1
River
Waking up in astrange environment isn’t unusual for me, especially when on shore leave. As soon as my boots leave the gangway, I’m off in search of a cold beer and a warm body. No one does casual like me: I love ’em and leave ’em.
That was until I met her! Cleo Carter. Of course, I didn’t know at the time that she would change my world completely. Frankly, I didn’t want my world changing, not in the slightest. It was me who rocked women’s worlds, not the other way round.
So, let me tell you how it all happened. How Cleo goddamn Carter tamed this wild sailor! I’ll take you back to the morning I woke up, hanging out my arse from too many shots of vodka. I am a sailor, therefore I drink like one…
“Shit me.” Those are the first words I can string together when my brain finally becomes semi-functional. The bed I’m in is not my own. I don’t actually own a bed. His Majesty’s Royal Navy provides mine.
Peeling my eyelids open is proving harder than expected. I really went to town last night on the alcohol. To be fair, I’ve been at sea for six months, so it was always going to turn into a full blowout the moment we made land.
I’m definitely still drunk, which is unhelpful because what I need to do is hop out of this bed, grab my clothes and make a run for it. Having a natter with the woman I fucked for a few hours last night is not my idea of a good time.
We must have had fun though because I’m sore all over, and if I’m not mistaken, there is a rather large dildo still in its harness on the floor. Yeah, we got a little wild.
Ignoring the nausea rolling around my stomach, I push myself up and start scouring the semi-dark room. The woman is still snoring quietly. Her red hair is all I can see. No wonder I went a little nuts; redheads are my weakness. Shame I can’t remember her face.
I usually do, though. I pride myself on remembering—the curve of a smile, the way someone moans when they come. It’s part of the service. But this?Total blank. Just flashes of heat and movement and her laugh…
Whatever. I need coffee and a greasy breakfast before heading back to base. If WO Benson sees me like this, he’s going to throw a shit fit. I’m already in his bad books for merely existing.
Half-dressed and still woozy, I escape the bedroom. The apartment is nice. Clean and modern. Whoever owns it must pull in a decent salary.
As if this is the time!
It isn’t the time. I’ve got to get back to base and ready my bunk for inspection. Cheddar, Kit, and Boot will already be cursing my name for not being there as it is. I know I should’ve called it a night and followed them back aboard the ship, but the redhead was clearly worth it.
I think.
Well, my leg muscles are sore, so we definitely went at it for a few hours. Yeah, totally worth the reaming I’m about to receive.
Portsmouth’s streets are a blur of grey pavement and judgemental seagulls. My stomach lurches with every footfall, threatening to bring up whatever the hell I drank last night. Vodka. Definitely vodka. And possibly something blue.
I nearly kiss the bloke at the greasy spoon when he hands over the bacon sarnie. The smell alone is medicinal. I’m shoving it in my gob as I round the corner to the base, grease dripping down my chin. Proper classy, me.
The sea gods are with me this fine morning as I sprint through Portsmouth. Luckily, I know this city like the back of my hand, and the woman I chose to bed last night doesn’t live far away from the base.
The MPs lift their brows at me as I stagger towards them, trying to get my ID out of my pocket. The bacon sandwich I picked up on the way is hanging out of my mouth, my hair is fucked, and I smell like a brewery.
They would have every right to keep me at the gate and call Warrant Officer Benson—the asshat who hates me for existing. But they don’t. A minor miracle, really. The MPs let me through with a snigger. I bet they’re guessing I’m about to be chewed out anyway, so no need to make their day any harder.
HMS Queen Elizabeth is docked, awaiting repairs. We’re scheduled to ship out in three days. Our gracious leaders gave us last night off, but we’re expected to be mustered and ready for work by 07:00 sharp. It’s now 06:40, so I’ll get back to my bunk in time, but there isnoway I’ll have it up to code for the inspection.
My stomach rolls with guilt instead of old booze. If we get an infraction, WO Benson will give the entire bunk scut work. He could also revoke our next lot of shore time, and that willdefinitelyput me in the shit with my fellow bunkies.
I make it through the entire ship without getting caught. Luck really is on my side today. Now I just need a pinch more so I can get changed and hide last night’s clothes.
Cheddar spots me first and laughs. She’s my best friend and wingwoman extraordinaire. Her given name is Lucy Mitchel, but she earned the moniker Cheddar when she beat a six-foot Marine in a Red Leicester eating competition. It was disgusting and highly entertaining. I should add that Cheddar is five-foot three at best. I’ve no idea how or where she put that amount of cheese. She’s a legend on board. The poor Marine never lived it down. He got ordained Babybel that day, and every day since.
“How fucked are we?” I ask, tearing off my stinking shirt.
Kit lobs my work shirt at me. “None if you fucking hurry up. We sorted out your bed and kit.”
I’m already yanking up my trousers and tucking in my pristine blue-collared shirt. “Thank you, I’ll make it up to you. I swear.”
“Yes, you fucking will,” Kit replies. Her tone is sharp, but her eyes betray her amusement. Alicia ‘Kit’ Kitson is gorgeous. If we weren’t shipmates, I’d have given it a shot at sleeping with her, for sure. But I have a strict rule that I stick by regardless of how hot the woman is: if she’s a sailor on my ship, I leave well alone. Lesbian drama is real and has no place at work. HMS Queen Elizabeth is the flagship of the Navy. She’s a behemoth aircraft carrier that employs over 1,600 sailors, however, she gets small really fast if you have a beef with someone on board.
