Sleep isn’t always necessary. Hell, I have gone without it for days when out in the field. When I am home, though, in Fayetteville, North Carolina, it’s welcome.
Why can’t I sleep? Because five-foot-nothing; one hundred and ten pounds of curves and ass; long, thick raven hair; and blue eyes pop into my head when I close my eyes. I am a full foot taller and outweigh her by a hundred pounds and yet the sight of her is enough to weaken me and cause blood to pump into my dick, something I have kept in check for years.
Fucking is fucking, and yes, I like that I am fucking something I shouldn’t be. I like that I am breaking unspoken rules. I like that, in fucking her, there is an invisible yet ever present wall separating me and the people back home.
Guilt kicks in when I allow it, so I stop allowing it. She sure as fuck doesn’t want anything more than I do. We are both adults. Well, she can be a little fucking brat at times, but for the most part, she is just as self-serving as I am. And I know damn well she gets off as hard as I do on the fact that we are a taboo...a secret. And that’s all there is.
There is no path to opening up that spicy, little bit of information so that shit’s sealed as tight as her perfectly waxed, tight little twat that strangles my cock every fucking time we are both home.
When I allow myself the time to think about it, which is usually on a plane heading back to Ithaca, NY, or in the hot as hell monthly letters I get from Miss A, I do feel a little guilt. And yes, I intend on ending this fucked up game I am playing in my head, the one where I am in control...until I see her and the desire she has to get fucked wipes my mind of any thought of ending this.
Yeah, we are not in a relationship, but I know that, when I’m around, I’m the one sticking it in her hot box. I’m the one who she cries out to, the one fucking that perfect little pussy, and I don’t have to worry that she’s thinking about anyone else. I know damn well she wants my cock, and my cock fucking loves her pussy.
Five-foot-nothing; one hundred and ten pounds of curves and ass; long, thick raven hair; blue eyes; and a pussy that has become my kryptonite. That is Ava Links, the girl I can’t seem to say no to and never have been able to.
We fuck. We fuck hard, and I have had her at my mercy for over seven fucking years...until now when she told me she loves me, and I told her she didn’t. She told me she knew I loved her, and I told her it wasn’t true. Then, true to Ava’s nature, she pushed. True to mine, I wrecked her.
Do I love her? I love my country.
Do I love to fuck her? Yes. Best piece of ass I ever had.
Did it feel good to hurt her? No, not at all.
Is it cool that some fucking drummer, who clearly needs his ass kicked, is going to be fucking her? No.
Do I hope it fails? Yes. She can do better.
I roll over onto my front and bury my head in the sheets. I think about shit nobody should ever think about because, right now, all the shit I have seen in seven years is more welcomed than the image of her when I left this morning: angry, hurt, and completely confused, all caused by me telling her exactly how it needs to be.
***
When I wake up in the morning, and seconds after my feet hit the floor of my civilian apartment, I do one hundred crunches. Then, on the bar hanging in my doorway, I do one hundred pull-ups. It gets my blood pumping, and my body awake and alert.
I eat half a dozen eggs, a few slices of bacon, and a bagel. I drink milk, the real shit, and then orange juice. Am I that hungry? Hell no. In order to remain in my top physical shape, though, that amount of food is necessary to fuel the man I have to be, need to be. The man I want to be.
I throw on jeans and a tee-shirt; no government-issued fatigues for me. Then I brush my teeth and consider trimming my six-day growth, but I decide against it. It’s no longer required because I have freedoms in what I wear and how I groom. Obviously it’s so we can decompress and learn to blend, which is important for missions.
When I do wear a uniform, no one is able to classify me. The only people who can are those within the unit. It doesn’t bother me. I sure as hell don’t look like a soldier, and that’s because I’m not.
I grab my gym bag, one of two bags sitting next to my door. The other is for the middle of the night phone call, packed and ready for the next mission.
When I pull up to the gate at Ft. Bragg, I see a new MP. I hand him my ID, and he looks at me skeptically.
“I need to call this in,” he tells me.
Some of us take offense to this, not me. I’m like Batman. Soon, the new MP will have the pleasure of not only knowing I exist, but that he has seen the real fucking deal.
I don’t play by the rules of a soldier anymore. I don’t wear the uniform or worry about rank. As a matter a fact, over the years, I have come to dislike the Army. I have even been reprimanded for questioning authority, though I was right—when you deploy a Ranger battalion who have no fucking clue what they are walking into, lives are lost.
“Sorry, sir,” the MP says as he hands me back my ID.
I give him a nod. “Don’t be sorry. Have a good one.”
Driving through post to my office, I see them all, the men and women who signed up to give their lives to this country and her people. I wonder how many walked in here also seeking to find their true selves.
A day doesn’t go by that I am not thankful for my father’s parents’ support in making this choice. I finally know who I, Luke Lane, am. When I am here, I am focused and self-assured. The only time I doubt myself is when I am home.
Four years ago, I was picked from the 75th Ranger Battalion to became part of the most elite fighting force in the U.S. military: A.C.E., or Army Special Operations Command. I can speak Arabic, Portuguese, and Spanish fluently. I can hit a moving target from a thousand feet away with one hundred percent accuracy. With the technology I have access to through the compliments of the US government, I can find out just about anything in order to complete a mission that saves the lives of soldiers, Americans, and non-Americans, and help protect the freedoms of all the men and women who live in my country and around the world.
Americans go to sleep at night worried about monsters under their beds. Monsters aren’t shit. Machines aren’t shit. Weapons aren’t shit. What people should fear is the man in the closet with night vision goggles, waiting for the moment they can take out a potential problem.
Though the name changes whenever the bureaucrats get a hair up their asses, A.C.E. is, and always will be, Delta Force, the primary anti-terrorism unit for the United States military. The unit’s operative is to capture or kill HVU—high-value units—dismantle terrorist cells, or serve quick and lethal justice to those who threaten the freedoms and liberties of the United States.
We are not soldiers. We are operatives. We work as a well-oiled, close-knit unit to complete an operation. We answer to the Joint Special Operations Command, JSOC, supported by the Army Special Operations Command.
Operatives are not only selected because of physical ability, but also mental stability after an intensive background investigation. They know everything about me. They know everything about my family, friends, and even the women I spend more than a couple of nights with.
My family doesn’t know about the unit. They never will. In fact, I still get my mail delivered to the barracks even though I live off post. They have never seen me in my unit uniform, and they have never visited, because I make damn sure to go home and visit them to keep them away.
Ava Links was discovered because Ava Links has been sending letters to me for seven years. On more than one occasion, I have had to explain that we have a physical relationship only.
The unit hounds me hard about being single. D men, for the most part, are married. It keeps them focused on what is at home, not what is readily available all over the world. I am the only single man in my unit.
I walk into our unit’s office and throw my bag in my locker.
“How was your holiday?” Kurt asks, linking his hands behind his neck and putting his boots on his desk.
Kurt, or Killshot as we call him, is the typical D man. He’s tall, over thirty, has blond hair that he shaves off to make him stand out less when we are on a mission, and is married to his high school sweetheart, who has no clue what he actually does. Like me, he is a non-commissioned officer who was recruited through the 75th.
“Good. Yours?” I ask, sitting down at my own desk and turning on my computer.
“Great. Woke up to a blow job that didn’t fucking end with the obligatory holiday finish since the boys fucked that up by barging in. Buck got a bow and arrow set, which I was a little more than excited to teach him how to use. Then Sling got all bent because his wasn’t the same. All out fucking war.” He chuckles. “You think it’s bad in the field? Have a no finish blow job, two kids fighting, and your wife in tears because of ‘the amount of time she spent making the day perfect and it is now ruined.’ All I wanted to do was get off then shoot with the little shits.”
I smirk. “Sounds rough.”
His kids, who he affectionately calls Buck for buckshot and Sling for slingshot, look just like him: towheads and tall. They are lanky as hell, and have no filter, saying whatever the hell is on their minds. I suppose that will change as they grow up.
“How was Miss A?” he asks with a smirk. When I give him a warning glare, he laughs. “Nothing is off limits in this unit.”
Trigger walks in, laughing as he says, “That’s right. Not a damn thing.”
“How was your Christmas?” I ask, trying to turn the spotlight on him.
“Good to be back. Fucking in-laws drive me insane.” He looks at Killshot. “I did get a happy ending, though.”
“We all know that’s bullshit. Your wife doesn’t swallow, which is why you have five kids, all a year apart,” Tank chimes in as he enters.
“No, but your wife did,” Trigger ribs.
I sit and listen to them go back and forth as I check my e-mail. When I’m done, I sign out, push my chair back, and stand. “Ready?”
The day is like any other spent Stateside. We train for the next call, the call that will send us into the next unknown war zone without warning, without planning. We are Delta Force; we are always prepared.
Today’s PT starts with a two-mile run. After that, we hit the weight room. Then we head straight to the training pool for laps and underwater survival training. After the pool, we hit the mats for a little hand-to-hand combat. Today, I want Killshot.
He smirks as we circle the mat, waiting to see who strikes first.
“Didn’t get laid back home?”
“Fuck you,” I retort. He knows damn well I don’t fuck and tell, not like the rest of them do.
“Miss A finally tell your ass she was sick of fucking you?” he taunts.
Before he sees it coming, I roundhouse on him, knocking him to the ground.
“Hit a nerve?” he asks as he rubs his jaw.
I don’t respond. I simply look around and ask, “Who’s next?”
Turning my back on him is a wrong fucking move on my part. He sweeps my legs, and I fall the wrong way, unprepared, and twist my ankle. Pain be damned, I hop up and face him again.
“Clipped your wing, Birdman?” He laughs.
I wince when I lean into my punch, just as the director of the FBI walks in.
“Gentleman, we have an issue that needs your attention here at home.”
Roman Slade is the youngest director of the FBI to date. He’s a cocky, self-absorbed son-of-a-bitch, but he doesn’t fuck around. He gets shit done, not worrying about rules or ramifications.
“Lane, you’ll have to sit this one out,” he says, looking at me.
Scratch that. He’s an asshole.
“Excuse me?”
He points at my ankle. “You’re injured.”
“I’m fucking fine, Slade,” I growl.
Ignoring me, he looks at the rest of the unit. “A lone gunman has taken over the Fox Club in L.A. We have no idea how many civilian casualties there are, but two hostage negotiators have gone in, and now we’re unable to contact them. We’ve been able to keep the media at bay, but they’ll want questions answered soon. I’m flying out with you in fifteen.”
“I’m fine,” I repeat.
“Sit this one out, Birdman. We’ve got it all under control.” Killshot winks. “Go home and get some—”
“See a doctor,” Slade interrupts.
Fucker is enjoying this.
***
“Eight fucking weeks?”
“At best,” the doc says, looking over the x-ray.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means, I’m not sure how well you listen. If you don’t allow it to heal, it will take longer,” she says as she walks toward the door. “Do you understand, First Sergeant Lane?”
“Yes, Captain,” I answer as she walks out, flipping me off.
While overseas, I rarely have time for random hookups...rarely. While Stateside, I never bring anyone home. However, Monica Toretto and I met at a bar one night near my place. Things got heated, she got handsy, and I let her. The next day, I met Captain Toretto. That line wasn’t crossed by me again. And let’s just say she was a little pissed. She shouldn’t suck where she gets fed, if you know what I mean.
The nurse comes in while I am dressing and hands me paperwork to give to my commanding officer, and yes, I have to sign it.
Afterward, I don’t go home. I head to the shooting range and blow off some steam, needing to keep busy, needing to keep my mind off my unit, who is en route to a mission where some son-of-a-bitch is fucking with my country and her people.
This doesn’t go over well with me. I need to be there with them, and if that fucking suit, Slade, wasn’t traveling with them, you bet your ass I would be. It would be much different. I wouldn’t be first or second in the door catching or killing the bad guy, but I would fucking be there.
At home, I lie on my couch, staring at the television and trying to find something, but there is nothing to be seen. They have the media locked out, which is no small feat in this country, and that’s part of the reason there is so much chaos.
J.Q. Public doesn’t need to know every fucking thing we do to keep them safe. Fuck, now with camera phones in everyone’s hand, J.Q. Public is out in full-force daily, trying to make the next thing they see trendy because they think that’s cool. It’s not. Not one motherfucking bit.
Is the dress blue or white? My answer? Who the fuck cares?
Who are you voting for, for president? How about someone who doesn’t fuck with funding the people who keep them safe?
Neither candidate is looking good this coming election. We have a book smart, loud mouth who has smart business sense, yet the public has seemed to have forgotten about the bankruptcies his corporation has filed. Then we have a raving bitch who has committed crimes, screwed the military by cutting funds, and in turn lets my fucking country appear weak. But what does J.Q. have to say about it? Depends on what the hell is trending.
I love my country, care about the people I protect, but they are sheep wearing blinders when it comes to the media. They have their noses stuck in their smart phones, checking out what everyone else is doing, and not doing what they should be. Consequently, our country as a whole is affected by it!
“Wake the fuck up,” I utter as I switch off the TV and grab my laptop. I want to tap into intelligence and find out what the hell my unit is in for.
***
My unit returns in less than twenty-four hours. Everyone is fine, as I knew they would be. The problem lies here: It’s getting harder and harder to distinguish the good guys from the bad guys.
We go on assignments all over the world. Sometimes we go alone to gather information from other operatives. Some are American; many are not. That doesn’t mean a damn thing except you hope and, yes, pray that those giving you the information have been thoroughly investigated and followed to ensure they are working for the same damn cause you are.
The cause is all that matters. The cause is safety and security to our nation and, yes, other nations. J.Q. Public doesn’t get that, even though they get more than they should.
The madman who stormed Fox Club is an American who joined the Islamic fundamentalist cause. They, meaning the fundamentalist. Not the entire Middle East, not Muslims around the globe, but the fucking terrorists who hate what they call Westernizing influences in the world. These groups—Isis, Al Qaeda, and all the others who pop up everywhere—call my country the “Great Satan,” chant “Death to America,” and stand on a platform of hate, saying they are doing it in the name of Allah.
I have worked with many Muslim, men and women, who do not share the same belief or feelings these terrorists do. I have had many discussions with men I trust to have my back while at war about what is said globally about Christian fundamentalists who hate as deeply. It’s a sick world out there when people have such weak minds.
Weak minds, fear, limited knowledge, and hate destroy nations...and people.
This “American,” Jordan Blackstone, was not acting on behalf of anyone but himself. He was a sick, twisted fuck who craved mayhem and wanted to be known.
Hell, we have seen and heard of acts like this being carried out because someone, usually a politician or group of people behind a politician, with their own agendas want stricter gun laws.
Think I’m full of shit? I’m not. J.Q. doesn’t know the half of it. They are led. Led by the media and people they feel they can trust. Well, they can’t.
Like I said, the world is a sick fucking place. We just try our damnedest to rid the world of the evilest threats, and we are damn good at it. Just as good as the powers that be who will blame Jordan Blackstone, a redhead from the Midwest, for being a terrorist when my spidey senses are telling me and my unit brothers that he was led to this by some liberal fuck who stands on his moral bullshit and is a terrorist himself for thinking those lives lost are for the greater good. Sick fucks.
Give me the intel on who was behind that, and I will damn sure take on that mission.
As sure as I am about never falling in love with anyone other than the United States of America, I am equally sure I will never bring a kid into a world like this.
No. Fucking. Way.