Chapter 14 #3
Tommy pushed the stanchions aside and began setting his books out, muttering to himself as he pulled tools from his bag and stripped his gloves off with his teeth.
Victoria had her arms crossed, lips pressed together as she looked at the helicopter dubiously. “You’re all assuming I can fly this thing.”
Judd wrapped an arm around her waist, tugging her close. “Darling,” he drawled. “You’ve got more talent in your pinky finger than all of us combined. I’d bet the farm there’s not a thing you can’t do.”
She blushed, the red seeping down her jacket collar.
For a brief moment, she looked up at Judd, and her eyes softened.
Two clear, blue pools full of something besides irritation and loathing.
After a moment, she brushed herself off, pushed away from Judd, and stepped up to the cockpit, beginning to assess the equipment.
It was as close to swooning as Victoria was ever going to get.
Blake shook his head, feeling useless. He walked around the helicopter, getting a good look at the machine.
He’d read that brochure cover to cover, but it hadn’t prepared him to see the Huey in person.
In a way, it was iconic. A real warhorse.
The kind that was synonymous with the American military.
Used in dozens of ways, anything from troop transport, search and rescue, ground attack, armed escort.
Hell, they even welded rocket launchers onto the thing.
Blake reached out and let his gloved hands trail across the tail section. He could feel the chill from the metal, the bumps of rivets, and dents from a life lived. If he closed his eyes, he could practically feel the thick humidity of Southeast Asia. Smell wet soil and mossy jungle.
The life expectancy of a helicopter pilot in Vietnam was thirty days. That’s it. Dragged from their beds, shipped hundreds of miles to a place they’d never heard of, all the while knowing that the next time they saw home would probably be in a pine box, under a flag.
Blake wondered if they were angry. If there were restless spirits in military greens wandering jungles, they didn’t recognize.
Or maybe they came home. Clung to their bodies just so they could watch the world forget them.
Write them off as casualties of a conflict just so the government didn’t have to admit they lost.
Shaking his head, he pulled his hand back.
In many ways, he understood those men. They weren’t soldiers.
They were just…people. With lives and plans.
Futures they thought were theirs to write.
Only for someone they couldn’t see, couldn’t touch, to come in and change everything. To destroy their lives.
Feeling more than a little foolish, he looked up at the rotors and made a quiet plea, whether it was to the ghosts of the men who had flown the Huey or the machine itself, he didn’t know.
Please, will you fly for us?
It wasn’t a demand or an order. It was a question. One this helicopter, Blake, and all the men who rode it before him were never asked. He hoped that counted for something.
“Hey, Blake,” Tommy called from the front of the Huey. “Can you hold this flashlight?”
He swallowed thickly. “Yeah.”
Firelight flickered across the pages of his paperback novel.
Shadows licked between the neat, printed letters as Blake shifted to get better light.
The book was one of those classic, nondescript romance novels that were a dime a dozen.
They lined grocery store and pharmacy shelves, authors’ names and titles in script so curled it was sometimes difficult to distinguish.
It was the size of his hand, the spine bent and bulging from holding so many pages in such a convenient little package.
But it was the pages Blake loved the most. Not just because that’s where the story was, but because of the smell.
That rich, warmed almond-like smell of the printing process.
The fluttery feel of pages so thin they just slipped between the pads of his fingers.
The heft of pages as they traveled from his right hand to his left.
It was nostalgic. He couldn’t pinpoint a single memory that would make it so, but it was. And he was glad he’d taken the time to slip the novel into his backpack before they loaded up.
Blake was halfway through and found himself enjoying the story. It was just formulaic enough that it was comforting rather than boring, and when the main characters finally confessed to each other, drenched in cold rain and lightning flashing in the whites of their eyes, he smiled.
He’d helped work on the Huey until their hands went numb and Gabriel called it for the night.
Now Tommy and Phin were sitting beside the fire, their heads bowed as Tommy spoke and Phin listened, his eyes soft like a well-fed dog lying beside his favorite person.
Victoria was sleeping, wrapped up in some commemorative tank-themed blankets stolen from the gift shop. Judd and Gabriel were keeping watch.
They’d brought enough blankets Blake could set up a little nest by the oversized tires of a truck. It was massive, with an open bed. The tires came up to his waist. A two-ton box on wheels.
It was still cold, but the fire had taken the bite out of it.
If he ignored the smell of rubber and the silence of the outside world, Blake could pretend he was at that cabin.
The one stocked with books and movies, picturesque windows opening to a bright lake, and Gabriel beside him on the couch with eyes closed and hands running through Blake’s curls.
Twining one ringlet around his finger as Blake made comments about whatever movie or book he was reading.
It was a silly fantasy. One Blake never would have imagined in his past life.
The one where he thought humans were the top of the food chain and aliens were fiction.
Back then, he would have rolled his eyes at the notion of spending prolonged time with another person. Of sharing intimacy with someone.
Now he’d give anything to make that cabin a reality.
He flipped a page and heard boots scraping against concrete.
Looking over the novel, he saw Gabriel approaching from the darkness.
He pulled off his hat, tossing it to the floor to scrub his fingers through his sweaty hair.
Gabriel sighed, kneeling by Blake as he began removing layers.
His gun made a click on the concrete as he set it down.
“Still the Scottish Laird book?”
Blake hummed. “Kilts are hot.”
Gabriel raised an eyebrow as he pulled off his plate carrier. “Really? Thought you might be more into guys in tactical gear.”
“They’re okay. Nothing on a kilt, though.”
The book was knocked out of Blake’s hands as Gabriel crawled over him, straddling his waist so he could snatch Blake’s wrists. He fought him—more on principle than anything—and huffed when Gabriel pinned him.
“That mouth of yours is going to get you in trouble.”
“Oooh,” Blake wrinkled his nose. “Big talk from a tank nerd.”
Gabriel kissed him, hard. It wasn’t like his usual kisses.
The kind that left Blake feeling floaty and warm, with butterflies in his stomach and red on his cheeks.
This one was bordering on mean. It felt bruising, teeth clashing, their noses smushing against each other.
Gabriel’s tongue didn’t ask or tentatively stroke into his mouth.
No, it was a battering ram. Insistent and possessive.
His fingers clenched over Blake’s wrists, digging in like they were trying to leave bruises. Blake couldn’t get enough oxygen. Every time he tried, he just pulled more of Gabriel into him—leather, gunpowder, and sweat. He pressed him down; every inch of Blake’s body fitted to Gabriel’s.
His mind swam. All the blood in his body rushed south as his dick hardened, pressed against all his layers, desperate for friction. Blake dug his boots in, trying to press his hips up into Gabriel.
Gabriel bit his lip and knocked his knees apart, pinning him with his thighs.
Blake gasped, eyes fluttering open. When had he closed them?
Gabriel was indistinct above him. His lips were red, smeared.
But it was his eyes that had Blake’s toes curling.
He’d seen those chameleon eyes change into a thousand different colors, but rarely like this.
They weren’t just black. They were lightless. Twin black holes.
And they were focused on him.
Gabriel released one of his wrists, but Blake didn’t move. He couldn’t. Gabriel had his fingerless gloves on, and Blake could feel the rasp of leather as he wrapped his hand around his jaw.
Gabriel’s hot breath ghosted across his stubble. Gabriel’s breathing wasn’t ragged. It was deep. Steady, as his eyes burned into Blake and his fingers flexed.
“I’m obsessive, Blake.” His voice was barely more than a rasp. “A sinner with an addictive soul.”
He gasped when Gabriel’s teeth sank into his jaw, hard enough for him to feel it in his bones. In his dick, too.
“And I don’t share.”
Gabriel’s hand tightened, hard enough to leave bruises, and Blake’s eyes closed as he gave himself into it. Into the peace that Gabriel’s touch brought, into his body and out of his mind.
They kissed again. And again. Gabriel’s lips and teeth traced every inch of Blake’s face until his scruff had rubbed him raw, and his dick was throbbing, his entire body pulsing.
He wanted to touch Gabriel. To rip his clothes off and leave marks of his own.
To share this feeling of floating while being tethered, like he could enjoy the feeling without fear of getting lost.
Because Gabriel would always be there to bring him back.
Blake whined, his voice caught in Gabriel’s mouth. He was losing reason. The heat within him was building brighter than the fire.