I still wake up at 2:11, distraught. Except now, by 2:15, I’m fisting my cock and dreaming about sliding it into her.
Skinny dipping with her might be a bad idea, but I can’t stomach the idea of telling her no again, so I start undressing. I kick my shoes off and face her full on, half expecting her to turn and shy away from me exposing myself.
But she doesn’t.
She watches with rapt fascination, a blatant level of interest as I slide my boxers down over my hips and let them fall at my feet. I toss them onto the log where she discarded her pajamas and make my way toward the water. My eyes stay on her face, while hers focus on my dick.
“Is your penis normal big? Or like … ” She worries her bottom lip before holding her hands up in that twelve-inch spread again. “Big big?”
“Bailey.” I shake my head, my voice disbelieving and gruff all at once. “You can’t just ask people things like that.”
She presses her lips together and blinks away from my cock before moving onto her back to float. “Why not? You just stripped in front of me. And we’re engaged. And I practically sat on it the other night. It seems like a reasonable question to me.”
I groan as I slip into the water. “Trust me, Bailey. If you sat on it the other night, you’d still be feeling it today.”
She jolts back upright as I approach her, eyes wide and dancing with interest. “Does that mean it’s big, big?”
A deep chuckle rumbles in my chest. Being able to laugh anywhere around 2:11 is a fucking treat. “Yeah, Bailey. It’s big, big.”
She slaps the water. “I knew it! I was trying to compare it with porn. You know? But, like … the scale seems off on my phone screen, and it was dark in your room, so I didn’t get a good look—”
“Bailey.” I close my eyes, sink down, and pull a few handfuls of water up over my face.
“Sorry.”
But she doesn’t sound sorry. I can hear the smile in her voice. The water swishes as she spins in place like whatever innocent but filthy mermaid she’s portraying.
It really is the most charming combination. Old enough to not be freaked out by sex but inexperienced enough to be flat-out curious.
She’s going to be the death of me.
And my restraint.
We float in silence for several minutes. Me, trying to rid myself of the insta-boner she gave me, and her … I don’t know, just swishing around.
It’s peaceful.
“I think you should tell me about 2:11,” is how she shatters the peace.
I knew this was coming when she referenced the timestamp before. She’s a bright young woman—perceptive—so it shouldn’t surprise me she put it together.
Deep down, I might be ready to talk about it. There’s no shrink couch here. She’s not holding a notepad or assessing me like I’m an experiment.
I am one of the lucky ones who has ample access to therapy, but one of the dumb ones who won’t go. I know I should, but it fills me with dread. And I’ve had enough of that to last me a lifetime.
Several minutes pass as I consider her question and replay that night in my head. The days that followed.
“It was 2:11 a.m. when I walked out of that bunker with Micah draped over my shoulders.”
The swishing stops, and she pushes upright. I opt to look at the moon rather than the dark orbs of her eyes.
“I checked my watch and could see the helicopter taking off. And I knew what time I needed to be back at our extraction point to get on the transport back out. I knew that if I kept going further back into that tunnel system, I wouldn’t make it out in time.”
I hear her sigh.
“But I kept going anyway. I could hear him screaming. And I—” I swipe an agitated hand over my mouth. “Fuck, I just couldn’t leave him there, you know? He was our mission, and I could hear him. He was right there. I couldn’t leave.”
“Would you do it differently if you could go back in time?”
“No.” My response comes instantly. I repeat myself to drive the point home. “No.”
“Then why do you sound like you’re beating yourself up about it?”
“Because everyone treats me like I did something heroic by refusing to turn back, and that’s … that’s not what it was.”
I cup my hands and splash my face.
A few beats pass as I wait for Bailey to ask me what I mean, but she goes back to turning in the water, arching her slender neck back to dip her head into the chill.
“They train us differently for JTF2. Choose us differently. It’s more psychological, not just physical. We’re prepared differently. I have this strategy, a way I break things down in my head, and it works. I mean, of course, some of the shit I’ve seen has fucked me up, but it’s mostly manageable if I’m being honest.”
Bailey hums thoughtfully, trailing her fingers through the water. I don’t feel like she’s psychoanalyzing me, or judging me, or even trying to help me. She’s just here, listening.
Actually, as she picks a twig up off the surface of the creek and tosses it to the shore, I’m not even sure if she’s listening. But it’s better this way.
“I would lie in bed and force myself to think about all the worst outcomes while falling asleep. Like, the first time I would kill someone. I’d look at it, force myself to wallow in it for a minute, really feel it. And then I’d shift to thinking about how I’d cope with those feelings, where I’d tuck them away when it was time to move on. So many times I felt like I’d already faced something when it actually came. I think it desensitized me.”
“Shit, and here I was counting sheep.”
I huff out a laugh. Only Bailey.
“So I had this plan for myself. I programmed it in. Set it and forget it. I knew what I’d do if we found Micah Lane. I’d stop at nothing. I analyzed what I’d do—the actions I’d take—if I became a POW. I mean, shit,” I scrub at my hair, glancing around the peaceful riverbed. “I even made peace with dying. The prospect of death doesn’t bother me anymore. I don’t fear it. The cave—sure, it haunts me some days. But not the way people think. The worst part of it all is that for all my obsessive mental preparation, I never let myself analyze what it would feel like to be out, living life as a civilian. To be … ”
“Famous?” Bailey says it with a light giggle. Even she knows that’s a stretch.
I snort. “I doubt that’s the word for it.”
A grin stretches her lips. Only Bailey would smile after that story. “Infamous.”
I grimace. “Isn’t that kind of bad?”
Her finger shoots up. “Notorious!”
“Not that one either.”
“I got it … ” Her hands make a sweeping motion. “Legendary.”
I submerge my head underwater to keep from bursting out laughing.
When I come back up, she adds, “Fabled.”
“Jesus, Bailey.”
“Renowned. Famed. Celebrated!”
Now I do laugh. “I’m engaged to a thesaurus.”
The white of her teeth flashes at me. “Merriam-Webster is a way better nickname than sugar tits. Just saying.”
“Sorry, sugar. That one’s sticking.”
I see a shiver rack her body as she glances away for a beat. Maybe she’s cold, but this is nice, and I’m being greedy. I don’t want to get out of the water.
Bailey makes 2:11 better.