Dad makes a non-committal sound in the back of his throat and we drive the rest of the way home in silence. He’s looking insanely smug as we head inside.
“I’m going to hit the hay. I’ll see you tomorrow, son,” Dad says with a yawn, clapping me on the shoulder. Watching him walk down the hall and close his bedroom door behind him, I sag against the wall and scrub a hand down my face. Thank fucking Christ it was just a pulled muscle. I check my phone and see that I’ve missed a message from my brother.
Javier: “Heading to the airport. Hope dad’s ok. Text me.”
Unbelievable.
Me: “Dad’s fine. We’re home. Inflammation and a pulled muscle.”
Javier: “Great. Thanks. Boarding plane. Talk soon.”
Prick.Resisting the urge to throw my phone at the wall, I heave my duffle over my shoulder and head for my childhood bedroom. It’s… sparse, but that’s the way I left it. My old desk, the surface empty except for a lamp, sits in one corner. The bed is neatly made with a familiar faded blue flannel blanket and the bookshelf is filled with my old textbooks and trophies from countless seasons of soccer, football, and basketball. Most of them are just participation awards, but Dad still refuses to get rid of them.
I drop the duffle on the desk, kicking my shoes off and sinking onto the creaky mattress. This beats the bunks and cots I’ve been sleeping on for the last eight years by a long shot, so I’m not complaining. Besides, spending a week or two at home with Dad while I look for an apartment will give me a chance to make sure he follows the doctor’s orders. God knows his stubborn ass won’t do it unless coerced.
Sighing, I get back to my feet, pick up my shoes and put them neatly in the closet. I hang up the contents of my duffle before rolling it and tucking it in the corner. Old habits die hard.
Stripping down to my boxer briefs, I flop on the bed once more and close my eyes. Despite my exhaustion, I can’t relax. I roll my shoulders and shift around, trying to force my body to give in to sleep, but something has me on edge. It takes far too long to nail it down, but I finally grasp it. Julia’s soft citrus scent is toying at the corners of my senses like a phantom that’s just outside my field of vision.
Now that I’ve placed it, she’s all I can think about. Her head resting on my shoulder, hair toying with the collar of my shirt as she breathes steadily in her sleep. The soft, contented hum she made as she drifted off in my arms…
“Fuck,” I growl into the empty room, scrubbing a hand down my face. I’d give anything to make this feeling go away. To pretend like there could be someone else out there for me. But it’s laughable to think that anyone could compare to Julia.
I could shower, but I’m not willing to erase her already faint scent. I’d kill for a scotch right now.
Oh. Icanhave a scotch right now. After so many years living under the Navy’s dry ship policy, it feels almost wrong to be able to go pour myself a drink anytime I want… but I can. The mattress screams as I swing my legs out of bed and get to my feet.
Dad has a liquor cabinet in the living room. I open the little doors, tipping bottles one by one to get a good look at the labels. It’s stocked with everything you’d expect from a man his age: mid-range scotch, bourbon, brandy, gin, vodka, tequila and… what is that? I lift the baby pink bottle; the cap decorated with little strawberries dipped in whipped cream and give it a shake before eyeing the mostly empty bottle of Bailey’s Strawberries and Cream. Limited Edition.
I chuckle to myself and replace the bottle, grabbing a bottle of local rye whiskey from Sonoma Distilling Company. Grabbing a heavy tumbler, I pour two fingers and put the bottle back. I make a quick stop in the kitchen for an ice cube, swirling it in the glass as I settle back in bed. Sitting up against the headboard, I try to ignore the squeaking springs of the mattress and enjoy the warmth that spreads through my body as I drink.
Unbidden, the image of Julia walking to her front door pries its way back into my thoughts. The sway of her hips and ass in that damn dress. The velvet under my fingertips as we danced. The way her fingers tightened around my shoulder when I pulled her closer. Her spectacular rack pressed against my chest on the crowded dance floor…
Fuck. I toss back the rest of my drink and stomp to the bathroom. Yanking my boxers off, I crank the water on, stepping in before it’s even fully warm. I wash my hair, scrubbing it with a vengeance before working the shampoo over the rest of my body.
Julia, leaning over the bar and grabbing the bottle of champagne with an impish smile.
Julia, walking down the aisle in her bridesmaid’s dress, a bouquet clutched in her hands.
Julia, in the car's backseat, my coat around her shoulders, her intense green eyes watching me in the mirror.
My dick is achingly hard and after hours of ignoring it, I finally give in. I grip it and stroke myself roughly, leaning on the wall of the shower. I pump my length until I cum, watching it run down the drain. Instead of feeling better, I just feel worse. Hollow, empty, and dirty. Jacking off to the memory of my friend sleeping trustingly on my shoulder might be an all new low.
* * *
Idon’t feel much better in the morning. A couple hours of sleep on the squeaky mattress did little to improve my frame of mind. I wake up stiff and grumpy, but determined to put Julia out of my head. I make coffee and get dressed, buttoning the innocuous white dress shirt over my chest. After years in uniform, I’m going to have to get a new wardrobe, something I’m fucking dreading. I briefly contemplate asking Julia to help me, but if I’m going to ask her to spend time with me, I might as well just invest in implements of self-flagellation while I’m at it.
The door to my dad’s room is closed when I’m ready to leave and I don’t want to wake him. The drive to San Francisco isn’t terrible, but I’m not looking to get stuck in traffic either, so I leave him a note on the kitchen counter, reminding him to take it easy. Mostly because I know it will annoy the hell out of him.
* * *
The security firm’s primary office is downtown with a view of the waterfront. Glancing out the fifth-story window towards the bay, Alcatraz is just visible, floating in the fog like an otherworldly specter.
“Missing the water?” A deep voice booms behind me.
“No sir,” I say, turning to greet my former commander.
“John is fine, son.” He shakes my hand, smiling in a broad, friendly way that belies his hawk-like instincts.