Page 2 of Praise Me: Soldier

“But what?” I ask, desperate for her to keep speaking.

My voice visibly startles her. It’s no wonder. I sound like I just crawled out of a grave. In a lot of ways, that’s exactly what I’m trying to do. Starting with being in this coffee shop.

“I take short road trips to visit estate sales. That’s what I do with my vacation days.” She tugs on the sleeve of her sweater, but I don’t look down. I can’t look at her breasts. Not with my dick beginning to get stiff for the first time since I was imprisoned and tortured. All over the mere sound of her voice. “Do you think that’s morbid? I just love to see what someone collected while they were alive.”

Silence falls.

I realize it’s my turn to speak.

This is a conversation. Not a one-sided shouting diatribe in a language I don’t speak.

Say something or she’s going to get uncomfortable.

“No.” I clear the cobwebs from my throat. “I don’t think it’s morbid to visit estate sales. I think…any kind of curiosity about other people is a good thing. It probably means you’re not a self-absorbed piece of shit.”

She sucks in a breath.

The people at the table to my right go silent.

But then, the girl across from me breaks into a giggle that she quickly catches with her hand. “You’re very blunt, aren’t you?”

“Sorry about that. It’s been a long time since…” I gesture to our surroundings. “I’ve been in the service for a long time. Too long, obviously.”

“Oh.” She frowns. “Dierdre didn’t mention you were in the service. Which branch?”

Fuck. I forgot she’s here to meet Kevin, the bastard.

Oh well. I’m not going to pretend to be someone I’m not.

“Army. Special forces.”

“I see.” This girl is smart and she’s beginning to realize something is up, but she’s not letting the suspicion show on her face. Not so much that regular person would notice. But I’m not a regular person. I’ve been trained in wartime interrogation. Not to mention, I had to rely on infinitesimal facial tells to survive captivity.

Any minute now, she’s going to ask me if I’m really her date. Or if she’s sitting at the wrong table. I’m not going to lie to her. Actually, I’m not even going to make her ask. For one, she seems too smart to believe a lie. And two, I want to get this Kevin bullshit out of the way. I like having this person across from me. I’m no longer sweating or stuck in fight or flight mode. Something about her is…restorative. So absorbing that I can’t manage to think of anything but her, especially my constant, impending sense of doom.

“I’m not Kevin.”

Her only reaction is to breathe faster. A single swallow.

She glances down the row of tables and I follow her line of sight, both of us noticing the clean-cut man in a suit, checking his watch.

“If you’re not Kevin, why did you let me sit here so long?”

“I didn’t want you to leave.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean ‘why’?” I scoff.

She blinks, obviously still confused.

I lean forward, the forward shift causing my dick to chafe against my zipper, the bulk of me beginning to swell in a way I haven’t felt in so long. It’s her. It’s everything about her. What is that smell she’s wearing? Smells like sugar cookies. “Because you’re a fucking knockout. Or haven’t you looked in the mirror lately.”

“I’m…” She starts in surprise, her knee bumping the underside of the table, rattling the silverware. “I’m not a-a knockout.”

“Yes, you are, baby.”

“Baby,” she mouths without sound, her spine straightening with some indignance. “I suppose you’re going to tell me you’ve been in the service so long, you forgot it isn’t polite to call a woman baby when you just met her.”

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