The Telling

Warning

This ebook contains adult language and themes, including graphic descriptions of sexual acts which some may find offensive, particularly, of the male/male
variety. It is intended for mature readers only, of legal age to possess such material in their area.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is purely coincidental.

The Telling

©2013 by Eden Winters

Cover Art by P.D. Singer, based on first edition design by Jared Rackler Designs

All rights reserved. No part of this ebook may be reproduced without written permission of the author, except as brief quotations as in the case of
reviews.

Second edition 2013, Rocky Ridge Books

First edition, December 2009, Eden Winters

Many thanks to Pam, Meg, Jared, John A, Lynda, and Tinnean, without whom this story would never have been told. Also, to Mrs. Condit, Will, Bruce, John R.
and all the other wonderful folks this story brought into my life.

The Telling

Eden Winters

Chapter One

Don’t ask, don’t tell. Just four short words that hadn’t meant much the first time Michael had heard them, before four short
years taught him many harsh lessons. Back then he’d believed himself on the other side of the equation, even if he held nothing personal against
those who weren’t.

But the United States Military’s ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’ policy toward homosexuals wasn’t the
reason a former Army corporal came home a civilian after one hitch with Uncle Sam. After all, they’d never asked and he’d never told,
even after managing to figure out what had stared him in the face for years.

No, his reason for coming home was that, after carrying out his orders the best he could, the Army judged him unfit after losing hearing in one ear. Should
have been no big deal in his book, but the brass thought otherwise, effectively ending his military career. Especially in light of a diagnosis of a malady
plaguing many a combat soldier—post traumatic stress. He’d done his patriotic duty and served his country, only to be chewed up and
spit out once he’d served his purpose. Ungrateful bastards.
At least you survived. Others can’t say that.
No they
couldn’t. Best not dwell on things he couldn’t change, or else he’d be swilling down the pills he kept in his duffle.

Poked, prodded, analyzed, re-analyzed, and finally dumped stateside, riding out the remaining months of his service with the governmental equivalent of
‘
Don’t call us, we’ll call you.’
Four years. Four, long-assed years after enlisting as a naïve teen, he
was returning home—war-torn, battle-weary, and weighed down by things he should have or shouldn’t have done.

He wove his way through the Hartsville-Jackson airport in Atlanta, Georgia, carry-on bag slung over one shoulder. It was here where he’d last
caught sight of Michael Ritter, the kid, who’d said goodbye to his family and boarded a plane for great adventure, or rather, boot camp. The kid
was long gone, leaving Michael Ritter, the man. Was there anything here left for him?

Disjointed thoughts rattled around in his weary brain like marbles in a tin can as he passed assorted restaurants, shops, fellow travelers, and airport
personnel in a blur of sights, smells, and sounds, never noticing any details. An ingrained auto-pilot directed him safely out of harm’s way
whenever the chant of “Excuse the cart, please” announced the passage of a tourist-laden airport transport, or when encountering other
pedestrians who weren’t watching where they were going, all busily on their way to ‘anywhere but here.’

Anywhere but here. That’s where he’d wanted to go, leaving behind a small town upbringing to escape from a life gone stale, a
dictatorial stepfather, and prospects he didn’t want to deal with. Had joining the Army really seemed like the lesser of the evils once? Just a
temporary reprieve. Now he was right back where he started.

Cookesville, Alabama, wasn’t where he’d spent his entire childhood, due to his mother’s tendency toward a nomadic lifestyle,
but like a homing pigeon she always returned to her childhood home; at least until she grew restless and left again. Since his grandparents and sister were
there he reckoned Cookesville came close enough to home.

At least Mom had finally dumped the loser stepfather, removing his reason for staying away while also providing a handy excuse not to re-enlist, as his
‘old lady’ needed him to come home and help out. The lie beat the hell out of telling his buds that Uncle Sam didn’t want him
no more. Let them believe he’d left under his own steam for something as old-fashioned as going home to take care of Mom. They didn’t
need to know that he’d outlived his usefulness as far as the United States Army was concerned.

The guys had ribbed him at first about his ‘decision’ before admitting they’d do the same for their gray-haired, aging mamas.
He prudently kept it to himself that his mother was only forty-three, didn’t have a single gray hair, and was still young enough to line up
another stepfather or three if no one kept an eye on her. An amazing woman, but damn, she just couldn’t pick ‘em. It never seemed to
occur to her that living a solitary life was an option, either. Until now, that is, but better late than never.

All the more reason to come home, even if he didn’t intend to stay. He’d miss his unit and the friends he’d made, but
he’d left to see the world and experience new things. Yeah, Mama always said, “Be careful what you wish for.” If only he
could forget some of those experiences.

Without realizing how he’d gotten there, he stood at the baggage carousel watching the other passengers reuniting with loved ones, fighting with
cranky kids, or man-handling baggage off the overloaded turntables. He ran his hand through his dirty-blond, government-issue military cut, then scrubbed
it over his face--the hair there nearly as long as that on his head. God, was he ever tired, and his eyes were probably more bloodshot than blue at the
moment. Thanks to his well-meaning comrades, he looked and he felt like hell; they’d made last night’s going away party something to
remember. The boys knew how to give a guy a proper sendoff, that was for sure, even if the stripper had been a bit much.

At least he got some use out of his disheveled appearance. Opening one bleary eye in annoyance at his chatty seat-mate on the plane gave her the idea that
a tired, hung-over, ex-G.I. Joe was better off peacefully asleep. She was barking up the wrong tree, anyway, with her feeble attempts at flirting.
Go sharpen your claws on somebody else.

Too bad he wasn’t still the skinny runt he was four years ago. He wouldn’t have been as intimidating, but at least he would have fit
much better in the tiny coach seat. At a sturdily built six-feet-two inches tall and two-hundred-ten pounds, there just wasn’t enough room to be
comfortable. During his enlistment his shoulders had broadened to the point where he wished he had a dollar for every time someone asked him if he was a
linebacker.

A flash of bright pink and a shrill cry of, “Mikey!” had him turning in time to catch an armful of exuberant redhead. “Oh
God, Mikey, I missed you!”

A lot of things about Alabama he didn’t miss, but he sure as hell had missed his older half-sister. Enveloping the tiny woman in a bear hug, he
lifted her off the floor and spun her around, laughter escaping him for the first time in months. “Michael!” she yelped, wriggling to
get free and prompting him to set her down. Getting her feet on the ground didn’t make her let go.

Disentangling himself from her clinging, he stepped back and looked her over. She’d matured since he’d last seen her and now looked
even more like their mother, whereas he looked like the pictures of a father who’d disappeared seventeen years ago. Just another of his
mother’s losers. “Damn, Angie, but it’s good to see you!” he exclaimed.

His sister took the opportunity to look him over, as well. “You’ve filled out, Mikey,” she commented, then added with a grin,
“I’m gonna have to beat ‘em off with a stick if I expect to spend any time with you, aren’t I?”

He ignored her comment. He’d only been back two minutes and already she’d begun her gentle prying into his love life, or lack thereof.
“I can’t wait to get home,” he said.

Dropping the subject—for a few moments, anyway—she made the usual small talk while they continued to wait for his bags. “How
was your flight?”, “So and so got married,” and “Got a girlfriend? I can fix you up if you’d
like.” Well, usual if you were talking to Angela Cooper who, like his mother, couldn’t resist matchmaking at every opportunity.

“Are we gonna stand around looking pretty all day or are we gonna get the hell outta Hotlanta and back to Bum Fuck, Alabama where we
belong?” Angie sighed and added with mock angst, “Sorry, but it hasn’t changed much. Okay, it hasn’t changed
any.” Appearing to think it over, she finally clarified, “I take that back. It has changed—for the worse!”

“I was afraid of that. Very afraid.”
And I’m not kidding.

“It’s a dirty job but somebody’s gotta live there. Now let’s get back and liven things up before the place gets
even more dismal.”

He exaggerated a sigh and whined, “Aw, do we gotta?” Again they shared a laugh. Neither was very fond of their hometown. Personally,
Michael would have preferred any of the last three places he’d lived with his mom and the loser, but he was glad to be close to Angie and his
grandparents—a least for a little while. Definite plans had yet to be made, but staying in Cookesville didn’t stand a chance in hell at
long term.

“Yes, brother mine, we have to get back and keep Mom outta trouble before she lines up another husband.” They gave each other a
long-suffering look and another put-upon sigh before she giggled and rose up to her toes to press a sticky, lip-glossed kiss to his cheek.
“It’s good to have you back, kiddo. I’ve missed you.” All humor now gone from her eyes, she lowered her voice and
said, “It just isn’t the same without you. Glad you got to come home in one piece.”

“Yeah, me too,” he replied, giving her an
I don’t want to talk about it
glare
.
Damn, she
had to bring up his near miss, didn’t she? And there stood the nearly tangible presence of the elephant in the room. His family knew of his
condition, but sometimes he wished he’d never told them so they’d go back to treating him normally instead of like something breakable.

In reality he wasn’t the same, and never would be again. At the age of twenty-two, he should be a slacker at Mom’s, attending the
occasional college course and partying until he puked like most of his old high school buddies were doing. Instead, he was returning from serving his
country, bringing home a head full of horrors. Iraq and fallen brothers had no place here in the moist southern air. Best to leave their ghosts behind and
reconcile himself with the land of the living. If only it were that easy.

His sister interrupted his unpleasant thoughts. “Ah, that must be it,” she exclaimed, glancing behind him to the now mostly-empty
baggage carousel. “That hot pink number, right?”

Grateful for the derailment of the thought train bound for Hell, Michael turned to look at the offending luggage, which wasn’t hot pink. His
standard green, government-issued duffle rolled around the bend, full to bursting with his clothes and other necessities. Thanking her quietly with his
eyes, he reached out to snag his bag and slung it over his shoulder with his carry on. He dipped his head in a ‘lead on’ gesture.

Angie giggled and gave a quick squeeze to his bulging bicep. “Look at you! So big and strong!” She skipped out of reach of his mock
swing, leading the way to the sliding glass exit doors.

Outside. His breath caught in his throat. How stupid was it to be afraid to walk out of a door?
There’s no one out there gonna shoot at me.
Michael took a deep breath and followed his sister through the door—and underneath
a covered walkway. Though the sides were open, for some reason the flimsy covering offered some measure of security. Funny, in all the anxiety about what
was on the other side of that door he’d forgotten that it wasn’t completely exposed to the elements. It was exposed enough, however,
that cool humidity settled upon his skin, a welcome change from the harsh dryness of his environment for the past few years.

Ahhhh, Georgia in the spring time, so different from the fort in California, and worlds apart from Iraq. A light mist fell and the overcast day offered a
bit of the chill of retreating winter. He’d always considered the southern United States to be fairly warm, but if this was warm then
he’d left Hell a few months back.
No, I’m not going to think about Iraq, or the Army, or
… He looked up at Angie,
patiently waiting a few feet away, questioning him with one cocked eyebrow. When had he stopped walking? Heat suffused his face. She must have been
watching the whole time and probably noticed his reluctance to leave the terminal building. She didn’t miss much.

“Sorry, Sis. I guess I’m just a bit tired. Jet lag and all that,” he lied.
Please let it go.