JUSTICE

January

Coronado, California

Naval Amphibious Base 

        The Naval Amphibious Base mess hall was standard-issue: food in shiny metal containers presented under clear glass, utilitarian tables and benches made of hard plastic, harsh fluorescent lighting, unadorned white walls, and easy-to-mop linoleum in a hideous gray-speckled pattern.

        The food looked surprisingly good to Justice, although the rich aroma of hamburgers and grilled chicken was being somewhat drowned out by the collective stench of the candidates: seaweed, sweat, and wet clothes.

        Half a day of BUD/S, and they already stank like swamp beasts. They likewise looked as bad as they smelled: bruised, worn, some bloodied, and most of them were still so sandy they resembled sugar cookies.

        Justice endured a few elbow jabs in the food line, but mostly was hostilely ignored.

        Fine. She wasn’t here to make friends.

        She headed to an empty table, marveling at how a tray with a single plate of food, a small carton of milk, and a water bottle had somehow managed to break all the laws of physics and take on the poundage of two watermelons. She sat, managing not to groan during the journey from upright to ass-plant. As soon as her butt hit the bench, she grimaced. There was so much sand down her pants, it felt like she was sitting on a super-sized Kotex.

        She chugged her bottle of water, then slowly cut a bite of chicken and ate it. Chew. Swallow. Repeat. Focus on the basics. Her nose throbbed and was swollen to the size of… She couldn’t tell exactly how big it was, only that if she glanced cross-eyed down at her own face, she could see it.

        She was on her fourth bite of chicken when a sand-encrusted boot slapped down on the bench beside her. The owner of the boot propped a forearm on his thigh and leaned toward her. His forearm was very hairy. His head was not; black dots littered his skull in lieu of actual hair. His appearance was average, his body, exceptional—Iron Man muscles bulged against his cammi pants.

        “Here’s a thought, Haaayes.” Hairy Arms elongated the ha-sound in the first part of her last name, succeeding in sounding like he surely wanted to sound: snotty. “Just a small fucking suggestion—next time you give Instructor Hill a blow job, maybe you could not cheese-grate the poor guy, huh? Give the rest of us a break.”

        Some of the other candidates glanced over.

        Justice’s nape prickled. She pinned her focus straight ahead and kept chewing. Across the room, Man-With-Girl-Name strode into the head. Maybe he also had a doodie-sized log of sand in his pants that needed tending. “Thank you, candidate,” she replied formally. “I appreciate your advice on how to properly fellate an instructor."

        Straightening, Hairy Arms clunked his boot down. Sand tumbled off it onto the linoleum. “Well, hey, you wanna dick to practice on, I’m here for you.”

        Chew. Swallow. Cut the next bite. Why couldn’t men ever be original? Although she supposed a part of her should be grateful that Hairy Arms had brought this exchange solidly into well-travelled territory.

        Men hit on her. A lot.

        That hadn’t always been the case. The change had happened practically overnight, when between eleventh and twelfth grade, she turned into a woman. She had no grandfathering-in period to learn how to manage male attention. She just left high school for summer break as a zit-faced, lank-haired, gangly track star, men wanting nothing to do with her, and returned as a cat-eyed, brunette with a lot of curves supplementing her athletic physique, and had to beat ’em off with a stick.

        Without a mother to guide her, she was forced to be wildly experimental in figuring out what to do, and during the process, she made an interesting discovery. When a man was faced with the return attention of a truly beautiful woman, he froze up—just went completely into terror-lock. How long he remained in oh-shit-what-do-I-do-now? mode was the tricky part of the equation. Two seconds or forever? This unknown had thrown her off her game a bit…until she’d learned how a certain “look” could help to keep the power in her hands.

        She turned toward Hairy Arms now, smiled sweetly, and gave him her psycho eyes.

        He blinked so hard he knocked loose some sand grains from his lashes. He stepped back, frowning, then walked away.

        She took a satisfied bite of chicken. Another evolution of torture secured.

        She was almost done eating when another visitor dropped by.

        Petty Officer Keith Knight.

        He sat down across from her. During his pre-chow brush-down he’d missed a few spots—two silver-dollar pancakes of sand were still plastered to the side of his neck. He was holding an apple in his hand and rolling it as he looked her over. “So a man walks into a library and asks for a book on how to commit suicide. The librarian says, ‘Fuck off, you won’t bring it back.’” Knight grinned, showing her straight teeth supported by a solid, sand-dappled jaw.

        “Sick,” she remarked.

        He chuckled. “How you holding up?”

        Good question. And one she was in no way going to answer. If she started cataloguing her complaints, she’d pay closer attention to them. “Ready to rock,” she lied, then arched a single brow at him. “You?”

        “Living the dream."

        She almost smirked at his own lie. Or maybe it wasn’t. Despite all the physical abuse he’d endured along with the rest of them, there was still something spring-coiled about him, like his body hovered on the verge of exploding into violent action.

        “I used to do some pretty extreme shit growing up in Jackson, Wyoming,” he told her. “BUD/S is like that, only on speed.” The apple stopped moving. “You got any issues, Hayes, I want you to come to me right away. Okay?"

        Issues? Why was he mentioning that? Had he overheard Hairy Arms being a pervy jerk? She shot her focus over to the douchebag.

        Knight caught the look. He glanced over his shoulder, observed Hairy Arms for a moment, then looked back at her. His pupils seemed to narrow in on her. “You need to report something?”

        “Nope.” She opened her mini carton of milk with a pinch of her fingers.

        Knight watched her. He rolled the apple again. “Don’t try to be Superwoman and wait till you’re on the verge of breaking before coming to me.”

        “Got it. Right. No sweat.” She downed a few glugs of milk. “Thing is, Knight, I don’t recall hearing myself ring out this morning."

        He exhaled a slow breath. “You’re taking this the wrong way.”

        “Am I?” She set down the carton. “Have you told the other men on your boat team the same thing?”

        “In fact, I did.” His mouth tilted. “Minus the Superwoman part.” His focus roved over her face, lingering on her turnip nose.

        The man got credit, at least, for not trying to talk her out of being here. She pushed her tray aside. “Anything else?”

        “No.” He stood and peered down on her. “I just hope you’ve got a damned good reason for doing this."

        She shrugged. “Simple enough."

        Mr. Dawson had told her this was the challenge of a lifetime, and since when did the daughter of the infamous Grayson Hayes ever pass up a challenge?

        She grinned up at Knight. “Wouldn’t it be awesome if I actually pull this off?”