Colton
I takeanother sip of my drink and observe the ballroom in front of me. Tugging at the collar of my shirt with my other hand, I try to loosen it a little and relax. I’ve only been out of the service for around six months, so it’s not like I’m not used to the uniform. It’s just that I’m itching to get the hell out of here, and the longer I stay, the tighter my collar seems to get.
The gala and silent auction are being held to raise money for the children of fallen veterans, a charity I felt strongly about. I wanted to donate to the auction as well as buy a ticket to the event, to support them. And, I didn’t feel right wearing anything but my uniform and yet, I had dreaded putting it on. It only serves to remind me what I was forced to leave behind.
Tossing back the rest of my drink, I walk to the bar and set the glass on an empty tray. The bartender glances my way, then stops and fully faces me. He reached out to shake my hand and said, “Thank you for your service.”
I nod, humbled by his gesture and his respect for the military, something that is found less and less these days. Serving my country was a privilege, and I feel a little pang at the reminder that I will never protect this man or anyone, again. My days as a soldier were cut short by my own body’s treachery.
By the time I was five years old, I’d known I wanted to be a pilot, and that never changed. I wanted to feel the freedom of being above the rest of the world, to defy gravity. As a teenager, I figured it would score me a lot of chicks. But, as my senior year of high school approached, I returned to the wonder I’d felt as a little kid. And, through the years, I gained a growing desire to serve and protect.
I’d worked my ass off in school, focused on my career goal and was accepted into the United States Air Force Academy. I thought my dad was going to bust every shirt he owned with how puffed up and proud he was. My mother, on the other hand, she played a good game, but I knew she was terrified to send her only child off to the military. She still supported me in my decision, though.
I went on to graduate with a degree in Aeronautical Engineering then continued on to flight school. The first time I flew an F-14, I knew everything I’d done to get there was completely worth it. It was the most amazing feeling I’d ever had, better than I could have ever imagined. Flying it in combat held the stark reality associated with war, but even so, I still felt the rush and remembered, every time, why I loved my job.
Then one day, I noticed some blurriness in my vision. Not a big deal, I got corrective lenses and moved on. Until the day the doctor informed me that it was not possible for me to achieve 20/20 vision due to scar tissue on my cornea and a severe astigmatism. They could get it to 20/30, enough to fly commercial or private planes, but I was no longer allowed in the cockpit of an F-14.
With the military downsizing going on, I was “encouraged” to leave the service, though I could have pushed for a re-classification. As much as I loved serving my country, I agreed to separate from the military because watching my brothers take my place in the sky, it fucking sucked.
To make matters worse, there were signs of other eye diseases, and they told me my vision would continue to deteriorate. Apparently, it is a slow process so they doubt I’ll ever become completely blind. But, the news was a crushing blow, knowing I had a limited number of years before I would be barred from flying altogether. I could already feel the hollowing in my heart, the chasm that would only grow bigger the closer I got to not being able to fly.
I’d designed and spent years building a private airplane whenever I was on leave and able to return to my home in Connecticut. Eventually, I decided to make use of it and went into charter flights. So, I moved into one side of my investment property and tried to focus on a new future. Through connections, I’ve been steadily growing the business, but it’s not really satisfying me. I’m restless and edgy without direction. Thirty-four years old, and I have no idea what to do with my life.
Shaking off the melancholy and pity-party going on in my head, I return my focus to the party—the very boring, stuffy party—and tug at my collar once again. Dinner has been served and the auction is well underway, so I’m considering at what point I can inconspicuously slip out.
Then again, they are setting up the dessert table and . . . I admit, I have a terrible sweet tooth. I’m grateful for the discipline instilled in me to stay healthy and in shape because otherwise, I’d be a walking, talking, three-hundred-pound cupcake. I know, not very manly, but who the fuck cares when something tastes that good? I remember someone mentioning that a local bakery is catering the event. My mouth waters a little and I decide I can suffer through a little longer.
Beside the long refreshment table, there is a door that leads to a kitchen. It swings open and the first thing I see is a tray loaded with slices of cake. Then I see the woman carrying the desserts, which are quickly forgotten as my mouth waters for an entirely different reason. My eyes start at her hot pink, stiletto-clad feet, up her long, tan legs and to the mid-thigh hem of her fitted, black dress. She’s on the taller side, but I can tell from across the room that my six-foot-three frame will still tower over her.
She leans over the table to set down the tray, and I get a clear view of her ample cleavage. When she stands, I continue my slow perusal up her body. Her skin is the shade of slightly darker caramel, an apt description considering how smooth it looks. I immediately feel the desire to run my hands over every inch of it. She’s all soft curves, perfectly rounded breasts, wide hips, and when she turns to the side, I see a spectacular ass. My pants become a little tighter. The thought of getting my hands on those curves is more intoxicating than the scotch I drank a few minutes ago.
Finally, my gaze lands on her face and holy shit. She’s fucking gorgeous. Her face is round, with high cheekbones and plush lips, the bottom one fuller than the top. I don’t even realize I’m making my way to the table until our eyes meet and I’m close enough to see the rich, chocolate brown of her eyes. Our gazes are locked in a stare, and I know she’s as captivated as I am. Her pink lips tip up and she reaches up to tuck a silky strand of her shoulder-length, straight black hair behind her ear.
I stop moving only when the table blocks me from going any farther. Her tongue darts out and licks her lower lip, leaving it glistening and causing me to stifle a groan. I’m jealous of that lip. Or maybe I just want to catch it between my teeth and suck it into my mouth. I’m starting to worry about the zipper on my pants busting.
“Um, hi?” she says tentatively, her feet shuffling before she tucks back the wayward hair again. I want to laugh at how adorable she is, but I don’t want her to think I’m laughing at her.
“Hi,” I respond, a grin slowly slicing across my face. “What’s your name, honey?”
Her cheeks turn pink, and this time, I can’t hold back the chuckle. She frowns and plants her hands on her hips, her eyes tracking my movements as I stalk around the table. “Lindsay,” she answers, despite the suspicious nature of her expression.
“Lindsay…?” I prompt as I round the table.
Her eyes are widening as I get closer. “Lindsay Balewa.”
I’m on her side now and I prowl over to her, preparing to make a grab for her as she starts to take a step back. Suddenly, the door swings open again, smashing into her, forcing her to stumble forward, right into my arms. They automatically close around her, plastering her body up against mine. She gasps and I have no doubt she can feel the large effect she’s having on me. Yeah . . . I won’t be letting her go any time soon.