More Than Enough
Page 62
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“Anything.”
“Anything?”
“D. Seriously. I’ve puked stuff better than some of the prints on those boards. I’d rather wallpaper the house with Bacon. The dog and the food.”
I laugh, my hands finding her waist before pulling her between my legs. “You know what I love most about you, Riley?”
She smiles “What?”
“Everything. You’re so damn perfect.”
Sighing, she says, “I’m far from perfect, Dylan.”
“You’re perfect for me.”
“Then that’s all that matters.”
Riley
I’d love to say that we made the most of the two weeks he was back. We spent most of the time at home, in the bedroom or garage, keeping to ourselves. We did make an effort to see our friends and family, but mostly, we just wanted to be together. Alone. We drove, a lot, and we talked. He told me about what he’d done, leaving out details I’m sure would be too much for me to handle. And he told me about Dave—about the shenanigans they’d get up to. He did mention that Dave had changed a little while he’d been gone on medical leave. Most likely because he wasn’t as close to any of the other guys as he had been with him. It makes sense, I told him. It would be lonely out there and without the presence of your best friend, it would be hard. I knew that first hand.
I told him about the brownie incident with the girls and how Heidi and I had gotten closer that night. He gave me a weird look that had me asking what he was thinking. “You guys didn’t like… compare notes or anything?” I gagged a little, and then smacked his gut. He laughed. “I was just making sure,” he told me. He may have found it funny. I didn’t. In fact, I was pretty upset over it. I think maybe because the thought of him being with someone else, as long as and as often (puke) as him and Heidi… I can’t even finish that thought. He knew how unsettled it made me feel—which, honestly wasn’t hard to work out considering I didn’t bother hiding it. He held me in his arms, and told me he loved me, and only me, and that I was being dumb. I waited until he was in the shower on his own and threw a bucket of cold water at him, followed by glitter. Because glitter solves everything. It sure as hell solved my bad mood.
He paid me back though, of course. Because the first rule of Mayhem is retaliation. He asked me to go out and get him something from the hardware store to fix our jammed windows. Want to know what it’s like to walk into a hardware store and ask for a tube of Slip Airy Deep Sock-It? Trust me, you don’t. I repeated it for the fifth time, my eyes moving to the note in my hand and back up at the three guys with confused faces staring back at me. Then it clicked for the youngest one. He repeated it over and over again. He even announced through the store speakers, “Rodney, please come to the front desk. We have a Slip Airy Deep Sock-It enquiry.” They all seemed to be in on some kind of private joke as they typed on their computers, repeating the word over and over again, smirking and chuckling to themselves. It wasn’t until the hundredth or so repeat of the product’s name that it finally dawned on me.
Yeah.
I’m slow.
Slip Airy Deep Sock-It = Slippery Deep Socket = Wet vagina.
I kicked his ass when I got home.
He didn’t stop laughing.
Not until he had my pre-flailing arms held behind my back, my chest sticking out in front of me. “We even now?” he asked, smiling down at me.
I called a truce. I had to.
Hey, don’t judge. You’ve never been captured in the arms of Dylan Banks while his perfectly blue eyes looked down at you like he was ready to devour you. And devour me, he did.
* * *
Time is an asshole, I’ve decided.
The ticking and the consistency of it.
Because as much as I wanted it to slow down, it doesn’t. In fact, the harder I wished, the faster it went. Until we’re back here, standing hand in hand saying goodbye to each other. Only now we’re at the airport. “I’m going to miss you, Banks.”
“I’ll miss you more, Hudson,” he says, stepping forward and wrapping his arms around my waist. He lifts me off the ground, kissing me as he does. When he places me back on earth, he pulls away. “I’ll be back before you know it, Ry.”
“Promise?”
He nods.
I nod.
He kisses me once more.
And then he’s gone.
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!”
“Anything?”
“D. Seriously. I’ve puked stuff better than some of the prints on those boards. I’d rather wallpaper the house with Bacon. The dog and the food.”
I laugh, my hands finding her waist before pulling her between my legs. “You know what I love most about you, Riley?”
She smiles “What?”
“Everything. You’re so damn perfect.”
Sighing, she says, “I’m far from perfect, Dylan.”
“You’re perfect for me.”
“Then that’s all that matters.”
Riley
I’d love to say that we made the most of the two weeks he was back. We spent most of the time at home, in the bedroom or garage, keeping to ourselves. We did make an effort to see our friends and family, but mostly, we just wanted to be together. Alone. We drove, a lot, and we talked. He told me about what he’d done, leaving out details I’m sure would be too much for me to handle. And he told me about Dave—about the shenanigans they’d get up to. He did mention that Dave had changed a little while he’d been gone on medical leave. Most likely because he wasn’t as close to any of the other guys as he had been with him. It makes sense, I told him. It would be lonely out there and without the presence of your best friend, it would be hard. I knew that first hand.
I told him about the brownie incident with the girls and how Heidi and I had gotten closer that night. He gave me a weird look that had me asking what he was thinking. “You guys didn’t like… compare notes or anything?” I gagged a little, and then smacked his gut. He laughed. “I was just making sure,” he told me. He may have found it funny. I didn’t. In fact, I was pretty upset over it. I think maybe because the thought of him being with someone else, as long as and as often (puke) as him and Heidi… I can’t even finish that thought. He knew how unsettled it made me feel—which, honestly wasn’t hard to work out considering I didn’t bother hiding it. He held me in his arms, and told me he loved me, and only me, and that I was being dumb. I waited until he was in the shower on his own and threw a bucket of cold water at him, followed by glitter. Because glitter solves everything. It sure as hell solved my bad mood.
He paid me back though, of course. Because the first rule of Mayhem is retaliation. He asked me to go out and get him something from the hardware store to fix our jammed windows. Want to know what it’s like to walk into a hardware store and ask for a tube of Slip Airy Deep Sock-It? Trust me, you don’t. I repeated it for the fifth time, my eyes moving to the note in my hand and back up at the three guys with confused faces staring back at me. Then it clicked for the youngest one. He repeated it over and over again. He even announced through the store speakers, “Rodney, please come to the front desk. We have a Slip Airy Deep Sock-It enquiry.” They all seemed to be in on some kind of private joke as they typed on their computers, repeating the word over and over again, smirking and chuckling to themselves. It wasn’t until the hundredth or so repeat of the product’s name that it finally dawned on me.
Yeah.
I’m slow.
Slip Airy Deep Sock-It = Slippery Deep Socket = Wet vagina.
I kicked his ass when I got home.
He didn’t stop laughing.
Not until he had my pre-flailing arms held behind my back, my chest sticking out in front of me. “We even now?” he asked, smiling down at me.
I called a truce. I had to.
Hey, don’t judge. You’ve never been captured in the arms of Dylan Banks while his perfectly blue eyes looked down at you like he was ready to devour you. And devour me, he did.
* * *
Time is an asshole, I’ve decided.
The ticking and the consistency of it.
Because as much as I wanted it to slow down, it doesn’t. In fact, the harder I wished, the faster it went. Until we’re back here, standing hand in hand saying goodbye to each other. Only now we’re at the airport. “I’m going to miss you, Banks.”
“I’ll miss you more, Hudson,” he says, stepping forward and wrapping his arms around my waist. He lifts me off the ground, kissing me as he does. When he places me back on earth, he pulls away. “I’ll be back before you know it, Ry.”
“Promise?”
He nods.
I nod.
He kisses me once more.
And then he’s gone.
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!”
