Chapter 13
They were lying in the sun.
On a perfect day like this one, Aberlour forgot what war felt like and, for the space of a single day, he was just—him, again.
Team Specter was on a five-day break in Hawaii, just enjoying the sunshine and peacefulness of watching and listening to the tide roll in, and then roll out again.
Although Aberlour thought the meeting with the major general had gone alright, he just didn’t trust the guy.
He seemed—bloodthirsty. Now Aberlour wasn’t a bleeding heart by any stretch of the imagination, but Major General Baron seemed to want to set the world on fire, his own men included, and dance around the flames laughing gleefully.
However, Aberlour decided to set that all aside for now, trading his worries for his swimsuit, stretching out on the sand so he could bake in the sun. He watched his men from a short distance away as they cavorted on the beach.
Carlos was waist-high in the water, shoving JD playfully as they roughhoused in the waves.
Carlos was deeply tanned and very fit from spending three months hiking through the jungle, although he was stuck wearing a sling because of the bullet wound in his shoulder.
JD wasn’t bad to look at either. Not as darkly tanned as Carlos, he had a slight burn across his shoulders.
His hair was wet, his smile wider than Aberlour had seen it in months, and he had the energy of a golden retriever.
“Heads up!”
Aberlour turned his head just in time to see a football hurled his way. He snatched it out of the air, spinning it in one hand as he watched Marcus run towards him wearing an apologetic grin.
“Darling can’t aim for shit,” Marcus said, shaking his head.
Marcus was shirtless, his black skin shining from the thick layer of sunscreen he applied religiously every half-hour.
He too looked perfectly ripped, as if he’d stepped off the pages of a firemen’s calendar.
Aberlour had no idea when he’d started noticing what his friends looked like, but today he couldn’t seem to help himself.
“Man couldn’t throw a decent pass if his life depended on it,” Aberlour chuckled.
“Want to play?” Marcus asked with a smirk.
“Nah, I’m tired of kicking your asses at everything,” Aberlour replied smugly.
Marcus rolled his eyes but held up his hands for Aberlour to throw the football back.
The ball sailed through the air in a perfect arc, landing squarely in Marcus’ hands.
“I still can’t believe you gave your gift to the Corps instead of the NFL,” Marcus said, before turning away and jogging back towards Oliver and Ghost. They too were roughhousing now because they were really just a bunch of overgrown boys.
Aberlour smiled at the thought and laid back down. He crossed his arms behind his head and smiled up at the burning sun, the blinding light behind his sunglasses like red smoke as he shut his eyes.
Ocean, birds, wind, salty air, grains of sand shifting beneath his body. Was this what it was all for? Would he relish this moment if the past three months hadn’t felt like something straight out of hell?
He hummed, an old French song he didn’t recall the name of. It was enough to know the tune. It was enough for now.
“You might want to reapply some sunscreen,” Oli’s voice interrupted his solitude, and Aberlour blinked one eye open to peer up at his best friend.
“Am I red?”
“No, but you’re really fucking hot,” Oliver replied with a sexy smirk that Aberlour hoped he’d never forget.
Aberlour gave it the laugh it deserved and hummed at the sight of a happy Oliver, basking in the sun, his dirty blond hair messy and coated with saltwater, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief, his muscular body glistening with a sheen of sweat.
“Come here,” Aberlour said, gesturing for Oliver to come closer.
It was a testament to how comfortable Oliver was, because he didn’t look around before dropping to his knees next to Abe.
“Kiss me,” Aberlour ordered softly.
Oliver’s grin shifted into something else. Something a bit more dangerous and certainly more heartbreaking.
Without another word, Oliver leaned down and pressed his mouth to Abe’s.
It was short and sweet, though it tasted mostly of beer and saltwater.
When they separated, Oli’s cheeks were rosy, and he looked a little more like the boy Abe had first met on the bus to Parris Island than the seasoned Marine he was now.
“Go toss the football. Your aim could use some work,” Aberlour ordered, shooing Oli away.
“Asshole!” He laughed and jumped up to return to the game.
Abe laid back down, incapable of hiding his expression of his pleased satisfaction as he basked in the world around him.
The hideous gargoyle was setting in the middle of the pool table. Those damned buggy eyes stared back at Aberlour.
“Fucking sick of it!” Carlos complained as he plopped down heavily on the wooden chair with the dramatic flair of a teenage girl.
“You’re the moron who got Dumber involved,” Marcus said, like Carlos had dug his own grave. This was true in this instance but pointing it out was a bit cruel.
Carlos growled and swore again.
Aberlour laughed at his friend’s pain, which only made Carlos growl louder.
Pacing the length of the pool table, Carlos raked a hand through his dark hair.
It was short—regulation short, unlike Oli’s.
He’d put his sling back on, but only because Oli had ordered him to.
He’d played pool just fine earlier. Clearly the wound was healing well.
While he was bristling with frustration, Carlos still looked good.
Relaxed in a way he hadn’t been in a long time.
He was the spitfire of the group. Always wound up tighter than anyone else.
It was the trait that had earned him the nickname of Chihuahua—or Chichi for short. That and his Mexican heritage.
“It’s pool! Not darts! I rule at pool!” Carlos protested with a whine.
Oliver dropped a hand to his good shoulder in commiseration, but he failed to contain his laughter.
“Next time, just be happy you’ve beaten us,” Oliver instructed gently, like the sage, chastising mother he was.
“Next time? There is no next time. I’m never playing pool again! My reputation is shot all to hell!” Carlos protested angrily.
Aberlour rolled his eyes at his friend’s antics.
The bar was almost empty, not surprising considering it was mid-afternoon on a Tuesday.
“Every addict’s last words,” Marcus answered wisely.
Carlos shoved him hard enough that he nearly fell off his bar stool.
How they’d gotten themselves in this situation, Aberlour could not recall.
They had five days off, then they would have to ship out to another hellhole.
This was day three. They were all sunburnt from hanging out around the pool and playing in the surf.
Carlos had gotten them to leave the hotel room with its heavenly AC and walk down the beach to a local bar, muttering about hot women and cold beers.
Aberlour had been restless and bored, so he’d tagged along to have something to do.
JD and Ghost had stayed behind, claiming they wanted to hang out at the hotel pool.
As far as Aberlour was concerned, he’d had just about all the sunbathing he could take.
“Let me win it back,” Carlos pleaded with Aberlour doing a great impression of a puppy dog begging for treats.
The gargoyle was still the ongoing and coveted prize of Team Specter.
No one could remember where they’d gotten it—it might have been stolen, but no one could say for certain—but they’d made it the official trophy of their competitions, and it changed hands every two or three weeks.
Aberlour had the longest run at holding onto it.
He’d managed to keep it for nearly two months before JD had beaten him at a beer funnel contest.
Carlos had won it about a week ago when he’d beaten Marcus at Mario Kart. He’d done pretty well defending his possession of the gargoyle playing pool with Marcus and Oliver, but he’d pushed his luck when he’d asked Aberlour to play.
Aberlour never lost if there was something he was aiming at. Silly little Chihuahua.
“What are we playing?” Aberlour asked, crossing his arms over his chest, legs extended in front of him.
“Another round of pool,” Carlos replied.
Oliver laughed and Marcus groaned.
“The man is a martyr.” Marcus gave a discouraged sigh.
“I’m tired of kicking your ass,” Aberlour said, declining Carlos’ offer with an exceedingly smug smile.
Carlos made a frustrated sound and put both hands over his face.
“Eating contest,” Carlos said, after a moment, the cocky expression on his face baiting Aberlour.
Was Aberlour a big eater? No. But Carlos had the appetite of a Chihuahua. He was a fiery little guy, but one plate of nachos was usually all it took to do him in. JD was an entirely different story. Now, he could eat. He was the resident hot dog champion, and no one could ever beat him.
“Call JD,” Aberlour told Oliver, with a sharp nod. He stood up and clapped his hands together in a decisive manner.
“We’re gonna need wings,” he said.
Marcus hollered “Woo-fucking-hoo!” punching the air with both fists.
Oliver shook his head, but he was already dialing.
To no one’s surprise, Carlos finished dead last.
“No!” he shouted in anguished defeat.
The rest of the team laughed and Aberlour threw his balled-up napkin at Carlos’ head.
JD was sitting back in his seat, arms crossed in complacent satisfaction, eyes sparkling with pride.
“Amateur,” JD told Carlos, shaking his head in mock reproof.
They’d moved from the pool table to a large table wide enough to hold all their baskets of wings.
The waitress—to her credit—hadn’t batted an eye when they’d ordered twenty chicken wings each.
Discarded bones piled up in the red baskets that got shoved to the side as they all moved on to consuming the next serving.
JD had won fair and square, eating 20 wings in under 5 minutes. Carlos had taken about twice that amount of time, coming in at 9 minutes 50 seconds. Aberlour had managed a respectable 7 minutes.
“Let me win it back!” Carlos begged JD in desperation.
Aberlour laughed at his ridiculously childish pleading, since the look was completely ruined by the buffalo sauce staining his cheeks and lips.
“Nah, man, you lost fair and square,” Marcus said, signaling “no-more” with his hands. He was sitting as far back as he could in the booth, holding his stomach like he wanted to puke.
“A dare then!” Carlos suggested excitedly. “Something no one else would do!”
Aberlour rolled his eyes and then let them fall closed, leaning back in his booth. He felt good. Pleasantly tipsy, his stomach a little too full, and his mind calm. Time off had been very much needed, realizing that he was not feeling jittery for the first time in weeks.
“We have an onion challenge,” a woman said. Aberlour turned to look at her, surprised he hadn’t noticed her arrival. She was a different waitress from before. A little younger, obviously less blasé about service and being attentive to them.
“Onion challenge?” JD asked, head cocked in interest.
“Eat a raw red onion in under one minute,” Emilie—according to her name tag—explained with a charming smile.
In her early 20s, she was very petite, but had a curvy figure that Aberlour admired.
All of that was secondary to the dimples in her cheeks and twinkle of amusement in her eyes.
He had no doubt she thought of them as morons.
“Fuck yeah!” Carlos exclaimed with abundant enthusiasm. “I’m sure I can do that!”
“Why would anyone?” Oliver asked in stunned disbelief.
Emilie shrugged as her gaze remained locked on Oliver’s face, blushing slightly.
“Free meal,” she explained. “No one’s done it this year, and the guy that tried last year failed.”
Carlos turned to JD, practically bouncing up and down, like a Chihuahua, as usual. He’d certainly never deserved his nickname more than he did right then.
“Alright,” JD agreed with a quick nod.
“Yes!” Carlos yelled.
“But—” JD exclaimed, trying to calm Carlos. “You have to do it under 45 seconds to win the gargoyle.”
The gauntlet had been thrown. Carlos thought about it for a moment, mostly for show, Aberlour guessed, before holding out his hand for JD to shake on the deal.
One quick shake later, they both turned to the waitress like overeager children.
Emilie rolled her eyes at them.
“I’ll go get your onions,” she said, heading for the kitchen.
“We’re morons,” Oliver said.
“Hear, hear,” Aberlour replied.
It took Carlos 34 seconds. He was crying and nearly puked twice, but as they all walked home—keeping him at a distance because he stank—Carlos held the gargoyle aloft like it was the Olympic torch, and his smile could have lit up the whole sky.
It sure lit up the darkness that had hung like a cloud over Aberlour for the last month.