Cummings, his bunkmate, wasn’t so smart.

When one of the cadets started going through Greg’s personal belongings, Greg went off on him. “Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing? That’s against policy.”

Sam didn’t stop what he was doing, but he watched with interest out of the corner of his eye.

“I make the policies, so shut the hell up and give me twenty.”

From where Sam stood, he could see Greg literally vibrating with anger. Greg opened his mouth to protest, but luckily before anything came out, he snapped it shut again. He reluctantly did as he was told and gave the cadet twenty as the man continued to rummage through his belongings.

And then they were gone.

Thirty minutes of screaming and stuff flying around and push-ups and insanity, and then it was just over. The three upperclassmen, as if they’d been on a timer and the alarm had sounded, suddenly stopped what they were doing, spun on their heels, and left the room. The silence was a little unnerving, and it was obvious from the incredulous look on Greg’s face that he was feeling it too. The two of them stood there as if they were trying to figure out what had just happened. For a long moment, they did nothing but stare at the closed door as if they expected it to fly open again.

“WHAT IN the hell,” Greg bellowed, coming out of his stupor and pointing toward the door, “was that?”

“I do believe that was our welcoming committee,” Sam told him with a shrug.

Greg gaped at him. “More like someone forgot to lock the gates on the hounds of hell.”

“Or that.” Sam chuckled as he picked up an armful of folded clothes. “Let’s get this shit put away while the dogs are distracted.”

Greg stood with his hands on his hips, shaking his head. “That Speakerman guy is a real jerk,” he complained and finally started helping with the clothes. “I hear this crap happens at least once a week, sometimes more. Depends on how bad his insomnia is. Likes to take the shit out on the Knobs.”

“Great. Just frickin’ great!” Sam muttered. Day two had sucked worse than day one. He couldn’t wait to see what kind of fun day three would throw at him.

He shouldn’t have been so eager.

DAY THREE, in keeping with the pattern, sucked worse than the day before and was ten times suckier than the first day. After he and Greg finally got their clothes sorted out and returned to the proper dressers and closets, it was around 4:00 a.m. Sam should have stayed awake since the sound of the alarm blaring an hour later pissed him off to no end and set his mood for the day.

Forcing himself from his bed, Sam grabbed his PT clothes and listlessly made his way toward the shower. He stood under the hot flow, letting the pulsing water land on the back of his aching neck. The whole chin to chest thing was dumb. Not only that, it was a major pain, both physically and practically. It was hard to see in that position, and twice while hurrying from the mess hall to the parade grounds, he’d run into someone who had stopped abruptly in front of him. He didn’t see the point of the rule. It made zero sense, and it was… stupid.

Sam snatched the bar of soap from his mesh shower bag and ran it over his head and then to the back of his neck. He rolled his shoulders, the bones cracking and popping numerous times, but the tension began to ease a little under the constant flow of hot water. He moved downward, washing his body quickly, spending a little extra time on his tense thighs and sore calves, caused by the “hurrying.” That wasn’t the technical term, but Sam had no idea what else to call it. It wasn’t really a march. It wasn’t running. It was synchronized hurrying. But as a Knob, it was the way he had to move everywhere he went, upperclassmen constantly screaming at him, along with the other guys in his battalion, to hurry, hurry, hurry. Move, move, move.

Three days at the Citadel and he already looked, moved, and felt like a Knob.

Shutting off the taps, Sam quickly dried off and slipped into his PT clothes. He had fifteen minutes before he had to be in line for Physical Training.

“Move, move, move. Hurry, hurry, hurry,” he muttered sarcastically.

BY SUPPER, Sam could barely keep his eyes open, and it was a real struggle to lift a spoonful of mashed potatoes to his mouth. What little energy he had left was used to make sure he was sitting precisely on only three inches of his chair with his spine perfectly straight and upright. Anything beyond that wasn’t quite as important, including food, even if his stomach was growling and saying otherwise. After morning PT and breakfast, he’d been ordered to report to the athletic department. Between PT, Military Training, and three hours of ball practice, he was done. Put a fork in him done!

“Time for… stump the stars!” an unfamiliar voice yelled.

An upperclassman was standing near his table. His tone was like that of a game show host, but Sam ignored the irritating sound. He could care less about games. Instead, he concentrated on getting the potatoes into his mouth without dropping them down the front of his uniform.

“You,” the cadet/game show host bellowed.

Without looking up, Sam jumped when hands slammed down on the table in front of him. Dammit, there went the potatoes. He picked up the mess from his lap and dropped it onto his plate.

He met the hard gaze of the cadet. “Yes, sir.”

“Governor John P. Richardson first conceived of converting the Arsenal in Columbia and the Citadel in Charleston into military academies. This was accomplished by an act of the state legislature on…?”

The cadet looked at him expectantly, but Sam’s exhausted brain was having a difficult time comprehending what the hell the guy was talking about. He couldn’t eat his goddamn potatoes. How the Christ was he supposed to understand what was being asked of him?

“Three…. Two…. On—”

“December 20, 1842,” Sam blurted out at the last moment.

The cadet scowled and abruptly spun on his heels.

Sam’s shoulders slumped in relief, but he quickly righted his posture. No way was he going to do anything that might have him expending unnecessary energy now. December 20, 1842. Where the hell had that little tidbit come from? Obviously he’d read it somewhere, but damned if he could remember, and he really didn’t care. He was just glad it was the right answer and that he wouldn’t be doing push-ups.

He looked to his left as the loud voice continued to bellow through the mess hall. Greg obviously hadn’t been as fortunate as Sam since he was currently on the mess hall floor, counting off twenty.

ONE MORE day of Hell Week. Sam’s mantra of if your Cadre can do it, so can you was now being answered by another voice in his head saying piss off. He was tired, sore, and he wanted to talk to his mom, Chris, his little brother, Kory, or his sister, Jenny. Hell, at that point he’d settle for chatting with the crazy cat lady who used to come into the deli every Saturday and talk his fool ear off. Anyone from home would do. He felt as if he were sloshing around in some foreign universe, and while there were tons of people around—most of whom were up in his face screaming and telling him what to do—he’d never felt so alone in his life.

The cell phone in his pocket was almost a cruel joke. The Citadel had a policy forbidding Knobs from using a phone or a computer for the first two weeks of the semester, but ever since the shooting at Virginia Tech, they were allowed to have a cell phone. They just couldn’t use it unless it was an absolute emergency. As he “hurried” from the mess hall, his hand brushed against the phone in his pocket. He was so tempted to find a bathroom stall with a working lock and dial his mom’s number. If he could just hear her voice….

“Move, move, move. Let’s go, Knobs! I don’t have all day.”

Sam’s hand fell away from his pocket, and he rushed back to his barracks.