The Usual Suspects

THE USUAL SUSPECTS

AUGUST 2021

After their rendition of a Stallone-Stone evening—or early morning, depending on how you interpreted time—they made it a point not to hang together quite so much. All that did, though, was fuel the gossip. Not only was it generally known that they were the two officers involved in the whole Moose thing—something best forgotten, in John's opinion—but because prior to that, they had hung out a lot, both in Kabul and back at Fort Moore.

Still, more aware of her presence than ever before, he would steal a sidelong glance. More often than not, their eyes met—the pull between them was that strong, like an irresistible telepathic command—and he would feel this electric shock in his thighs, his lungs squeezed down, all the spit dried up on his tongue. His heart thumped as his cock swelled. Sometimes, he lost track of his surroundings and what he was doing in this place. He didn't exactly forget , but, for a second or two, Afghanistan and all this chaos and despair disappeared. For that brief moment, the world contracted until there was only her, this woman in the bubble of his desire.

Of course, tongues wagged; there were knowing smirks and raised eyebrows. One tech said something along the lines of John maybe closing his mouth, otherwise he was liable to catch a couple of flies.

Whatever. Even up to his elbows in work and grime and misery...John was happy. It was like Casablanca , probably one of the most romantic movies he'd ever watched. He first saw the film in college. The auditorium erupted in cheers when, at the end, Claude Rains told his officers to round up the usual suspects. John's date for the evening...a girl whose name he couldn't remember...had welled up. He couldn't take his eyes off Ingrid Bergman. The camera had made love to her face, lingering on her features, the lens gauzed so her skin was luminous, flawless, perfect. Her mouth was so lush John's breath had stoppered in his chest when Bogart tipped up Bergman's chin, so his thumb almost grazed her lips. Bergman was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

Until now.

There was only a single thorn.

There were times...all right, virtually every day after the nightmare of The Falling Men…when he would look up from his work—and she wouldn't be around, anywhere. On break was what the charge nurse said, though there was something in the way the nurse said that which tickled John's antennae. Something going on...but what?

Because he did know the where. Roni didn't have to say anything. But when, cheeks flushed and neck mottled, she slipped back into the med tent, he knew exactly where she'd gone. He wasn't clear on the why , mostly because he wasn't quite ready to look at that one.

Although his thoughts were minnows darting to a shiny lure: invariably swimming around and around the charge nurse's tone. His expression, as if bursting to spill the beans because gossip ...but restraining himself at the last second from saying anything to John.

Something was up. The why were elusive, but did that matter? No, not really. Well, all right, it sort of did matter, but mostly...no. It shouldn't matter with whom she spent time when she wasn't with him or why she slipped out for lengthy periods to which the charge nurse turned a blind eye .

So, don't go looking for trouble. Just don't do it. He told himself that virtually every day when Roni disappeared. He was still reciting this same mantra one afternoon about a week after The Falling Men, when, ten minutes after she'd gone, he finished up with a patient, made sure there was coverage, and left the med tent.

He didn't even have to think. Retracing his steps toward the tarmac, he slid into a wedge of shade where he was reasonably certain he couldn't be seen from the hangar. The door there was open, but John couldn't see into the shadows.

You're being paranoid. He should leave. This was crazy. Just plain old, green-eyed, hobgoblin jealousy and what about? That she had friends? That she wanted to hang with Driver and his buddies? Fine, but why Driver? Why almost every day? All right, not every day, but just about every other.

To be fair, he looked for Driver himself. At odd times, when he wasn't with Roni, and even if she'd not disappeared on a particular day, he would saunter to the area around the hangar. Why? Just because. Hoping Driver had departed on whatever mission the CIA wanted him and his friends to run? Sometimes when John swung by the Humvees were there. Sometimes, they weren't. He never wandered over, never poked his head in to say hello. After all, it wasn't as if he was exactly hard to find; let Driver come find him if he wanted a blood-brother.

And that's what he and Roni are. Just friends. She knows his dad, for heaven's sake.

Sweating, he swigged orange energy drink and kept checking the time. The minutes oozed by; his own break time would be over in five and standing here, stewing in his own juices, was insane?—

And then she was there as if by magic: slipping from the hangar's shadows and into the sun. A medic's pack hung from her left shoulder. A half-second later, they had all appeared, the usual suspects clustered in a small semi-circle: Flowers, Meeks, Harris, that woman and Musa—and then, finally, Driver.

No. His vision irised down, blocking out everything and everyone else. He watched as Driver slid past the others to stand almost toe-to-toe with Roni. No, no. His heart gave a painful knock against his ribs. Hell. Why, Roni, why?

But wait, they weren't touching. Good...except why did they have to stand so close to each other just to talk ? He watched her lips move, saw how she glanced down at her watch, and then she was turning because time to get back to work.

Leave, Roni. His jaws clenched so hard he was surprised his teeth hadn't cracked. Just leave, just ? —

And then she laid a hand on Driver's shoulder .

No. His mouth went slack. All the spit dried on his tongue. No, no, Roni, don't.

But then she did. She stood on tiptoe because she was a small woman, after all—and kissed Driver's cheek.

There was a sudden small crinkle-crack, the feeling of something wet on his fingers, and he looked down to see energy drink drizzling from the crushed plastic bottle his fist had just throttled.

Get out of here. His eyes burned. He wanted to weep. Get out of here before she feels you looking and sees what a loser you are.

Still clutching the bottle, he slid back the way he'd come, staying in that long tongue of shadow. When he was sure she couldn't possibly see him, he spun on his heel and double-timed it back to the med tent.

He masked; he gowned up. A nurse directed him to a leg in need of stitching, and so he worked, he just worked, hoping the work would help, praying that the work would squelch the thoughts spinning round and round: Stop. Don't jump to conclusions. Friends do that all the time. Roni...didn't she do this all the time? Crap. He couldn't think of any time when ?—

A tap on a shoulder. "Hey," she said, holding up a pack, "I filched some extra MREs. So, in a couple hours, you? Me?" When he turned to look down, her gaze was direct and smoldered with desire. "Lunch?"

Somehow, he managed to drag up his voice from wherever it had fallen. "I could eat," he said.

Although, once in his quarters, they went straight to dessert—and with a vengeance.

She's mine, Driver. He tasted the salt in the hollow of Roni's throat and drew circles with his tongue around her nipples and went lower and lower and kissed and sucked as her hands fisted in his hair. She's mine, he thought, his tongue flicking her clit from side to side as she gasped and arched, and her clit swelled, and she pressed herself against his mouth and bucked and came with a loud, long animal cry of release.

She's mine, and you can't have her , he thought as she lowered herself onto his aching cock and began to move, both of them gasping and moaning and he reached for her breasts, felt her erect nipples against his palms as they moved faster and faster...

She's mine. He shuddered as her tongue tasted his ear, his throat. Her hand cupped his balls, her fingertips brushing the sensitive patch at the shaft of his cock. Moaning, he drove himself into her, thrusting as hard and far as he could and then she was shuddering, gasping, telling him of her pleasure: John, John, John, come with me, John, come with me!

Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes! His back arched, as his pleasure, liquid and fiery, exploded, sheeting his vision white. Ecstasy raced down from his groin to curl his toes, and everything fell away because all that mattered was this woman, this woman, this woman... He cried out and so did she. They were both coming and loudly, and he didn't give a damn who heard.

Because she's mine. The thought was a delirium, a spiraling fever-dream of sweat and salt and her mouth, her tongue, her body. She's mine, Driver, and you can't have her. She's mine, she's mine, she's mine.

Only a little later that day when, sated, he was back on duty at the med tent, did he remember something.

In the end...Bogart didn't get the girl now, did he?