Tuck & Cover E-Book

SJD Peterson

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

Seitenzahl: 195

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

Battle Buddy  At nineteen, Shane Tucker joins the army. Tucker is gay but not ready to be open about it, and Don't Ask, Don't Tell seems like a convenient way to avoid dealing with his sexuality. The army suits Tucker; he does well from the beginning. Then, during boot camp, he's assigned a "battle buddy," Owen Bradford. Owen is a walking, talking wet dream with no concept of personal space. Tucker only survives the constant temptation by venting to his diary. Two years later, Tucker—now in the Army Ranger program—is paired up with Owen once again. Getting through training while ignoring the sexual tension between him and his battle buddy might be the biggest test of Tucker's military career. Tuck & Cover You may have read Tuck's diary entries, but they don't tell the whole story. Tuck will argue the point, but he definitely got a few details wrong—not that I blame him. He was, if you remember, a little sexually frustrated at the time. He probably wasn't thinking straight. I'll never get tired of teasing him about that. Anyway, here's what really happened. Rangers lead the way! – Owen

Leseprobe

Battle Buddy

For David. Thank you for your friendship and inspiration.

Chapter 1

HARMONY CHURCHsounds like a sweet description for a choir singing in tune together on any given Sunday morning. Well, I’m Shane Tucker and I’m here to tell you, Camp Rogers in the Harmony Church area of Fort Benning, Georgia is anything but sweet. No neatly lined pews, no stained glass windows, no preacher trying to save my soul, and no choir singing hymns. In fact, Harmony Church was the first step toward my descent into hell.

At nineteen, I’d gotten this bright idea that joining the army was a great alternative to mucking cow shit and mending fences. I was ready too, or so I thought. I memorized the seven Army Core Values, good thing because I slept, ate, and um… ate some more about those damn core values, all within the first two weeks. I also prepared my body, best I could. I’ve always been a big guy, six foot two inches by the time I was seventeen, and growing up on a farm ensured my muscles were well defined. A few months before I shipped out, I’d started running every day, doing push-ups, sit-ups, the whole routine. I thought I was looking pretty damn good. In the best shape of my life.

Don’t let anyone bullshit you about being prepared for Army basic training—it can’t be done. No one can truly be ready for the kind of fucked-up training the army puts a person through. The strenuous physical activities, drills, running, push-ups, sit-ups, and even chin-ups are a breeze compared to the psychological shit they throw at you. You find out the hard way you’re either mentally strong enough to make it through or you aren’t.

The army breaks down basic training into three phrases. Phase I is called the Red Phase, Phase II is White, and Phase III—you guessed it—Blue. Very patriotic of them, huh? Before I was allowed to start Phase I, I had to spend a little time in Purgatory, officially known as the Reception Battalion. Growing up, I heard my daddy complain about how slow the government was. He was always bitching about one thing or another when it came to their idea of productivity. I’ve actually seen how slow the government is up close and in—well, I can’t say action—because for the first two weeks, I didn’t see a lot of action at all. I’m convinced to this day that the Reception Battalion is apparently where government officials are sent to learn about taking their damn sweet time getting anything done. I waited and waited… and, yeah, waited. When I got bored with waiting, I practiced waiting some more. What I learned while sitting around during those two weeks is that if the bureaucrats ever got their heads out of their asses and efficiently organized the intake process, it would take hours instead of weeks. I never shared my theory with them. I may have been young but not stupid. Those folks just didn’t seem like the kind who would be receptive to my innovative ideas. I learned later in training I was dead right about that.

By the time I was finally loaded onto a bus to begin the real training, I was looking forward to boot camp. After two weeks of shots, waiting, paperwork, waiting, issued uniforms, waiting, haircut, waiting, I remember eagerly loading onto the bus thinking anything had to be better than the constant fucking waiting. Christ, how naive I was. All my delusions of things getting better went out the window as soon as the drill sergeants came on the scene. I mean, we’d had drill sergeants during Purgatory, but they didn’t really yell that much then. My theory was either that only the pansy-ass drill sergeants were assigned to Purgatory, or it’s where the sons of bitches who lost their voices were dumped once they couldn’t terrorize the new recruits with their hollering. The moment we stepped off the bus, the drill sergeants no longer talked, they yelled, and apparently a side effect from yelling so much was they lost most of their hearing, because they could only hear you if you yelled back at the top of your lungs.

I LEARNEDthree very important lessons within the first couple of hours after stepping off the bus for Phase I. First, do not, for any reason, call a drill sergeant “sir.” For some reason that pissed them off, and they would go off on a tirade about how they worked for a living, blah, blah, blah. Second, do not, and I repeat, do not look your drill sergeant in the eye. If I thought they were psycho about being called “sir”—holy shit—looking him in the eye caused the veins in his neck to pop out and his face to turn bright red while he stared back at me with his eyeball about an eighth of an inch away from mine. You do not want a drill sergeant going psycho and exploding while that close to you. The third thing I learned, and this lesson came as a direct result from my saying “sir” and “eyeballing” a drill sergeant, was that their favorite phrase was “Drop and give me twenty.” I was “dropped” many a time during the Red Phase. Individually, paired up with some other poor sap who had the same deer-in-a-headlight stare I had, and as an entire platoon.

Actually, now that I come to think of it, there’s a fourth thing I learned. Before signing on to join Uncle Sam’s Army, I’d always thought of myself as a problem solver, someone who could figure out easier ways to do things, and I always felt as if I could keep situations under control. I was confident of being pretty much in control of my destiny and myself. The trainee having any control over anything was a myth in boot camp. The recruiter who sang to me the praises of army life failed to tell me that, while the Army might like initiative and innovation, drill sergeants hated it. That would have been a handy bit of information to have before I started boot camp. My advice to any new recruit—leave your need to keep situations under control at home because, whether it’s the hard way or the easy way, by the end of the first week, you will have to be able to do what you’re told, when you’re told, and exactly how you’re told to do it.

During the final week of Phase I, everything was slowly shifted away from the individual to the team. I was assigned a Battle Buddy. You would think this would’ve made things easier. Well, it didn’t. See, I already made enough mistakes of my own, and the drill sergeant had a hard-on for me from the moment I got off the bus. The only thing I gained from having a Battle Buddy was that now, every time he fucked up, I got credit for it. Then again, he got credit for everything I did wrong too. I’ll admit I fucked up more than usual, just to piss my buddy off. Here’s the thing. I’m not normally a mean person, and you have to push me pretty hard before I’ll retaliate. I’m great at ignoring people who annoy me, and I’ll avoid confrontation if at all possible. However, my assigned buddy, Owen Bradford—who had a good two inches and forty pounds on me—was, and to this day is, the cockiest bastard I have ever met. Owen, with his dark-brown hair, light-brown eyes that looked almost gold, dimpled cheeks, strong jawline, and hard, smooth body, was also the sexiest man I’d ever laid eyes on.

I suppose this is where I should tell you that I’ve known since I was very young that I liked boys more than I liked girls. Growing up in a small hick town in Texas, I didn’t know any other guys who were like me or, if I did, they sure as hell didn’t let me in on the secret, and I never told anyone mine. I’m not sure what I was hoping for when I enlisted into the army—it’s not as if it was going to change my orientation—but looking back, I think the Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy the military had in place was the deciding factor. At the time, it gave me justification for the lie I was living. It would no longer be my fault I was lying; it would be the government that was forcing me to do it. Yeah, I know I was a coward, and to some degree, I still am.

During Phase II, also called the White Phase, better known as the Gunfighter Phase—don’t ask me why everything has to have multiple names, what can I say, it’s the government—they liked to keep people guessing. This was where we finally got to shoot our rifles, toss grenades, master grenade launchers, practice using bayonets—yes, we really did yell “stab, stab, kill, kill”—and were introduced to antitank weapons and a shitload of other heavy weapons. Through it all—the weapons, combat orientations, obstacle courses—my buddy was at my side, and each day he annoyed me just a little bit more. It wasn’t any one thing he did that bugged the shit out of me, it was just Owen.

Together, we moved to Phase III, or the Warrior Phase. Think of this phase as going camping in the middle of a war zone, except with fake bullets and mortars, thank God. I’ve heard some people refer to this as the most fun during basic training. Trust me when I tell you, this was some more bullshit they used to get you signed up. My idea of fun camping is more like hanging out with good friends or family, fishing, bonfires, and relaxing. The army’s idea of camping included night patrols, incoming drills, obstacle courses, and long ruck marches. Ever been woken up in the middle of the night by bomb explosions? Well, I can tell you, more than one man in our platoon shit himself during all that fun. The Warrior Phase was, for me, not the least bit fun. It was the most excruciatingly painful part of boot camp. My battle buddy made it all the worse.

MYBUDDY,Owen, the gorgeous six-foot-four-inch shit brickhouse with an ass so tight and so sweet it was mesmerizing, had no concept of personal space. The absolute worst night of my life was the night we had to spend in a trench. Technically, it was an easy gig. The two of us in a dirt trench keeping watch; we could take turns getting some sleep. The first couple of hours were great, since Owen was on watch and I got some much needed shuteye. It was during my watch that the problem started. Remember, Owen had no concept of personal space; he also liked to snuggle. Now, under normal conditions this might not have been a big deal. After all, it was chilly that night, and the warmth of his big body against mine kept me warm. There I was, a nineteen-year-old virgin with what I deemed a walking, talking wet dream not only snuggled up against me, but with his soft lips up against the side of my neck. That night I discovered that warm breath against my neck was directly wired to my groin. I spent two hours in sheer agony. My dick was so hard it felt as if it would burst, and my head wasn’t helping the situation any. I kept getting flashes of Owen as I’d seen him in the shower, only my mind had added me into the naughty movie, naked and on my knees. The longer I sat there, the more intense the visions became, and I began to think I was in real danger of either my dick or my head exploding. When Owen finally woke up, he kissed my neck before he released me from my place of torment. I’m not sure if the kiss and subsequent incoherent murmurs against the sensitive skin below my ear were a remnant from my fantasies or reality. I didn’t stay around long enough to give it any thought. Within minutes, I was behind a tree relieving myself in more ways than one.

The night in the trench was the last time Owen Bradford was my assigned Battle Buddy. I was finally being released from what I deemed “O.B. Hell,” or at least I thought so at the time. Unfortunately, when I finished boot camp and moved on to my Military Occupational Specialty, or MOS, that sexy fucker followed me. Owen didn’t follow me in the literal sense—his assignment sent him to Fort Irwin in California and I headed to Washington, DC—but the images of his face and muscular body were permanently seared into my brain. Each time I closed my eyes, I’d see his lopsided grin and dimpled cheeks. I’d get a whiff of something spicy and masculine, and I would be reminded of him. Every time I heard a deep, husky voice, I would remember the way he’d growl when he called me “Tuck.” Owen haunted my dreams, my fantasies, and I grew to hate him and my own inability to move on from the memory of him.

Chapter 2

AFTERmy rocky start into army life, to my family’s perplexity as well as my own, I found not only that I liked military life; I was damn good at it. In the two years following O.B. Hell, I’d worked my way up to Specialist E-4 status and had decided to make a career in the army, but also to do it as an Army Ranger. To become a Ranger, I first had to be airborne qualified—go through jump school. That I absolutely loved. Jumping from a plane still is one of the most exhilarating experiences I’ve had. It’s a fucking head rush on a grand scale. Another thing I discovered gave me a sweet adrenaline rush was pushing my body beyond what I thought it could endure. I haven’t grown any taller, still six foot two inches tall, but instead of the lean, well-defined, one-hundred-and-seventy pounds I weighed during Purgatory, I was now big, buff, and brawny at two-hundred pounds. Rawwr!

After jump school, I was moved to a three-week RIP—not as in Rest in Peace, although if you’re not careful I suppose it could lead to that as well. In this case, it meant Ranger Indoctrination Program. The training was intense, especially the CWST—which stands for Combat Water Survival Test—that nearly kicked my ass. For those of you who have never experienced CWST, let me tell you, the name behind the acronym says it all. It was a test of survival. After passing, I changed the letters, if only for my personal enjoyment, to something a little more realistic: SOFD—Survive or Fucking Drown!

Swimming across the pool, even in BDUs, combat boots, and combat gear, was easy for me. As a former member of my high school swim team, I had no problems swimming. Jumping in with my rubber duck and load bearing vest on and then taking it off was also easy sailing. As long as you got deep enough in the water to fully remove the LBV and didn’t panic while doing it, it was the easiest part of the test. The part that nearly kicked my ass was walking off the diving board blindfolded. In concept, it was a very easy task to accomplish, and I wouldn’t have had a problem doing it without the loss of my eyesight. But being led to the edge of a board by verbal commands and being told to walk off reminded me of the pirate movies I’d seen as a kid, where they had to walk the plank. I knew at some level I was safe, but as I stood there contemplating the pool, images of sharks and other man-eating swimmy things popped into my head, and I freaked. I literally froze in pure fucking fear. It made no sense, was completely irrational, but I couldn’t convince myself of that at the time, nor could I force my feet to take that final step. Told you RIP could mean you’d end up pushing up daisies.

“Take one full step,” the commanding officer ordered.

I couldn’t. The theme from Jaws started playing in my ears. Heart pounding painfully to the same beat. I swallowed hard, my muscles trembling as I tried to force them to move past the fear.

“Move it, Tucker!”

Thank God I was used to taking orders mindlessly. The snap in the CO’s voice pushed me past the fear, and I passed the challenge but discovered a phobia I never realized I had. No pirate ships for me.

So there I was, NCO status, selected to attend the Ranger Orientation Program—all hot and hard to start the Benning Phase. Stepping off the bus, I froze. What the fuck have I done? was the first thought that popped into my head as I joined up with the 4th Ranger Training Battalion.

“Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch—Tuck!”

My heart thumped crazily in my chest, and my traitorous dick tightened in my cargos as I heard the deep, husky, and familiar voice. Yup, exactly the voice that had been screaming my name in my dreams and was a constant companion while I stroked my cock in the shower, in my bunk, in the bathroom stall… well, you get the idea. I turned as if in slow motion and there, standing before me with that goddamn cocky grin on his face, was no-concept-of-personal-space Owen Bradford.

“Christ, deliver me from O.B. Hell,” I muttered under my breath.

Owen walked up to me before I could get the blood that had rushed to my crotch back into my sorely depleted brain and wrapped me in a bear hug. I was struck completely dumbshit, my mouth flapping like a fish out of water, but no words coming out. He was rubbing my back with one hand and pulling me tighter against him with the other, and I just stood there as if I’d been dropped on some freaky alien planet. Then Owen’s spicy scent filled my nostrils, smelling even better than I remembered, and the heat from his body caused all that blood that had pooled in my groin to turn to liquid fire, making my cock throb.

I gave him a weak pat on the back, making damn sure nothing below the waist was in contact, then quickly shoved him back and sputtered, “Owen. I, ummm….” I coughed, trying to cover up my stuttering. Then I hid behind my cover-up smile and used my best, disinterested voice.

“Hey, Owen, didn’t realize they let people like you into Ranger School.”

Owen laughed—a deep, husky sound that sent a thrill racing down my spine—then arched a knowing brow at me. “Guess that makes two of us they let in.”

I didn’t get a chance to think about Owen’s statement or even ask him what he meant by it. Our commanding officer began barking orders, and I fell easily into my training. It was the same old drill, doing what I was told, when I was told, and without question.

A couple of hours later, after I’d stowed my gear, all the new trainees, me included, were sitting at tables learning what would be expected of us. I was trying to pay attention, but I was sitting next to my fantasy, and it was hard to concentrate when my head and my groin were consumed with Owen. I could feel the heat of his body, and I kept remembering what it felt like against mine that night in the trench. The way his lips felt against my neck and the soft press of a kiss. Fuck, I was disgusted with myself. I’d never once been obsessed like this with anyone, and now I was completely infatuated with some straight guy, of all people. And not just any straight guy, but a future Army Ranger straight guy who could kick my ass and, with just one word, end my military career.

I have never had a hard time hiding my true nature. It’s not that I was ashamed of being gay or the fact that I was a virgin, but didn’t see a point in starting a shit storm with my family and community when I hadn’t ever even dated. To be honest, so far in my life, I hadn’t really met anyone before Owen who was worth the drama and heartache I knew would erupt as soon as my family and community found out I was gay. It’s not as if I wasn’t ever going to tell them, just hadn’t really seen any need at the time. However, there I sat in a room with dingy gray walls, in a hard plastic chair at a scarred table, trying to listen to my commanding officer, and all I could do was think dirty thoughts about Owen and ending my virginal status in the very near future. Like right then and there before my shaft exploded and I ended up a fucking eunuch. To make matters worse, Owen kept leaning over to ask me questions, his warm breath like a kiss to my aching cock, and I had to fight with herculean strength not to shudder.

“I hope they make us Battle Buddies like they did in boot camp,” Owen murmured for my ears only.

Oh fuck no! Not if I have anything to say about it.

I gave him a noncommittal nod without meeting his eyes and acted as if I was engrossed in what the CO was saying. In reality, I was consumed with Owen, and I had to get the hell out of there pronto before anyone noticed my trembling body or the sweat dampening my brow. Unfortunately, like everything else in the military, I didn’t get the final say and was stuck sitting there, my better sense battling my libido.

Somehow, I made it through that first orientation without making a complete spectacle of myself. I’m pretty proud of that fact too. I’d been pushing my body past what I thought it could endure for the last two years, and I’m sure that was the only reason I was able to handle sitting that close to Owen. My dick had hardened against my thigh at a strange angle, and not being able to adjust my bent and painfully throbbing shaft, not even so much as a slight squirm in my chair, was more difficult than anything the military had thrown at me thus far. Yay me! I survived—barely. In the future, if given the choice, I’d rather walk that goddamn plank blindfolded into a tank of man-eating sharks than have to endure the two hours of pure fucking misery that was being near Owen. When Owen rose from his chair and turned to me, I almost felt guilty as his face fell and disappointment was evident on his handsome face. The CO yelled out, “Sergeant Bradford, front and center.”

But as I walked out of that dingy little room, I wasn’t feeling guilty enough to wait around. I was too busy thanking God and looking for the closest bathroom stall with a functioning lock on the door.

Sixty percent of those who are going to fail Ranger School do so during the first three days of RAP week. Neither Owen nor I failed. However, it was during the second week that I nearly quit. The beginning of the second week, I was beyond exhausted, although at least in my wearied state, my libido had been blessedly absent even with Owen’s constant presence. Then all hell broke loose.