I make the decision to leave him to sleep; I’ll stay but not in here. We can talk about it in the morning.
It’s seven-thirty when he comes into the main room, and while his eyes are still full of sleep, he can’t hide his wariness. “What are you doing here?” He’s angry with me, and I don’t blame him.
“Just making sure you’re safe while you sleep. Are you hungry? We can go and get McDonalds for breakfast, just don’t tell Saint; he’ll be pissed off we didn’t get any for him.”
“Are you pissed off with me?” He uses my own words back at me.
“Nope, not really. Apart from this not being the most comfortable sofa to sit on all night, I’d rather be here and know you’re safe.”
He scoffs. “Safer than you, if Warrior had come back. He would’ve thrown you out, literally through the window.”
“Come on, Drake. You can’t stay here. We can come back again later to see if she’s been back. We can leave her a note with my number on.”
He looks at me sceptically, then shrugs. “Okay, I’ll come back again tonight.”
It takes him nearly a week of coming back at night, and the last night he did, I found him sitting on the back step with a full carrier bag. Belongings of his and his mum’s. He never mentions her again.
“I want to join the army,” I blurt out as soon as everyone is sitting down for dinner. There’s only the four of us now. Pops and Dad stopped fostering about a year ago, although stopped is a loose term. Pops still helps out when an emergency call comes in. It’s still not unusual to find an extra body in the kitchen when we come down for breakfast.
Pops’ head whips around from looking at Dad to me. “No! Absolutely not. Do you know how many wars are going on?”
Saint rolls his eyes. “I think that’s the point, Pops.”
“Don’t trivialise this. War is never good; all it does is waste lives of innocent men, women, and children. Call me selfish, but I don’t want one of them to be my son. He’s not even eighteen yet.”
Dad gives Pops a shake of his head. “Let the boy go, Rob. This is his journey, not yours.” He looks at me. “I’ll be proud to take you, son.”
I join the Signals as an Electronic Warfare & Signals Intelligence Operative. I work in hell, in a war that’s hot, messy, and full of every danger Pops imagined and more. But it’s ameans to an end. I know where I want to be, so I keep learning. I make friends, I lose friends, I lose my virginity.
God, it’s hard work, so much more mentally exhausting than I expected. The classroom work isn’t anything like I expected, but I’m holding my own. The fitness part is not difficult. I’ve been working out with my Dad as well as Saint for years. I’m not as tall as him, but at six-four, he is the biggest of us. I’m quicker on my feet. The fact is that I don’t know if I’m going to get a full night sleep without being dragged from my bed and forced to do one hundred push ups or run circuits around the base.
“I don’t know how you do the assault courses without breaking a sweat,” Dane, one of the other recruits, says as we walk to the showers before the mud dries on just about every inch of our bodies.
“My dad has a gym,” I reply with a shrug, not wanting to talk too much about my background, having two dads, and being gay are conversations I don’t want to have. I’ve made friends; you have to, since you never know when you might need each other.
“You must have lived there to be as fit and strong as you are.” It’s not a question, so I don’t bother answering with anything more than “Something like that.”
I like to keep my life private; I don’t need anyone to know what happened to me as a kid. Just like my need to submit—that’s another no-go on my life. Pops says it’s because of my neglect and abandonment as a child that has me desiring to be cared for. I’m the only brother that’s submissive, the other three are all Doms. How we all came to be in the lifestyle bewildered us. But having our choices accepted by our dads as not a big deal made life easier as we learnt and experienced new things.
My first time at Bound, the club my brothers use, was well, interesting. I needed to be taught how to submit. And boy, it was painful. Now, the sting of a crop or the burn of hot wax centres me in a way nothing else can.
I turn off the shower and grab my towel off the hook, drying my torso and back before wrapping it around my waist. Dane is still in his stall, probably wanking as he does that a lot. The horny bastard.
One phone call from my Warrant Officer changes my life. When I joined the army, specifically the Signals regiment, I wanted to learn languages that were useful in the world we live in today. I’m fluent in three different Middle East dialects. I worked fucking hard to excel and be an asset in the wars we’re fighting in this century. I’ve been promoted way above my peers, and while I have friends, my focus has always been the job. I love it. So, as I walk briskly down the corridor to the office of one of the scariest NCOs, I have no idea what and why he wants to see me. We are back in the UK, but I’ve not been able to get home to see my family. It’s grown by one more since I left. I knew Pops wouldn’t turn away anyone in need. I look forward to some leave and a trip back home.
I knock on the door and wait. It doesn’t take more than fifteen seconds before I am invited to enter.
“Ahh, Foster, come in, come in.” He waves, but his usual sneer is gone. In its place is something that could almost be pleasant, friendly even. We all know it’s never a good sign.
“Yes, Sir. Thank you.” I stand straight, my arms by my sides, until he says. “At ease.” And I relax.
“You’ve been exceptional in your work here; you are always the first in and the last out. It’s commendable. Your skills have been noticed by someone who wants you in his team. It’s highly unusual for someone with only, what? Four, five years’ service, to be sought out. Especially by Vauxhall Cross.”
I think my heart has just stopped, and my lungs collapse. What the fuck???? I manage to get my brain to stop racing a mile a minute. “Um, Vauxhall Cross, Sir. Why?”
He smiles, actually smiles. I wish I could take a picture because no one will ever believe me. “I think it’s obvious, Corporal. You have the skills they want.” He looks down at his desk and slides a couple of pieces of paper to the side until he stops and picks up one. “It’s all here. You are to turn up here.” He taps the paper again. “On Monday, at Oh nine hundred hours, and report to Mr Pilkington. He will take over from there.” He straightens up in his leather chair. “While this is unusual, it’s not unheard of. You are worthy of this, and I’m proud to have known you.” He walks around the desk and holds out his hand. “Good luck.”
Pilkington turns out to be an incredibly posh—but not snobby—frontline officer. His smile is warm and welcoming. “Ah, yes. Foster. Very good, very good. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you in person.”