Five Times People Thought Brad and Nate were Knocking Boots, and One Time They Were
Christeson was zoned out, half watching Q-Tip doodle on his helmet, when he heard it. At first it just sounded like a sort of slap. Like something hitting the canvas cover of a humvee. But then…
“Harder, sir,” Brad said. His voice was choked off and straining. “You have to--”
A grunt came right before a louder thud.
“Shit,” Christeson whispered. He swatted the Sharpie out of Q-Tip’s hand.
“Screwby. You fucked up my daisy.”
“Shut the shit up and listen.”
“To what?” Q-Tip cocked his head to the side. The noises were coming rhythmically now. Slap, grunt, slap, grunt. “Yeah?” Q-Tip asked. “So?”
“So? So, that’s the sound of Brad getting fucked by the LT,” Christeson hissed.
“Son, don’t play,” but he belly crawled with him around the side of Poke’s victor to catch a glimpse. “They ain’t gonna be balls out--”
Towering above them, red and sweating, Brad looked down and growled, “Like the first plankton to crawl out of the sea, get the fuck on your feet. Evolve into some motherfucking Marines and give us a hand with this.”
Nate snorted and yanked on the buckle with a hint of a grin. “We’re pretty much done,” he said, giving Christeson and Q-Tip slightly concerned looks when they kept gaping. “Are you two getting enough rest?”
“Yes, sir,” Christeson said sheepishly. He yanked on Q-Tip’s arm and they helped finish rolling and strapping up Bravo’s barracks tent with a couple more grunts and a couple more slaps of the canvas.
