Page 3 of Proof Of Life

When I step into the mobile showers, a converted eighteen-wheeler, I see West is already there, along with one other guy at the end of the row, trying to find a modicum of privacy. There are no shower curtains, in fact, there never are. They disappear as soon as they’re replaced. The best you can hope for is to turn your back to the room and accept that showing your ass is considered modest.

I choose the stall across from West and place my soap on the shelf. Turning on the water, I cringe and tense all my muscles from the deluge of icy cold that hits my skin. Every one of my nerve endings are screaming out as I wait for the temperature to turn a mild and bearable cool. It will never be hot. It will never be lukewarm. Cool is the new warm in Afghanistan.

As I stand under the weak spray to wet my hair and begin soaping my body, I turn and face the room. The guy occupying the last stall turns off his water, wraps his hips in a towel, and grabs his clothes from the bench. I turn back to the wall as he passes by, but turn again to face West when I hear the suspicious but unmistakable repeated smacking that can only be the sound of his balls slapping against his thighs as he jacks his cock. He only does it when no one else is around. I suppose I should feel honored that he's comfortable enough around me not to care that I witness it. He grunts as his arm works furiously to bring him to the edge. The sound of his shallow breaths becomes loud in the confined space.

Forbidden heat winds its way through my body, warming me against the chilly water, and I can’t help but reach for my balls, cupping them in my hand as I roll them between my fingers. The soapy glide feels so good, and I sigh a deep breath of satisfaction, loud enough that West turns.

A roguish grin stretches across his rugged face, and his dark eyes bore into mine as he slows his strokes, prolonging the show while drawing out his pleasure. I stroke my hand up my shaft, feeling it harden more with every second that ticks by in the steamy silence.

I don’t usually watch men. Being surrounded by them day in and day out, I’ve become immune to them. I much prefer the soft curves of women. The long silken hair and coy looks that tease and tempt. But with West, I’m aware that I stare a little too long. Longer than what is acceptable.

I’ve spent so many years showering with him, sharing barracks and beds, and at times, even a sleeping bag. I’ve become so familiar with his body that I feel almost possessive of it.

Which is ridiculous. But I can recall every mole and scar that mars his skin. I know his body as well as I know my own. And he’s so free with his affection. West is the most touchy-feely guy I know. I think touch is probably his love language or something.

It all just makes me feel… I don’t know, open to him, in all ways. For whatever reason, I have not one defense erected against him, in my heart or my mind. I can’t deny how beautiful he is. Maybe it’s because I know he’s just as beautiful on the inside. Maybe it’s because his body is cut perfectly, every muscle is toned and defined, every inch of his tanned skin broadcasts his attractiveness like a billboard in Times Square.

And then there’s his blatant sex appeal. Like right now, the way he’s looking at me, the way he’s touching himself, daring me to watch. West isn’t gay, and he’s not attracted to me. Not in the least. He just likes the attention. He loves to have his ego stroked. He chases the thrill of the dare, pushing the boundaries of decent behavior. And with me, he knows he can push it as far as he wants, because I’m safe and no matter what he does, nothing will ever change between us.

“Bannon interrupted me earlier. I never got to finish.” He looks down to where his hand is wrapped around his shaft and hisses a sound of pure pleasure from between his teeth. “Agh.”

Biting his bottom lip, West drops his head back under the spray of water, eyes closed, and brings himself off with a final grunt. The muscles in his stomach contract, rippling beneath his inked skin in a wave, and I swear I can feel it in my own body, the heat, the crescendo. I stroke a little faster, getting more into it, because Christ, it feels good to touch myself, and even better to do it while he watches. I’m not supposed to feel that way. It’s so taboo, considering our friendship, and only recently have I become aware of it. But I still don’t know how I feel about it.

West shampoos his hair, looking back at me several times to watch my progress. “You gonna finish?”

My stomach flips. Does he want to watch? Or is this just another dare because he knows how private I am? My gaze bores into his, locking his eyes with mine as I stroke, thrusting into my fist, bucking my hips, tightening my abs. Suddenly, I imagine it's his hand stroking me, the heat from his calloused palm encircling my shaft, and that’s all it takes to lose control. I come over the top of my fist in thick spurts while he watches. Turning back to the wall, I finish my shower in solitude.

We turn off the water and towel dry in silence, and I can hear my heart beating inside my body. This is the farthest we’ve ever pushed the boundary. I imagine he did it for the rush, or the attention. To him, it was probably nothing more than an immature game between friends. Showing off how thick and long his cock is, proud of his hard-earned, perfect body. But it's becoming harder and harder to deny my reasons. The truth is, it gives me a sick thrill to imagine he had participated, that he craved me, like I did him.

Slipping my legs into fatigues, I’m overcome with guilt, filled with shame from my thoughts. It settles over my chest and shoulders like a heavy weight. West doesn’t deserve that. He’s good to me. His friendship and his motives are pure. He doesn’t deserve for me to perv on him.

Exiting the trailer, he holds the door for me, and I vow to apologize to him without words. I will find a way to make it up to him and be the friend he deserves.

The Kabul-Kandahar Highway, also known as Highway One, connects the two largest cities in Afghanistan. It’s the only paved road for hundreds of miles. Although our Humvee is equipped with automatic weapons, my stomach clenches in knots every time we pass a convoy of vehicles passing us in the opposite direction. There’s no way to tell who’s behind the wheel. You only have a split second to react in order to save your life and the lives of your team.

As the automatic rifleman, it’s my job to man the guns, with backup from Micah. Instead, I’m driving. West is riding shotgun, navigating our direction, while Micah has his head sticking out the top, manning the saw. There aren’t many signs along the highway pointing us in the right direction, and the sandstorm kicking up dust decreases visibility considerably.

Just another beautiful day in the desert.

The sounds coming from my stomach draw West’s attention. My anxiety from driving the highway, coupled with memories of our earlier shower, and the guilt that followed, are stirring my gut into a toxic brew. And I do feel guilty, plenty guilty, but there is a side helping of heat that accompanies that guilt. No matter how ashamed I feel of my attraction to him and the fantasy of him touching me that pushed me over the edge, I’m still incredibly turned on thinking about it.

Fucking hell, like I need this distraction right now, with a mission looming on the horizon. I need to get my head in the game and push this ridiculous desire from my mind.

“I’m telling you, the best gun of World War II was the Johnson rifle,” Micah insists heatedly, ducking his head back down inside to add his two cents.

West’s face bears his signature ‘are you fucking kidding me’ look. “You can suck my Johnson. Everyone knows it was the M1 Garand.”

But Micah isn’t ready to give in. “Yeah, but they had to wait until they ran out of bullets to reload. What if you’re in the middle of a firefight? Wouldn’t you have preferred to reload and top off your clip beforehand?”

“It only held eight fucking rounds, dipshit. If it was good enough for Patton, it's good enough for me.” West smirks and slaps my thigh, like he delivered the ultimate argument-ending theory.

It was always like this when the team got together, debating over the best tank, the best gun, the best artillery. And I have to hand it to West; he knew his shit better than anyone.

Hence why I named him Professor.

We drove for hours, fueling our bodies on protein bars and beef jerky. In the Afghan desert, everything looks the same. Bleached, brown landscapes and ramshackle tenement housing. There is no skyline, no buildings that rise above the city squalor. But when the sun rises and sets, it’s the prettiest damn sight I’ve ever seen. A giant, blazing ball of fire, painted the boldest shades of orange, fuchsia, gold, and crimson you can imagine. I only get to see it when I leave the base. The FOB is surrounded by concrete walls for our safety, and it becomes tedious to feel so closed-in day after day. So, although the province isn’t much to look at, I appreciate just being able to look.

“Do you want some jerky?” West's tone is full of concern, emphasized by his hand on my thigh.

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