Thirty-Nine

Dylan

The time away from Riley isn’t as bad as it was the first time because a lot of it’s on base, which means I have more contact with her. Still not as much as I’d want, which is every second of every day, but hey… it could be worse.

For some reason, I’m not really sure why, but I’d become the target of all the guys’ pranks. It started off as them streaking behind me on one of my many Skype calls to Riley, and then it kind of just escalated. I guess I’m a good target because I’d get unjustifiably pissed off after each one. I’m not used to being the target. I’m used to aiming the grenade, so to speak.

They could happen any time, anywhere. Some were stupid. Some were smart. Some were on the fly and some were planned. They included, but were not limited to: honking the tank horn while I was working under it, equaling a gash on my head. They put shaving cream over my clothes and then set it on fire—while I was sleeping. This one wouldn’t have been so bad had they chosen anywhere else besides my dick because what’s the first thing you do when you realize you’re on fire? Try to put it out with your hand, that’s what. This subsequently led to my new nickname: Flaming Battered Cock. They also poured hot sauce in my mouth while I was sleeping—the consequences of that are self-explanatory. They wrapped my bed in Saran wrap—while I was in it. They did a lot of things while I was sleeping, hence why I don’t sleep much any more. There were a lot of water ones. You know… open doors… bucket of water. Open tank doors… bucket of water. Eat… bucket of water. Sleep… bucket of water. Breathe… bucket of fucking water. The worst one, though, just happened recently. There I was, sitting on the toilet, minding my business, pants down to my ankles, picture of Riley in one hand… you can imagine what was in the other when FLASH BANG.

A flash bang is exactly what it sounds like. It’s a device that goes off with a flash and a bang… it’s meant to be used to stun and disorientate the enemy. But when you’re in fuck-knows-where, Afghanistan, in the middle of a warzone, a flash bang could easily be mistaken for many other things.

So, while my eyes tried to refocus and my ears rang, I did what anyone in my situation would do, I ran out—pants still around my ankles wondering what the fuck was going on. It’s not until I heard the laughter of eleven men when realization set in.

So for three months I’ve been constantly looking over my shoulder. Well, more than I normally would.

Also, that last prank is on YouTube now. I’ve watched it. Conway was the mastermind; Leroy was the leader. One guess who was holding the camera. Yep. Dave.

Swear, there’s no shame greater than running out of restroom, tripping over your pants and falling on your face while trying to hide your still semi-erect cock.

“It’s not funny, Ry!”

Through the screen, she covers her mouth attempting to stifle her laugh.

“Ry!”

Now she’s on her back, her hands on her stomach. Her laptop shifts, making the camera tilt so I’m looking at the ceiling, her laughter filling my ears.

“Ry!” I shout.

Slowly, she sits up, wiping her eyes as she does. “I need the link, babe.”

“Not a chance.”

She grabs her phone from the nightstand and crosses her legs beneath her. “I’ll just get it from Dave,” she says through a smile.

I shake my head, succumbing to the inevitable.

“Do me a favor, okay? Watch it when you’re alone. I have enough shame to deal with.”

“Promise,” she says, her grin getting wider when her phone sounds. She reads the text quickly and looks back up at me. “So any more I should know about?”

“None that I haven’t told you. Hey, you better not be relaying this back to the guys.”

Her mouth clamps shut.

“Riley!”

“I’m sorry! It’s too funny not to share.”

I shake my head. “Babe! I need to talk to you. It’s serious.”

Her face falls. Then her eyes narrow. “What’s her name and number? I’ll fly over there and kick her ass!” she jokes.

I don’t. “We got our orders.”

She clears her throat, all humor gone. Then she picks up her laptop and brings it closer to her face. “What does that mean?”

“It means I’m coming home.”

For a moment, I think the computer’s frozen. It hasn’t. But she has. Then, slowly, she lifts her hand to her mouth. “Home?”

I nod, a slight smile breaking through. “I’m coming home, baby.”

“When?”

“I’ll be home in a month. But I’ll be on base, babe. Until my contract’s up in a few months.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I can come home on weekends. I was thinking we could alternate. I’ll come up one weekend, and you can come up the next? We can stay at a hotel close by.”

Her smile is slow, like she’s still trying to comprehend exactly what she’s feeling. “That sounds amazing. Did you just find out?”

“No. I waited to tell you so time wouldn’t go by so slowly.”

“And when your contract’s up? What happens then?”

I sigh. “I was hoping we could talk about it in person? Discuss our future then.”

Her smile widens. “Our future.”

*     *     *