Perhaps the only sophisticated thing about him was the French tunes that followed him wherever he went. A heritage from his French mother who’d left everything behind for an American hippie who’d promised her they could live in freedom in the Appalachian Mountains. As he’d driven down the highway to the recruitment office, the windows of his old truck rolled down, Charles Aznavour had serenaded the mountains of his youth. He’d been 18, wet behind the ears, dumb as the day he was born, and heading straight for the enlistment office. There had never been another path for him. No other road, no other choice. He’d be a Marine. He’d be a good one, a great one even, and he’d carry his chip, his attitude, and his crudeness all the way to his grave.
Now USMC recruitment officers are always glad to get fresh 18-year-olds signing their souls away first thing on a Monday morning, but Aberlour wasn’t just any 18-year-old. Gavin Aberlour held a national title in marksmanship. A talent passed down from his father—who’d grown up hunting to feed the family and had foolishly handed his only child a rifle at the tender age of 6—thinking nothing of it. But Gavin Aberlour wasn’t just talented—he’d have probably been the top-rankedmember of America’s world team if he’d wanted it badly enough. As it was, he had a gift for aiming sharp and deadly things with unfailing accuracy, and he was only too happy to put it to good use, serving Uncle Sam and God himself. A plot-twist his anti-establishment parents had never foreseen.
The recruitment officer nearly wet himself when he looked over Aberlour’s application. The Marine Corps made sure that he had a ticket for the next available bus to Parris Island—to his parents’ dismay.
They both cried as they dropped him off at the bus station a few days later. Aberlour had barely managed to contain his excitement.
Oliver Darling, on the other hand, was an honour student, enrolled in college, but was choosing to run away from a future career in finance as fast as his legs would carry him. He hadn’t told anyone he’d joined the Marines, and from the terrified look on his face as he sat alone on the bus, he hadn’t told himself that either until the doors of the bus swooshed closed, sealing his fate.
He was preppy, and peppy, with a haircut that smelled of money. He’d flinched when Aberlour had walked past him down the aisle of the bus. Naturally, that’s exactly why Aberlour had backtracked and chosen to sit down next to him.
And so went the beginning of them. Oli and Aberlour. Darling and Dumber, as their commanding officer labeled them. Wildly different yet somehow fitting together like a pair of boots in a soldier’s grave.
Bootcamp was hell. It tested men to their very limits, and there they’d found in each other more strength than had probably been wise. Oliver was everything Aberlour wasn’t, and what one could do very well, the other was terrible at. Oliver was a terrible shot. The kind of shot that made sergeants scowl, sigh, and curse their choice of careers. But by the end of firingweek, Aberlour had shaped Darling into a decent marksman—one who could hold his own against just about anyone. Anyone but Aberlour, of course.
No one could shoot like Aberlour. Not even the instructors.
Oli’s obvious talents were that he was charming and cunning. He was the smartest guy in the entire company with the highest written test scores. Aberlour sucked at tests, but with Oli grilling him day and night, he’d managed to pass most of them. His gunny sergeant was proud when he’d stood for inspection and rattled off the origin of the blood stripe on the dress blue trousers, date included. They’d been top of their class—fighting for honours right to the end. And when they’d graduated, they’d immediately enrolled in Force Recon training, still thick as thieves. They’d nearly come undone, then. It was in the nature of the training to break men down. How else could you truly test the endurance of a man? Aberlour had no trouble admitting he’d only made it through because Oli had been beside him every step of the way. Together, they were absolute idiots about most things. But in this situation, they’d worked like two halves of a whole to qualify for Special Forces. The few, the brave, the absolute dumbest fucking morons around. Aberlour wore a wicked grin as they’d pinned the jump wings to the left breast of his uniform, which announced to the world that he was a reconnaissance Marine. A top hound amongst the fighting dogs. Aberlour always liked to remind himself of that when he found the night particularly long, or the weather painfully cold, while on deployment. He’d signed up for this shit. Right along with his best friend.
What a pair of absolute idiots they had to be.
Although this night was neither long nor cold. They’d just made it home. Safe and sound, with all of their friends and team members in tow. They’d done the impossible. Survived thatbloody fucking mission in the asscrack of the world and lived to tell the tale. Not that they’d ever whisper a word of it to anyone. The op would still be classified after they were long gone from this mortal plane. Such was the nature of their jobs.
Aberlour was 25 now, just as dumb as ever, if only slightly more aware of it.
“Yo, Abe, Oli’s going to take a piss,” JD—Jude—called out, completely smashed. He still had a black eye from being either too stupid or too lazy to block a punch, but he didn’t seem to feel it as a pretty brunette sat in his lap.
“And?” he asked, not sure why he bothered. His friends were far too drunk to make any kind of sense at this point.
“Don’t you two generally hold each other’s dicks when you take a pisssss?” It was so crude, and so stupid. Aberlour gave it the chuckle it deserved.
“Don’t be jealous, JD, just ‘cause yours ain’t long enough to hold—” he drifted off, not bothering to finish, and took a long pull of his beer.
There were a few cackles, a few catcalls that made very little sense, as Aberlour rolled his eyes. He leaned his head back, shutting his eyes for a moment, and attempted to let the world swallow him. It was getting harder and harder to let his guard down, but he forced himself to do it now. He was surrounded by friends and back home in North Carolina where no one was waiting to get the drop on them. They weren’t armed—not really—and the bar was as friendly as it got. There was nothing here for Aberlour to be concerned about. It was a stellar establishment, located close to the base. A good spot. The kind decorated Marines hung out in. There was an old Billy Joel song playing, if Aberlour recalled correctly. He hummed along with it, even as muffled as it was, and did his best to concentrate on everything going on around him. It was a trick to ground himself that one of his gunnies in bootcamp had taught him.
He considered each detail, taking a deep breath between each one. The beer bottle in his hand, cold and wet, with a peeled off sticker. The wooden chair under his ass, fragile, slightly wobbly, creaking loudly if he moved a certain way. The cute brunette giggling in JD’s lap. Marcus and Carlos, shooting pool and yelling at each other, and the sound of glasses clinking. Home. Easy. Safe.
His entire team—except one guy who’d stayed home to spend time with his daughter—was here. They were all safe. They were allsafe.
“First guy to fall asleep usually gets a dick drawn on his face.”
Aberlour blinked his eyes open, not surprised in the slightest when he found Oli standing over him, smiling down, the grin familiar and soft, his wheat-coloured hair tousled, much too long to meet Marine regulations.
“Right side please. My left is my better profile,” Abe replied, turning to expose his right cheek.
“I’ll get the Sharpie,” Oli snorted, before dropping into the chair he’d abandoned earlier. He reached for his beer but found it empty. He snagged Aberlour’s instead and knocked it back. Abe didn’t comment. This little routine wasn’t exactly new or odd. It was par for the course really.
“JD is going home with her,” Oli said, nodding towards the girl currently entertaining their teammate. It had been obvious from the first moment they’d walked in. Cute Brunette—she had a name, but Aberlour hadn’t bothered to ask—had zeroed in on JD and climbed him like a tree. Why she chose JD, Abe hadn’t the faintest clue. He certainly wasn’t the best looking of the bunch. Oli was in first place, then it was a toss-up between Marcus and Carlos. Still, he admired her drive and single-minded focus. She’d latched onto JD and had reeled him in less time than it took the idiot to stutter out his name.
“Where’s your flavor of the day?” Oli asked, his grin easy.
“Not interested. Getting old,” he grumbled. His fingers twitched for a cigarette or another drink. He eyed the bar, wondering if he should order another round or call it quits.
“Ah yes, 24 going on 50,” Oliver commented sagely. Aberlour kicked his chair in retaliation. He teetered for a single second before righting himself with a fully satisfied, maniacal grin.
“What about you, O? Your momma’s gonna ask about grandbabies real soon,” Abe said, knowing it would annoy him to be reminded of the parents he’d run away from.
“Not interested,” Oliver said, shaking his head like he was avoiding the question.
