WINGS

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"You got it, Sarg., that's right, keep moving," said the weight training officer.

Airmen from around the base filled the gym. Many of them had ghosts of some kind haunting them. It was no secret, at least not to the men who knew the anger inside them was lethal when not controlled. This was one way of soothing the beast within, feeding it what it needed to keep it from rearing its ugly face in public. Something Brent should have admitted to himself way before now.

"Service, courage," breathe, "sacrifice," he uttered almost unheard behind his lobbed punches at the heavy hundred-pound bag, the leather biting into his bare knuckles at every lunge. His own face kept staring back at him, guilt driving his swing in a tyranny for punishing the man who should have known better.

"Left, left, breathe, right, Again. Keep those hands up." When the trainer's voice held, Brent ignored the fact and continued anyway. "Sergeant Wilde....hey, Sergeant!"

"What!" Brent stopped in a hardened breath, his forehead leaned into the leather bag.

"I think you have a visitor."

His head lifted and veered an exhausted look to his right. He saw Pennington send a brief smile before walking away. There he stood. "Oh my god, Mason," he breathed. His heart jumped as he ripped into a smile.

Brent's glistening body was bathed in sweat as he high tailed it over to meet him. "God, I've missed you."

"Can we talk?"

"Of course, anything you want. I'm just glad you're here." It was clear by the scared look on Mason's face, that he was plagued with his own ghosts. Brent searched over the gym and quickly took him by the hand, walking backward, refusing to take his eyes off him and led them back to a nearby and vacant corner. "I think we're pretty safe here," said Brent in a smile.

Mason missed that smile and the feel of those big hands that still sent a charging wave of need through him, begging his body and will to give in. "You're bleeding," he said, noticing the scratch bites over his knuckles.

His smile warmed. "It's nothing. Their scratches. Talk to me, babe."

"Brent, I can't stay long."

"Why?" He smiled, gazing into his eyes. "Something wrong? Are you okay?"

Mason shook his head. "No. I'm fine. Don't worry. It's just..."

Brent couldn't help himself. He held Mason at the shoulders, practically shaking with want. "I know you're still mad at me, but I really want to kiss you. I've missed you so fucking much. Just give me one kiss, please."

"I don't think that's such...," Mason said when Brent ignored his words and claimed his lips in a passion that felt like it had been caged for days. Brent's hands swarmed over Mason, pressed along his back, sliding up until they were cradling his face. When some of the men started taunting them with whistles, it brought Mason back to reality. He shoved at Brent, forcing them to break apart. "Brent. No."

Somewhat discouraged by the sudden break, Brent looked partially relieved at his resistance. Only because he felt himself losing control. "No. No. Sorry, you're right, not here." He smiled in a joyful breath, pulling back a strand of hair from Mason's eyes.

"Not anywhere," Mason said, haunted and torn by his own words.

Brent drew back his hands from Mason's shoulders, stunned at his reply. His smile faded. "Wait. What's going on here?"

"I'm saying, I need time." Inwardly, Mason felt scared. He wanted to be with Brent as much as Brent wanted him, but he owed this to himself.

There was no playful smile, just pouty lips. Brent turned away like he wanted to hit something and closed his eyes in saying, "Mason, you've been gone for three days. I've been worried about you. I haven't a decent night's sleep since you've left. And now you show up out of nowhere, without so much as a phone call, and tell me you're not coming home? For how long?"