Page 12 of Better Late Than Never

He wasn’t hard to find. Filtering out profiles to just English-speaking trimmed the results by about eighty-five percent, leaving just a handful of locals and a smattering of Americans. Narrowing it further by age—eliminating the twenty-somethings and over fifty—left only two pages of results.

Andthatprofile, I was pretty sure, was Barlow’s.

The photo showed a shirtless white man with broad shoulders and tattooed biceps. I’d never seen Barlow’s upper arms, so I had no idea if he had ink, but something told me that was him.

The location showed him as being nine kilometers away in Chipiona. I hadn’t been to that town, but I drove by the exit for it every day on my way to work. It was close. Too damn close.

Still, I tapped the profile and thumbed through the photos. Like me, he hadn’t included any face pics, but as I looked at what he had provided, recognition definitely grew. Especially once I got to some of the fully clothed shots. There was one where he had on a T-shirt with an open button-up over it, and something about the way that shirt sat hit the same note as how his camouflage blouse fit him.

He wasn’t ripped like some of the guys on this app. Slim enough to meet the military’s requirements, but no six-pack or anything like that. Same as me. That made him even more attractive, if I was honest; the thought of getting naked with a man who’d be right at home in a men’s fitness magazine intimidated the hell out of me.

I switched back to the text part of his profile and started reading, telling myself I was just looking for ideas for my own profile.

I’m in my late 30s. Single and looking to stay that way, but I’m always down for a good time. One-time hookups, fuck buddies, or someone to take off with for a weekend in Barcelona or Ibiza—I’m your man. I’m not out in my day-to-day life, so discretion is a must. I’ll be discreet for you too, but don’t come looking for someone to cheat with.

My mouth had gone dry for some reason, and I took another swallow of beer. I’d never been much for partying and clubs, but the thought of hitting up the gay club scene had intrigued me ever since I’d found myself a single man. Were there clubs near here? Except that probably wasn’t safe, given the proximity to the base. Some of the other cities nearby? Or maybe up in Madrid? Or… Barcelona? Ibiza?

With HM1 Barlow?

I laughed aloud at that. Yeah, right. The best I could hope for was to bump into him in a club and get to watch him with other men.

That… oh, fuck. Goose bumps sprang up all over me, and I shivered despite the heat of the evening. God, I wished…

I shook myself and kept reading.

The next section made me gulp—What I’m Like in the Bedroom.

I caught one word—switch—before I closed the profile, then the app, and sat back in my chair as I drained what was left of my beer. I really,reallyshouldn’t read that part. I’d only drive myself even more insane, and itwouldcross the line into intrusive.

Closing my eyes, I pressed the empty but cold bottle against my forehead. I needed to stop doing this to myself. HM1 Barlow was about as off limits as a person could be without being my direct superior or subordinate. The military strictly forbade even the slightest fraternization between officers and enlisted, and it didn’t matter why.

What I needed to do was get my ass to another city, hit up a club, and find my footing there. Connect with someone who wasn’t military. Weren’t there some areas in Málaga with a lot of British expats? They wouldn’t be attached to the military and they’d speak English. Seemed like a good place to start. All I had to do was get over there, get to a gay bar, and…

And…

Then what?

I deflated a bit. Tipping my head back against the chair, I looked around. The sun had set, and darkness settled over my yard, broken up only by the porch light and the glow of various neighbors’ houses. The evening was still full of the sounds of people dining nearby, but that was mostly muffled by my pounding heart.

What would Idoin a club? I’d been a married father well before I’d turned twenty-one, so even when I’d gone to clubs after basic training or during A-school, it had just been to drink and have a good time with my friends. Same when I was deployed on a ship. There’d been plenty of married officersandenlisted who cheated their way through every port call, but I’d never done more than drink and get loud. While I may not have been the best husband in the world, I’d been absolutely faithful to my wife.

So here I was, forty goddamned years old, thinking about stepping on to the gay club scene where I’d be surrounded by experienced men half my age. I was going to make an ass of myself, wasn’t I?

I closed my eyes again and swore into the humid silence.

What I really needed was someone to go with me, like when I’d gone to bars with the guys during A-school. Someone I could trust to point me in the right direction, give me a primer on what to do and what not to do, and hell, even tell my dumb ass what to wear.

“Someone to take off for a weekend in Barcelona or Ibiza”—the words echoed in my head in HM1 Barlow’s voice—“I’m your man.”

I stared up at the night sky. That wasn’t against the rules, was it? Officers and enlisted weren’t allowed to fraternize, but if we justhappenedto be at the same club and we justhappenedto started talking to each other…

Squirming in my chair, I knew this was a terrible idea. It would be a professional risk, and it would probably break my stupid brain that already wouldn’t stop record-scratching every time HM1 Barlow crossed my mind.

There were two big reasons, however, why I knew I’d broach the subject with him anyway.

One, because I had no idea what else to do and I was getting desperate.

And two…

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