Duty(4)

“Just forgot to tighten a thumb-bolt,” she tells me softly. I can’t help but like the tone of her soft voice. It’s like music to my ears, soft and serious, yet still playful. She stands up and grabs a water bottle, pulling off her helmet and sunglasses. “Nice ride.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, a surge of desire running up from the core of my stomach. I know I've been stuck at West Point that’s eighty-seven percent men for a year and some change, and I know that I haven't had a girlfriend since breaking up with Cindy Mandrowitz during the first semester of my plebe year, but holy shit, she's hot. Her light blonde hair is pulled back into a ponytail, one she'd had tucked in her jacket before, and she's got clear blue eyes that rival the sky above us with their intensity. “You ride like a pro.”

“Thanks,” she replies, taking a sip of water. Her cheeks seem to redden at my compliment, but I can’t be sure. “Six miles isn't much, but I couldn't ride at all the past three days, so I didn't want to chafe on my seat.”

“Your backside looks fine to me,” I say, unable to stop the words from flying out of my mouth.

Come on, Aaron, I think to myself, even the cheesiest pickup line is better than telling a woman she's got a nice ass even before you know her name.

I play it off, not giving her a chance to respond. “Name's Aaron.”

“Lindsey,” she says, offering her hand. We shake, and she has a nice grip, not too hard, not too soft. It's strong but still feminine, and I can feel a twitch in my own tights that has nothing to do with the blood flooding my quads right now. “You do a lot of riding, Aaron?”

“I try,” I reply, feeling like a total idiot. Smooth, Simpson, real smooth. Jesus, you need to get laid. This is pathetic. You did better as a sophomore in high school. “I’m training to try and get through a half-Ironman in the spring. The run and swim are easy for me, but the bike . . . fifty-six miles is a long way.”

“I know,” Lindsey says knowingly, and I'm impressed. She doesn't say it in a cocky way, just an acknowledgement that she's an experienced rider. “What's your max distance so far?”

“I've done twenty-five quite a few times, but the farthest I've pushed is forty,” I answer. “That was rough. What about you?”

“I did a century ride a few years ago,” Lindsey says, again without bragging. “It ached, but think of it this way. If I can do that, you can do a fifty-six easy.”

I whistle, impressed. Looking down, I can't help it—I check out her legs. She's wearing tights like me, even if they are a lime green civilian model, and her thighs are impressive. “That's a heck of a ride. Are you a triathlete too?”

Lindsey laughs musically, and I decide that no matter what, I’m going to see her again. Whatever it takes. “No, just a rider. I hate to swim. So, you've done shorter triathlons before?”

I nod, taking a swig of water from my own bottle. “A sprint and an Olympic last year,” I admit. “I really should be doing shorter distance ones first, but this chance to do the half-Ironman, it's a big challenge. I'm just the sort of guy who likes big challenges.”

Lindsey smiles again, her blue eyes twinkling, and asks mischievously, “Really?”

“Really,” I answer. I get the impression that she digs me. Maybe she's flirting, maybe I'm just off my game, but I like it, and I decide to try a little bit more. “I just get motivated by the idea of a goal in front of me.”

“Well then, you did pretty good on the first leg,” Lindsey says, strapping on her helmet again. “Think you can keep up on the second? Race you around to the ski hill.”

Before I can reply, she takes off. I watch her for a half-second and then grin, putting my water bottle away quickly, scrambling to get on my bike. I know that even with letting her get a head start, I’ll ride her down. “You're on!”





Chapter 2





Lindsey





Right now, I'm struggling with the bad side of my job, namely trying to keep the paperwork right on a group of people who don't quite operate by normal military rules. The Army seriously didn’t train me how to handle the personnel paperwork of the United States Military Academy.

“PFC Morgan, how's that schools request coming along?” my commanding noncommissioned officer, Sergeant Greene, asks. She's been in the Army a long time. She joined back before 9/11, and she's been at the Academy for three years. She's got the system down cold, and I think that there'd be a lot of Colonels and Lieutenant Colonels who'd be seriously pissed at me if it weren’t for her.

I pull the paper off my desk and hand it over to her, and she gives me a little nod of thanks. “Not a problem, Sergeant. Major Landry is going to be able to go to the Christmas break course at Leonard Wood. And I've got the travel requests in to Washington for the Band, too. I should be hearing back from Washington tomorrow or Thursday.”

“Good,” she hums, checking the form. “Okay then, get out of here. Nothing too stressful going on. The Supe's got nothing major going on this week, and we've got all the new folks' pay right. Anything else, they can go bitch to the Housing Office about it.”

“Thanks, Sergeant Greene,” I reply, grabbing my backpack and heading for the door. “See you tomorrow.”