Chapter Twenty-One #2
“And the ‘clown’ is back.” At the rear of the car he stopped and pulled Matt against him. “I like that, too, you know. You can’t win.”
It was a little hard to kiss while they were laughing, but they managed a few decent ones, which left Shane with swollen lips and an ache in his groin.
Judging by the bulge in Matt’s jeans he was in much the same state, but as the hours passed and they drew ever closer to San Diego, Shane could see Matt’s body language become more remote, his replies turning into monosyllables as he retreated into whatever space in his head was reserved for BUD/S.
Going from boyfriend to SEAL right in front of my eyes. This is what life’ll be like for us. Can we really do this?
He glanced at Matt, who was staring out the passenger side window, his left leg jiggling up and down a mile a minute. Shane reached over and put his hand on his knee to calm it, rubbing his thumb in a soothing circle over the bunched muscle.
“Don’t overthink things, okay? I’m good with one day at a time, Matt, really I am. I just want to try.”
After a few beats of silence, Matt nodded, then put his hand on top of Shane’s and left it there.
They rode the remaining way back to San Diego like that, fingers entwined.
* * *
“Three…two…one…execute, execute.”
Before the command could even finish echoing through his earpiece, Matt had the door to the kill house kicked open and was inside, in a combat crouch, his M4 at the ready.
“Clearing left!” He moved smoothly toward the left side of the first room, while Trey, his shooting partner, went right.
“Clear! Moving!”
They worked methodically room to room, confronting the pop-up targets. They blew holes in the bad guys, and put the good guys on the floor to simulate a nonlethal takedown.
After assaulting along all three floors, the order came to “safe ’em and hang ’em.”
Matt and Trey flipped their gun safeties on and slung the M4s along their backs as they exited the kill house. Stripping his Kevlar helmet off, Matt ran his hand through his sweaty hair and waited tensely for the range instructor’s verdict.
“Knytych, one hundred points. Jordan, ninety-eight points. Good work, gents.”
Matt and Trey high-fived each other and headed to the armory to replenish their ammo supply before waiting to take their turn again. All told, they’d be running a dozen different scenarios and room configurations before the day’s work was done.
“Knytych, a word.”
Matt turned to face the range instructor, a tall, lanky guy with a huge beaked nose.
“Hooyah, Instructor Owen.”
“Not to add to your stress or anything here,” Owen began with a smirk, letting Matt know he was dearly hoping to add to his stress, “but you’ve caught the attention of several team master chiefs.”
Matt’s eyes widened as his anxiety level promptly shot through the roof, to Owen’s obvious satisfaction. “I have?”
“Yep. Your recent scores, and who your uncle is, means they’re starting to keep a close eye on you. Just thought you’d like to know.”
With a clap to Matt’s shoulder, Owen headed off to supervise the next shooting pair’s run on the kill house.
Elation and worry roiled in Matt’s gut. He knew from talking to his uncle that by this stage of BUD/S, weeks away from graduation, the various team master chiefs would be sitting down to assess each graduate—to see who was good, and more importantly, who was better.
“It’s like a draft, Matty. They’ll each be wanting the best.”
Was he really one of the best? Were they all haggling over him, or putting him on a “fuck no” list?
Matt glared at Owen’s back, wanting to punch him out for deliberately adding an additional layer of apprehension to the mix.
This was definitely a time when too much information was not a good thing, especially when his professional reputation was on the line.
He glanced over to where Trey was sitting on a nearby rock, stuffing his face with a cold spaghetti MRE and chewing with his mouth open, blissfully ignorant of Matt’s distress.
Lacing his fingers behind his head, Matt began pacing restlessly, wanting to talk to someone. To his dad, to his uncle…to Shane. God, he wanted to talk to Shane, get his level-headed perspective on things, talk this out with the one person who truly understood him.
Ah, clown, I miss you.
They hadn’t seen each other in weeks, not since their return from Vegas.
Besides dealing with their brutal schedules, Matt was determined to give Shane some distance to figure his shit out without any influence from him.
So far, so good, since he hadn’t heard any rumors about “Beefcake” ringing the bell.
Shane had made enough of an impression on the cadre that Matt was sure he would’ve heard something if Shane was gone for good.
So what now?
With a groan, Matt sank down onto a nearby rock and stared down at the rocky ground between his booted feet.
There really was no “what now.” The only choice they had—whether Shane stayed in or got out—was to keep doing what they’d been doing…
stealing whatever time they could together and making it count.
Would it be enough? Only time would tell.
“Knytych! Jordan! You’re on deck!”
“Hooyah!”
As Matt leapt to his feet and double-timed it toward the kill house, he tucked Shane carefully away inside the little compartment in his mind reserved just for him and got back to business.