I’m sure many would think me a wimp. Perhaps I am. I enjoyed it, the access to her body, wrenching the orgasms from her shuddering flesh, pampering her, cuddling with her. I was shocked when I was included on calls with her husband, and he thanked me for taking care of her, and being a gentleman about it. Mingling with the station royalty, the people the other hundreds of us were there for, was exciting.
She cried when I told her it was going to be my last duty. Every year we were required to leave for a short period. I confessed to her that I wouldn’t be returning from the next.
I got a call from her husband. Strange. He thanked me profusely for helping them both. Swore if they could ever be of aid to me, to give them a call. He told me that his wife had a going-away gift for me, from both of them.
Forty-eight hours of bliss. All the fantasies I’d had of her, she fulfilled and more. She didn’t cry once until the last time we showered together, I washed her hair, blow dried and styled it. She was a logical person, rarely emotional. Not that night. The tears running down her patrician face were heart rending.
I’ll never forget Dr. Katy Ross.
I’d pampered her for the last time, and she took me by the hand and led me to the largest conference hall. I was in shock after walking in. Must have been a hundred people there to say goodbye. Nearly the entire Winter staff. The biggest party I’d ever seen during my stay. I learned that only six people had been around longer than me. I guess I’d made more friends in my time there than I had realized. Good people, all. I was going to miss them.
After five year-long tours, I was well-paid, experienced, educated, and had a substantial bank account that was growing through some reasonable investments guided by one of the local scientists.
I was a changed man, both physically and mentally. I still considered myself a loner, although I appreciated my friendships. I’d had my fill of solitude, and wanted to re-enter society. My time with Dr. Ross had changed me. I’d filled out, and picked up a few mementos from my trip, including several scars on my hands and arms from playing with knives, an ugly burn scar on my calf from not paying attention in the kitchen once, and a nasty three inch one on my temple, almost hidden by my hairline, thanks to a spill off a ladder. I thought it gave me character. I needed something, I was pretty middle-of-the-road other than that.
Katy and her friends came through for me, and I lined up a contracting job at Hurlburt Field in Ft. Walton Beach. I had my MBA and a Bachelors in Computer Science, with several Cisco certifications under my belt. A fist full of written recommendations from some of the best known names within their fields. A list of references that would make a pro-athlete blush.
One of Master Keno’s friends had setup my company, and all the side-work I did for the scientists was charged to my sideline. It gave me a work history and padded my accounts, more than I would ever have expected. Katy and Master Keno never even told me about it. I signed the papers they told me to, and let them take care of me.
It seemed the right thing, with all the network wiring background I had, to get into IT. I was pleasantly surprised it paid as well as it did. I guess I could thank my Station friends for that.
Twenty-six years old, I had 8 years of networking experience (or so I claimed, since wiring was a part of networking, technically), an advanced degree, an $85/hr job that I didn’t mind putting in all the over-time asked for, and zero social life. I missed my friends.
Then Sue stepped into my life.
“So, Mystery, you coming to the 4th of July cookout at the yacht club?”
Mystery? Was she talking to me?
The pretty little brunette had cornered me, and seemed to get a good bit of enjoyment out of teasing me. I was lousy at speaking to girls, especially one as pretty as her. Once I knew them it wasn’t so bad, but strangers? Scared the shit out of me.
“No,” I mumbled, looking for an escape route.
She grabbed my arm, laughing. “No you don’t. You don’t escape that easy. You have to come.”
I looked at her in surprise. “Have to?”
She nodded. “I already told the girls you were my date. You don’t want to make a liar out of me do you?”
I had a nervous habit of playing with my stuff when stressed, and I found myself with a Liberty quarter in my fingers, palming it, rolling it across my fingers, and doing similar stuff automatically. It calmed me. “Date?” I asked.
“C’mon. I know you must date. You can’t keep your secrets forever. We’re going, and that’s that.” She put a piece of paper in my hand. “Pick me up at noon. Don’t be late. By the way, we’re bringing my famous German potato salad, so no motorcycle. Pick me up in that gorgeous ‘Vette of yours.”
Yes, I had a Corvette. A ’69 big block convertible stingray, triple black. My first car. One of the pilots was moving overseas and I got it for a song, only $24K, less than I’d pay for most new cars. I also had a ’72 Moto Guzzi 850GT which I fell in love with at first sight. A cool $4k and it was mine. Nice thing about being near several large military bases. Great used vehicles always seemed to be for sale.
I figured I had the better part of 5 years salary saved up, which I’d nearly doubled with reasonable investments and my side jobs. I was earning good money. I deserved a couple of toys. I rarely drove either, they were both collectibles, so most of the miles went on my 11 year old F-150 pickup. Three great vehicles, for less than the price of one new tricked out extended cab truck. Dad didn’t raise no fool.
Well, not much of one.
* * * Now * * *
I was stuck with grilling duty, while the others eventually returned to the backyard. Our house was the preferred gathering place, specifically for the yard. We were right on the bay, with a nice 100 feet or so of landscaped Bermuda between the house and the water. We had a dock, where my little Triton with twin Yamaha 300s was tied up. A few large Sweetgum trees provided shade in the summer.
The nearest tree trunk was 40 feet from the deck where I did the grilling. I know that for certain. To the inch. When I was grilling for myself, I practiced my longest throws from there, into a large flat slab of tree trunk I’d hung from the tree. A perfect 5 turn throw, the longest I practiced regularly.
“Chicken’s done,” I told Sue, where she was chatting with the other girls, sipping Margarita’s on the porch. She seemed to have gotten over my little trick. I thought she’d enjoy it more. I never got these things right. The men had taken a walk down to the dock, and had stopped to talk under the tree on the way back.
Dale and Mark were playing with the cheap throwing knives I’d left in the target. Kind of funny to watch. Half-a-dozen throws from about 10 feet, and not one stuck. It was the perfect distance for a simple one turn throw, or even a no-spin.
“I’ll go down and get them,” Sue said, getting up and walking to the steps.
“Don’t bother, I’ll get their attention,” I told her.
She gave me a frown. “No need to yell, I’ll only be a second.”
“I won’t. Go ahead and finish your drink.” I pulled out my favorite thrower, and after determining they were a good 5’ out of my line of fire, I leaned back and gave it a good hard throw. Lucky shot, it landed just a hair off center. I practiced enough that I always hit the target, getting it to stick was maybe a 90% chance. A bull’s-eye was at best one in 10.
It hit with a solid thunk, and their heads spun as if on a swivel, both of them stepping back. I heard their wives laugh. I lifted up a half chicken on one of my knives. “Dinner’s on,” I called out.
Marie came over with the tray, and I started piling the chicken on it. “Where’d you learn to throw like that?” she asked.
“Overseas. Something to pass the time,” I explained.
She grinned. “Are we ever going to find out what you did over there?”
“You know the drill,” I teased. Even after almost a year, she still asked at least once every time we saw each other.
“I know, I know. You’d love to tell me, but you’d have to kill me.”
“Break my heart to kill a girl as pretty as you,” I told her with a wink.