WINGS

CHAPTER TWELVE

He'd dropped his keys and immediately tore away the annoying little apron uniform. He uttered a few choice words about a couple of the angry customers he'd dealt with that morning. Hopefully, a hot steamy shower would be able to melt away the stress. Mason already decided he didn't feel up to going to class after the morning he had. Michael would be furious with him, and Brent, no doubt. Still, either of them wasn't there to scold him.

Warm tingles beaded against his head like a thousand fingers. Mason rinsed off his body feeling refreshed, even a little relieved as he rinsed off. He turned off the shower and stepped out to dry himself, tying the second towel around his waist. He grabbed his toothbrush and began brushing his teeth for the second time today. And as he blinked into the mirror at his reflection, something stopped him, forcing him to confront the inward fear that gave him pause. What if Brent had gotten hurt? What if he never came back. What if...

He rinsed, then took a deep breath, telling himself he had too much free time on his hands. He should stay busy somehow, hopefully, it would resolve his resentment toward Brent for not having told him he was leaving. Clasping the band on his watch, he realized it was almost two o'clock.

A small rumble from his belly reminded him he hadn't eaten all day. He had been running late and dashed downstairs before even getting so much as a piece of toast in his stomach. Food. That was it, he just needed food. Maybe it would help clear his mind. After slipping into a pair of jeans and his favorite Ralph Lauren Polo, he headed for the kitchen. He placed a pan on the tiny stove when a heavy knock came at the door.

The sound of the second knock was even harder, taking him back to the moment when the formal blues arrived at his doorstep about Michael. After a third knock jolted him back to the present, he looked down to see the small shake in his hands. Furrowing his brows, he told himself how ridiculous he was being and rolled them into fists.

He tried to shake it off, turning off the gas fire and took a long hard breath. Calm down. You're overreacting. When he opened the door, a familiar faced soldier stood before him. A hinted shade of a red headed man of whom he couldn't quite place the name with the face but knew he'd seen him around the base before. It wasn't the guess of a name that forced him to draw a hard breath, it was the formal blue's that had Mason frozen. He breathed without a word, staring at the soldier who wasn't Brent.

"Mason Webb?"

This can't be happening again. He struggled with the volcanic emotion pressuring to erupt from his chest. "Yes, I'm Mason Webb," he said, weakly.

The soldier took a stance and saluted. "I'm Airman, Scott Crenshaw," he said, taking off his blue enlisted flight cap. "I helped you to the medic's station. Remember me?"

"How could I forget, and don't you mean strong armed?"

Crenshaw humbly smiled. "I really am sorry about that buddy. I was under orders if anything happened to you, we were to report it to Staff Sergeant Wilde."

"Right. Of course," he said, nodding. "Michael did it, why not Brent?" Airman Crenshaw's brows fell forward in confusion. "Never mind. How can I help you?"

"I've never officially introduced myself before now, and I apologize for that," Crenshaw stood sharp, maintaining a sense of sincerity. "And I was sorry to hear about your brother. We flew together a few times. He was a great man."

"Thank you." Mason politely nodded without smiling. Though his impatience for whatever news to be delivered was growing thin. "Not to be rude, but what can I do for you, sir."

Crenshaw cringed. "Ouch. Just Crenshaw or soldier. Please. No sir necessary."

His jaw clenched. His anger began to fuel with an insistent tone. "Did Sergeant Wilde order you to send for me or something? What is this? What do you want, soldier?"