Tight Quarters (Out of Uniform 6)

“I’m still stuck trying to picture you as a goth punk.” Spencer had to laugh. This guy was about as all-American as they came, a walking spec ops recruitment ad. “Like did you dye your hair? Tattoos?”

“Oh yeah. Black dye. Doc Martens boots. Couple of tattoos I wasn’t really legal for. Pierced ears.”

“If I promise it’s one hundred percent off the record, could I see a picture?” Damn. Did that sound flirty? Creepy? Sometimes Spencer’s curiosity got the better of him.

“Don’t have one on my phone.” Bacon seemed neither as put out nor as guarded as he’d been yesterday. “Left those years long behind, right alongside all my dad’s criticism.”

“The past never truly leaves us, though. I still have a lot of dancer friends. Still take classes when I can and when my body allows.”

“Yeah, I could have guessed you were a dancer,” Bacon mused, then blushed. Adorable. Still not flirting, Spencer lectured himself.

“And I bet you’ve still got some of that goth kid in you.”

“Maybe.” Bacon smiled and motioned at his book. “Can’t completely squash my emo side. And I’d offer to show you my Slipknot tattoo for additional cred, but it’s already cold in here.”

“All your tattoos are hidden?” Spencer was trying to sound like a curious, detached journalist, not an aging horndog who just wanted to see Bacon’s skin.

“This one’s not.” Bacon rolled up his sleeve to show his forearm and a small tattoo below the bend of his elbow. “It’s in bad shape because it was one of my first ones. Someday I’ll get it cleaned up, but I’m kind of sentimental about it.”

“A scorpion?” Spencer was guessing because the lighting was poor and the simple black tattoo was the sort of blurry that all old ink got.

“Yeah. It was this or a skull, but J—my friend had this thing about insects.” Bacon’s eyes were far-off and his smile tender. “Didn’t hurt either that my old man hated them.”

“I bet. Mine hates my tattoo.”

“You have a tattoo?” Bacon’s jaw dropped. “You really don’t seem like the type.”

“I had just wrecked my knee. I was twenty-two and angry at everyone. A tattoo seemed like a giant F-U to the world,” Spencer admitted. “Luckily it’s on my back, so not something my parents have to look at often.”

“What’s it of?”

“Not telling, Petty Officer Bacon who doesn’t have a first name.” Spencer was hoping to goad a name out of Bacon, but all he got was an exaggerated eye roll.

“I’m going to be Chief Bacon soon. Not gonna need a first name then either.” Bacon fished a pack of gum out of a pocket. “And you’re lucky you got me and not Curly. I can pretty much guarantee this rough air has his stomach rolling.”

“Poor guy. But I’ve been in worse and not hurled.” Spencer accepted a piece of gum when Bacon offered. It was just ordinary gum, and he was still jonesing for coffee, but still the offer was nice. It felt like they were turning a corner, becoming less antagonistic. “So you’ve sat for the chief’s exam?”

“Yeah. Second time. Just waiting to hear.”

“Good luck.” Spencer meant that too, wanted nothing but good things for this complex guy he already liked far more than he should.

Bacon yawned. “Fuck. I thought gum would wake me up, but it’s not working. If I fall asleep mid-conversation, don’t hold it against me.”

“I won’t,” Spencer promised. He had a brief moment of nostalgia for having someone to talk to late at night, falling asleep while talking, legs and hands entwined. Steady now. Don’t go wanting what you can’t have.

“If I slump your direction, just shove me back. That’s what Curly always does.” Bacon laughed and so did Spencer, but inside he doubted his ability to shove this guy away, even though keeping his distance—on all levels—was absolutely critical.

Chapter Six

Bacon had napped in many bizarre locations over the years, so sleeping next to Bryant—Spencer—on the flight hardly counted. And he only dreamed about surreal shit like getting a new tattoo with Jamie there, egging him on, nothing dirty about Spencer. So he had no reason to be embarrassed as he blinked his eyes open, and yet he totally was.

You’re a fucking SEAL. Get a grip, he lectured himself as he sought out the head. He went to the one at the front of the plane, not wanting to get into it with Curly and the guys in back again. The seatbelt sign was turned off, which was good. As he exited the restroom, one of the flight crew, a slim man with jet-black hair, was making coffee in an alcove.

“That for the flight deck?” Bacon asked, giving his best smile.

“Yeah. This pilot always asks for some mid-flight if we can,” the man replied. He appeared to be a fellow petty officer with a last name of Chen according to the name tag on his chest. Bacon had seen him on a few other flights over the years.