By Joshua Ryan
What kind of lover did he make? What kind of lover did I make? What do I know? I’m just a stupid workie. We were a thousand times better than Mike and me — how’s that for an evaluation? Because Ace was totally solid. Whatever we were doing, he was totally there. He never talked; he just did it. If I shied away from him, he did something else. Then he came back. He also had a way of waiting for me to do something, then going all in on it himself. If we were doing something, we had to do it together. He had to do it, and I had to do it. That was his idea. So we did.
I always knew what was going on in the barracks. I knew there was sex. Everybody knew. There had to be. But I didn’t hear any talk — any except jokes about what’s always “gonna” happen, where everybody accuses everybody of everything. But when I got up to take a piss at night, I always noticed there was a bunk that wasn’t filled, and another bunk that looked heavier than normal. I didn’t go looking for evidence, but Boss Web’s rack was always way heavy, and everybody knew it was Chico, the little Mex dude. I would’ve liked to fuck him myself.
It’s past two o’clock in the morning in a quiet upscale neighborhood. Two disguised men have crossed a lawn belonging to one of the larger homes at the end of the street’s cul-de-sac. Using a suction cup and glass cutter, they break into one of the side windows of the darkened house.
