Chapter 22
July 2014
They said nothing else about it. There were only a few weeks left of their off time before they had to deploy again, but instead of spending it as they usually would, training and fucking the time away, Aberlour kept his distance from Oliver, though they still had to train together. Aberlour relished the brutal training, pushing himself harder than he ever had before, just so he could come home too exhausted to care how empty the place was. On those days, he’d crash early, having swallowed two bites of a haphazardly made sandwich that tasted like sawdust. Exhaustion claimed him before his mind could spin out of control again. When exhaustion wasn’t enough, he’d sit by his bedroom window, alone in his crummy apartment, lighting cigarette after cigarette until his own lungs burned under the strain. Then he’d wait out the night, fighting off the what ifs and maybes that frayed his fragile resolve to stay away from Oli.
He'd given him a choice. A clear one. It was Oli’s move now.
There was nothing Aberlour could do about it.
Nothing. It was Oli’s play, and Oli’s ball.
He knew all this, so why it had hurt so fucking much when he’d discovered the little black box at the bottom of Oliver’s duffel, Aberlour wasn’t sure. He’d found it by accident. He’d gone looking for his knife a couple of days ago. An old Ka-Bar that Oliver kept stealing. He’d gone looking for it in Oliver’s weapons duffle and had come to an abrupt halt at the sight of the small black box stashed at the bottom of the old green duffle.
Aberlour wasn’t naïve. He’d known he’d lost Oli as soon as he’d walked out of that room, having declared his ultimatum. He just—he hadn’t expected Oliver to move so quickly. It waslike Aberlour had lit a fire beneath him, and suddenly, the pent-up anger that usually bristled beneath Oli’s skin had pushed him into action, propelling him intoherarms.
As if the sight of the little black box hadn’t been enough, Oliver then forced Aberlour to meet her.
Oliver had failed to warn any of them in advance. Two weeks before shipping out, he’d simply showed up at the bar with her on his arm, a cruel little smile on his handsome face. It was revenge, Aberlour thought, bitterly. Revenge for making him choose.
This wastheirbar. A Marine’s bar. It wasn’t fancy, not in the least, but she’d walked in like she owned the place, using every weapon in her arsenal to charm the men Oliver called brothers.
This, Abe had realized, was Oli’s answer to his ultimatum. The choice was clear, and it wasn’t Abe.
Her name was Abby. Abigail Dudson. She was the daughter of a congressional leader and a minister. She was pretty, and funny, and probably smart. She’d graduated from some fancy Ivy League university and worked with Oliver’s mother as a lawyer on her campaign for the Senate.
Oli’s mother had introduced them at a family function, and he hadn’t been able to look away.
Well, that’s the story Abby was telling, anyway.
Aberlour’s beer was warm from how hard he clutched it with both hands. He wanted nothing more than to piss in her pretentious little pink cocktail. Prissy bitch.
“My mother’s thinking the Ritz,” Abby gushed. She clung to Oliver the whole time. However, his expression was no longer cruel nor smug. He looked pathetically unhappy. His eyes dimmed; his smile forced. Now and again, he would glance at her and perk himself up to fool her for a second before fading again into the background. Aberlour thought about that storyof the man whose punishment was to push a boulder up a hill, again and again, for all of eternity. He couldn’t recall his name, nor the reason for his punishment, but he’d have bet his life on the fact that Oli and that guy must have shared that particular expression of anguish.
Abby was none the wiser. She smiled, and laughed, acting like a spring bride who’d captured her very own prince.
Aberlour wanted to punch Abby’s lights out. He wanted to rip out her perfect teeth with pliers, one at a time. He wanted to rip her blond hair right out of her head and stomp on her.
“You’ll all be invited, of course. Any friend of Oli’s is a friend of mine,” she assured them as she clutched Oliver’s forearm tightly against her side. Her nails were long and pointed with glittering purple polish. Such long pretty fingers, so feminine and soft. So unlike Aberlour’s.
He wondered if Oliver thought of Aberlour’s fingers when her purple claws were wrapped around his cock.
She was talking about their wedding, Aberlour realized, as he tipped the rest of his beer back. They’d been together for less than a month. Dating casually, and at a distance, and yet, she’d already made plans for the wedding. It wasn’t surprising. Aberlour had predicted this shit from the very start—right after that fucking phone call from Oliver’s mother all those weeks ago.
Besides, Oli had bought her a fucking ring.
That last thought was enough to make him want to burn the place down. After he’d stomped on her head.
“If there’s an open bar, Team Specter’ll be there,” Carlos assured her. He was putting on a show, Aberlour could tell. Abby couldn’t.
Like the rest of Team Specter, Carlos had begun to notice just howoffAberlour and Oli were. It had taken longer for him to discover this issue than if they’d been deployed, but after a few months of catching up with their own families, the men werestarting to realize that there had been no invitations to watch a game and drink beer. There was no more hanging out at Oliver’s house, or daily inside jokes and crude insults. The group chat had been silent for weeks.
“What C said,” Marcus muttered into his beer. He hadn’t warmed up to Abby yet. In fact, he seemed concerned. He kept shooting Aberlour strange looks, like maybe he was waiting for Aberlour to just shoot her and be done with it.
It was damned tempting, but even Aberlour knew it was a bad idea to shoot her in a crowded bar.
Too many witnesses.
“Senator Collins and his daughters will probably be in attendance as well,” she announced, like they were supposed to get excited about that.
