Duty: A Secret Baby Romance (6 page)

“Woodbringer?” I ask, and Will nods. “What's a woodbringer?”

“You know, hottie, piece of ass, get my drift?” he says, laughing. “Anyway, I was up by the PX after class, picking up some protein powder. And man, this PFC I saw . . . holy shit, the ass on this girl!”

“Nice?” I ask, thinking that there's no way that Will's PFC has anything on Lindsey.

“Fuck yea!” Will says. We take a grip on two of the bigger branches still sticking out from the trunk and lift, grunting a little. It's not that heavy, but it is awkward, the weight's just a bit off. “Tell you what, I'd think of giving up cadet status and enlisting if I thought I could have that honey blonde hair on my pillow at night.”

“So you got spank bank material?” I tease, and Will laughs as we start down the trail toward the arch. We both know the rule. The enlisted are off limits by the USCC rules, and all the officers are senior in rank to you. Either you play within the gray lines—there are some good looking female cadets—or you go outside the service. Just the way it is. “Well, she got a name?”

“Let me think . . .” Will says, his voice drifting off as he tries to find the answer. I can't help it, I laugh. “What?”

“You’re all hard up for this girl,” I say, setting the tree down and adjusting my grip before lifting again, “and you don't even have a name?”

“What the fuck are you two doing?” the detail leader says. He's talking with the Sergeant Major, and I can tell he's pissed. He thinks he's going to get his bonus hours, and we maybe fucked up his game. The Sergeant Major looks amused, and he raises an eyebrow behind his old-fashioned big ass rectangular glasses. “Seriously?”

“You told us to bring the trash wood up to the arch.” We drag the tree out of the arch and dump it onto the pile of waste wood that's been growing. “So, we brought some.”

“What the hell am I supposed to do with a fucking tree?” he asks, and I shrug.

“Don't know. We just brought the wood as ordered.”

He looks like he's about to rip into our asses, but the Sergeant Major speaks up. “Okay, you two, carry on. And try to keep the wood to under body-length from now on.”

Will and I nod. As we leave, the Sergeant Major speaks up, loud enough that we can overhear. “Learning point. Soldiers who feel like they're getting jerked around are going to find ways to stretch your orders to piss you off or amuse themselves. Sometimes both. Now, where are you going to get the handsaws to chop that thing up?”

Will and I keep it together until we round the curve of the trail before laughing. He offers me a fist, and we bump knuckles. “That was fun. Better stay away from the firstie, though.”

“Yeah,” I agree, checking my watch. What the hell, only two hours to go now. We're past the halfway point. “So you remember the name yet?”

“Sort of,” Will says. “I mean, she was half turned away from me. I never even got to see her eyes. But she had her name tag on, it was Mor . . . Mor something. Maybe Moreland, Morehouse . . .”

“Morgan?” I ask, a knot building in my stomach.

“Coulda been,” Will says. “Why, you know who I'm talking about?”

“Not sure, really,” I reply, picking my words carefully. If I say yes, I get questions that could lead to a lot more hours pulling sticks out of the woods. If I say no, I could be potentially lying, an honor violation that could get my ass in even a bigger sling. And I might be in enough trouble. I don't need to be fucking with the Honor Committee. “You know how it is, though, man. Lot of people named Morgan around the country.”

“Yeah, I know. Let's go find some damn trash somewhere.”

* * *

I
finish my lift
. I don't lift here in the basement of Grant that often, but it's Saturday night. I didn't want to go to the pool after the work detail, and I'm confused.

Lindsey? A Private First Class? I mean, the way Washington described the girl he saw fits Lindsey to a T. Blonde hair, amazing legs, face like an angel . . . and her last name is Morgan.

I remember that she had an enlisted sticker on her car. This whole time, I thought that she was someone's daughter. There just aren't a lot of twenty-one-year-old enlisted people running around post. West Point tends to draw on older soldiers, at least the ones who interact with the cadets. And some of the older Master Sergeants and Sergeant Majors could have a twenty-one-year-old daughter living with them.

But what if the car isn't her parents’ . . . but hers? What the fuck am I supposed to do? I mean, I know what the rules say. I’m not supposed to fraternize with enlisted. And I've done a lot more than just fraternize. FUCK!

I can't think about this any longer. I need to get out of here. I'd go down to Grant Hall and grab some food, but with twelve bucks to my name, I'm stuck. At least the mess hall has decent food today, and they weren't dicks about making us wear dress gray for dinner tonight like you're supposed to on weekends. I grab my sweatshirt and leave the weight room, heading upstairs and going outside. Maybe the cold air can help. The night is black and chilly, the area floodlights glowing orange-yellow as I walk back and forth, trying to get my damn head right.

“You know, you won't get bonus hours to bank for next time walking here,” Mel Riordan says, sticking his head out of the window to his room. With the way Grant Barracks is laid out, he's got one of the few rooms at ground level, being the First Sergeant. “What're you doing running around?”

“Too much energy I guess,” I answer, bouncing up the two steps to reach his level. “Work details aren't shit compared to what I normally do on Saturdays.”

“Yeah, I heard that,” Mel replies. “That triathlon shit, no thank you. Gimme boxing or wrestling any fucking day. At least the pain's over quicker, and you can beat the fuck outta what's causing the pain. You can't exactly beat up your bike.”

“Good point,” I tell him, smirking. Last semester, Mel was the spirit sergeant, and he did pretty good at it. At least, staging a fake 'pro wrestling' match including a roof dive for Army-Navy week was the sort of shit that makes guys into legends for a few years. “Then again, I don't take concussions in the water.”

“Hmph. So, what's got your head rattled?” Mel asks. Two plebes from E-1 come out of their division and jet past, tossing us quick greetings like they're supposed to before bouncing down the steps to wherever they're heading. “Jesus, how many more weeks before that shit's over for the year?”

“Five,” I tell him. “Come on, you like the smacks calling you First Sergeant all the time.”

“Yeah, yeah. Honestly, I'd like it if they just left me the fuck alone at night so I could get my work done,” Mel says, waving it all off. He's a lot like me. He sees the rank issues at the cadet level as playacting more than anything else. “Hey, you want in? Seriously, you don't need to freeze your ass off.”

“Nah, it's all good,” I tell him, taking a seat on the bricks and leaning on the wall. “Too hot inside, especially your division. You'd think they'd fix the fucking heaters at some point.”

“Why do you think I've got the damn window open?” Mel gripes. “Can't get them to fix this shit until summer, Captain Campos tells me. Of course, by then, fixing the damn heat is the last thing on anyone's priority list, so come next December, we get to fucking bake in here again. Tell you what, Campos wants me to be CO next year at any point, and I'm turning it down for second semester. I can't be cooking out right before graduating.”

“Yeah . . . well, there is that,” I reply, sighing. “Hey, Mel, you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

“Yeah, sure. Whatcha need, Padawan?”

Mel and his damn Star Wars references. That's what you get when you stick a guy like him in a battalion that calls itself The Empire. “Just . . . tell me, man, you got yourself a girl? I mean a serious girl, you know.”

Mel shakes his head, shrugging. “I had one, back when I was a plebe. She Dear Johned my ass right about Labor Day. Since then, nah.”

“What's stopping you, if I can ask?”

Mel laughs and looks around. “You remember where the fuck we live, dude? The Corps is mostly dudes, and I don't swing that way. There’s not a lot of pickings around here. By the way, tell your roommate when you get a chance—that girl he's going to see all the time is getting passed around her barracks like a Blu-Ray. Just saying, she's playing him if he thinks he's exclusive with her.”

Poor Cho. Jesus, poor fucker can't catch a break. “You sure about it?”

“Let's just say I went over to work on a project with one of my boys, and she came out of the room wiping at her lips and my boy's roomie had a very satisfied look on his face,” Mel says. “Can't swear to more than that. But to your question, why . . . I guess part of it is like I said, lack of opportunity. But the bigger part is that I'm just not ready for a real relationship. I could get to the city three weekends a month if I wanted, at least without this First Sergeant shit. But if I'm going to do that, why not just play the fucking field, man? Six million women in New York City, maybe a million in our age group or close to it. That's a lot of pussy to sample.”

I hum, nodding. “I guess. But what if you met that one girl, you know? Like, the one that you just really feel?”

“Oh, you mean like Becky?” Mel says a little bitterly. “She was my girl back in high school. We dated all the way from my sophomore year until she wrote me that fucking email. Hell, at least back in the day, when they wanted to break up with you, they had to pay for a fucking stamp. She just had to send me an email, telling me that she and one of my former teammates just happened to hook up when I was sweating my ass off here and barely getting time to beat my meat in the toilet. Then plebe year . . . fuck it, man. I'm a dedicated bachelor until I graduate. Then I'll have a job, money, and you know girls be all over the blue suit. Hell, why settle for Hudson Hookups when I could get stationed at Schofield in Hawaii and get me a hot Hapa?”

“I dunno, man. You think there's a girl out there that might be more important than the Army?” I ask, and Mel laughs. “What?”

“Remember, dude. Unless I get medically disqualified, I owe Uncle Sam five years of service or a hundred grand, no two ways about it. I'd rather do it as an officer than as an enlisted. You, though, if you've got some super-honey lined up, you need to make your decision quick before you get too many years invested. If you start up classes next year, Uncle Sam's got your ass just as much as he's got mine. Why? You know a girl like that?”

I shake my head. “Just being hypothetical, you know. Guess I'm just feeling romantic or some shit. Too much time today down on Flirty. You know how it is.”

Mel laughs, nodding. “I guess so. Yo, you want a Coke? My roomie bought me a six-pack as thanks for helping him out on a paper, but I can't drink this much. Got three left, and I'd rather not give any to the smacks.”

I nod, holding my hand out. “Sure. Thanks.”

Mel turns around and grabs a can from his windowsill and hands it to me. “If I were you, I'd camp it out on your ledge for a couple of hours and drink it after Taps or maybe tomorrow. Just be careful you don't freeze it. Don't want it exploding on you.”

“Not a problem. Thanks again.”

I head back to my room and put the can in my window ledge like he recommended, thinking. Finally, I pick up my phone and dial Lindsey's number. “Hello?”

“Lindsey, it's Aaron.”

She sounds happy to hear me, and even with the questions running around my head, I can't help but smile. She’s special, and I know that even with Mel's cynicism, I do have feelings for her. I don't know what I'm going to do about them, though. “Hi, Aaron! How was your punishment?”

“Eh, you know how it goes. Listen, I know you said you've got work tomorrow, so we can't ride, but I really, really need to talk to you. It's important. Can you and I meet up? Say, around the Reservoir where you dropped me off that time?”

Lindsey's voice goes concerned, but she hums. “Sure, I guess. Uh, I get off work at four. What time would you like to meet? Say, five maybe?”

“Five's good,” I say, thinking. While there might be people coming back from leave then, there are plenty of places we can walk from there where we can get some privacy. “Tomorrow. I'll be in my PT uniform.”

“Okay. I'll see you then,” Lindsey says. “Are . . . are you sure you're okay?”

“I don't know,” I tell her honestly, knowing she can hear something in my voice, but I don't want to go into it over the phone. “It can wait until tomorrow though. Good night.”

“Good night, Aaron. See you tomorrow.”

I
pop a salute
, waiting for the blue-tagged officer's vehicle to roll through the gate. Drawing gate guard duty is one of those things that everyone does once in a while. The garrison MPs can use the help. West Point is a tourist destination as much as it is a military post, and because of that, there are many civilians who come onto post a lot. So we normal soldiers get to help out on gate guard duty on a rotating basis.

I've only done it twice so far, and it's not too bad. The actual MPs will do any sort of vehicle inspections or things like that. My main job is to salute and check IDs. All I have to do is make sure I've got a clean uniform and that my patrol cap is sharp. Not hard at all.

“Hey, you doing okay?” the MP with me, Specialist Brower, asks. He's a decent enough guy, and when I told him that I'm seeing someone, he stopped any questions right away. Actually, it felt good to tell him that I'm seeing someone. I haven't been able to say that honestly in a long time. “The relief is coming down. I wanted to know if you needed anything.”

“Just a ride back to the barracks if you guys can arrange it,” I tell him. “If I have to walk back, I'm going to be cutting it tight for a five o'clock thing I've got. I'd like to change out of uniform.”

“Gotcha covered,” Brower says, smiling. “Whenever you all help me out, I make it a point to give y'all a ride back before I sign out at the station.”

We chat and wave cars through until our relief shows up. There's another regular soldier with the MP again. Sundays are rough for inspections because of all the cadets coming back from weekend leave, and the time from six until seven is always hectic. Handover is quick, though, and a few minutes later, we're rolling in the MP SUV back up the hill toward my barracks. Brower drops me off, tossing me a little touch of his cap. “Thanks again for an easy shift. Hope I get you again next time you're on gate duty.”

“No offense, but I hope that I don't pull gate duty for another six months,” I joke, waving. Brower laughs and pulls away, and I hurry to my room, changing clothes quickly. Aaron said he just wanted to talk, so I pull on some jeans and a sweatshirt, making sure there's nothing about what I'm wearing that says Army. As a last-minute thing, I pull the band out of my hair and let it hang free. It's nice to let the stress off my hair, if anything else.

Lusk Reservoir isn't that far from my barracks. I mean, West Point isn't exactly a big post to begin with, and I walk down there with plenty of time to spare. I'm a little hungry. I didn't get much for lunch, but that's okay. I don't mind waiting, and it's early for dinner anyway. Riding yesterday without Aaron felt empty, and as I wait, I wonder if I'm falling for him.

It's been a long time since I really fell for a guy, and after having sex on Tuesday, it's been running around in my mind all week. I'm not easy, but the way that Aaron was, strong and sensitive, it was perfect, and giving myself to him felt just right.

I see someone coming up the hill by the Chapel, and pretty soon, the familiar figure of Aaron comes around the Reservoir. I wave, and he waves back, but there's a set to his face that concerns me. I wait until he's close enough that I don't have to yell, and just smile, waiting for him. “Hey!”

“Hi,” he says, his face grim. “How was work?”

“Oh, you know . . .” I reply, biting my lip. “Work. So, what did you want to talk about?”

“Let's walk for a bit,” Aaron says, pointing up toward the more private areas away from the reservoir. “If you don't mind.”

“No, that'd be nice,” I say, worry growing. I mean, I know he's in uniform—he's wearing his PT gear—but still, he's not even smiling. I walk next to him as we walk, heading toward Round Pond. “Is everything okay?”

Aaron shrugs. “Sometimes, when I'm working on my running, I like to do this route,” he says, pointing ahead and ignoring my question. “Do you ever run up here?”

“I don't really like to run,” I admit, shrugging. “I avoid it as much as I can.”

“That's gotta be hard . . . for a PFC,” Aaron says icily, giving me a look. “Isn't it?”

I stop, my face going to ash. We're alone, so there's at least some privacy, and I feel tears coming to my eyes. “When did you find out?”

“Guy I was doing work details with saw you in uniform. Apparently, you're just as beautiful in your class Bs as you are in bike gear,” Aaron says, sighing, but still, there's anger in his voice. “Lindsey . . . Lindsey, why didn't you tell me? I didn’t know you were an enlisted.”

I blink, reaching for his hands, but he steps back. He's on guard, and he should be, given the implications to our careers. Not to mention, he was honest with me from the beginning, telling me he was a cadet. Hell, in our conversations as we ride, he's told me about his classes, his roommate, stuff like that. And I've never told him a thing about my current life, where I'm not Lindsey Morgan but PFC Lindsey Morgan.

“Aaron . . .” I say, stopping when I realize I'm about to cry. “I'm sorry, okay? That first day, when you came up behind me, I'll be honest. I should have told you. I knew you were a cadet from the minute you stopped your bike, even before you told me.”

“Why didn't you?” Aaron asks, his eyes hurt. “Why'd you let me keep thinking that you were some daughter or civilian employee? What were you trying to do, play me?”

“No! I . . . because you treated me with respect and . . . because I thought you were cute, okay?” I admit, sighing. “My God, Aaron, do you know how much it sucks to be a PFC stationed at West Point?”

“Probably better than being a plebe or a yuk,” Aaron says, huffing. “You're at least making enough money that you aren't sitting on all of twelve bucks left after one date with a beautiful woman.”

“I don't date women,” I respond, and at least Aaron gives me a little bit of a smile. I take a deep breath and give him a smile. “I'm glad I can at least get a smile from you.”

“I notice you didn't say anything about me calling you beautiful,” Aaron says, turning and walking again.

“Let me keep my ego building when I can get it,” I tell him, smiling and falling into step next to him. “It's nicer to be called beautiful instead of what some of your fellow cadets have called me.”

“We can be harassing assholes sometimes,” Aaron admits. “I've noticed that a lot more since we, well, you know.”

“I do know. And can I say something about that?”

Aaron stops and turns back to me, nodding. “Go ahead.”

“The only regret I have about that is that I didn't tell you beforehand. But I don't have a single regret about what we did. Except next time, I'd like it to be someplace indoors and where I don't have to ride ten miles on a bike afterward. I want a place where I can be with my boyfriend, not my riding buddy. And not cadet and PFC, either.”

There, I said it. I laid it all out. Well, almost everything. Aaron looks at me, his hazel eyes nearly glowing in the sunset light, then grins flirtatiously. “Next time, huh?”

I stop and gape at him, then laugh. “I like you, Aaron. Honestly, I like you a lot. And yeah, it sucks that I can't tell my co-workers about my boyfriend. That is . . . if you still want to be.”

Aaron bites his lip, thinking. “Lindsey, you realize what you're asking me to do? The rules are clear. We’re not allowed to see one another.”

“And we're not supposed to cross the Gray Line,” I reply, reaching out and taking his hand. He lets me, and when I squeeze his fingers, he gives me a squeeze back. “Aaron, when I'm with you, I don't think of you as a cadet, and you have never once made me feel like a PFC. I feel like a girl, a woman. More than once, I’ve had to leave my room because I couldn't help but keep saying your name. I can’t get you off my mind. Hell, the whole time we were in New York, I felt the same way. I . . . I know that it's a risk. I know that it's stupid, that there's no future in it. But I still don't want to stop.”

Aaron smiles and nods, stepping off the road and pulling me a few feet into the woods. He pulls me close and wraps his arms around me, and I feel safe, joy filling my heart and warming me deep in my chest. “I don't want to stop either. It's dangerous, it's stupid, and I could end up doing so many hours that I'm not getting back to New York until I'm a fucking firstie, but you're worth it.”

I stand on my tiptoes, and we kiss, soft and tender. His lips quest against mine and we let it deepen, our tongues tasting each other until my nipples are tight in my shirt. I didn't put a bra on, trusting in my sweatshirt, and I can feel Aaron harden in his jogging suit pants. I step back with real regret, smiling. “So you forgive me?”

“How could I not?” Aaron chuckles, cupping my face. “As long as you don’t mind my being broke as hell.”

“I don't like you for your money.” I laugh, kissing him again. “And I don't care about your rank, now or in the future. I like spending time with you. And I want to do it more often.”

Aaron hums and pulls me even closer. “That's going to mean a lot of bike rides or sneaking around post.”

“I don't mind,” I reply, taking his hand again and leading him back to the road. The sun's nearly all the way down now, and we're pretty much walking only in the moonlight. “I think we might need to set some ground rules though.”

Aaron nods, and we reach the loop that takes us toward the pond in the distance. “We do. I'd like to make one rule clear no matter what though.”

“What's that?” I ask, and Aaron smiles, looking down at me.

“If we get caught, I take the slam. Anything short of a general letter of reprimand gets shredded when I leave this place. But you know I can't lie about it, either. If someone asks me directly, I’ve gotta say we're seeing each other.”

“I don't want you to lie,” I reassure him. “Never risk your future or your position in the Army for me. You know, until I met you, I thought Cadets were a bunch of conceited assholes?”

“We mostly are.” Aaron laughs. “By the way, where do you work anyway?”

“Post S-1 shop, schools desk,” I tell him. “So I'm AG Corps. There’s no way you’ll ever be my direct officer. West Point doesn't send too many officers to the AG. But I guess that doesn’t matter to
them
.”

“Yeah,” Aaron says, then shakes his head, and I can tell he's not angry at me but at the system. “It doesn’t. But we got to know each other without the Army being a major part of our relationship. If you don't mind, I'd like to keep it that way. More hockey, less Army.”

“I can do that,” I reply, smiling. “So . . . does that mean you're still my boyfriend?”

He grins. “I'm one lucky guy. Even if this does have to be in secret.”

I know he can't see it in the dim twilight, but I blush and pull him in for another kiss. “I’ll take it,” I whisper in between kisses. “Now, while I would love to see if we can do it right here in the woods, I know you've got to get back to the barracks. So . . . ride tomorrow?”

“For sure,” Aaron replies, then he glances at his watch. “We’ve still got about forty-five minutes,” he says with a wink. “I think that could be enough time to do a little something.”

I laugh and tug on the front of his PT jacket. “Let’s take it a little slower this time though.”