Masters at Arms (Rescue Me Saga, #0.5)(36)
Clearly, this conversation was going nowhere fast. “So, where you from?”
“Just down the coast. Eden Gardens at Solana Beach.”
Again, he looked as if Marc would make some judgment call. He had no freaking clue what Eden Gardens was like, but it sure sounded nice. When he didn’t ask where Marc was from, he just decided to volunteer the info. “I’m from Aspen, Colorado, by way of the Lombardy region of Italy.”
“Mmm.” Orlando removed his boots and began polishing the suede on one of them.
Shit. What the hell could he do to get a response out of the guy? Marc turned onto his side with a groan and propped his head in the palm of his hand. “So, have you ever tied a woman to her bed?”
Orlando’s hand came to a stop and he looked up from his boot. Got his attention, at least.
“Once or twice.”
Yeah, right. He’d remember if it were once…or twice. But there was a look in his eye that Marc couldn’t quite decipher.
“I don’t get off on that shit.”
“Then you must not be doing it right. Nothing sweeter than the surrender of a submissive woman in restraints.”
“Not if she doesn’t want to be in them.”
“Well, no shit. I’m talking safe, sane, and consensual, good old-fashioned bondage and discipline between consenting adults.”
“I had a girlfriend once who was into pain, but I left her. I could never hurt a woman.”
“Even if she needed the pain to get off?”
Orlando got a faraway look in his eyes, his hands remaining still, holding the boot and brush. “There was this girl last fall who got herself into a really bad BDSM scene. Fucking pissed me off when I found her. She sure as hell wasn’t enjoying it.” Orlando shook his head. “No thanks.”
“Why didn’t she say her safe word?”
“I’m not sure she didn’t. She was with two guys she barely knew. Not very good at keeping herself safe, I guess.” He looked as if he were a million miles away again. Then slowly he began polishing the boot.
“Some people don’t take enough time to establish trust. Can’t have a power exchange if there isn’t a firm foundation in trust.”
When Orlando silently continued working at the grime on his boot, Marc eased back onto the rack. If he could move, he’d do the same with his boots. Tomorrow morning, he’d have to get up and go through this pain all over again. If he survived reconnaissance training, it would be a miracle.
Gino had gone through Recon Marine training, too. Marc had a new respect for him after a week with this Marine unit. Funny how Marc had tried so hard to avoid going into the Marines—then had wound up in the same damned unit Gino had served in.
Gino hadn’t said much about what he was doing. He’d been sent to Kandahar in the early days of the war to help establish the base there. If Marc made it through training, he wanted to talk with Master Sergeant Montague about the firefight that had taken Gino’s life. The details they’d been given were pretty sketchy.
But there weren’t a lot of opportunities for a corpsman to chat up the Top. Not that he’d ever dare to call the master sergeant a “Top” to his face without permission. Did the man like the common nickname or not?
After months of medical training, including A-School, Marc just hoped he’d be able to save the lives of the men and women in this unit when the time came. Dio, he didn’t want to screw up. They would count on him to be there when they needed him.
Oh, shit. What had ever possessed him to enlist? He’d never carried responsibility like this before in his entire f*cking life.
*
Two months later, July 2004, Camp Pendleton, California
Iraq. Marc knew it was coming, but knowing they’d be shipping out to a duty station in Fallujah in a week sure made him want to do a few things before he left. The no-porn, no-sex, no-alcohol rules were going to kill him. He needed to blow off some steam while he still could.
Orlando walked into the barracks and dropped Marc’s mail on the rack at Marc’s feet. Looked like he’d taken the fetish magazine Marc’s little brother, Sandro, had subscribed him to out of the wrapper for a peek.
Marc smiled. “Get into a Tee and khakis. We’re going out.”
“Where to?”
“Little place up the coast. You’re going to love it.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I do. You need an education.”
“More training?”
“Something like that.”
Twenty minutes later, they were on the 5 in Marc’s vintage cherry-red Porsche 911 Carrera, top down, and heading for Los Angeles. He figured that would be far enough off base for them not to run into anyone who would report them up the chain of command. At least he knew they wouldn’t find by-the-book Master Sergeant Montague there. The man had to be about the grimmest, meanest hard-ass Marc had ever met.
He’d never found an opportunity to ask his top sergeant about Gino. He knew Montague was involved in the firefight that killed his brother, though. Montague had written a letter to Marc’s parents soon after telling them of his regret about Gino’s death.
Marc had read the short letter many times after his brother’s death, trying to glean some clue as to what had happened. But there weren’t many details there. Mostly he’d just shared how honorably Gino had served his unit. Probably just a form letter he sent to all families of the fallen. Maybe someday the two of them would talk about that fatal day in Afghanistan. But it wouldn’t be anytime soon.