Tight Quarters (Out of Uniform 6)

Chapter Twenty-One

Bacon woke to smell of pancakes, which told him right away that something was off. For all that Spencer liked cooking fancy dinners, he wasn’t much of a breakfast person. He always made sure there was food for Bacon, but he’d never made him something from scratch before. And the fact that he’d probably skipped his workout class was another clue that this wasn’t like other visits.

Just like that, their discussion last night came rushing back. The emotional sex had been but a brief escape. Was it so crazy to think that they could have a future? All he knew was that he wanted one in the worst way. Since he could already sense the heavy conversation coming, he went ahead and got dressed. No lazy hanging out in his underwear today.

“Is that food I smell?” He forced his voice to be light as he came into the sunny kitchen space.

“Yeah. Thought you might still be starving.” Spencer too was dressed all the way in pants and a white button-down shirt. He busied himself with making a plate and handing it over, not meeting Bacon’s eyes. “There’s chicken sausage and pancakes.”

“Thanks.” Bacon started eating even if the food might as well be ash. He got about halfway through his plate when he noticed that Spencer was only drinking coffee and watching him, not eating. “Is this where you tell me we need to talk?”

“You can eat.”

“That’s not a no.” Bacon pushed his plate away. “So, go ahead. Tell me why you doing this book deal means we can’t be together?”

“People will think you’re a source for me.” Spencer rubbed at his smoothly shaved jaw.

“So?” Bacon shrugged. “I get that you’re all worried about your ethics or whatnot, but do you really think you’re the first person to write about something related to what their partner does for a living? If I was a doctor and you wanted to write about curing cancer, I don’t think you’d let that stop you.”

“It’s not the same.”

“You’re Spencer Freaking Bryant. People are going to want to read this because it’s you. You’re not some newbie reporter truly worried about people thinking he slept his way to the top. And you could just be upfront about how we met—if you act like it’s something worth hiding, that’s worse.”

“I get what you’re saying. But it’s not just about my ethics.”

“Then educate me here, because I’m just not seeing the problem.”

“Not everyone’s going to want to read this. The military won’t be happy I wrote it. And honestly, you’re not going to like it either. It’s not a puff piece.” Spencer grabbed his open laptop from the end of the breakfast bar and handed it to Bacon. “This is the synopsis. That’s—”

“I know what a synopsis is,” he growled, hating how difficult Spencer was making this. He skimmed the screen in front of him, zeroing in on the title. Left Behind: How America’s Military is Failing Our Best and Brightest. He read faster, blood pressure rising with each word. “What the fuck? This is an exposé on how Special Forces is screwing us up? You really hate the military that much?”

“It’s not about hating the military.” Spencer’s voice was infuriatingly calm. “This is a story that needs to be told. I told you about my former contact. The army ranger who committed suicide?”

“I know. And trust me, I more than anyone know how much suicide sucks. But, Spencer, it wasn’t your fault he died.”

“Maybe it was.” Spencer’s eyes got cloudy and far away. “He texted me before he died. Said that even with the great press for my book on amputees, he still felt like vets were invisible. I never got a chance to reply.”

“That sucks.” Bacon knew that pain all too well—the what-ifs about Jamie had stolen his sleep for years. “But I’ve been there—replaying every last millisecond of the final days, and at a certain point, you can’t let all that guilt crush you too.”

“I get that. But his story still needs to be told. His widow is working tirelessly to advocate for suicide prevention for vets. She’s found me dozens of other stories that need telling. I want to talk about the toll war takes and how the military isn’t effectively addressing the PTSD epidemic, especially in special ops. They’re asking too much of people. Sending them out with concussions and injuries—”

“Thought PR didn’t want you using what you learned while you were embedded.” His voice was hard and cold. Distant. Had to be, had to scramble for every handhold of control over the situation like he was back out on that ridge, hanging from a single finger, everything in the balance. Spencer’s synopsis loomed over them, as threatening as a missile, one he wasn’t going to be able to divert.

“Del. I can’t ignore what I saw. What I’ve heard about.” Spencer’s tone was infuriatingly calm to the point that Bacon went from cold control to white-hot rage, words tumbling out like rocks he was lobbing at Spencer.