Don't Ask, Don't Tell

Chapter 1

"And then prom night arrived. I went skinny dipping and got busted. But hey, anything for a sniff of pussy, am I right?"

Samuel scoffed. He'd known sergeant Benjamin Jacobs for a whole twenty minutes and they were already miles past the line of TMI.

Pushing the pub's door open, Jacobs continued in his rambling as they crossed the polished wood floor. "So how's things in Hawaii, anyway?" His voice fought the pop notes of 'N Sync. Or was it the Backstreet Boys? "I served there for a while back in the days. It was alright, but San Diego is home, you know? Oh, there they are."

Jacobs strode across the bar as if he owned the place, nodding left and right and returning lazy salutes.

Samuel gave up on his reply. He'd struggled to get two sentences in on the entire drive from the base to the pub, half-empty on a Wednesday afternoon. A handful of marines in uniform occupied a booth near the entrance, deep in a quiet conversation over sweaty glasses of soda . On their left, rowdy young boys in joggers and oversize vests proved their skills at the dart cabinet.

Then Jacobs halted just long enough to hiss, "Mother–" and he dashed to a table tucked in the far corner of the room. "Hey, Mason! The hell are you doing?" He pushed himself between a man in an intricate tattoo sleeve and a young woman with raven pigtails on the top of her head, breaking the intimate giggle of what looked like an inside joke. "I thought I told you to back off from my sister." A sullen shade muddied his playful tone.

The woman frowned. "Jesus, Ben, we were just talking."

"Against each other's faces?" Jacobs scooted on the bench, forcing her to get up and sit across the table, near a guy sipping a Pabst through a snigger.

The inked man passed his fingers through his auburn brown hair and leaned on his forearms. By the eye-roll he shared with Jacobs' sister, they must have had that conversation on a regular basis.

"Dude, you're ridiculous." His smokey voice matched his intimidating, uneven features.

But Jacobs' head tilted. "Am I? Cause I know you and your sticky fingers all too well." Then his gaze returned to Samuel. "Take a seat. Don't be shy."

Samuel settled on a chair at the head of the table, and the wooden legs screeched against the floor. Suddenly, the argument was over and four pairs of eyes jumped on him.

"This is sergeant Reid," Jacobs said.

Samuel lifted two fingers as a greeting.

"I'm Leah, Ben's sister. Unfortunately." A diamond nose piercing shone in the light, bright like her welcoming smile, and Samuel relaxed against the backrest.

Jacobs mocked a laugh, but Leah ignored him and offered her hand, which Samuel shook. "Samuel. Nice to meet you."

The Pabst drinker raised his bottle. "Sergeant Palmer. Dennis."

Then the other man. "Sergeant Mason." His stern gaze barely left the watery pint in his hand.

"What do you drink, Sam? Can I call you Sam?" Jacobs patted his shoulder. "You can call me Ben, by the way. Fist name basis is acceptable here. Except for this motherfucker over there," — his face gained a fond gleam as he hinted at Mason — "who thinks he's better than that cause he's a senior DI now."

Mason kept a middle finger high. "See? You are smart." A twang in his vowels betrayed a Boston accent.

Ben chuckled, winking at his friend. "So, Sam, what do you drink?"

That was  long introduction to a simple questions. "A Pabst is fine."

Ben signaled the bartender for two beers. "I found this lost puppy," — he jerked his thumb at Samuel, returning to the group — "settling in. I'm sure you don't mind I brought him along." Then he shifted to face Mason. "He got Lance's old room."