1
“Dude, this water is hot.”
“That’s the point, Diego. It’s a solar shower.”
“No, I meanhot. Like burning-my-ass-off hot.”
I squeeze my own shower bag to check the temperature. Diego’s right. The thing sat in the sun all afternoon, and now it feels like we’re getting blasted with water from a tea kettle.
Kade laughs from where he’s already stripped off his uniform, waiting for his turn.
“Pussy,” he says, grinning.
“I’m Puerto Rican, man. I’m supposed to be good with heat. This is some other shit.” Diego leans away from the spray and winces.
Kade shakes his head. “Hurry it up. Some of us smell like swamp.” He turns to Yassir. “You need a shower, man. Bad.”
Yassir is sitting on a fallen tree, methodically cleaning his rifle. He doesn’t look up. “Keeps the biters away,” he says, his accent thick.
“Yeah, maybe,” Kade says, “but it’ll start attracting vultures soon, man.”
I smell my own armpits, out of curiosity. Yeah. We all stink. Drills, river crossings, crawling through mud. The heat doesn’t help either. A hot shower, even one from a plastic bag hanging from a tree, feels like a luxury.
We’ve got two solar bags rigged between trees, so we’re doing this in shifts. Me and Diego, then Kade and Emilio, then Buck and Yassir. Four minutes each to wash off the day’s grime. The sun is already starting to dip below the canopy, and the bugs are beginning their nightly assault.
Diego grits his teeth and ducks under the spray, yelping as the water hits him. “Fuck. It’s like being attacked by a hot squid.”
“A hot squid?” Kade calls out. “What the hell does that even mean?”
“It means exactly what it sounds like.” Diego soaps up fast, his smooth, tattooed skin turning pink from the heat. “You’ll see when it’s your turn.”
His big cock flops as he lathers up, and I try not to notice. I try really hard. But it’s right there, and he’s not shy about it. None of them are. We’ve gotten used to being in each other’s space like this. But still. I shouldn’t be looking. Not at Diego. Not at any of them.
It’s been happening more and more. These moments where my brain focuses on the wrong things. On the V of Kade’s hips when he stretches, on the sweat slicking Buck’s hairy chest, on the size and shape of their cocks. I used to think it was just curiosity. Sizing them up the way guys do, comparing. But lately, my heart starts pounding, heat spreading through my gut. And I know it’s more than that.
I blame the situation. We’re isolated out here, no women for a hundred miles, nothing to keep us in check. Maybe this is what happens when testosterone is all you’re surrounded by. Your brain rewires itself. Starts looking for outlets.
Or maybe I’m just a fucking pervert.
I duck my head under my own stream, letting the water run over my face and neck. I keep my eyes closed, focus on the sting of it. The burn. Anything but Diego’s wet body next to me, the muscles in his back flexing as he scrubs his legs.
This is supposed to be our proving ground. Eight weeks of field training. Eight weeks away from phones, computers, civilization. Eight weeks of running, carrying, crawling in some godforsaken stretch of woods in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere.
But how can I prove myself as a soldier if I can’t even control my own thoughts?
“Hurry up, asshole,” Kade says to Diego. “You’re using all the water.”
He’s always pushy, always on the verge of starting something. It’s in the way he stands, the way he talks. In the way he’s always looking for a weakness to exploit.
Diego flips him off. “Patience, hermano. Good things come to those who wait.” He rinses the soap from his buzzed head and steps out, shaking himself like a dog. Water droplets fly everywhere. “There. Saved you some hot squid juice.”
“Damn, that sounds disgusting,” Emilio says, waiting for me to finish so he can take my spot.
I rinse the last of the soap off and step out, grabbing my towel from a tree branch. Kade steps under Diego’s bag. There’s not a hint of self-consciousness in him. He’s just comfortable, in a way I can’t seem to be. The hot water hits him, and he doesn’t even flinch. He tilts his head back and lets it run over his face. This guy’s got a remarkably high pain threshold.
Emilio takes my spot, and while I pull on my PT shorts, I can’t help looking at the rest of the guys. They’re all in various states of undress, muscles glistening in the fading light. And I feel that heat again, that deep, twisting ache.
Diego, toweling off, drops something and bends to grab it, and my eyes go straight to the curve of his ass, framed by the tan lines from his shorts. He’s all tight muscle and smooth skin, and the tattoos that run up his arms and across his back make him look like a real warrior.
