Chapter 1 #3
The house looked good. It was newer than Aberlour’s rathole of an apartment, with a back deck perfect for barbecues, and freshly painted walls.
It was just the right size for a single guy and Oliver looked good in his house, settled for the first time since Aberlour had met him.
In some ways, he still looked like the scrawny rich kid Aberlour had first met.
Although, over the past six years, he’d filled out in ways that only rigorous physical training could shape a man.
His dirty blond hair, always on the longer side of what the military permitted, was windswept from trips in and out of the house.
He was wearing a pair of shorts, not the cargo kind that Aberlour bought at Walmart, but nice beige ones in a brand Aberlour couldn’t pronounce.
The only off thing about his rich kid image was the USMC shirt from their basic training days that he wore.
It was a little too small now. Pulling at the shoulder seams and across his chest. He looked good.
Like a man who’d found his footing. He didn’t cower when he met Aberlour’s stare anymore. He held his own.
Aberlour was about to offer another toast to Oli’s growth when he was interrupted.
“I don’t smell pepperoni!” JD yelled his grievance as he came trotting into the house, a case of beer under his arm. He looked a little winded, like maybe he’d jogged here.
“Dude, how d’you get here so fast?” Aberlour asked, confused. It had only been about five minutes since he’d sent the group text.
“I was parked a block away waiting for you guys to text,” he shrugged.
“Too entitled to help?” Aberlour guessed.
JD shrugged as he swung by him. “Pulled something in my back last night—didn’t want to make it worse,” he lied, looking smug.
“While you were star fishing your way through a quick fuck? Unsurprising really, considering your fat ass—” he replied, with a wink.
“I’ll fuck you up, Dumber!” JD vowed, shooting him the finger.
Aberlour flicked his ear in retaliation. JD yelped and pulled away, magically holding onto his beer.
“Pizza’s on the way—not that you deserve any,” Oliver declared with an eye roll, done with their nonsense.
Instead of sticking around the kitchen, Aberlour collapsed onto the couch, leaning back so he could watch each idiot on Team Specter as they walked through the door.
They were a unique bunch. In the right setting, they were a spear being aimed and finding purchase in the enemy’s side without fail.
Working together seamlessly, they were lethal and unforgiving.
In this setting, however, they were just a bunch of barely adult idiots who constantly mocked each other.
Aberlour loved watching these two vastly different sides of the team work equally well.
“I’m blessing you shitheads with my presence—that should be good enough,” JD replied, walking straight to the fridge. He pulled it open, pleased there was plenty of room for his favorite beer, which he placed dead center.
“I really have to go shopping,” Oliver said, scratching his head and staring at the mostly empty fridge.
With a snort, JD grabbed one of the cold ones from the fridge door.
“Fuck that! You got beer, pizza’s on the way—all the essentials!” he said, popping the top of his beer and taking a swig. He grabbed one more bottle, and turned, just as Ghost walked into the house, quiet as a mouse.
“Here roomie,” JD said, extending the beer towards Ghost.
Ghost flashed a quick, grateful smile. He took his time crossing the living room, nodding at Aberlour in greeting.
His keen eyes were considerably brighter than they’d been in days.
Ghost grabbed the beer from JD’s hand and carefully popped the top off.
It was like watching opposites interact.
JD with his pale Irish skin, hazel eyes, and gym-built muscles, and Ghost with his deep ebony skin, timid brown eyes, and lean frame.
One was loud, the other barely noticeable.
The fact they’d be rooming together was a like a spinoff of The Odd Couple.
To be fair, Ghost had a wife and a daughter, but they lived off base in civilian housing.
He needed to live with JD whenever they were training for a mission, or the commander required them to stay on base for extended periods.
They should be able to work it out. At least, Aberlour hoped they would.
Otherwise, one of them would be bunking at his place, and that was not happening.
“How’s your kid?” Oliver asked Ghost, ever the mother hen, checking in on his children.
“Growing up too fast—” he sighed, though he was smiling. “But happy.” It was about all they’d get out of him while still sober—hence the nickname.
Before Oliver could try to get anything else out him, the front door burst open.
“I just met my wife,” Marcus announced cheerfully as he bounded into the living room, wearing a huge smile. Everyone turned to look at him as Aberlour sighed and tried to burrow further into the couch.
“What are we on now? Wife number seven?” Oli asked, looking at JD.
“Nine, I think,” came the quick reply. Aberlour couldn’t hold back his smile.
“I’m serious this time,” Marcus said, like he’d just seen the eighth natural wonder of the world.
“Pretty sure you said the same thing about Rosalinda,” Ghost said. It was so rare to hear Ghost roast someone that they all snorted in approval.
“Rosalinda was a mistake,” Marcus said, waving his hand dismissively, like it was all in the past.
“A mistake that you drunk dialled a week ago,” JD pointed out.
“God forbid a man has a moment of weakness!” he drawled out dramatically. “This one is different. Her name is Sabine, and I just met her at the convenience store. Tell me that’s not fucking fate right there!”
“That’s not fucking fate right there!” Oliver quickly repeated. He laughed, in the way he always did, head thrown back, boisterous, and loud. Oliver was his own best critic when it came to humor, and he never seemed to mind. He reached into the fridge, grabbed three beers, and handed one to Marcus.
“You’re not invited to the wedding,” Marcus said disapprovingly, pointing an accusing finger at him, although he still reached for the beer.
“Thank God!” Oliver declared with another laugh.
Marcus scowled at him, but he dropped the act quickly, his easy smile back in place.
He looked good. Aberlour had been worried about him during the last few weeks of their most recent deployment.
Marcus was a social butterfly through and through.
He needed people around him to keep his energy up.
After six months hunting assholes in various jungles and deserts, his battery had been running dangerously low.
It was nice to see him smiling again. He’d shaved as soon as his combat boots had touched American soil, but his afro was still longer than regulation.
Like Oliver, haircuts didn’t seem to be at the top of the list of grooming priorities.
“Can I be the best man?” JD asked. He’d left the kitchen to plop down in the expensive Chesterfield that Aberlour hadn’t dared to touch.
JD’s beer was precariously balanced on the top of his knee.
He didn’t look worried about it because, surely, the hundred-year-old leather could use a shower of cheap beer.
“Abe’s my best man,” Marcus said, shaking his head.
“Fuck no, I ain’t,” he denied with a snort, not bothering to sit up or even look over at Marcus.
“If Oli’s not doing the job, then you sure as hell are,” Marcus argued.
“JD’ll be too busy eating and fucking the bridesmaids to help, Ghost is too shy, and Carlos’ll confuse people with some kind of fucked up bilingual speech,” he rattled off, quickly and methodically counting off each person’s status as if he’d already worked this out.
“I’m not doing a damned speech,” Abe argued half-heartedly.
“We’ll talk,” Marcus muttered before tossing back his beer. Abe rolled his eyes.
“Yo, hermano, pizza guy’s here,” Carlos yelled as he walked in, a slice hanging out of his mouth.
“Is it any good?” Oliver asked, sarcastically.
“It’s free,” Carlos said, shrugging like that was a stupid question.
Oliver patted his back pocket to make sure he had his wallet, and handed Carlos the other beer as he walked over to him.
He’d already finished his first and had the second half finished.
He’d be tipsy before Abe would even manage a buzz.
Oli was a cheap drunk. No matter how much training Aberlour had put him through since bootcamp.
“By the way Carlos, you missed it. Marcus said you write fucked up speeches,” Oliver tossed into the conversation, just as he stepped out of the house to go pay for the pizza. Fuelling chaos and then running off. The coward.
“?Hijo de puta!”
Aberlour shook his head and closed his eyes, leaning his head back again on the headrest, content to listen to the sound of his team as all hell broke loose in the kitchen.
He peeked once, when Carlos began running around the kitchen island, chasing Marcus with a knife—a butter knife, but still.
He didn’t need to intervene because Oli brought pizzas into the kitchen, managing to calm down the knuckleheads like the mother hen that he was.
“Pepperoni, no mushrooms,” Oliver said, his voice was much closer than the rest of the chaos.
Aberlour blinked his eyes open, glad to see Oliver standing over him holding a white paper plate, two beers cradled in his other hand.
“Fuck yeah,” he said, grabbing the plate with a muttered thanks.
Oli sank down on the couch next to him and handed over the beer. There was a space on the other side of Oli. Probably so others had a place to sit, but it meant that Oli was pressed against the length of Abe from shoulders to knees.
“You boys ever hear of personal space?” Carlos said, as he sat on the barstool next to the counter.
“No,” Abe and Oli replied in unison, mostly to piss off Carlos.