GAGE: A Bad Boy Military Romance (7 page)

“You want to dispute my order? Want me to go and get Major Richards?”

“What, you’re going to go tattle to the Major?” Lyon sunk his head down and puckered his lips, mocking me. He stopped a few inches from my face, close enough that I could smell his stale, sour breath.

“Step back, Corporal,” I said.

“Am I in your personal space? Why don’t you go tell Major Richards that, too.” The urge to slam Lyon’s face into the pavement was stronger than ever, but somehow I resisted.

I stared into his sunken, beady eyes. He was obviously weak, unable to hold eye-contact for more than a few seconds before his eyes darted down to my feet. He masked his vulnerability by pretending to size me up. I just continued to stare him down, watching him become more and more uncomfortable. But still, he pretended to be tough.

“I gave you an order, Lyon.”

“And what order was that again?” He smirked.

“An order to go fuck yourself, Corporal.”

His smirk slouched into a frown and he scowled, taking a deep breath in. “I bet you never even fucked her. I bet you got into that room and you couldn’t get it up, you fucking queer.” He took a step closer, so close that I could feel the heat radiating off of his head. “Are you a queer, Daniels?”

CHAPTER TWELVE

I stood and watched as the other girls meticulously applied their makeup, redoing the mascara on every single eyelash five times over before moving onto the next. They’d all found out about the leaked spreads that morning, and they also found out that my spread had gone viral.

A few of the girls congratulated me, but most of those congratulations were far from sincere. Barbie’s ecstatic, bouncing congratulations was convincing enough. But the other girls seemed downright depressed about it. One of the Playmates, Miss November, laid the sarcasm on thicker than I thought possible when she said, “Way to go, Ashley. I’m
sooooo
happy for you.”

In the main room of the guest facility, they’d unloaded and set up the portable makeup stations. Each station was equipped with a large mirror, two dozen frosted light bulbs, and ten lifetimes’ worth of makeup. Each unit sat four girls.

As I was about to sit down at an empty seat, one of the girls pushed her makeup over and said, “Sorry. I need the extra space.” It was a clear message—they all suddenly hated me. Probably out of jealousy.

No one wanted to sit with me. Barbie’s counter was full, and she seemed to be completely oblivious to everyone’s sudden bitterness towards me.

So I sat alone, at a plastic foldout table in the corner of the room. I asked one of the other girls if I could clean my makeup brushes with her towel, and she said, “No, sorry, I don’t like cross contaminating my makeup.” I wanted to tell her to shove it, but instead, I went and grabbed the green Marines shirt that Gage lent to me.

One of the girls ran in from the next room over. “There’s a fight! Two of the guys are fighting, outside.”

All of the Playmates were up on their feet and moving towards the door before the girl could finish her announcement. No one bothered to get dressed before running outside. Most of them just quickly wrapped a towel around their bodies. A few of the girls didn’t even bother to do that, running outside with nothing but a thong and a hand-bra.

I followed, grabbing the only piece of clothing I could find on my way out, the green Marines t-shirt.

Everyone stopped just outside the front door. Being shorter than most of the other Playmates, I couldn’t see over the row of blonde heads, so I had to push through to the front of the crowd.

I recognized both men in the fight. It was Gage and the bald-headed, bearded man who had his hands all over me the night before.

Across from us, a crowd of soldiers had formed, screaming and cheering for their favourite fighter. None of them seemed to be too concerned about the fight, so I assumed it was a casual ordeal, maybe a friendly spar, like boxers have. They were marines, after all. Their lives depended on their ability to fight.

At least, most marines’ lives depend on their ability to fight.

But, before the first punch was even thrown, I realized it wasn’t just a casual spar. The bearded man leaned forward and spat in Gage’s face, eliciting a low oohing from the crowd of Marines.

“Bring it, Daniels. Or are the big muscles just for show?”

Gage wiped the spit from his face and then raised his fists up towards his chin, assuming a fighting stance.

The bearded man scared me. So much so that I had nightmares about him the night before, when I was sleeping in Gage’s bed. I couldn’t shake the thought of his cold, rough hand slithering up my leg, and his coarse beard hair brushing against my cheek as he tried to inch his face closer to mine.

He started to circle Gage, hopping around, doing his best Muhammad Ali impression. Gage remained stationary, swivelling to face his bearded opponent around the imaginary ring.

The girls around me were fighting to whisper over one another. “Isn’t that the guy that fucked Ashley?” one girl asked.

“No, that’s the gay guy,” another said. “The guy who was so busy looking at his muscles when we landed yesterday.”

“No—that’s the guy in the picture—the guy Ashley slept with last night.”

“He’s cute.”

“He’s a queer. He wouldn’t even look at me.”

“Maybe he just wasn’t into you,” I said.

Silence fell over the women and heads spun to face me. Caroline Kinley—or as she preferred, Kerry Kinley, Miss September—was staring at me as if I was a five foot tall cockroach.

She looked like she had some mean things to say, but her attention quickly turned back to the fight, along with all the other girls’ attention.

The bearded creep went in for a right hook, but Gage blocked.

“Go for the body, Lyon!” one of the soldiers yelled from the sideline.

The bearded man, apparently named Lyon, continued swinging for the head, hitting nothing but Gage’s blockers. Gage didn’t swing back, holding his position, pulling his arms in closer and closer to his face with each punch.

“Is he going to do anything?” one of the girls asked.

Kerry Kinley had a big, dumb smirk on her face—it was obvious who she was rooting for.

“C’mon, Gage! Hit the bastard!” one of the soldiers called out.

One of Lyon’s throws connected with the side of Gage’s head, throwing Gage off balance. He stumbled, but caught himself. The bearded Lyon could have taken advantage of the stumble, but instead used it as an opportunity to soak in the sudden cheer that came from his half of the soldiers. The other half cringed.

“Do something, you piece of shit! I’ve got a hundred bucks on ya!” a soldier yelled at Gage.

Lyon approached Gage again and started swinging, aiming again for the face, hitting nothing but blockers, only occasionally shooting low and hitting Gage’s side.

From the cafeteria building, the reporter came running, screwing a lens onto his camera as he approached.

Lyon finally clued into Gage’s strategy and decided to start throwing swings at Gage’s torso. Gage kept his arms up, continuing to protect his face, allowing the blows to his body to connect.

Beads of sweat were starting to trickle down Lyon’s face. Each of his punches was accompanied by a deep grunt. He was tiring, but Gage still hadn’t thrown a single punch.

The reporter began snapping photos, getting down on his knees and twisting his arms and body to adjust his shot.

“That all you’ve got, you fuckin’ queer?” Lyon said between grunts. He was smirking with his teeth clenched tight.

“Is that all you’ve got?” Gage replied, absorbing every hit. His muscles were flexed like stones, a suit of dense armour that covered his whole body. He kept his body stationary, only swivelling around to track his opponent, preserving as much energy as he could.

“Finish him off, Lyon!” Kerry called out, followed by a quick smirk over her shoulder at me.

“C’mon, Lyon, get this thing over with already!” a soldier called out.

He was trying, putting everything he had into every punch, but it was getting him nowhere. Gage continued to stand tall, seemingly unfazed by the barrage of hits.

Then, as if he had been counting down the seconds in his head, Gage went off. He threw a cannon of a left at Lyon’s side and then a right at Lyon’s ribs. Lyon tried to lower his arms to block the heavy blows, but Gage didn’t stop. His punches were slow but powerful, each one jolting Lyon back.

The crowd of soldiers erupted. Most of the girls looked away, unable to watch the unfolding carnage. Lyon was on the defence now, too preoccupied surviving Gage’s sudden fury to even think of attacking.

It was difficult to watch. Lyon stood no chance. He was exhausted, out of fuel, and Gage had a full tank left in him.

“Stop! Break it up!” Major Richards was running towards the action from across the compound.

Gage didn’t stop. He kept throwing lefts and rights. Lyon was hunched over, probably winded, sinking lower and lower with each hit. Watching Gage pummel the bearded creep to the ground was both difficult and relieving. There was a peculiar satisfaction in knowing if his body wasn’t too beat up to feel me up, his ego would be. All of his friends were watching him get his ass handed to him, and so were all of the 2016 Playboy Playmates.

“Stop! Right now! That’s an order!” Major Richards yelled. His words, once again, failed to connect with Gage’s ears. So instead, Richards grabbed Gage by the shoulders and pried him off.

Lyon fell to his hands and knees. “Get your ass in my office,” Major Richards said to Gage.

Gage followed the command. Richards’s voice was deep and powerful, bone-rattling. Richards turned to the rest of his men.

They immediately threw their arms to their sides and straightened their backs. They could feel the intensity radiating off of him, the relentless rage that pulsed through his bloodstream.

The compound was silent, save for the broken gasping from Lyon, still on his hands and knees between the boys and girls.

“Fifty laps,” Major Richards said.

The men turned and looked at one another. The girls did the same. Everyone had looks of confusion, but the men’s looks were different. It was confusion mixed with fear and wide-eyed disbelief. “Excuse me, sir? I think we misheard you, sir.”

“Fifty laps. Now.”

The confusion on the men’s faces vanished but the fear and disbelief remained.

“Fifty laps, sir? That’s—That’s twenty-five miles, sir. That’s practically a marathon.”

“Then you better get started. All of you.”

There was a hesitation, and then one of the more decorated soldiers turned to the others and said, “You heard the Major, boys! Fifty laps! Let’s go!” They all formed a line and started to jog towards the compound’s gate. Then, they began to run along the compound’s perimeter.

When Richards turned to the girls, his face became red. “Excuse me, ladies,” he said before turning and walking towards his office.