Tight Quarters (Out of Uniform 6)

“What’s not to like about choreography?” Bacon’s forehead wrinkled, exactly like a guy who had never sat in an eight a.m. theory of movement class.

“Everyone always thinks choreography sounds easy and fun, but the reality—all the different factors and personalities to consider and the competing egos...”

“I guess I can see that. I know a thing or two about competing egos too.” Bacon’s tone was light and on another man, in a different place, Spencer might have thought they were flirting. “But I bet you had a lot of talent.” The tips of Bacon’s ears flushed red. “In dance I mean. A lot of dancing talent.”

Okay. They were not flirting, but Bacon was just rattled enough to be adorable. And Spencer wouldn’t let himself actually flirt with the guy, but he didn’t see the harm in continuing to enjoy the conversation. He did, however, remind himself yet again that Bacon was most likely straight. And he was Spencer Bryant, the guy with unimpeachable ethics, who had never once mingled business and pleasure. He could enjoy this talk all he wanted, but it didn’t matter what Bacon’s orientation was—Spencer wasn’t biting at that bait.

“I suppose I had enough.” Spencer tried to be humble, but his sigh held a bitterness that not even two decades had managed to erode. “But I blew out my knee in my first Broadway audition call-back my junior year. My big break turned into my big break.”

“That fucking sucks,” Bacon said, looking surprisingly sympathetic. “Curly and I know a guy who almost washed out of BUD/S with a broken leg. Came back and got it on his second try, but it seems like a lot of guys have stories like that, of injuries derailing their plans. Sucks that it happened to you.”

“Thanks. I was left with an almost finished, useless dance degree. Neither teaching nor choreography interested me enough to keep going. But then one of my journalism teachers told me about an internship I could do while I recuperated from surgery, and eventually, I switched to a journalism major, took an extra year to finish it up, and then got my start as an arts-and-entertainment writer in Los Angeles on a recommendation from that same professor.”

“Wow. So like this whole time, you’ve been wishing you were a dancer?” Bacon’s eyes narrowed, considering. “Because I’ve read your stuff. You’re good. Like really good. I’d never guess that it was second choice for you.”

“Thanks.” Spencer had to admit the compliment did a pretty good job of warming him on the chilly flight. “And it’s not second choice. I mean, maybe it was at first. But I found my voice working for the paper in LA. Grew into my own person for the first time, grew to love being in print, working in the newsroom, stretching my writing muscles every bit as much as I stretched my body dancing. It’s been a hell of a career, and not one I regret in the slightest.”

Bacon nodded. “I kind of know what you mean. Sometimes life gives us a really unexpected direction. And we roll with it, and it ends up making us the people we are today.”

“Is that how you ended up here? As a SEAL?” Spencer had been in this business long enough to sense a story here, one he definitely wanted to hear, on or off the record.

Bacon waited a long time before nodding. “Something like that. But it was different than you with your parents all thinking you were born to be a star.” A weariness in his words made him seem decades older. “My old man never wasted a chance to tell me I’d never amount to a hill of beans.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Bacon waved away his concern. “Him telling me there was no fucking way I’d ever be a SEAL and that I’d wash out of boot camp in two days was the best thing for me. Lit a fire in my belly. I hadn’t ever thought about being a SEAL until he told me I couldn’t be one, and then it became this burning desire for me.”

“What did you want to be before that? When you were a kid, I mean.”

Bacon’s eyes took on a faraway glassiness, and he licked his lips. “A musician,” he said softly. “I was gonna be a singer.” He laughed then, a harsh, low sound. “Too bad I was tone deaf and one of only a couple of goth punks in a tiny town about as far from a music scene as you could get.”

“I bet your singing isn’t that bad,” Spencer said lightly.

“There are injured cats who sound better.” Bacon grinned at him. He really did have a stunning smile when he unleashed it. “And like you said, sometimes plan B works out better, makes us stronger. I like who I am now, like the life I have just fine.”