Duty: A Secret Baby Romance (19 page)

“What's that?” Lindsey asks, and I smile.

“How'd you like to housesit for me? Keep your quarters on base if you want. The lease on this place is locked in for another six months before it goes month to month. Or live here, use all my stuff, and then, when I come back, help me get it up to Drum?”

Lindsey nods, smiling. “I'm giving your green girl to Lance. I'm the only girl you need from now on.”

“Damn. I'm going to miss that green girl,” I say with a sarcastic chuckle, pulling her closer. “Someone's going to have to keep me warm at night now.”

“I think I know someone who might be up to the task. But you promised our son pizza first, right?”

“Or Chinese buffet. Let's let him choose.”

* * *

“
I
t ain't right
, El Tee.”

I nod, turning in the last of the company items that I personally have to Pillman, who's signing for them in the interim, a ridiculous gesture since he checks out next week. It isn't much, just some books and a few company records that I kept with me, and I'm early, in the gap in between the time the company finished PT and morning formation, about eight fifteen in the morning.

“Don't matter if it's right or wrong, Sarge. It is what it is.”

Pillman nods, and both of us look up when the door to the company opens and a fresh-faced, scared-looking shavetail lieutenant walks in. “Uh . . . is this Delta Company?”

“It is,” I say, looking at his uniform. Second lieutenant, looking fresh out of Ranger school . . . did I look this scared out of my fucking mind when I walked in my first day? “You the new platoon leader?”

“Uh . . . yeah,” he says, seeing my rank. “Are you the XO?”

“Negative, I'm the guy you're replacing,” I tell him, offering my hand. “Aaron Simpson.”

“Matt Petersen,” he says, shaking. “I just got on post yesterday.”

“I can tell. You’ve still got your Ranger skinny to you,” I joke, looking at the way his ACUs hang on his shoulders. He's about thirty pounds under his weight when he bought them, that's for sure. “This here's Sergeant Petersen, your platoon sergeant for another week or so. If I can give you any advice, listen to him. He knows his shit, and he knows the Regulators. I don't envy you or your position, man, so good luck.”

I sign the last form for Pillman and hand him back his pen. “And that's it. Good luck, Sarge.”

He looks like he wants to say more, but we can't. There's just some things that a Sergeant and his Lieutenant can't say to each other. Like thank you, Sarge. You saved my ass a lot of times. Or that he's a hell of a man, and I'd be happy to share a beer with him some time. I want to say these things, but I can't.

Lieutenant Petersen, unaware of my situation, looks on like an eager puppy. We shake hands, and I grab my beret, heading for the door. “Hey, Lieutenant Simpson?”

“What's up?” I ask, opening the door and heading for the parking lot. “I'll be honest with you. I'm not in the unit anymore. I'm on transfer leave.”

“I got that, but . . . can you give me any advice about Captain Bradley? I heard he's a hard ass.”

I stop and look at him. He's a decent looking guy. He should do okay, and I don't want to fuck up his mindset. “You a West Pointer?”

“No . . . ROTC at UNLV. Why?”

“Then you'll do just fine, I think. Go by the book, trust your NCOs, and you'll be fine. Good luck, El Tee. The Regulators are yours.”

I spend the rest of the day sort of just drifting. I've cleared the last of my papers here on Bragg, and I even get a glimpse of Lindsey at work in uniform. She's dropping off some paperwork at the MP station at the same time I'm signing the form stating that I have no firearms or dangerous materials left on post. She's grim, but she controls herself well as I finish my work and leave. I wish I could talk to her, but I can’t. I can't trust that I could keep up the charade of just being the 'Big Brother' to her son.

I'm leaving the MP station when I hear someone call my name behind me, and I turn to see Pete Lemmon jogging toward me. “Yo, Aaron, wait up!”

I give him a salute—he is a Captain, after all—and he waves it off, grinning. “It's lunch time, man. Cut the shit between old Devils. Come on, let me buy you Burger King. You're going to be missing that shit, from what I hear.”

We drive over to the PX complex, where the line for Burger King isn't too bad, and we get our meals, Pete paying before I can pull out my wallet.

There's an open table by the window, and we sit down, Pete unwrapping his Whopper while I open my double barbecue bacon burger. “Thanks, Pete.”

“Not a problem, man. Besides, I didn't ask you to lunch just to fill your gut with some calories before the 'Stan,” he says with a shrug. “I did a rotation over there back in my platoon leader days. Don't trust anyone without an American flag patch on his shoulder, and you'll be fine.”

I bite into my burger, my stomach stretching. I know that I'm going to be eating crap for the next six months, and I've been indulging in every food that I'm going to miss. I don't expect to eat a real piece of pork for a long damn time. I like pork chops too, dammit!

“I plan to keep my head on a swivel,” I mumble, chewing the bacon and relishing it. The fine swine. I must remember it. “Hey, can I ask you a favor?”

“Sure, what about?”

“That kid I'm the Big Brother for, Lance Morgan. His mom is in your company, right?” I ask, doing my best at keeping up the deception. Pete may be a former D-1 Devil, but he's also an MP officer, sworn to uphold the law as well as being a commissioned officer. I don't need to go there.

“Yeah, she works in the Battalion S-1 shop. You want me to keep an eye on them?”

I nod, grateful. And while I feel bad shading the truth with Pete, I'm not outright lying. “He's a good kid. And to be honest, it's going to really, really suck leaving him behind here. I . . . I've developed feelings for him.”

Pete chews his burger and nods. “Not a problem. You know I run my company like a family anyway. Like when I heard that you hung out at her house, I didn't do like your CO and throw a shit fit. What he did to you . . . it's bullshit, man.”

“Yeah, well, the Army runs on bullshit. You know that. After all, what else are officers for?”

Pete chews his burger, trying not to laugh. “Good point.”

* * *

O
ur final meal together
, and Lance does his best, trying to be cheerful and happy while he eats his ground pork moussaka that Lindsey made especially for me. Afterward, though, he clings to me, his arms locked around my neck for the next two hours until he falls asleep in my arms on the couch. I lie there, hugging him tightly until his arms relax, and I carefully roll him to the side, tucking my green girl around him and sitting up. “He's out.”

“It’s nearly ten o'clock,” Lindsey notes, sitting on the floor next to the couch where she's been holding hands with me. “He's going to be a zombie tomorrow morning at daycare.”

“That's okay then,” I whisper, sliding over enough that Lindsey can sit next to me. “How about you? You've still got work tomorrow.”

“I'll be fine. I'm just in the S-1 shop. No Sergeant's Time for the MPs tomorrow,” Lindsey says, leaning into my arms. “Aaron . . .”

“It's okay. I keep telling myself that, and if I do, then it will be,” I tell her, holding her. “I'm coming back, and when I do, we're going to form a family. Somehow, we will.”

Lindsey turns her head and looks me in the eyes, her face intent. “You promise?”

“I promise,” I whisper, leaning down and kissing her. What starts as a soft, reassuring kiss deepens, and I reach down, cupping her breast and causing us both to moan.

Lindsey moans again, taking my hand. “Take me.”

We stand up, walking hand in hand to the back of my house, where my bed awaits. Lindsey looks at it and shakes her head, chuckling. “I'm so buying us a bigger bed for when you get back.”

I laugh softly as well, pulling her closer to me. “I love you, Lindsey.”

“I love you too, Aaron,” she replies, turning around and kissing me softly. We move closer to the bed, and as I lay her back, I know that when I get the chance, there's one more question I have to ask her . . . but when I get back. I won't force her to make a decision because of my deployment.

In the moonlight that comes through my window, we hold each other, our bodies and souls joined, and when we cry out, it's softly, with joy and happiness.

* * *

I
t's
gray pre-dawn light when I ease myself out of bed, taking a quick shower and shaving before changing into my ACUs. Before I pull my top on, I kneel, kissing Lindsey softly on the cheek. “It's time for me to go.”

Lindsey mumbles, and her eyes flutter open. “I don't want you to go.”

“I know,” I whisper, not knowing why but not wanting to break the stillness. “But the taxi will be here in a few minutes. It'll take me to the airfield.”

“Wait,” Lindsey says, reaching behind her neck and unclasping her necklace. “Show me your neck.”

I bend forward, and she clasps the necklace around my neck. It's long enough that it fits, then slides underneath my shirt. “I'll bring it back.”

“I know,” she says. “It'll protect you, because it has my love in it.”

I reach down and look at my left hand, where my class ring has sat for most days since I got it as a firstie. I take it off and put it on her left hand. “I know you can't wear it, but it's the only ring I have for now. Keep it safe?”

“I'll wear it under my shirt,” she promises. “When I can.”

“Don't risk yourself,” I reply, trying not to be harsh, but still, I want her to understand the importance of this. “One person sees a West Point ring around your neck, and we're both screwed. My name is on it. So, no PT, no field work in it.”

Lindsey nods and clasps it to her chest. “I promise.”

The sound of a car outside my house and the beep of a horn break the spell, and I kiss her one last time. “I love you. I promise, I'll come back.”

“I love you too.”

In the taxi, the driver, who's probably ferried dozens of guys to the airfield just like me, gives me a sympathetic look as I put my gear bag in the back. “Ready, buddy?”

“Yeah,” I whisper, casting one last look at the house. Lindsey stands in the doorway, one of my t-shirts hastily pulled on, and she waves, even though I can see the tears she's wiping away as she does.

“That's tough, buddy. I don't know which is worse, going over alone, or going over while leaving people behind.”

I don't say anything, and the taxi driver gives up on conversation. Instead, he just drives, dropping me off at the airfield with my two bags. For the first time in a long time, I don't have a beret on my head, and the patch on my shoulder isn't the 82nd Airborne's.

Six months can't pass quickly enough.

T
he weight
of his class ring is comforting between my breasts, and the second dog tag chain that I wear around my neck is totally anonymous. In fact, under my duty bra, in between my breasts, about the only way anyone would be able to tell the ring is there is if someone punched me in the chest, which I doubt is going to happen.

Like Aaron told me, I don't wear the chain during PT or when it could be noticed, but I only do it to protect him. I don't really care one way or another. I've made up my mind . . . or have I?

“Hey, Morgan?”

I look over and see Beanie come into the S-1 office, all grins and false cheer. It's been six weeks since Aaron left, which means I've got, as of tomorrow, six months left on my enlistment contract. Beanie's going to be giving me the full sales pitch, I'm sure.

“Come on over, Beanie. What's up?”

Beanie comes over, snagging a chair and sitting down next to me, just outside my desk area. He knows the deal—an office soldier defends their desk area like a street gang defends their turf. Cross that line without an invite, and you might just get a knife in the ribs. “Hey, Captain Lemmon sent me over. He wanted me to see if you'd made your decision. We've got battalion breathing down our necks on retention for this quarter, and I don't think you need the Sergeant Major down here trying to give you the hard sell, you know?”

I know. For most of the six weeks since Aaron left, I've been bouncing between two extremes, from telling the Army to go to hell to re-signing for the long haul. The problem is, what if it was just rapid infatuation again? What if, after both of us being celibate for so long, we were just literally fuck-drunk and were saying anything to get our damn rocks off one more time?

“I gotcha, Beanie. But things are complicated. No offense to you or anyone else in retention, but I'm getting awfully damn tired of Lance spending twelve hours a day in daycare. And that doesn't even count the FTX we've got coming up next month, where he gets to spend a whole week hanging out at my neighbors' house.”

Beanie hums, his fingers drumming on the edge of my desk. “I know it isn't ideal in that regard, Morgan, but the signing bonus and the bennies, you can't beat them. I mean, I don't wanna be cruel about it . . .”

“But you're going to be anyway,” I interrupt him, leaning back in my chair. My stomach rumbles, and I rub my tummy absently. It's been going on for a few days now, and I hope I didn't pick up . . . oh, hell. I plaster a smile on my face and gesture for Beanie to go ahead. “Gimme the pitch, Beanie.”

“Well, you're a single mom, Morgan. And I'm not trying to be a dick. My mom was a single mother too, so I'm speaking from experience. She busted her ass twelve hours a day all the time, sometimes six days a week to keep food on the table. And we never had a spread as good as what you're able to do for your son. The signing bonus alone on the big contract, you set that aside in a savings plan, and you've got a good chunk of what he's going to need to go to college down the road,” Beanie reminds me. “Just sayin', the grass looks greener outside the service, but before you change houses, make sure that it really is.”

Beanie and I talk another few minutes before he leaves, and it's nearly lunch time. Instead of eating what I packed, I grab my keys and drive to the PX, concerned. It was the same way last time. A few days of rumbly stomach in the morning, no real sickness, just looking at breakfast and not wanting to eat, my stomach doing little twists the whole time.

The over the counter pharmacy has kits for sale, and I pick one up, glad that Bragg is so large that the worker doesn't know who the hell I am. I take my package to the toilet and do my thing, not able to look at it after. I have to force myself to read the result, and it takes me a few seconds to accept it.

Blue.

The indicator is blue. As in . . . hold on, let me read the package again. Blue . . . blue . . .
If the indicator turns blue, the test is positive. Congratulations on being pregnant. The makers of this test would recommend that you go to your doctor . . .

Yeah, doctor. Doctor. Oh, hell.

I can't help it. I put my face in my hands and start crying, trying to keep it down, but obviously, someone hears, because after some time, I hear a knock on the door of my stall. “Excuse me, are you okay?”

I sniff, wiping at my eyes and sitting up. “Y–yeah. Gimme a minute. I'll be out soon.”

I quickly wipe my face with toilet paper and pull my pants up, adjusting my uniform. I can do this. I can be strong. Besides, if I didn’t want to risk this, I should’ve used protection. I leave the stall, nodding gratefully to the woman who's looking on with concern. She's in civilian clothes. I'm guessing she's someone's spouse from her age, but I move past her before she can see much more than that I'm in uniform. I don't need some nosy Nellie calling Captain Lemmon about this.

Getting to my RAV4, I sit down and take a deep breath. I take out my phone and pull up my email app. I don't use it much on my phone, but it's still there. I quickly type out my message.

I send it, knowing that it might be days or even weeks until Aaron can read it. Afghanistan isn't exactly a Wi-Fi capable country for the most part, and I doubt he's running around with a smartphone or a laptop with Google access all the time.

Still, I mean every word, and I start up my engine, heading back to the office. Time to stay strong. I wonder how I'm going to tell Lance?