"Hot as hell now, freezing cold in the winter," he says. "Welcome to Bagram Air Force Base."
I'm in Afghanistan against my mother's expressed wishes, but I had a gap in my schedule and even she could reluctantly agree that it would be good publicity. A nice side bonus of the trip was that there was no way short of Hell itself freezing over that my mother would join me.
But I didn't do this to get away from my mother, although my motives were, I admit, partly selfish. The non-selfish part of me wanted to do a USO tour so I could give something back to the people serving over here.
The selfish part of me missed Hendrix. Present tense, actually -- misses Hendrix. I don't know how you can miss someone you hate so much, how you can loathe someone yet crave them with every fiber of your being, but I do. My mother wanted to arrange a meeting between Hendrix and I, something that would play well on television, go viral on social media -- a dramatic reunion between the country star on her USO tour and her Marine stepbrother. The Colonel said it was a stupid waste of resources, flying Hendrix in from wherever-the-hell he is out in Afghanistan just to see me. When he mentioned that it would be dangerous for Hendrix and whoever was with him to travel, convoy from wherever they were just to catch a plane to see me, I refused to let anyone get in touch with his unit.
Part of me still fantasizes that I'll walk out on the stage tonight, and Hendrix will be there in the crowd, smiling at me with that cocky grin. It's naive, a stupid wish, and even though I know it is, a little piece of me is crushed when it doesn't happen.
*
PRESENT DAY
In the back of the limo, Hendrix slides his hand between my legs, and I swat it away. "Seriously," I whisper. "We're almost at the studio. Don't even try it."
He laughs. "Make sure you mention in the interview how totally full of yourself you are," he whispers. "Because I wasn't even attempting to get it on with you."
"Whatever, dude. You're always trying to put your…" My voice trails off and I glance at the tinted mirror that separates us from the driver.
Hendrix puts his mouth close to my ear and it gives me chills when his breath tickles my skin. "Cock?" he asks. "Put my cock in your warm wet *?"
He says the words, and it's like an automatic response – I'm immediately wet. "Stop," I order, sliding to the other side of the seat. "Behave."
"Yes, ma'am," he says. But he's chuckling under his breath.
I stick my tongue out at him, and he grins at me. "Careful sticking your tongue out like that, sweet cheeks," he says softly. "Or I'll give you something to lick."
"Right here in the limo?" I ask. "You wouldn't dare."
Hendrix starts unbuckling his pants, and I squeal, louder than I mean to, and the driver cracks the window, asking if I'm okay. Hendrix, of course, is the epitome of angelic.
"Yes, I'm fine," I say, glaring at Hendrix as the window goes back up.
Hendrix takes my hand and presses it against the front of his pants, showing me his hardness. I should snatch my hand away, but I let it linger there a moment too long. When the car comes to an abrupt stop, I jerk my hand away and look out the window, feigning innocence. Feigning professionalism.
What the hell happened to my professionalism, anyway? I'm a giant ball of need and want and desire, preoccupied with Hendrix. We're like two high school kids, unquenchable in our thirst for each other. I'm surprised my lust for him isn't written all over my face, visible for the entire world to read.
At least, I hope it's not.
I watch him sometimes when he sleeps. He doesn't know, but I watch him as he dreams, his sleep fitful. He hasn't told me what he dreams about, and I haven't asked. But my heart hurts for him.
On the television set, the reporter asks me questions, easy ones about my album and last year's tour. "You recently auctioned off your entire closet and raised half a million dollars for a veteran's organization."
"It's hard to believe I had that many clothes," I say, suddenly embarrassed. It was little more than a decade ago that my mom could barely afford to buy us sneakers. Now I'm wearing thousand-dollar shoes.
"Some people have criticized the move as a blatant act of consumerism, cleaning out the old to make way for the new."
"I –" I pause for a moment. I'm supposed to stick to the script, talk about how veteran's issues have always been important to me, about how I wanted to make a donation that was personally important and not just write a check. Hendrix stands on the side of the set, and he winks at me. "You know, it actually wasn't my idea at all."