Question Mark (31 page)

“You okay?” Mark asked, the concern in his voice shredding Zane’s willpower a little further.

“You don’t have to sleep over there. This is a king-sized bed; there’s plenty of room.”

“Are you sure?”

Damn, Mark’s voice… Zane grunted and pulled the blankets back on the bed in response, unwilling to trust himself to speak. Mark stood up stiffly and crossed the room, barely missing the end table in his progress. He eased under the sheets and Zane pulled the duvet over him, grazing the skin of his arm and feeling how cold Mark was.

Sheeze, I’m a dick, Zane thought.
Yeah, go ahead and stay here, Mark. You can sleep on the wet spot without a blanket. G’night!

Mark sighed like the move to the bed was the best thing that ever happened to him and Zane’s guilt rose to a new level. He watched as Mark burrowed his head into the pillow and curled on his side facing away from him. Zane was abruptly aware of his own nudity and his lower half was very pleased with this fantastic new development.
Hello, Marky! Wanna wrestle?

Either Mark had a totally clear conscience now, or he was so exhausted that sleep came easy—or both—but he was knocked out soon after joining Zane in bed. Rolling closer, Zane caught the scent of Mark’s aftershave…or cologne…or maybe it was just Mark. He breathed in deeply and very, very carefully ran his fingers over Mark’s short locks.

I love you.

He wanted to say it. He wanted to forgive him… He just couldn’t yet.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

One unexpected photograph, fifty missed calls, twenty voice mails, and sixty text messages later, it looked like Christian’s secret wasn’t much of a secret anymore. He might as well have attached a neon sign above his head that read:
I Like A Juicy Cock!

It also looked like he wasn’t getting a welcoming ceremony from the Gay Committee. Wasn’t there one of those? There should be one of those, he thought, except then he’d be forced to talk about his circumstances and that was a no-no. He could just see it: “Hello, my name is Christian and I’m a gaymo.” Cue the weeping.

Stuff like that was against Christian’s personal code. If it looked like a feeling, walked like a feeling, and talked like a feeling, that shit was getting crammed down inside until it shut the hell up for good. And he hadn’t yet ruled out the idea of continuing to play the straight card by calling everything a bet that got out of hand. He could tie that BS up with a big red bow.

The one person Christian would’ve considered sharing with wasn’t talking to him. He couldn’t blame Mark. That little kissing game was a bad idea. While he’d known he had some decisions to make about his life, Christian had put himself on an extended timetable to figure things out—like eternity or longer. This way was much more abrupt and inconvenient.

For instance, his mom knew now. She was probably still doing that open fish mouth look that very moment, but once she found her voice, he wasn’t going to hear the end of it. Christian could already hear her.
“You’re gaaaaaay? Are you out of your mind?! I raised you right!”

Blah. Besides, “raising” wasn’t a word to describe his mom’s mothering technique. She pretty much handed him the scissors and told him to start running.

Kat had left Christian one message as soft and sweet-hearted as their breakup had been. It made him feel crappy, so of course he deleted it immediately.
No guilt allowed.
And certainly no weaknesses for people to poke at. Christian had to close this stuff down, like, yesterday.

Kyle—his old buddy, old pal—was walking that thin line between militant and outright anti-gay zealotry, leaving texts that ranged from
‘This better be part of the fucking bet!’
to
‘Are you queer? Call me, you cunt.’

Surprisingly, it was the first text message that lowered the gavel on his relationship with Kyle. The latter simply solidified the decision. Plus, he hated the c-word and if
anyone
was the c-word here, it was Kyle. Like Christian was supposed to listen to lectures from a guy whose dick roamed more than a tomcat? Or was it okay because Kyle’s dick roamed the direction of lady parts?

Assbag.

Kyle’s poor fiancée was in for a huge surprise. Christian would put money on them getting married, Trina getting pregnant, and Kyle cheating on her
twice
before the tike popped out. A couple more wailing babies and domestic disturbances later, and
snap!
messy divorce. Sounded like heaven.

This all goes to show that I don’t know how to make friends with good people, he thought. Except Kat, and she was
too
good. Or there was Mark, but Christian had poured water down that ant hill.

Hell, those pictures plastered everywhere looked
awful
—because of the implications, not because of the kiss. The kissing part looked damn good. The future of Mark’s relationship with Zane, though? Not so good. If the entertainment news folks could be trusted, Zane was still alone in England and most were reporting that the couple had split.

Christian really stepped in it this time. If he ever got to see Mark again it would be a miracle. If he ever saw Zane again, he should probably just hike up his jeans and fucking run.

The biggest problem as Christian saw it was that he wasn’t controlling any information anymore. Unless it came out of his mouth, the media was only guessing, but they didn’t mind doing that. They wanted to know if he was with Mark. Were they old flames? Did they have a secret relationship? No, no, and no. He didn’t even get a good screw out of the deal!

Christian was, however, deeply concerned about his job. His boss was one of those tough guys. A lot of people would think that because of the nature of the business he was in—wild sporting events, professional competitions, and college party stuff—that the company owner would be at least a little left of center, but first things first, his boss was a
business man
. He cared about profit and cash flow. Bottom line. Small government and low taxes. He was conservative. And he was Christian’s wild card because if anything was keeping him sane right now, it was his job. If he lost it because his boss was a bigot on top of all that other stuff, well…Christian didn’t want to think about it.

People always figured there was too great a risk to be sued for discrimination in situations like this, so there was no way anyone would make a peep. They didn’t know his boss. The man might as well wear clothes made from the state flag of Texas. This could get touchy.

So… Status update?

Gay? Check. Blasted out of his comfortably spacious closet? Check. Happy?

No fucking check.

***

Worlds away, Gunnery Sergeant Kevin McGuire ducked his head against another blast of desert wind and sand and picked up the pace back to the 7-ton. Dirt was everywhere all the goddamn time. He’d been going over a logistics issue with the Company Executive Officer about getting a couple of burnt out, piece of junk Humvees back to the Forward Operating Base when a call for assistance came in from a dumbass Platoon Commander. Somehow the Lieutenant managed to get his rig stuck knee-deep in this superfine sand the consistency of talcum powder—moon dust, they called it—on his way back to the Combat Outpost, the COP. That meant Gunny and his loyal sidekicks: his driver, a gunner, and another kid still wet behind the ears, had to find the other 7-ton and tow it out. Now an hour and several well-timed jokes later, Kevin was headed back to the outpost with a sweat-pasted layer of sand on every part of him that wasn’t covered by clothing.

Hell. This place was hell.

He’d wanted to work out before grabbing some food, but he wasn’t sure he could handle this much sand in his shorts while lifting weights and grunting through pull-ups. Still…he’d take the sand over an IED, mine, or whatever the hell.

Three weeks ago, a unit up north in the Sangin District lost six Marines—three by IED, two by sniper fire and another by a mine. The loss hurt all of them even though they didn’t personally know the men killed. It always hurt, and if nothing else, it had to serve as a reminder that they couldn’t let their guard down for an instant. Kevin didn’t care how close they were to the outpost, he never took for granted that they’d make it back safely.

The Helmand Province was an ugly place to be and trust didn’t come easy out here. He’d be lying if he said this was his top choice for a summer getaway. Most of the time, his nuts fluctuated between his groin and his throat depending on how dicey a patrol was. Kevin’s job gave him the advantage/curse of being on the go almost constantly—driving between platoons, delivering food and other stuff to the Marines stretched out across their Area of Operation. They could get into a lot of hairy-balled messes scooting around delivering Copenhagen.

Hooking his hand on the door frame, he climbed into the front passenger seat and slammed the door shut behind him. “And
that
, boys, is why we never let the LT drive, yeah?” The waiting Marines laughed and he smacked his palm on the door through his open window. “We’re good. Let’s get out of here,” he said to the young Corporal behind the wheel. Kevin called the guy “Mac” for no particular reason. It seemed to suit the ruddy-faced kid who looked like he fell off a horse in Oklahoma and landed on his feet in Afghanistan.

The 7-ton gave a good throaty rumble and they were off like a herd of turtles. Kevin sniffed and grimaced at the dirt building in his nasal passages and the corners of his eyes. His sunglasses were shit. Every time he was out here, he ended up having to shower a couple sandboxes worth of dirt from his body, then he’d go back out the next day and have to do it all over again.

Not that he didn’t love his job. He did. He was proud of his Marines and spoke up for them to the Company Commander, but he hated—absolutely hated—the dirt and the hot and the cold. Not many people understood how brutally cold Afghanistan could get. The days were icy and the nights were dick-shrinking frigid. It wasn’t bad now at the end of September, but if he was still here come December?
Terrible
. The weather made Kevin miss home more than anything else, not to mention that day-in and day-out they were battling a lot of sneaky bastards who wanted nothing more than to send their bodies home in a hundred million pieces. Out here a guy could get a little jumpy.

Another half hour passed before they were rolling to a stop at the COP and bailing out. The truck wasn’t exactly built for speed. Kevin paused to holler at a couple of guys fucking around when they shouldn’t be and grabbed his gear, sucking down half a bottle of water as he made his way to HQ. Out here they debriefed
everything
. It kept them focused. He figured the XO would enjoy hearing about this one.

Afterward Kevin had free time coming his way. Maybe he’d finally get a chance to read something that didn’t involve hustling Beans, Bullets, and Band-Aids. He wished he was at the FOB tonight so he could finally email his sister back, though it meant jockeying for a position at one of the computers in the morale tent. Kevin didn’t bring his own laptop with him overseas because one: he didn’t own one and two: it wasn’t like he could tromp outside the wire and find an opium farmer with wireless internet. His next deployment he was buying something state of the art so he could watch his own DVD’s without borrowing from First Sergeant Martinez whose computer had so much porn on it the thing could melt Kevin’s hands if he held it too long.

The XO had a lot of crap going on, so their meeting was quick and painless. Kevin was going to meet up with Martinez and hit the gym—or at least the COP’s version of a gym. Surprisingly, he had a fair amount of time to work out so he was getting pretty big. Since his arrival five months ago he’d put on several pounds of muscle. At six-four, two-forty, he was in the best shape of his life. It felt good. Really good. Behind his back, he’d heard a couple young guys referring to him as Ox. He chewed their asses good, but it sort of made him smile when he was by himself.

Kevin pulled aside the blanket that served as the door to his corner of the world—his inner sanctum. It wasn’t marble and tile, but it suited him fine. On the end of his rack he found a stack of brand new magazines that had probably arrived with the latest delivery from the FOB while he was out on his little rescue mission. Usually, he flipped through the stack and passed them along, only keeping one or two to skim later.

This time he kept the
Men’s Health
resting on top of the pile—that actor Zane Whitlow was on the cover looking all sorts of ripped—and after flicking through the rest, he pushed them to the side. He was taller than Whitlow, he figured, but whatever the guy did to get those abs, Kevin wouldn’t mind trying it. His bigger bulk might be an issue though.

He was digging through his locker for workout gear when he froze and looked over his shoulder at the magazines again. Kevin had caught a glimpse of one of those crap gossip magazines and immediately dismissed it, but the picture on the front was finally sinking into his consciousness. Lunging forward, he shuffled through the pile until he was staring down at the magazine in shock.