This thing—the Passion series—started as an online short story, one of those “what if this happened?” things. The what if was what if a woman woke up after a night out partying to find herself in a strange bed in a strange house (a mansion), with no memory of how she got there? She finds a note on the pillow that says simply: You were amazing.
That’s how this thing began, and how I thought it was going to end, by answering that single what if question, and then moving on to the next thing. But like John Lennon said, “Life is what happens while you’re making other plans.” New ideas are what happen, too, and so the characters from that first story, Passion’s Nectar—Julian St. Christopher, Grace Trouillot, Victoria West and Glenda Engerman—had come alive, and they weren’t done living. More characters were to come, and they played their parts and helped me flesh out this series and add the novellas Passion’s Kiss, Passion’s Journey, Passion’s Fire, and now this last episode in the Passion series, Passion’s Fury.
And then there was the Dream Girl project. Once upon a time I had an idea for a sequel to Dream Girl. I was going to title it The Daughters of Lilith. The tale would have Frank Einstein—the founder of Headbox Industries—coming up a new invention: an injected nanochip that boosted feminine pheromones and made them irresistible to men. My idea was that there would be a plague of deadly succubus type women who were almost unstoppable. Men couldn’t go up against them because they’d be too busy wanting to…well, you know. So Agent Avery Silva—he of the unnamed government agency—would assemble a hit squad of badass women: Nikira Horikoshi and Simone Gray (from the upcoming Hitman Chronicles series) and a woman named Javari, who you’ll meet soon in The Professional. Well, a few chapters in, the story started to feel like Charlie’s Angels. That’s already been done (and maybe twice too often). So I scraped the bulk of that idea, but I still wanted to do more with Frank Einstein and the nanochip thing. The solution was to merge that idea with Passion’s Fury and wrap up two storylines.
Now, when I say “wrap up,” don’t take this as the absolute end. The Passion series is done, yes, but no one died. Well, almost no one died. You will see Julian St. Christopher and the characters from the series again, I promise. And Gretchen Smith and Ana are still out there in the world somewhere. As soon as I find out what they’re up to you’ll be the first to know.
Now, before I go, I have to give special thanks to author extraordinaire Nia Forrester (author of Afterwards), who got to listen to and put up with me griping and moaning during the making of this novella. We hold ourselves to high standards, and sometimes, when we feel that we just can’t reach that high, it helps to have someone who’s been through it to boost us up. Nia, if I left footprints on your delicate shoulders I’ll pay for the dry cleaning. Thank you.
Somewhere in Virginia
If you’ve read my novella “Friends, Lovers and Other Killers” you might recall that the catalyst for all the drama (okay carnage) in that tale was the friendship between characters Mitch, a divorcee, and Cynthia, a woman in a troubled marriage. You might also recall Mitch mentioning and reflecting on his failed marriage and how it impacted his friendship with Cynthia. When FL&OK took place, Mitch’s ex-wife was in prison. How that happened will be explained next year in my novel “The Hitman Chronicles.” What happened between Mitch and Margaret is chronicled in this excerpt, a tale inspired by the late, great Otis Redding’s “I’ve Got Dreams to Remember.”
DREAMS TO REMEMBER
Her voicemail message said that she’d be working late again and to not wait on her for dinner. She told him that she’d catch a bite on the way home.
Mitch wanted to go out tonight. He was in a serious mood for some cheese ravioli, and the only place that made it the way he liked was a little Italian restaurant across the street from the beach in Long Branch, his hometown.
This was the second night this week that Margaret worked late. She did this more often lately, but he didn’t want to complain because she really loved her new career as an accountant. But damn it, she worked on salary. She wasn’t making any more money for the extra time.
And he really wanted some cheese ravioli.
He walked naked from the master bath’s shower into their bedroom and stood under the ceiling fan, letting the downdraft cool the moisture from his walnut-brown skin. He caught a glimpse of himself in the dresser mirror. He was thirty-four years old and his stomach was still flat and hard. Crunches every morning before work saw to that. Push-ups and dumbbell curls kept his arms and upper body in shape. He needed to get to the gym more often to work on his legs, though. He turned to the face the mirror, studying himself a little closer. If it weren’t for the thinning hair on the top of his head he could have passed for someone ten years younger, because he kept himself in excellent physical condition. He had to stay in shape to keep up with Margaret.
They met twelve years ago when he was twenty-two and she was eighteen. He’d worked in the Housekeeping department at the hospital in Long Branch since he’d graduated high school. Through hard work, he’d made shift supervisor in four years, even though he was the youngest guy on his crew.
Margaret had been a new hire on his shift. He’d thought she was gorgeous; a slender dark chocolate beauty with black eyes that could look right into your soul and a smile that could melt your heart if she chose to grace you with it. She melted his the first day he laid eyes on her.
They hit it off right away, and in less than a month they were a couple. Two years later they were married.
They’d had a lot in common back then, not the least of which was their appetite for sex. He’d never met a woman who wanted to give and get it as much as Margaret. She insisted on having at least one dick-induced orgasm a day, preferably in the morning. Otherwise, in her own words, she’d be a grumpy bitch all day. Nighttime sex was her way to close out the day, her sleeping pill.
In addition to wanting to satisfy her own needs, she believed that the only way to make sure he didn’t fool around was to see to it that when she was done with him, he had nothing left to fool around with. She’d told him a thousand times that if he was going to come at all, it was going to be in her, his wife. To Margaret’s way of thinking, even masturbation was an insult to her womanhood, unless of course, she was the one doing it for him. The result was that for every day of their marriage, unless one of them was sick or very tired, they fucked. If it was her time of the month, she did other things to get him off. Even when they argued and weren’t even talking to each another they fucked. They just did it in silence.
So he had to keep himself in top shape to keep up with his wife. He had absolutely no complaints about their love life, however. Mitch knew plenty of guys who practically had to crawl and beg their wives for a little pussy every now and then, so he knew he had it good.
His body was dry now, but he was going to have to wait until his rock-hard erection died down before he could get dressed. Even after twelve years, thinking about his wife always had this effect on him. If she’d been around right now to see his condition, she would have been on him like white on rice. But she was working late again.
He decided to go for the ravioli. The restaurant was on the shore, some thirty miles from their condo in Lakewood, but tonight nothing else was going to satisfy his craving. Since he’d planned to take Margaret to dinner, his clothes were already laid out on the bed: Charcoal gray cords, black cable knit turtleneck sweater and over the ankle Rockports. He got dressed and rushed downstairs, throwing on his black calf-length cashmere overcoat as he headed out to the parking lot to his Jeep.
He never used to eat alone. Early in their marriage, he and Margaret had been inseparable. When he was just a Housekeeping shift supervisor and she one of his workers, they loved going out together to eat when they got off from work, before they went home. Margaret used to say that it was like foreplay; they knew they were going to get naked as soon as they got in the house, so stopping somewhere to eat served as a tease, prolonging the pleasure they were both dying for.
Two years after they married he was promoted again, to manager of all the Housekeeping shifts. Margaret was happy for his success, but she was pissed that he got to work a nine to five while she still worked the evening shift. But their conflicting schedules didn’t cut down on their lovemaking. Margaret wouldn’t allow that. No, he just got a whole lot less sleep. She’d get home at around midnight and shake or suck him awake, or he’d wake up gasping for air because her pussy was pressed against his face.
His next promotion came as a result of his love of computers. He started out working with the hospital’s system administrator in his spare time, helping him troubleshoot problems or set up new programs. Before he knew it, the administrator had moved on and the job was offered to him. It was a better job paying better money doing something that he truly enjoyed, so of course he accepted.
He and Margaret had agreed early on that at the five-year point in their marriage, they would start making babies, and now that he was the hospital’s Systems Administrator, he made enough money to allow her to quit her job and start working on getting pregnant. But when that time came, Margaret threw a monkey wrench into what he’d thought was a rock solid plan. She told him that she wanted to go to college and get a degree before she became a mother.
Of course he supported her, even though he was disappointed that they wouldn’t become parents according to their original schedule. He paid her way through college, and to Margaret’s credit, she earned a Bachelor’s Degree in Accounting in just three years.
And then things started to change.
It was nothing drastic, just some little things. Like all of a sudden their old friends, people from the Housekeeping staff that they’d hung out with for years, weren’t good enough for her. Like how she’d traded in the Sebring convertible he bought her for her birthday the day after she got it for a Lexus, without even telling him. She paid the extra cost, but damn. Her reason had been that she had an image to maintain, that people expected a white-collar worker to drive a white-collar automobile. Like that she didn’t want to play racquetball with him on Saturday mornings anymore. She’d taken up golf, and now she hung out on the links on Saturdays with the suits from her firm. Like that they hadn’t gone out to dinner together at their favorite Italian restaurant in over a year. The only true constant in the two years since she’d become an accountant was their sex life.
Mitch parked his car around the corner from the restaurant and walked up the street toward the front entrance. He’d been so deep in thought that he almost walked right by the white Lexus parked four spaces up from his Jeep. He wouldn’t have noticed the car at all; after all there had to be dozens of white Lexus’ in this county alone, except for the black Raggedy Ann doll perched on the rear window deck.
Her Raggedy Ann doll.
He stood for a minute on the curb with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his overcoat, looking at the car. There had to be a logical explanation. Margaret said she’d be working late. It was a quarter to eight now. She got off at five-thirty. She worked all the way up in Newark, at least an hour away in the best traffic. So if she’d just worked an hour over, she could be here by now. But they lived straight down Route 9 from Newark. This restaurant was twenty miles out of her way. Why would she drive all the way out here? Had she had a sudden taste for ravioli too?
The hostess asked him if he’d be dining alone. He said that he wasn’t sure, that he thought someone he knew might be here. She led him into the dining area.
Mitch spotted her sitting in a booth in a corner near the back of the room. Her back was to him. Some light-skinned pudgy-faced brother in a suit sat across from her, talking animatedly. Mitch couldn’t see Margaret’s face, but she was leaning forward and nodding her head as if she were hanging on this guy’s every word.
Mitch made himself relax. There was no point in assuming something without knowing the facts. Maybe this dude was just her co-worker, or even her boss. She’d never introduced him to the people she worked with. He told the waitress that he’d spotted his party and headed for their booth.
Margaret was lifting something from her plate with her fork. She raised it…and offered it to the suit.
Mitch froze in his tracks.
The suit stopped talking and smiled at his wife, then accepted the bite. A bit of the food remained on the corner of his mouth. Margaret—his wife—wiped it away with her bare finger. The suit kissed her fingertips.
Mitch moved quickly, without thinking, and was standing over them in an instant. She looked up at him, and her face answered every question he could have thought to ask. He asked anyway.
“Is this how you always work late, Margaret?”
He watched her struggle to find the words, to come up with some saving explanation. But there was no suitable excuse—not when you’re caught red-handed—and she knew it.
Margaret—his wife—breathed out a heavy, resigned sigh and said, “Mitch, could we please talk about this at home…”
“What could we talk about Margaret? What the fuck could you possibly say?”
The suit cleared his throat. Mitch ignored him.
“Mitch, please,” she said. “Don’t make a scene.”
“I’m not making a fucking scene. I came here to get something to eat because my wife said she was working late. If I wanted to make a goddamned scene, I’d be tearing this place apart.”
Her eyes scanned the dining area. “Please keep your voice down, people are watching.”
He snatched her hand up, and before she could protest, pried her wedding band off her finger. To his disappointment it slipped off easily. He’d hoped to peel some flesh off with it.
Margaret gasped. The suit stood up.
“Now see here, fella…” the suit began.
Mitch stabbed him in the middle of his expensive silk tie with the tip of his finger, cutting him off in mid-sentence. “Motherfucker, the smartest thing you will ever do in your life will be to sit your ass down and shut the fuck up, right now.”
The suit didn’t move. They stood eyeing each other like two pit bulls waiting to be let off their chains so that the battle could begin. The dining area had become as quiet as a tomb. All eyes were on them.
Mitch shifted his feet on the carpet, left foot forward, right foot back and perpendicular to the left, bending his knees a little to set his balance: a boxer’s stance. He kept his hands low, but if this cocksucker so much as flinched…
Margaret knew him well, and when she spoke there was a trace of panic in her voice. She grabbed his wrist. “Mitch, don’t please.” She looked at the suit. “Thomas, sit down.”
That’s right bitch, Mitch thought, save your boy’s life.
The suit named Thomas looked down at her, considering, then said, “All right, dear,” and took his seat.
Margaret breathed a sigh of relief and let go of his wrist. “Let’s talk at home, all right?”
Mitch glared down at her, said, “Fuck you,” and left the restaurant.
He’d almost finished packing when he heard the front door open downstairs. Shit. He’d hoped to be out of the condo before she returned. He wanted to leave her while he was still angry. He knew the pain would come soon enough.
She stood in the bedroom doorway, watching as he closed his suitcase.
Don’t say anything to me. Just let me go.
“You don’t have to leave, Mitch.”
He tried not to look to her as he spoke. “One of us has to go, and I never liked this place anyway. You picked it out, remember?”
“Where are you going?”
“To a hotel. I’ll start looking for a place tomorrow.”
“Mitch, I’m so sorry. This is not how I wanted it to happen.”
He looked at her now. “Yeah, cheaters never plan to get caught.” He lifted his suitcase and stepped to the door. She didn’t move out of his way. “Excuse me…”
Her eyes shone with tears. In all the years he’d know her, he’d never seen her cry. She always fancied herself as the epitome of the strong black woman.
“I really need to go.”
She touched him, her fingers tracing over his sweater. A single fat tear slid down her dark chocolate cheek. “Can’t we at least say goodbye to each other, just this one last time?”
She stepped closer to him, her face nuzzling against his neck, her hand sliding against the front of his pants.
He thought about their life, their relationship. How it had always been.
Even when they argued and weren’t even talking to each another they fucked. They just did it in silence.
He thought about how she looked naked. Her dark slender body: always wanting; always needing; and always giving. She was an incredible lover, certainly the best he’d ever had, and they’d grown and learned together. Nothing had ever interfered with their sex life. Even now, as much as he hated to admit it to himself, he wanted her. He could feel himself growing under her coaxing touch.
He looked at her, deep into the depths of her black eyes. “Just tell me one thing, Margaret…”
“Did you fuck him yet?”
“Oh Mitch, I couldn’t…I wouldn’t do that to you. I swear it.”
He stared at her. She looked back at him, her tearful gaze unwavering.
He thought he believed her. He wondered what it could hurt, to do it this one last time.
Margaret had already stepped out of her pumps and was taking off her business jacket. She pulled her blouse out of her skirt, unbuttoned it and slipped it off, letting it drop to the carpet at her feet. Her bra followed.
Firm, dark breasts; even darker nipples. What would it be like to never know them again?
She unzipped her skirt and let it drop around her feet.
Tiny black bikini panties and thigh-highs as dark as her legs. She’d always hated pantyhose.
She peeled her panties down, watching him watching her. Fresh tears—so shocking because he’d never seen cry—flowed freely.
He stood in his bedroom, his suitcase still clutched in one hand, staring down at the woman he’d desired most in the world, the woman who was about to become his ex-wife.
Nothing had ever come between them and sex before. Nothing had ever been greater than their desire for each other. But this…
Mitch looked down at Margaret as she waited for him on their bed; on her bed now. He couldn’t imagine that he’d ever sleep in it again. He thought about all that he’d invested—the love, the trust, and the years—in the belief that they would be together until one of them put the other in the ground.
He could have cheated. He’d certainly had his chances over the years. He couldn’t even remember how many opportunities had come his way, opportunities that he’d turned down because he’d wanted to do the right thing. He wondered when things had changed for Margaret, when she’d stopped wanting to do the right thing by him and their marriage. What had made her lose so much feeling and respect for him that she could go to another man?
He pictured them again in the restaurant, the way she’d fed the suit from her plate, the way she’d wiped food from his mouth, the way he’d kissed her fingertips. Those weren’t the kinds of things you did when you were just thinking about fooling around with someone. And it wasn’t the kind of thing you did in a public place if you were worried about getting caught. Those were the kinds of things that people in the midst of new love do. The kind of things you do when the person you care most about is sitting across from you. Someone you’ve been intimate with.
She swore that she hadn’t slept with that guy, but could a cheater be trusted to tell the truth? He and Margaret made love almost every night. Had he been sleeping with her, fucking her after another man had been inside her, perhaps just a few hours before him?
Mitch looked at Margaret, naked and waiting for him to come to her. Would she have fucked the suit tonight first if he hadn’t caught her, and then come home to let him have what was left? Had she done it before, on one of those nights that she’d said she was working late? Had he already been getting sloppy seconds…from his own wife?
He was glad now that he hadn’t eaten anything, because suddenly he felt sick. His stomach was trying to churn up and expel the remnants of whatever remained from his lunch. He backed toward the bedroom door.
Margaret sat up, surprised. “Mitch?”
She was in danger. He’d never laid a hand on her before, but he wanted to hurt her now. He wanted to hurt her badly.
“Mitch, wait. I told you, nothing happened between Thomas and I.”
She’d spoken his name. From their bed, she’d spoken his name. By speaking his name she’d brought him into their bedroom.
“Find a lawyer Margaret,” Mitch said, his voice tight with anger. “Find a lawyer and get me his name. I’ll have mine contact yours and tell you what I intend to keep.” He turned and left the room.
As he reached the stairs he heard her call out, “It wasn’t anything about you, Mitch. I still love you.”
Mitch stepped out of what used to be his home and closed the door quietly behind him. He stood on the stoop of his condo for a moment, breathing in the cool autumn night and wondering where he might go. A hotel was an option, but he had plenty of relatives in Long Branch, any one of whom would take him in without hesitation. But they would ask questions and feel sorry for him, and he couldn’t stand that right now; wouldn’t be able to take the pity. Already he could feel the pain starting to spread, pumping from his heart like blood and coursing through his system.
He could go to his best friend Eric’s place, but that presented the same problem. He couldn’t take the sympathy, even from another man. Even thinking about it now made his eyes burn with pain. He hurried to his Jeep, blinking the hurt from his eyes as he moved.
He tried to conquer his sorrow with anger, by visualizing her laying with her lover, doing the things to him and for him that Mitch had thought were his gift alone. But that image brought a new bolt of agony to his heart so powerful that it almost made him moan. He got into his jeep with his suitcase and slammed the door.
Now that the image of Margaret with her lover had entered his head, he couldn’t push it out. He turned on the radio as he wheeled out of the parking lot, hoping to blot out the vision of his wife naked with another man with music.
Jammin’ 105 out of New York was playing Otis Redding’s “I’ve Got Dreams to Remember.”
Son of a bitch.
I’ve got dreams, dreams to remember
I’ve got dreams, dreams to remember
Honey, I saw you there last night
Another man’s arms holding you tight
Nobody knows what I felt inside
All I know, I walked away and cried
I’ve got dreams, dreams to remember, listen to me
I’ve got dreams, dreams to remember
Mitch braked at the corner of Prospect Street, put the Jeep in park and let Otis’ plaintive vocals rip into his soul. This song was a killer for anyone with a broken heart, but he wasn’t going to let it get to him. He hadn’t cried since he was thirteen, when he’d decided that he was a man and above such things. Children cried. Females cried. He was a man, damn it, and he wasn’t going to break down.
The rookie cop waited as his partner returned from side of the black Jeep Cherokee driven by a black male, approximately 30 years old. The Jeep was stopped at the corner of Massachusetts and Prospect Streets in Lakewood with its blinkers on.
As his partner slid back under the wheel of the police cruiser the rookie gave him a questioning look. “Well, what’s up, Sarge?” he asked.
“Forget about it,” his partner said. “This guy just found out that his wife is cheating on him, and he just walked out on her. He lives right back there in Wyndham Place. This is as far as he got before life punched him in the gut. The poor bastard is sitting there bawling his eyes out.”
“So what are we gonna do? He’s blocking traffic.”
“You’re not married, are you kid?”
“Well, I’ll tell you what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna sit here for a while and make sure nobody rear ends him. Let’s call it a public service; helping a citizen in need. Call back in to the desk and tell them to disregard.”
I know you said he was just a friend
But I saw him kiss you again and again
These eyes of mine, they don’t fool me
Why did he hold you so tenderly?
I’ve got dreams, dreams to remember, listen honey
I’ve got dreams, dreams to remember
I still want you to stay
I still love you anyway
I don’t want you to ever leave
Girl, you just satisfy me, me
I’ve got dreams, dreams to remember
© 2002 Christopher Bynum
Lyrics excerpted from “I’ve Dreams to Remember,” written and recorded by Otis Redding, released posthumously in 1968.
Purchase FRIENDS, LOVERS & OTHER KILLERS here:
Now, my girl Britt is my wife’s best friend. Britt is crazy, but she’s cool. She’s good people and she’s like my little sister, you know? So I hope for the best for her. I hope one day she finds true love and happiness—the kind of happiness me and my Cheryl have. So I definitely hope she knows what she’s doing with this brother named Kyle. I mean, friends with benefits, man? Seriously?
We’re going down to Jersey to visit Britt this weekend; hang out, grill out on her deck, just chill like family, you know? I’m going to get to meet this brother named Kyle. I’m going to have a little talk with him. ‘Cause Britt is like my little sister, you know?
This would be a good place for me to explain some things.
Constant readers (thanks to all!) are familiar with the novels, novellas and short stories written and published by The Black. They know that he writes adult fiction. Okay, erotica. Over the past couple of years The Black has been cranking out products by the pound, and he’s going to be coming out with a lot more in the years to come in the way that he always does: fiction in every genre, seasoned with a dash of erotica. In the near and distant future look for titles by The Black like Passion’s Fury (the fifth and final episode in the Passion series), Book Three in the Insatiable series (more paranormal erotica), The Professional (yes, Lucas is ready to tell his story), and a surprise coming soon. The Black has been and will continue to be busy, but Christopher Bynum is ready to flex his literary muscles, too.
So here I am. I’m going to be bringing you traditional fiction in almost every genre until they stop making books. This one—With Benefits—is the first. Coming later this year is Nightwalkers, a tale of terror that will make you forget everything you thought you knew about vampires. And then professional assassins Duncan Gray and Nikira Horokoshi will come knocking at your door in The Hitman Chronicles.
So, just because you see author Christopher Bynum’s name on this book cover, don’t think that The Black is done. He’s not even on hiatus. He just needs to step aside for a minute so I can do my thing.
Also, just because I work under separate author names doesn’t mean that all my stories and characters are disconnected. If the characters Baron and Vette from this book ring a bell, then you’ve probably read What Becomes of the Brokenhearted by The Black. You might recall in that novel that Vette and a character called Buzz were involved in a little on-the-job altercation. And there’s Olivia Bettencourt, who was at Lucas’ house when Kyle visited. Olivia made her first appearance as a teenager in the closing chapters of A Southern Belle: Forbidden by The Black. And of course there’s Lucas, the star of the forthcoming novel The Professional.
Finally, a word on Monmouth City: If while reading this novel you pulled up your map application or GPS and tried to figure out where the heck Monmouth City is on the New Jersey Shore, you came up with nothing. Don’t worry; your system hasn’t failed you. Monmouth City doesn’t exist. But if it did, you’d find it on the beach just south of Long Branch and just north of Asbury Park. I played God and put it there because down the road I’m going to need a city of a few hundred thousand people as a backdrop for a lot of exciting things that are going to happen in the world of Christopher Bynum and The Black.
Consider yourself officially warned.
Glen Allen, Virginia
21 June 2013
With Benefits is available now for the Kindle and Nook.
Matt’s news about Allison coming was a shot of high-octane caffeine to Britt’s system, and after their call she knew that there was no point in trying to get back to sleep. She slid out of bed and paced her bedroom and tried to organize her thoughts and feelings.
She trusted Matt. Everything she’d learned about him over the past six months told her that he was a good guy. And the one thing that made her believe that he had no intentions toward his ex was that he hadn’t had to tell her that Allison was coming today. But he had.
Still, a little part of her felt at a disadvantage, and felt jealous. She was supposed to be in a relationship with Matt, and yet here she was about to spend Saturday alone with nothing planned to do while he was hanging out with his ex-wife.
After talking to Cheryl last night she’d decided that she wasn’t going to call that guy Kyle. Because she was attracted to him she’d decided that even a phone call would be a betrayal of her relationship with Matt. It would be one thing if she didn’t want to talk to him and just wanted him out of her hair, but that wasn’t the case. She was interested…curious. Anyway, like Cheryl said, if Kyle wanted to track her down he could. So she’d decided that she wasn’t going to call him and that if he did find her number and call her, then she’d tell him in a nice way that she was in a relationship.
But that was last night. This morning things were different. This morning her relationship with Matt didn’t feel balanced. His ex-wife was coming to visit him and spend the day in his house, so why should she feel guilty about talking to a nice guy that she’d met professionally on the phone? Why should she feel bad about a simple phone call when Matt would be face-to-face and alone with his ex? Nope, that wasn’t balanced at all.
And anyway, what if Matt telling her that he was sick was a ruse? What if he’d known before today that Allison was in DC, and they’d planned for her to visit? What if they’d been in contact all along and Matt knew she was coming, and his claiming that he and Davy were ill was just a cover story?
Stop it! You’re over thinking things.
She thought about calling Cheryl again to get her take on the new circumstances. But she knew Cheryl, and already knew what she would say. Cheryl would tell her that she was stupid for believing Matt’s story. She’d say that she was being played.
Last night Cheryl told her to call Kyle Michaels, the fine IT brother with the panty-melting voice. Well, maybe she would. She’d make some coffee, have a little breakfast and think about it. And then, maybe she would.
He gave me some dap on the flightline just before he boarded the plane. He was grinning so hard I thought his face was going to crack. He handed me the Safety handheld radio and the keys to the Chevy S-10 and said, “We got so busy I forgot to fuel up, so you might want to get some gas before you do anything else. You’re running on fumes.”
The gas needle was below E. Way below E. I left the PAX terminal trying to remember where the hell the base gas station was. Kirby had pointed it out in passing on my first day when he was giving me the base tour, but I’d been so busy cramming my head full of information about the job since then that that seemed like months ago. I had no idea where the pumps were.
I decided that the best thing to do was to go to the Headquarters building and park the truck, and after I got situated at work, find somebody who could tell me where the gas station was. That way I wouldn’t waste fuel trying to find it. That seemed like a good plan.
The PAX terminal was about a mile and a half from the Headquarters building and my office. About halfway there the truck’s engine sputtered, lurched and shut down.
Kirby was somewhere in the air on his way back to the world, and I was sitting in a truck in the dark on a little island in the middle of fucking nowhere, not knowing a soul, and all because he’d been so hyped to get away that he couldn’t take the time to get some gas.
Using what momentum the truck had left I coasted as close to the side of the road as I could get and stopped. I sat behind the wheel of my dead truck, thinking about my options.
I’d noticed during the base tour Kirby gave me that the only paved roads on the island were in the immediate area of the Base Headquarters compound. All the other roads were dirt. I was on a dirt road right now. It had rained last night, and the road was muddy. If I walked to work, by the time I got there I was going to need to polish my boots again, and maybe go back to my room and change uniforms. And it was cold out, and the wind was roaring. It was blowing so hard that I could feel the trucking rocking.
Other than walking to work, my other option was to use the walkie-talkie to radio the Security Police or the Transportation Squadron, who were responsible for all government vehicles, and have them bring me a can of gas.
I was trying to decide who to contact when I saw headlights in my rearview mirror. I guess I was thinking like a civilian back in the world, so I didn’t expect whoever it was to stop to see if I needed help. But they did.
A government panel van pulled up and stopped beside me. I rolled my window down as the driver slid the passenger side door of the van open. It was Master Sergeant Davis from Aerial Port Squadron.
Over the roar of the wind she yelled, “It’s kind of dark out here to be sightseeing. What’s up?”
Even though it wasn’t my fault, I felt embarrassed as I yelled back, “Out of gas.”
MSgt Davis frowned at me. “That asshole left you with no gas?”
She said, “Come on, man,” and moved back to the driver’s seat.
“Thanks, Sergeant Davis,” I said as she drove us up the road. “I appreciate this.”
Keeping her eyes on the road she said, “Okay, a couple of things: One, this is no big deal. We’re all family here, so we help each other out. Two, I outrank you, but it’s not that serious on Shemya. We both run our sections; I’m the Chief of Aerial Port; you’re the Chief of Safety. So you can stuff that ‘Sergeant Davis’ shit and call me Collie.”
“Yeah. If you call me Colinda I’m going to have to hurt you.”
“So what’s your name again, man?”
“You can call me Technical Sergeant Black.”
Now she took her eyes off the road and gave me the side eye. I looked back at her and tried to keep my expression serious.
After a moment her full lips parted like flower petals for the sun and she broke into a broad smile. She looked younger when she smiled. Being a Master Sergeant, I figured her to be in her thirties, but when she smiled, I could see the kid she used to be.
She said, “Oh, you’re funny, huh? So it’s gonna be like that dealing with you? Yeah, okay, I got you now…asshole.”
So Master Sergeant Colinda Davis, aka Collie, became my first friend on Shemya Air Force Base, aka The Rock.
A couple of months after that morning we would become friends with benefits.