Page 5 of Eight Years (The Trident Trilogy 1)

Chapter Three

Mason

Virginia Beach, Virginia

2019

“Fuck,” I say to no one as I look in my empty refrigerator. You’d think after fifteen years of doing this, I’d have at least learned to leave a little bit of beer in there.

My ex always had the fridge completely stocked when I got back from deployment. She’d have dinner waiting for me with an ample supply of beer. It was great until I got done eating, and she wanted to talk. That’s the last thing I wanted to do. I just wanted to sit on my couch, drink beer, and watch sports. We were only married two years when she asked me for a divorce. It didn’t surprise me. It didn’t really even upset me. And, believe me, that says way more about me than it does about her.

I’m contemplating how bad three-month-old leftover pizza might taste when I hear someone at my door. With what I do for a living, I never trust a random knock at the door. I look through the peephole and see a woman holding a plate and a six-pack. Well, there are worse things to see, especially right now.

“Hey,” she says as I open the door. “It’s me. Rebecca. I moved in next door right before you left on deployment. Remember, you helped me carry my TV in?”

I kind of remembered. “Oh yeah, right. Hey.”

“I saw you in the parking lot earlier. I figured you just got back and could maybe use something to eat. And drink. I made lasagna if you want some.” She lifts the plate up closer to my face. It smells so good.

“Oh man, that’s really nice,” I say as I accept the food and beer while trying to figure out how to politely indicate that’s all I want from her.

Before I can, she’s taken the plate back from me and deftly moved herself through the small opening between me and the door. “Here, I’ll heat it up for you,” she says.

I stand at the door for a second, trying to think of a way to get out of this, but I’m tired and hungry. My defenses are down. I head to the couch, popping open one of the beers on the way. She’s saying something from the kitchen. I’m not listening. I turn up SportsCenter to drown her out.

“I brought you some garlic bread, too,” she says as she hands me the plate. “I didn’t know if you’d eat salad. Do you eat salad? I mean, you’re in great shape, but you look like more of a meat-and-potatoes guy.”

I inhale the food, washing it down with my third beer. I’m not saying anything to her, but she’s still talking. And, she keeps edging closer to me on the couch. Jesus, I know how she wants me to repay her. I mean, she’s good-looking and all, but I don’t lack for female companionship, even on deployment.

It’s crazy to me how women chase us. They hunt us down like we’re exotic animals in a safari. Most of us are just about as exotic as that old penny you pass over in the parking lot. But, I guess what we do for a living makes us seem dangerous. If that turns women on, hey, I’m not complaining. It’s a great fantasy for one night.

Rebecca rubs my shoulders as I try to keep a razor-sharp focus on the TV.

“Do you want a back rub? I could do your entire back if you want to lay down,” she whispers into my ear.

Fuck. Okay, let’s get this over with. I turn to kiss her. She responds like an animal that has been caged for months. She jumps up on my lap, almost spilling my beer. I manage to set it down on the floor before she starts pulling off my T-shirt. The first thing she sees is—the first thing they all see—the scar on my shoulder where I took my first bullet. I’ve been hit several times, but that one kept me out of action for almost six months. I don’t like talking about it, and they always want to talk about it.

“Oh, what happened here?” she says, running her finger over the scar.

Before she can talk any more, I flip her onto her back and reach under her skirt to pull off her underwear. She’s not wearing any. Well, at least that requires less effort on my part. I don’t bother taking off my jeans. This is going to be fast. I unzip, grab a condom off the table, and am inside her in seconds. Yeah, I keep condoms on the table. I don’t mean to sound like an asshole, but this happens a lot.

She starts saying something again, so I go back to kissing her until I’m ready to come. She makes a sound underneath me as I collapse on top of her. I lay there for a second, catching my breath before I pull out. I go to the bathroom to throw away the condom. When I walk back in the room, she’s still laying on the couch.

“Hey, I appreciate the lasagna. It was good,” I say. “You want me to wash the plate before I return it?”

She’s sitting up now, looking at me with the expression they always have. I’m not sure what they expect.

“Umm, no, I can just take it,” she says slowly.

I hand her the plate and open the door. “Thanks again.”

She walks to the door with the plate in her hand. “Yeah, I guess I’ll see you around.”

You won’t. That was it. And believe me you’re better off. As I close the door, the only thing I feel is relief that I won’t have to go to the grocery store until tomorrow.

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