GAGE: A Bad Boy Military Romance (6 page)

CHAPTER TEN

When I got back to my room, a soldier and one of the Playmates were fast asleep in my bed. My fellow Playmate’s makeup was smeared all over her face and her blonde hair was a mess, making her indistinguishable from the rest of them. The smell of vodka was radiating off of her unconscious body.

I grabbed my bag and tiptoed through the facility, looking for a private space. Each room was occupied and reeked of fucking and drinking. Finally, in the back of the facility, I was able to find a small, windowless meeting room, equipped with a table and two chairs, and nothing else.

First I changed into my own clothes, then I took my laptop out from my bag. It had been days since I’d last been on the internet. It took two days just to get to Iraq, and another full day in the helicopter to get to the outpost. I had dozens of unread emails.

The first email was from my agent. It was a heated email, part apology, part rant. The email was titled, “Bad News.”

Hey Ashley,

I’ve got some bad news. Your spread was leaked. All the spreads were leaked. This is bad. They think it was someone from the agency. I’m meeting with the Playboy people today, and I’ll let you know what happens.

They’re pissed.

I have a bad feeling about this. There’s talk that they might even pull the spread, swap out all the Playmates and claim the shoots were unofficial.

I’ll keep you in the loop. I know your in Iraq or Afghanistan or wherever, and this is probably the last thing you want to hear right now.

Fucking shit,

Brit Sanders

Morgan & Sanders Talent Agency

The email was sent the day I shipped out. There was another email from Brit, sent the next day. This one was labelled “Good News and Bad News.”

Ashley,

Sorry about my last email. I was in a bad place. Anthony microwaved his leftover salmon and it had a yogurt glaze. Long story short, no one here will be eating salmon for the next few years.

I had a chance to sit down with the Playboy people. They still think the leak was on our end, and they might be right. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was Anthony, after the whole salmon fiasco. But they aren’t going to pull your spread. That’s the good news. Now for the bad news…

They’re going to re-shoot everything. They’re going to say that your first Miss April shoot was just a promo for the real thing. It sounds like a pain in the ass, but it gets worse.

They said they’ve been having poor readership since they switched their magazine over to non-nude. People aren’t buying Playboys—everyone jumped to Hustler. Long story short, they want nudes. That’s also how they’re justifying the “promo.” Basically, they just want a few more photos with you in the shawl, but this time you’ll show your nips.

I know that you said you didn’t want to do any nude stuff, and I know I told you that you wouldn’t have to, but we’re in deep shit here. They’re going to ask all the other Playmates to do the same. It’s ultimately your choice, but if you say no, you lose your spread, you won’t be Miss April, and the agency will be sued up the ass for leaking the spreads.

At least think about it.

Please.

P.S.: Are you in Iraq yet? How’s the weather over there?

Brit Sanders

Morgan & Sanders Talent Agency

Nude. They wanted me to do nude, or lose my Playmate status. And if I said no, then what? Then I was in Iraq for no reason at all. I’d been photographed walking out of a bedroom half-naked with a U.S. Marine for nothing.

There was only one other email from my agent, titled, “Hey.”

Hey Ashley,

Have you thought about the nude thing? Let me know as soon as possible and I can book the shoot. Look at it this way: it’s just nipples. Little pink lumps. Big deal. And they’ll only take a couple shots of your snatch, but who cares? Snatches all look the same anyway.

Hope you’re having a
blast
in the Middle East. ;)

Brit Sanders

Morgan & Sanders Talent Agency

I wanted to respond and say, “No way in hell.” I couldn’t even imagine, spreading my legs and showing off my cooter to the world—to my friends and family, and my poor grandpa who did nothing all day but sit around his retirement home and brag about me to the other old people. “My granddaughter is going to be a movie star.” When I was just a toddler, he would put me in his pickup truck and drive me around town while delivered milk, beaming with pride as he told every one of his clients I was his granddaughter. I couldn’t imagine him doing the same if I was a glorified porn star.

I was about to reply to my agent when I noticed another email from an old friend back home, whom I hadn’t spoken to in years. “Congratulations!” was the subject.

Hi Ashley, it’s Brad Maloney, long time no see. I hope you don’t mind me emailing out of the blue, I got your email address from your mom.

I was on Facebook and I noticed your name in the Top Stories news-thingy. I just wanted to say congratulations! Looks like things are going really well for you.

By the way, I have two tickets to the Sharks game on Friday if you’re free. No biggie if you’re not. They’re playing the Senators, if that makes any difference.

I searched my name in Google to see what the hell Brad Maloney was talking about. The first search result was a news story titled:

Ashley King’s Leaked Miss April Spread Downloaded Ten Million Times Over Weekend, Crashes Servers

There were dozens of emails just like Brad’s in my inbox, referring to the same news story. The leaked Miss April shoot had gone viral.

Ten million downloads. I wanted exposure, and I got it, without showing my pussy or my tits. Now it was confirmed: I didn’t need to do any nude shoot. I didn’t need to humiliate myself or my family.

I found myself reading through the comments on the news website.

“Ashley King is a babe!”

“It’s a shame Playboy doesn’t do nudes anymore. What I’d pay for a glimpse of those tits…”

“Wowza. This girl’s going to be
huge
.”

I caught myself smiling in my laptop screen’s reflection. I looked like a giddy idiot on Christmas morning, but I couldn’t help it. My big break was looming over the horizon, closer than ever before. No more agents asking for nude shoots, no more sleazy roles on late-night television programs. But there was still one major problem.

The reporter.

I was on the verge of blowing up, and there was guaranteed to be people out there waiting for one little slip up, one tiny reason to defuse my take-off. All they needed was a photo of me, half-naked, stumbling out of a stranger’s bedroom.

I was about to put my laptop away when a new email came in from my manager. It was titled, “Hope you’re still alive.”

Ashley,

Those terrorists haven’t blown you up yet, have they? I called the army base and they told me you’ve got internet there. Email me!

I really need to hear back from you re: this nude shoot thing. Don’t make me wait, it’s killing me. We found out the leak was on our end. We found the outgoing emails from the company’s info account. We still think it was Anthony, but it’s impossible to tell, seeing as everyone has access to the info account.

Fucking Anthony.

Also, Frank Finch, producer over at DreamWorks, called this morning. He wants to meet with you about an upcoming project. He didn’t say much, but he’s wants you to meet his director. He didn’t say who the director was, but he called personally, so it must be someone important. I told him you were blown up in Iraq and couldn’t make the meeting.

But seriously, don’t get blown up please.

Brit Sanders

Morgan & Sanders Talent Agency

I could hear the girls beginning to wake up, toilets flushing, hangover groaning, and morning-fuck moaning. I put the laptop back into my bag and wandered out into the hall.

Barbie Reynolds, toothbrush hanging from her mouth and her hair a poofy, wild mess, waved me down. She was topless, her plastic tits hanging out on public display. As she pranced towards me, the rigid things didn’t even move. “I was looking for you last night.”

“Sorry, I was exhausted. How was your night?”

She smirked devilishly. “Good. I had one of the best fucks of my life. I can barely walk this morning.” She reached down and rubbed her pussy gently, as if it was still tender.

“Jesus, Barbie, I don’t want to hear about it.”

She laughed. “Hey, good pick last night, by the way.” She still had that devilish smirk on her face. She knew something I didn’t.

“What are you talking about?”

“The muscly guy. I saw the picture.”

My heart fluttered and a lump grew in my throat. “Picture?”

“Yeah—the photographer was just here a minute ago, taking pictures. He showed us the shot of you in the green shirt. It’s a cute photo. What’s wrong?” Her brow lowered and her head tilted to the side. She could probably see my face turning green.

“Huh? Nothing. He showed you the picture?”

“Yeah, he was proud of it—said he was going to use it as his cover shot. He said something about it ‘showing human nature in its truest form,’ or some gibberish like that. He got a good shot of me laying in bed, too. You should see it. My tits look great. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“It’s a nice photo, Ash. I wouldn’t worry about it. You have that natural, wild look going on, and the green really suits you, matches your eyes. Plus, you look like
such
a cute couple. I need to spit. I’ll catch you in a bit.” She turned and walked away, looking over her shoulder before she turned the corner, probably to make sure I hadn’t fainted or thrown up.

That was it. My fate was sealed. My break would come with the firm reputation of slut. Either my celebrity status would be short-lived, or I would become the next Kim Kardashian, famous thanks to a well-timed controversy, destined to accomplish nothing remotely useful in my whole life.

Instead of a role in an important film, I would get a season of some late-night reality show, watched by brainless teen girls, and horny teen boys whose parents didn’t subscribe to the porn channels.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

At the Chow Hall, everyone was gossiping as if we were back in high school. As I approached tables, conversations lowered into whispers, and as I walked by, the men burst back into flurries of gossip and snickering.

“Yo, Daniels,” Private Hastings said as I passed his table. “Take a seat.” He nudged an empty chair out from under the table.

I ignored him and continued towards the kitchen window.

“Scrambled eggs okay?” Ramis asked. “You’re late. You missed the bennies.”

“Scrambled is fine.”

“I heard you fucked Ashley King. It true?” he asked, looking up at me with wide eyes for a quick moment before looking back down at his hotplate.

“Just worry about the eggs, Ramis.”

“I’m glad it was you and not someone else,” he continued, ignoring me. “Had it been Hastings, I wouldn’t be able to watch Daytona Beach ever again, without imagining his slimy dick sliding in and out and in and out of—” He used the spatula to simulate the motion of Hastings’s hypothetical cock.

“—Worry about the eggs, Ramis,” I said, cutting him off.

“In a few years, when she’s famous, you can tell everyone you fucked her when she was still an unknown. I bet not too many people can say that, huh? She’s got that innocent look to her—I think that’s what makes her so sexy. Maybe she was a virgin. Did she say anything?”

The eggs started to burn. “The eggs, Ramis.”

“Oh, shit. Sorry. I’ll cook you some more.”

“Those are fine.”

He plated the eggs, gave me a couple slices of toast, and I went to sit at an empty table across the room, ignoring Private Hastings’s attempt to wave me down. It did no use though—he uprooted and moved to my table.

“You know, we were startin’ to think you were a gay,” he said.

I looked up at him and imagined punching him in the face. His expression dropped, as if he could read my mind.

“I mean—not actually a gay, just a figure of speech, you know?” he said awkwardly with a stupid smile. “But seriously, way to go. You hear she’s like famous or something?”

“I heard she was on a TV show, yeah.”

“No, no—her Playboy shoot went viral. She’s blowing up on the internet.”

I continued eating my burnt eggs.

“You know what you should do? You should film yourself fuckin’ her. There’s this company called Starz that buys celebrity sex tapes for like, millions of dollars.”

“Thanks for the suggestion.” His jabbering, horny voice was giving me a headache, like it usually did. Hastings was the epitome of what I didn’t want to become—some kid who turned to the military because he had nothing better to do, and thought it would be a good opportunity to fuck girls. Because who would say no to a marine?

He leaned in close, close enough that I could feel his damp breath on my ear. “Can I watch?” he whispered.

“Watch what?”

“Watch you fuck her. C’mon, you won’t even know I’m there.”

I had the sudden urge to slam the dirty cocksucker in the face, but I resisted. Instead, I turned to him, looked him in his perverted eyes, and said, “Go fuck yourself, Hastings.”

“Oh, c’mon. Don’t be an asshole. At least let me listen to you fuckin’ her.”

“I wouldn’t let you listen to me take a shit, you dirty bastard. Besides, I’m not going to fuck her again.”

“You’re what?” He said it like I was telling him I was going to cut off my own arms for shits.

“And brush your fucking teeth, would you? It smells like you ate dog shit.” I stood up, brought my plate to Ramis’s counter, and headed for the door.

Unfortunately, Hastings caught up with me. “You’re tellin’ me you aren’t going to fuck her? That she’s free game?”

“Sure.”

“So, you’re sayin’ you wouldn’t care if I fucked her?” His eyes were wide, bulging, like an insect’s.

“I’m sure she wouldn’t let you touch her, but you’re welcome to try.” I walked faster, even though I had nowhere to go, nowhere to be. They always cancelled training when we had BCs on site, and I wasn’t scheduled for guard duty for another week. Sadly, Hastings knew it, making it especially difficult to shake the slimy fucker.

“We’ll see about that. Thanks, Gage. You’re a hero, you know that? A real, goddamned hero.” He stopped and saluted me before turning and running back to the Chow Hall like a giddy schoolboy who got into his grandpa’s Viagra.

I wandered the compound for a while, which was mostly quiet, save for the odd straggler moving from the bunkhouse to the Chow Hall. The girls had their food delivered to the Guest Hall, and none of them emerged, probably all getting dolled up for the reporter.

My muscles were still sore from working out the day before, but seeing as there was nothing else to do, I figured I would get another workout in.

It was a hot day, not a cloud in the desert sky. I went back to my bunkroom to grab my water bottle. Once again, Hastings had left his laptop open, open on the same picture of Ashley in her Miss April outfit—apparently his latest favourite jerk-off picture. A chill resonated through my body.

Maybe the girl was right to be scared of us, to want to be hidden. I didn’t blame her. Hastings was a creepy fuck, and there were two dozen other creepy fucks just like him, all with their eyes on her.

By the time I got back out to the gym, word had already gotten around that Ashley was “free game.” The gossiping crowds from the Chow Hall had migrated out onto the pavement.

As I started my workout, I heard someone say, “You take her tomorrow night. I want her tonight.”

“Fuck that. The second you get her, she’s done. Your cock practically shoots the flu.”

“You can’t get the flu from fucking.” I recognized the voice as Hastings’s. No surprise there.

“You know what I mean. You’re a filthy, diseased bastard. Let the rest of us have a shot first, so we don’t catch all your goddamned diseases.”

“Hey,” a third Joe piped in. “Why don’t we put some money on this, make it interesting.”

I turned on the radio in an attempt to drown out the men’s horny blabbering. I lay back on a weight bench and started a set of bench press. Even with the radio cranked, I could hear them.

“Yeah, I’d be down for that. I could use a few extra bucks after Christmas.”

“No way,” Hastings said. “I ain’t putting money on shit. Darby’s got an unfair advantage with his sexy British accent.”

“Obviously,” one of the other men said. “Darby can’t play.”

“What about me?” Darby called out from across the pavement. “I heard my name.”

“Mind your shit, Darby.”

I dropped the barbell into its cradle and sat up. I couldn’t take anymore of their nonsense. “Take it inside, would ya? I’m trying to workout here,” I called out. All the men looked at me. There were four men involved in the wager: Hastings, Miller, one of the new recruits (some kid named Joel Aubin), and Corporal Lyon, one of the older guys.

Lyon was bald and had a big black beard. A cool wave pulsed through my body as I realized he was part of the bet. He was a lunatic, a murderer in uniform, the kind of guy who joined the military as an excuse to legally murder minorities. He tried his best to look tough, like a bearded biker from an 80s motorcycle club.

Sure, I could take him, but Ashley wouldn’t be able to. Because of Lyon, they almost stopped sending BCs to our outpost. A few months into our tour, the son of a bitch killed one, some young prostitute they flew in from Baghdad. He strangled her while he fucked her, claimed she asked for it. Major Richards did a good job sweeping it under the rug. Lyon got a slap on the wrist and world kept on turning.

“Hey Daniels, Hastings said you’re sharing Miss April with the rest of us. Way to go, brother,” Lyon called out, scratching the wiry beard hair on his cheek.

“I’m not sharing her, she’s not mine.”

“Well aren’t you Mr Women’s Rights?”

“Why don’t you just spend the night fucking yourself, Lyon?”

He laughed and looked at his betting partners. His beard did a poor job hiding his awkward embarrassment. “You want in, Daniels? Place your bet on one of us, maybe make some cash? If you’re feeling risky, Hasting’s odds are 20-1.”

“Hey!” Hastings said, the smile vanishing from his face.

“Don’t waste your bet on Lyon, Gage,” Miller said, laughing. “Two pussies can’t fuck one another.”

Corporal Lyon gave Private Miller a swift shove. “Fuck you.”

“What do you think, Gage?” Hastings asked.

“I think you guys need to go rub one out and stop acting like a bunch of horny teenagers, that’s what I think.”

Lyon shook his head and then men continued discussing their stupid bet. And it was stupid, because Ashley wasn’t going to sleep with any of the dimwits. She’d made it clear enough the night before that she didn’t want to sleep with anyone, especially not some thug like Lyon, or a shrivelled up pervert like Hastings.

But I wasn’t worried about whether Ashley would say yes or no. The real question was, would the bastards listen? Hastings, maybe. Lyon—not a chance. Lyon didn’t have the pride to accept rejection. His ego was too big, and too fragile. If Ashley said no, he would probably rape her in an attempt to get her to admit she meant yes, that she secretly wanted it and how dare she reject a man like Lyon?

The bastard made me sick. And I’d told him that many times. He always assumed I was kidding around. His ego was too thick to accept that someone thought he was a piece of shit.

“I bet she likes it in the ass,” he said.

“No, no. She’s too classy. You’ve gotta romance her a bit, let her lead at the start, and then you make your move,” Miller said, using his hand to simulate a gentle wave, as if he was running it down the side of Ashley’s curvy, soft body.

Lyon laughed. “No, she’s definitely an anal slut.”

I dropped the barbell back into its cradle again, this time with a loud clang. The men turned and looked at me as I sat up. “Alright, men. Go back to your rooms and rub one out. Get this out of your system.”

They all laughed. “Fuck off,” said Hastings.

“That’s an order,” I said.

Their laughter faded into silent confusion. “You’re ordering us to go and jerk off?” Miller asked.

“Major’s orders were to keep your hands off the girls. I’m your superior, and it’s my job to enforce the Major’s orders. Now go.”

Hastings and Miller looked at one another in their confused stupor. Lyon stepped towards me. “You might be their superior, Daniels, but you aren’t my superior. Last I checked, we’re both corporals.”