Two whole days. She sighed.
The first thing any of them wanted to do was shower away the day’s sweat and grime. By the time Britta was done, she smelled of apple hair, strawberry skin, and floral armpits. In other words, delicious. Once back in the sleeping quarters, all four women sank down on their cots, planning to rest for a short time afore going to a shopping mart, which they promised Britta would be a real treat. However, the women were dead to the world for a full five hours, only rising after their stomachs rumbled with hunger.
Except for Britta, to whom sleep these days meant horrific dreams taking her back to a time and place where sword dew was being spilled aplenty at the abbey…and the good nuns’ virtue was forfeit to every passing man. She could no longer think of the dreams as products of her imagination. They were peek holes into the past as it was happening. She was sure of it. Which meant she must return and help.
Or did it?
She would have to ask Hilda and Madrene the first chance she got. Both women had called several times on a magic box called a telephone during the past three sennights, inquiring about her well-being and progress in the WEALS.
When she rose from her cot, stretching with a wide, lusty yawn, she told her three chamber companions, “There is something important I must do afore I even think of eating or going off to a shopping mart.”
“What’s that, sweetie?” Terri asked while she towel-dried her short, curly hair.
“Bet she wants to call Pretty Boy and arrange a few more of those mind-blowing orgasms,” Donita teased.
“Nay, I do not. Zachary has been as cruel as the other sadistic instructors these past sennights. What I want—”
“I know, chère, you want a Brazil wax, yes?” Marie interjected, also teasing.
Britta had to laugh. She’d already become accustomed to this country’s female ritual of shaving the legs and underarms, but shaving her nether region held no appeal and, truth be told, made no sense. Besides, she would not wear a bikini in public under any circumstances. She’d rather go naked.
“I want to cut my hair,” she told them, combing her fingers through her waist-long hair, damp even after five hours.
“Oh, honey, I don’t know,” Terri said, running a hand over the wet swath. “You have beautiful hair, like gold silk.”
“I agree,” Donita said. “If I had hair like yours, I’d leave it the way it is.”
“What does Pretty Boy say ’bout ya cuttin’ yer locks?” Marie inquired.
That question surprised Britta. “Why would his opinion on my personal grooming matter a whit to me?” Oddly, it did matter, but that was neither here nor there. “My long hair is becoming a hindrance, even when in a braid. It catches on wood objects in the obstacle course. It is heavy and warm, causing me to perspire more. It takes too long to shampoo and dry.” And she felt different than the other women.
In the end, Britta sat before a full-length mirror Donita had inside her metal closet, and all three women, laughing and chattering away, began to cut her hair and dry it with a blowing apparatus.
“So, Marie, I saw you talking to that Cajun hunk,” Terri said, spreading a towel around Britta’s shoulders. “You two got somethin’ going?”
Marie shook her head. “I’ve had enough of Cajun men, growing up on the bayou. I would feel like I was getting it on with my brother. Talk about!”
“And you?” Terri glanced at Donita. “I’ve seen you and Sly exchanging looks.”
“Hah! The only looks I been exchangin’ with that too-full-of-himself black brother are glowers. Did you know he used to model men’s underwear? I asked him if he had a lifetime supply of briefs, and he told me he doesn’t wear underwear. And that he’d be willing to prove it to me sometime.”
“That sounds lak interest to me,” Marie said. “In Southern Loo-zee-anna, we’d say that boy’s been flashin’ ya his widow-bait smile.”
“Hardly! He also asked me if I was still on steroids. The jerk!”
“Well, then, you can have Cage, and I’ll take Sly,” Marie said saucily.
“Honey chile, the last thing this black woman wants is a redneck boy with a pointy hat.”
“Oh, that’s not fair.” Marie’s face flushed. “Not all Southerners are bigots.”
Donita patted Marie on the shoulder. “I know that, honey. I was just kidding. A bad joke!”
The two women hugged.
What had just transpired, Britta had no idea. All she knew was that she was becoming close to these woman friends. As close as she had once been to Hilda. It would be hard to leave them if—or when—she had to leave.
They braided her hair first, then cut off the long plait to be sent someplace that made wigs for women who had lost their hair to a wasting disease. They did not cut it short-short as she’d originally requested, telling her that would be too drastic. Instead, her hair was cut in layers down to her shoulders, framing her face. When she shook her head, the strands all fell in place neatly. To her surprise, she had natural waves, which her lady companions described as “sexy.”
“It’s too late to go to the mall,” Terri said then. “Anyone wanna go to the Wet and Wild?”
At Britta’s arched brows, Terri explained, “It’s a local watering hole. Good food, cheap booze, great music, and a lot of the Navy guys hang out there.”
A watering hole? Terri wanted to go to a place where animals watered? The other women all voted yea, and Britta wasn’t about to ask yet another question, so she agreed, too.
“I for one plan to get me some tonight,” Terri said. “It’s been ages since I did the dirty.”
“Same here,” Marie said. “My IUD, she is gettin’ lonely.”
“I just want to eat and drink with my friends,” Donita said.
Terri and Marie looked at Donita and said as one, “Bull!”
“You know, honey,” Terri told Britta, “I suspect you’ve led a sheltered life when it comes to men. You had to if you never heard of orgasms before coming here. Maybe it’s time you tested the waters, to see if what you had with Zach was all that great.”
Britta had no doubt it had been great. She had no need for multiple partners to prove that fact. Still, there was appeal in seeing what could happen with other men. Besides, Zachary had been a pig in his role as instructor these past sennights. Not loverlike at all. She did not want special treatment, but making her do endless pushing-ups was not necessary, in her opinion. Yea, she would find another man, one who would be eager to please her not just in the bedsport but mayhap even in her trip to the past, if that became necessary. Not that she would tell anyone about the time travel…at first.
She turned to Terri and smiled, “Perchance we can both get some tonight.”
Soon they were off, driving over the bridge in Marie’s horseless carriage…a pick-me-up.
“Let’s make a pact,” Terri said. “We’re gonna paint the town red or die trying.”
Britta glanced around the vehicle. Not a brush or container of paint in sight. With a sigh, she wondered if she would ever understand this strange country.
MEMO
From: Captain Lenore Feldman
To: Commander Ian MacLean
Subject: WEALS
Provide Tampax dispensers and air fresheners in all toilet facilities.
His son, the sex advisor…
Zach was not a happy camper.
It was Friday night, but was he out on a hot date, or at least out trolling for a hot date? Nope. He was sitting in an Italian restaurant in San Diego with his son, the sulker; his father, the celebrity show-off; his father’s girlfriend, Bridget, the dumb twit; and enough security guards to give the leader of a small nation heartburn.
“Yoo-hoo, Dr. Bratton!” a woman three tables over called out.
Bridget giggled—for about the hundredth time—and squirmed in her seat, which was a feat in itself, considering how tight her red silk slip dress was with the deep scooped neck.
His father flashed his twenty-thousand-dolla
r smile and gave a little Hollywood wave to his fan at the other table.
Meanwhile, Zach’s security squad, along with his dad’s, circled the wagons—uh, tables—a little tighter. What a great way to have a nice quiet dinner with family! Not!
People thought his dad really was the doctor from the soap Light in the Storm, a part he’d been playing for fifteen years. Hell, he probably considered himself that toney doctor from some daytime dynasty. He certainly dressed the part. Tweed sport coat with leather elbow patches. A sissy white scarf wrapped casually around his neck; he’d probably seen Cary Grant wear one. A hairstyle with just the right sprinkling of gray at the temples; it had probably cost five hundred dollars or more. And a George Hamilton suntan, of course.
A woman had tried to kidnap his father five years ago, believing Dr. Bratton could cure her husband of Alzheimer’s. Thus, his father always traveled with some well-dressed grunts who looked like they were straight out of The Godfather, whereas Zach’s security detail resembled special forces guys, which they probably had been at one time. His father employed his guards for show as much as safety. He’d certainly gotten a pig load of publicity over the kidnapping episode.
Meanwhile, his dad was talking to Bridget about an upcoming story line where he would be doing a liver transplant on his wife, who had been in a coma for five years after having been cloned into her own twin sister.
Bridget giggled.
His father smiled.
Sammy slouched and muttered something about assholes. Zach wasn’t exactly sure who he was referring to and wasn’t about to ask. Just then, he noticed that Sammy was wearing as much spaghetti sauce as he’d left on his plate. Dipping a napkin in a glass of water, he proceeded to put Sammy in a neck hold and wipe his mouth and nose and chin. With all the squirming, the napkin slipped from his hands and floated to the floor.
Bridget bent down to pick it up, and he and his son—five going on twenty-five—got a gander at a set of world-class hooters. She gave new meaning to cleavage.
“Behave yourself,” he whispered to Sammy, who he could tell was about to say something inappropriate.
“Did ya see that?” Sammy whispered loud enough for everyone within five yards of the table to hear. “Her nipples’re big as marbles. Uncle Dan sez big nipples, easy pickin’s.”
Zach rolled his eyes and clapped a hand over the kid’s mouth.
Lips twitched on a couple of the guards.
Luckily, Bridget was talking to his dad and didn’t hear Sammy’s remark.
“Uncle Dan said he would bring me a new video game,” Sammy whined to him.
“I know he did, but he was held up. He might not be able to come at all this weekend.”
Sammy’s eyes teared up. The least little disappointment seemed to set him off these days. He was getting spoiled, but it was hard not to spoil a kid who, until recently, had nothing.
“I can get you a video game,” he offered. “We can stop on the way home.”
Sammy’s blue eyes, which matched Zach’s own, lit up. No more sulks. “No Dora the Explorer.”
“Okay. But no blood and guts either.”
“Oh, I forgot. I got a little present for you, Sammy,” Bridget said, laying a square box on the table.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Zach said.
“I wanted to, but, really, I just happened to see them in one of those Rodeo Drive boutiques, and they screamed Sammy to me.”
Sammy was giving the box the evil eye. From a kid point of view, a square, flat box usually meant clothing.
Opening the box hesitantly…as if a snake might pop out—or clothing—he removed the tissue. Then Zach and Sammy stared incredulously at the tiny briefs with Hotshot printed on the butt and flames all over the black background.
“How come everyone always gives me underpants? Do I smell?” Sammy asked Zach.
“No, you don’t smell. At least not all the time,” he told him, then turned to Bridget. “Thanks, that was really nice of you.”
He squeezed Sammy’s hand under the table till he, too, thanked Bridget for the “really cool ass covers.”
Just then, Danny, with perfect timing, plowed his way through the Odd Squad. “Dad, sorry I’m late. There was a mother of a traffic jam on the freeway. Oops, sorry for the language, Sammy old man.” He squeezed Dad’s shoulder, then leaned down to kiss Bridget on the cheek. “Hey, Bridge!”
In that blink of a second, Zach noticed Danny noticing Bridget’s breasts. That was confirmed when Danny looked his way and winked.
Bridget just giggled.
His dad beamed, pleased as always to have his two sons with him, like a familial entourage.
And Sammy was happy as a hog in a mud hole now that Danny was here. He probably figured Danny would buy him any kind of game he wanted. Little did he know that Zach was going to have a heart-to-heart with Danny. Big nipples, easy pickin’s, were among the subjects he expected to cover.
“Boys,” his father started, “I have a really good idea, which should solve all our problems.”
They waited as the old man paused dramatically.
“I think we should have a family compound. Like the Kennedys. Stones fences. Guard dogs. The works. That way no bad guys—or loony women—could enter. What do you think?”
“Cool!” Sammy said. He didn’t know what a compound was, but he liked dogs.
“Maybe you could build a moat, too,” Zach offered.
“That’s a thought,” his dad said, not getting the sarcasm.
“Here’s a news flash, Dad,” Danny said, barely stifling a laugh. “We are not the Kennedys. There are only four of us.”
“And your mother and your grandfather and grandmother.”
“Oh, that’ll happen.” Zach couldn’t believe he was even discussing this ludicrous idea. “Remember the last time Mom was in the same room with you, Dad.”
“Hmpfh! It’s about time Lillian got over herself.”
“Remember to tell her that next time you see her,” Danny suggested.
“We’re not having a compound,” Zach said. The idea of being locked up anywhere with his father and his bimbo du jour made his skin crawl. One time he stayed at his father’s Hollywood pad and heard him making loud sex through the thin bedroom walls. Yeech! “Eventually this situation with Arsallah will be resolved, and we can go back to living normally.”
Sammy peered up at him with a mixture of hope and disbelief.
“So, pip-squeak, I’m starving.” Danny poked Sammy in the arm.
“Me, too,” Sammy replied.
“You just ate a pound of pasta,” Zach pointed out.
“So? I’m growin’. I need lotsa food.”
“What say we go over to Pizza Pizza for a few slices and a game of pinball?” Danny suggested.
“Cool!”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa! You can’t go out in public without a guard detail.”
“Sammy and I will let them hold all our winnings,” Danny said. “Last time we got five hundred tokens.”
“And only spent fifty dollars,” Zach pointed out.
“What’s your point?”
“And what’s with the you-and-Sammy business? What am I? A potted plant?”
“A pretty potted plant. Jeesh, are those leather pants you’re wearing? I didn’t think anyone other than rock stars and gay men wore leather.” Danny smiled at him.
“They’re faux leather, and they’re the latest style.”
“I have a pair,” his father said.
Forget faux leather; that was a designer faux pas he and Danny could not imagine, as evidenced by their exchange of horrified looks.
“Anyhow, Sammy and I are giving you a break,” Danny continued. “Go out and take a breather. Drink a beer. Relax.” He checked his watch and added, “I give you five hours before curfew, big boy.”
“I don’t know.”
“This is the last time I’ll be able to help out for a while,” Danny said. “My leave is over tomorrow.”
&nb
sp; “Take him up on the offer,” his dad advised. “He can take two of my guards with him. You need some free time, son.”
“I think you should go find Britta and boink her a bunch of times,” Sammy said around a mouthful of garlic bread.
The entire table went silent.
Finally, Zach choked out, “I beg your pardon.”
“What? Why’s everyone starin’ at me? You and me need someone to take care of us, Dad.”
Zach’s heart lurched. It was the first time he’d heard Sammy call him Dad.
“You’re grouchy all the time, and Britta tells good bedtime stories, and she’s nice-looking, even if she is big and talks funny.” Sammy was on a roll. “And Uncle Dan says the best way to make a woman fall for you is to boink her till her eyeballs roll.”
His father stopped chewing his chicken cacciatore.
Bridget giggled.
Danny grinned shamelessly.
“Oh. My. God!” He wondered with hysterical irrelevance if Sammy even knew what boinking was.
And soon found out.
Leaning in close to Zach’s ear, Sammy told him, “Boinking is lotsa yucky kissin’.”
Everyone turned to stare at Danny, who shrugged. “From the mouths of babes.”
Chapter 15
Who needs you, baby? I got chums…
It was nine o’clock before Zach arrived at the Wet and Wild, and the bar was rocking in its usual Friday-night, wall-shaking, yee-haw style.
Bypassing the T-shirt spraying machine at the door, a politically incorrect attraction that drew women as well as men, he made his way through the crowd toward the bar. The band, Bad Love, a favorite of patrons from the naval base, played a mix of country and classic rock. Right now it was a raucous version of Garth Brooks’s “I’ve Got Friends in Low Places,” to which the customers sang along, taking particular delight in the low octaves of low places. Next came “Working for the Weekend,” then “We Gotta Get Outta This Place.” It was a wild bunch tonight, singing, shouting, and of course drinking.