“A Devil, huh?” I tease, knowing exactly what he means. Each of the cadet companies have a mascot, most of them matching alphabetically after the company name. So, A-1 is the Axemen, B-3 is the Bandits, stuff like that. Most Army units have that sort of thing going on, although I think the Corps of Cadets has some strange ones out there, the D-1 Devils being one of them. “So where are your horns?”
He looks at me, and I can tell he’s not sure how to take my comment. I realize that he could take it a couple of ways, some playful, some not. I smile, not letting him know that I didn't mean the horn that's obviously between his legs. His bike pants are doing nothing as far as hiding what he's got there, but I'm gonna run with it, have a little bit of fun. It's been a while. I'm enjoying the old feeling.
“It's just my company nickname,” Aaron says. “Anyway, I had fun. I've still got a little time on my training time. I was going to do some hill sprints, from the river up to Michie Stadium. What's your plan?”
“I'm just going to take it easy and head out toward Cornwall,” I tell him regretfully. Doing hill work from the river up to Michie Stadium is not what I'd call fun, and I'm working up enough of a sweat as it is. “Sorry.”
“That's okay,” Aaron says, then rubs his head. “Are you maybe going to be riding on Saturday? It'd be nice to have some company.”
A date? Did I just get asked out on a date? I mean, it's a bike ride, but it sure feels like I just got asked out on a date. Before I can consider the idea more, my mouth opens and I reply, “Sure. Tell you what, meet you here at eleven?”
“Eleven? That'd be great,” Aaron says, then stops. “Oh . . . uh, what if something comes up?”
I chuckle. He’s slick, I’ll give him that. I go to the little toolkit on the back of my bike, where I keep a few things, one of which is a permanent marker. It’s useful in a few ways, but I've never used it this way before. I go over and unzip his jacket, getting a little thrill at seeing the way his body looks with the sweat sticking the cotton PT shirt to his torso. I write my phone number on his shirt in one of the dry spots, ruining it but not caring. Besides, I think I'm worth ten dollars to get my number, right? “There. That's my cellphone. Don't call during your work hours, okay?”
Aaron looks down in surprise at the number and grins, nodding. “Interesting way to do it. You just ruined my shirt, but I’ll take it. I hardly ever get to wear this anyway.”
I cap my pen and go back over to my bike, picking it up off the ground. “Baby, I'm worth it,” I say with a wink at my corny attempt at humor, getting back on my saddle. “I love that song.”
He laughs, and I can feel him watching me as I ride off. I glance back as I round the corner, and he's still standing there, watching me. I feel a bit of warmth in my cheeks that doesn't come from the exercise at all. I wasn't lying. A few more easy miles here, and back to the barracks. Then I can use a shower and relax some. A good end to a tough day.
After my shower, regret about what I did starts to set in. I flirted with a cadet. I gave him my personal cellphone number, for fuck's sake! What sort of idiot does that?
One of the first rules drilled into every female soldier when you join the service by the female Drill Sergeants is that you do not, under any circumstances, fraternize with officers, male or female. The Army's willing to overlook a friendship that comes from certain activities if it doesn't occur within your own unit, like if you're friends with an officer through church or something like that.
Though, when it comes to romantic or personal relationships, the rule is that 'blue shouldn't be fucking blue anyway.' Of course, this rule gets broken. I've heard enough stories about girls getting reputations as 'Camp Cuties' when they're deployed, but even then, for female enlisted, the iron-clad, no negotiations rule is to keep your damn legs together when it comes to officers. If you need to get an itch scratched, there's plenty of enlisted people who'll help you with that. Officers live in their own world, and there's enough men and women there to be able to keep themselves entertained if that's what they want to do.
When I got to West Point, Sergeant Greene pulled me aside and told me the USMA addendum to the rule. “Morgan, you're a pretty girl,” she said that day, looking me up and down, “Here at USMA, you're damn near a supermodel. I'm warning you now, some of the male cadets are gonna try for you. Never, ever get involved. The Corps call themselves 'The Long Gray Line.' I do too. And you never want to cross that line.”
“I won't, Sarge,” I told her then. “Can I ask why? They aren't officers.”