Tight Quarters Read online

  “Bacon will run with you. Don’t be afraid to hang back. We don’t want you in medical on your first day,” the LT barked. “Your safety is our top priority, but you will not hinder the workings of my team, understood?”

  “Understood.” Spencer nodded. “I appreciate this opportunity. I’ll try hard not to be a burden.”

  “Glad to hear it.” The LT motioned him over as he introduced him to the rest of the men. They were a somber crew—lots of frowns, which he’d expected. No one wanted a reporter hanging around, disrupting their work. But Spencer still hoped to win them over. The medic, a young guy who couldn’t be more than twenty-two who everyone called Bullets, walked over as the senior chief announced the plan for the run.

  “You sure you up to this? When was the last time you ran?” he demanded with rapid-fire questions, no pause for Spencer to answer. “Did the PR people request a physical from you? I just wanted to be prepared here.”

  “I’m up to it. Ran yesterday. And yes, full physical and a stack of waivers. You won’t have to revive me.”

  “Good,” chipped in another SEAL, this one seriously muscled even compared to his chiseled teammates. His dark hair was slightly longer than the other guys, more styled, and he had Mediterranean features—maybe Italian. “Would hate to see Bullets here crack your ribs on CPR.”

  “Fuck you, Rooster.” Bullets shook his head. “One time I cracked ribs, and the reporter doesn’t need to hear our horror stories.”

  “Oh, I’m here to hear all the stories.” Spencer offered what he hoped was an encouraging smile. At least it was one that usually worked to disarm interviewees, but these guys were special cases, and no one smiled back.

  “Let’s go,” the senior chief called. “Bacon, you stick to Bryant.”

  “So, what happened to your finger?” Spencer asked as they started to jog.

  Bacon took so long to answer, Spencer started to dread the next few weeks of trying to get information from this guy who clearly didn’t want to be stuck with him. But finally, Bacon spoke in a brisk monotone. “Dislocated it climbing a tree on a mission. Don’t ask where. I aggravated it yesterday training. I’ll be fine.”

  “Sounds painful.” Spencer easily kept pace with Bacon, who seemed determined to run at a speed better designed for a junior high track team’s first practice than a group of SEALs, most of whom were far ahead now. “We can go faster.”

  “Don’t want to push it. Did you remember to eat something?” Bacon demanded. Even at the slow pace, his body moved fluidly—he’d be a joy to watch if he wasn’t being so combative. “Bullets isn’t joking. He’ll be pissed if you pass out.”

  “I ate like I usually do on race days. Stretched too.”

  “You race?” There was both grudging respect and utter disbelief in Bacon’s tone.

  “Oh yeah.” Spencer was happy to mess with his expectations. “I like having something to train for. It keeps me focused. I’ve done various distances, but I did the LA marathon for my thirty-fifth birthday. Liked it so much that I did an ultra-marathon for my fortieth.”

  “Huh. And what are you going to do for fifty?” Bacon finally picked up the pace, probably because he was finally convinced Spencer wasn’t going to keel over on him.

  “Seven years away.” Spencer laughed. He didn’t think Bacon meant the question as any kind of fishing expedition. He’d gone gray prematurely in his twenties and never bothered with dyes or other cover-ups, so people always read him as older. And as such, he couldn’t resist messing with the dour Bacon. “But I think for fifty, I’ll learn to swim.”

  “What? You can’t swim?” As predicted, Bacon’s mouth fell open, and he lost his rhythm, almost tripping before he righted himself. “F—What the... They gave you to us and you can’t swim?”

  “Watch your step,” Spencer said brightly as he jogged ahead.

  “Seriously. You can’t swim, like at all?” Bacon easily caught back up to him.

  “Chill.” Without breaking stride, Spencer smiled at him. It wasn’t returned. “I can swim. And fire a gun. And I’ve skydived. You think they’d let me embed if I couldn’t keep up?”

  “Yep.” Bacon had a world-weary tone. Spencer wanted to know his story, what had made him seem old beyond his years. “PR has different definitions of ‘fit’ then the rest of us. No offense.”

  “Well, I made sure to be as ready as I could for this assignment. Feel free to test me.”

  “You want to go faster?” Bacon sounded almost eager, which was cute. Not that Spencer needed to go find anything about this guy—this much too young, much too off-limits guy—cute. He was part of the job. He wasn’t allowed to be cute.

  “Yeah. Let’s kick it.” Spencer needed the hard pace to push aside any personal curiosity about Bacon. He was a source. He didn’t like Spencer, that much was clear, but Spencer had a job to do, one that he’d waited years to do. This was the chance of a journalistic lifetime and he wasn’t going to blow it.

  Chapter Two

  Bacon liked running, liked anything that got his body moving. Being still and alone with his thoughts was harder on him than any twenty-mile trek. And generally, he liked company, was never the sort to turn down being around people. But, he was trying hard not to like being around Bryant—getting too comfortable with the journalist seemed like a recipe for disaster. Who knew what would make it into his articles? And fuck this being on Team Bravo nonsense. Why the hell did he have to hang back on their next mission and babysit the reporter? He was still not over the LT assigning him this duty, and it didn’t matter how good a runner Spencer Bryant was, Bacon’s mood wasn’t improving.

  Bryant hadn’t been kidding about being in shape, at least as far as running was concerned. He easily matched the pace of the men at the rear of the pack, no hanging back like Bacon had been prepared for. They’d put him in the same physical training uniform as the rest of them, but Bacon had expected it to be painfully obvious that Bryant wasn’t cut out for this. However, not even breathing that hard, Bryant moved with a natural grace. He was built more like an aging dancer than marathoner with long, lean, muscular legs, slim torso, and arms that were capped by expressive hands. Even when running, he’d managed to talk with his hands. Once they caught up to the pack, though, Bryant talked less, seemingly content to observe the team.

  “So us getting the journalist, that’s gotta mean we’re shipping out soon, right?” Curly asked around the halfway point, huffing between words. As usual, he was to the rear of the pack, his naturally burly build more suited to long hikes and carrying loads than running.

  “No clue,” Bacon replied.

  “Not before the weekend, man,” Rooster groaned. “I got plans.”

  “Making workout videos for your thirsty Instagram fans doesn’t count as plans,” Bacon joked before he remembered to watch what was revealed in front of Bryant.

  “Oh, fuck off. You just wish you had my numbers.”

  “Dude. Some of your followers aren’t even chicks.” Donaldson mock shuddered. “Gotta shut that shit down.”

  “I am here for all the thirsty people.” Rooster laughed. Bacon still hadn’t figured him out—Rooster, whose real name was Renzo and who wore a Catholic medallion he fingered before missions, seemed pretty damn straight, just cocky as fuck. He could be bi or pan, but he hadn’t said as much to the team, and he put up with Donaldson’s homophobic crap with far more grace than Bacon did. “And I’m going to a buddy’s sick backyard obstacle course. Can’t wait.”

  Technically, the navy didn’t like them having social media, and Rooster’s videos and images of himself doing killer workouts were definitely a gray area, but he didn’t use his real name or say he was navy on there so no one had busted him for it yet.

  “You men planning to still be running come lunch? Let’s pick up the pace,” the senior chief ordered. He was a good guy, and he’d probably just pretend he had
n’t heard Rooster’s plans. But would the reporter? Fuck. Bacon was not going to get used to this having to watch every word thing.

  “Hey, Rooster, let’s try to catch Shiny,” Donaldson yelled. Shiny was up front by the LT—he might be young and skinny, but he could run.

  “Can we join the chase?” Bryant sounded eager and not at all winded.

  “LT probably thinks we’re still back down the hill.”

  “Then let’s prove him wrong.” Bryant flashed a smile that had Bacon seeing exactly why that magazine had picked him for most eligible bachelor. It was an almost feral grin, dirty without trying to be so, challenging and secretive in equal measures and way too damn appealing.

  “Okay.” Bacon usually ran in the back out of loyalty to Curly, but he couldn’t deny the urge to show off some himself. “But if you injure yourself—”

  “Stop worrying, Petty Officer.” Bryant added a wink.

  Oh fuck. The man was dangerous in so very many ways.

  But Bacon couldn’t worry too much about that right then because Bryant sped up and Bacon had to put some extra kick in to keep up with the pursuit of the lead group. They passed Rooster and Donaldson, who had settled in mid-pack, and fell in with Shiny, Bullets, and the LT.

  “Bacon. What the... You looking to take out our...guest?” Bullets goggled at them.

  “Nice run.” Somehow Bryant managed to keep his voice even and steady, even after the effort required to catch up to the leaders. “I told you, Lieutenant Thomas, you don’t have to worry about me keeping up.”

  “Good.” The LT all but grunted his reply as they came back around to the starting point. As always, he didn’t have to work to catch his breath as they came to a stop. Man was a machine. “Now we hydrate, get changed, and then eat before we’ve got meetings. Those will be of no interest to Mr. Bryant, so, Bacon, you’ll take him on a base tour. The BUD/S recruits are in the grinder today. He can observe that.”

  Bacon read between the lines that they’d be talking mission strategy for the upcoming deployment and the team leadership didn’t want Bryant there. But that meant Bacon missing the strategy talks, further underscoring that he’d been given this shit assignment. He should be in there, finding out which targets they needed him to take out. And he knew this had less to do with his bum finger than with him being Lowe’s friend, and the LT still being pissed about Lowe leaving.

  And to make matters worse, he’d sat for his chief’s exam recently. Luckily, his LT didn’t make the promotion decisions on his own, but still he probably wouldn’t be singling Bacon out for any praise anytime soon either.

  Fuck it. He drank his water and changed to his uniform with angry movements, trying to ignore Bryant best he could.

  “They gave me fatigues for when we deploy. Should I wear those or civvies for the tour?” Bryant asked him, seemingly oblivious to Bacon’s bad mood.

  “Civilian clothes are fine on base,” the LT answered for him. “And stick to Petty Officer Bacon.” With that last order, he headed out, seemingly satisfied that Bacon could keep the reporter in line.

  Bryant changed to cargo pants and a blue shirt with buttons. It wasn’t as inappropriate as a suit would be nor was it sloppy, but he still stuck out. Not that him in camo was going to be an improvement—it didn’t matter what they put Bryant in, he was still a damned distraction who didn’t belong with their team.

  On the way to the chow hall, Bryant did more of what he’d done on the run, letting the guys chatter without interrupting them with a lot of questions. Bacon figured he was still taking tons of mental notes, though. His eyes were sharp and piercing, the kind that didn’t miss the slightest detail.

  “I just hope we don’t go wheels up tomorrow,” Curly said. “We’ve got a cake tasting.” He managed to drop in wedding prep in every other conversation. It would be the fifth wedding Bacon had been in over the last year, and he’d lost track of the ones he was just a guest at. He guessed some of it was their age—even their civilian friends were partnering up and marrying off.

  “How’s the bachelor party plans coming?” Donaldson asked Bacon as they entered the chow hall and got on the long line for food. “Tell me we’re doing strippers for Curly. If you need recs—”

  “We’re doing paintball and drinks after.” It wasn’t that Bacon wasn’t capable of planning a raunchy party, but he just didn’t seem to have the energy for it lately.

  “Awww. Come on, man.” Curly faked indignation—they’d talked about this and no way did his fiancée want him having an X-rated party anyway.

  “You can’t have a party without girls,” Donaldson whined. “That’s just gay.”

  Bacon waited a beat for someone other than him to be the one to speak up and put Donaldson in his place, but as usual, no one censored him. Especially recently, the guys—Donaldson wasn’t the only one—seemed to think they were super funny when they trotted out their homophobic wisecracks.

  “It’ll be fun. And you can’t be saying shit like that,” Bacon warned him, not wanting to start a fight, but he really couldn’t let him run off at the mouth, even if Bryant wasn’t at his side.

  “What?” Donaldson acted all ignorant, same as always. They were almost to the food, but not close enough as far as Bacon was concerned.

  “Dude. We’ve got the reporter here.” Curly shook his head.” You want him reporting we’re a bunch of Neanderthals?”

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Bryant said mildly.

  “See?” Donaldson crowed triumphantly as he bumped Bryant’s shoulders. “And I’m right. Everything’s better with hot chicks.”

  “Wouldn’t say that,” Bryant drawled, and Bacon tried to beam him a shut up message. He respected the hell out of Bryant for being out, but he had no idea what a minefield he was walking into here. Luckily, they reached the food and their attention shifted to filling their plates. Bacon took double portions of eggs and biscuits, while Bryant accepted a scoop of oatmeal and some toast. He was going to have to eat more if he wanted to keep up with them in the field.

  Bacon took the chair next to Bryant, uneasiness making his back itch. Maybe it would all be okay. Maybe he wouldn’t have to add protecting Bryant from the team’s fucked-up attitude to the list of jobs he did not want. All went okay as they ate, Bryant going back to observing and jotting some notes in a little book, old-school style, while Curly returned to humble-bragging about the wedding. But then Donaldson turned his attention back to Bryant, and Bacon’s stomach sank.

  “So what does your chick think of you being gone for a few weeks? You married? You look married.”

  “You mean I look old? Like I need a minivan?” Bryant laughed.

  “Well, if the dad jeans fit,” Curly teased around a big bite of toast.

  “Not married. No kids.” Bryant shrugged, and Bacon tried to will him to leave it at that. But of course he couldn’t stop here. “Ex-husband would think it’s pretty cool, though. He embedded with the army a few years back himself before he got on the White House beat.”

  “Husband?” Donaldson made a sour face. “A reporter husband?” He said it like the only thing worse than being in a same-sex relationship would be being in one with a member of the press.

  “Yup.” Bryant gave him a smile that was far more relaxed than Bacon could have managed. “Ex, though. He’s remarried now.”

  Donaldson looked like someone had poured vinegar all over his eggs, and Bacon figured something ignorant was about to come out of his mouth. Thinking fast, Bacon shoveled in the last of his food.

  “You ready to see BUD/S?” he asked Bryant. “We should probably get going.”

  “I’m not in any rush, but sure.” Bryant kept giving off the same easygoing vibe, seemingly oblivious to how his admission had been a bucket of ice water over the table.

  “Let’s go.” Bacon stood, scooping up both his and Bryant’s trays, leaving Bryant to put awa
y his little notebook. Maybe Bryant would be content to stay, but Bacon needed out of there, away from the tension and Donaldson’s mouth and everyone else’s complicity. Even as he barreled out of there, he was hardly eager. He did not want to spend the rest of the morning one-on-one with Bryant. Fuck his life and this long-ass day that was barely underway.

  * * *

  Spencer didn’t really need a tour of the base—he’d been on military installations before, and honestly he found the interpersonal relations of the team far more fascinating than any landmarks or history lessons. He didn’t put up a fuss, though, when Bacon hurried him away from the table.

  And sure, the Donaldson guy was an unmitigated ass, but Spencer found that intriguing. What made him that way? What had happened in his past to make him intolerant? Why was Petty Officer Bacon the only one to call him on his antics? These were the sorts of questions that drove Spencer as a reporter, the desire to seek out the human truth at the center of every story. It wasn’t enough to just dismiss Donaldson and the rest of the guys as a Neanderthal—Spencer wanted to dig deep into the culture that created guys like that.

  As he followed Bacon out of the dining facility, he didn’t regret being open about Greg to the team. He’d never really been in the closet, but he’d spent too many years when he was younger watching his words, worrying about what others might think. Screw that. Life was far too short to hide, and besides, it was bound to come up at some point the next few weeks. Better to just get it out in the open now.