Page 4 of Proof Of Life

He’s trying to distract me from my anxiety, knowing how my stomach twists whenever we’re on the road. As if he doesn’t have enough responsibility on his shoulders, leading an entire team through a hot zone on his way to report for a mission he also has to coordinate, apparently, he’s going to add my shit to his long list as well. But that’s why he’s such a dynamic team leader.

It’s also why he’s my best friend.

“Nah, I’ll wait until after we make camp.” I couldn’t eat right now if I tried. It would probably just come right back up.

After four more hours of driving, another debate about artillery, and a bathroom break on the side of the road, I pull off the highway and about half a mile down, West instructs me to park the Humvee behind a concrete blockade about eight feet wide. I can’t begin to guess where it came from, but it will serve well as a barrier from the road for the night.

We make camp in short time, pitching tents to block the sand thrown by the windstorm, and remove supply crates from the back of the Humvee to use as seating. There are no campfires or folding chairs, or s’mores. This isn’t an overnight Scouts’ campout. We have to be ready to bail at a moment's notice. And just like the Scouts, our motto is ‘leave no trace’. That sentiment not only applies to our gear and trash, but also the light of a campfire will only draw attention to our position. We have to act as if we were never here—and as if we aren’t here even now.

I only have three things in my tent—my rucksack, which also serves as a pillow, my rifle, and a bottle of water, which is less for staying hydrated, and more for just rinsing the dust from my mouth.

“Think fast, Reaper,” Tommy shouts, tossing a rolled up pair of his socks at me. “Found them in my ruck. We can play Hacky-sack or keep away.”

When you’re stuck in the middle of absolutely fucking nowhere, you find creative ways to stay busy.

“I’m going to pass, but thanks.” The last thing I need with my twisted stomach is to jump around.

Planting my ass on a plastic crate, I pull my balaclava up over my mouth and ears and try to tune them out. If I can just retreat inside my head for a few minutes and find something to focus on, I can calm my nerves enough to settle my stomach for dinner.

I jump when strong hands land on my shoulders and begin to knead the tense muscles. I don’t have to turn and look to know it’s West. His capable fingers dig into the tight muscles of my neck, digging out my worries with his thumbs and grinding them to dust. I relax into him, leaning against his hard stomach.

The heat from his body warms me to my core, melting away my troubles. My body begins to loosen under his touch, and the memory of our shower earlier comes back to me again, the moment where he came in his fist, his milky-white seed flowing over the top of his knuckles, his golden-brown eyes burning me alive. He’s touching me with the same hands he used to touch himself.

Goddamn, I really need to stop thinking about that.

And the more I think about it, the more I want to think about it. Maybe even want it to happen again.

His deep voice, filtered through the knit layers of his balaclava, caresses my ear as he bends low over my shoulder. “Now that I’ve got you nice and loose, stay that way while I make you something to eat.”

Everything inside of me melts and softens. “With the wind kicking up, we’re going to have to eat inside our tents.”

“Come on, then. Come, keep me company.” Then he addresses the team. “Not much risk with the storm making such poor visibility. We’re almost camouflaged by the sand, but I still need you on watch. Tommy, you take first shift. I will relieve you at twenty-three hundred,” he shouts over the rising wind before tugging me inside his tent.

We sit facing each other, with our knees touching. The tent is barely big enough for one person, and together, we’re a tight fit. Digging into his ruck, he pulls out two brown packages and two plastic spoons.

“I’ve got chili mac and beef stew.”

We both know I’ll lose a hand if I reach for the chili mac. It’s his favorite. I feel touched that he even offered. Grabbing the beef stew and a spoon from him, I tear open the pouch and stuff my mouth with food. I haven’t eaten since lunch, and my stomach is growling now that I’ve settled down some.

“You don’t even want me to heat it first?”

“I’m good,” I reply around a mouthful.

Shrugging his shoulders, he follows suit. We eat in silence, inhaling the bland food as if we’re on the verge of starvation. Outside the tent, the wind howls like a wild beast, with grains of sand pelting the thin nylon like tiny bullets. When we finish, West wraps up the garbage in a plastic bag and tucks it back inside his ruck.

With only the dim light from his LED lantern, the atmosphere feels subdued and relaxed.

“Are you feeling better?”

“Much,” I mumble.

“Tomorrow, we only have four hours on the road. Highway A75 is a lot less traveled than A1. Should be quieter.”

“I don’t know whether that’s good or bad.”

“I guess it could be both.” West smirks, an expression of his that is as familiar to me as the sound of his deep voice. “Don’t worry, I promise you we’ll get there in one piece. No Afghani with a lick of sense would fuck with our Humvee. Not with my automatic rifleman behind the wheel. He’s fucking terrifying. They don’t call him the Reaper for nothing.”

I half-smile, half-snort at the ridiculousness of his compliment. I’d been inspecting the dirt under my fingernails while he spewed his teasing banter, but I raise my eyes to his, a warm feeling spreading through my gut. Sometimes, when I look at him, all I see is my friend, my buddy for the last twelve years, my brother to the soul. Someone I know better than I sometimes know myself. But sometimes, I look at him with his cock in his hand, with his confident, cocky grin, and I can’t help but think, fuck he’s hot.

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