Finding You, Finding Me

  Finding You, Finding Me

  Copyright 2015 Bailey Queen

  Cover Art by Aria Tan ©Copyright 2015

  Published in 2015 by NineStar Press, New Mexico, USA.

  Distributed by Smashwords

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  Warning

  This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers.

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Finding You, Finding Me

  About the Author

  Other books by this author

  Connect with AUTHOR

  Dedication

  To my husband, for your continued and everlasting support.

  Chapter One

  His bones were shaking.

  Hell, even his guts were shaking, his internal organs, all the bits and pieces that made up his insides were rattling ’round. He couldn’t close his mouth, couldn’t grit his teeth because they would jackhammer together, probably crack and break, and then he’d really be up shit creek.

  Will didn’t think there’d be any kind of dental care where they were going. Behind German lines. Behind Utah Beach.

  Operation Overlord. It was really happening. He was stuck inside a C-47, rattling and banging around, his bones shaking right out of joint with the rest of his stick. They’d been flying long enough for everyone’s tightly wound fear to begin to wrestle with their boredom. Robertson messed with his clicker. Phillips, Ramirez, and Troy, all sergeants, shared a shaking cigarette at the end of the row.

  Outside the plane, clouds hung low, as if they could just step out the jump door and bounce across the puffy surfaces. Hidden in the clouds were a thousand other planes holding thousands of other jumpers.

  Thousands of other crazy, stupid, insane, suicidal idiots ready to leap through German hell. The welcome party was sure to be a blast. Will grimaced at his own terrible joke. Really, he didn’t expect to survive this. He’d enlisted because it was the right thing to do, ’cause fighting evil in the world was better than staying at home doing nothing or getting a crap job down at the mill. He’d been running; from what, he couldn’t remember anymore. There was boot camp, the airborne, and then there was the move to England. Training, every day, all day, and passing out exhausted on his cot with all of his teammates snoring next to him. He’d even been too tired to care about all that snoring.

  And then, they were there, shuttling over the English Channel in what was going to be the last calm night of their lives, if not the last night of their lives. Will swallowed, shifting under the mountain of gear strapped to his body. He tried to lick his lips, but bit his tongue instead. He cursed and just let his jaw hang slack. He closed his eyes. If this was the end, this was the end.

  Thinking about the end of his life made him remember things, things he didn’t want to remember. Times he’d tried to forget, feelings he’d desperately buried. Will shook his head, squeezing his eyes closed as he screwed up his face. No, he wasn’t going to die thinking of that. He’d buried it. He had.

  The cloud bank outside the jump door disappeared, replaced with a slap of crisp night air and the firecracker splatter of tracer fire. Pops of bursting light bloomed, shattering the stillness of the hold, followed by the heavy crack of anti-aircraft guns firing from somewhere down below. Like the sound of tree trunks cracking, snapping in half as if a giant’s twigs, the booming snaps and flickering lights tore into Will, into everyone, in a way they hadn’t expected.

  Then a roaring whine and the sound of engines straining. Their plane, rolling, banking, rising. All around them, planes were on fire, splitting in half. Parachutes opened. They weren’t even at the DZ yet, they couldn’t be. Will hauled himself to his feet as his lieutenant called out the order to stand ready. He hooked his line, checked his jump partner, and felt his teammate behind him check him. They rocked and rolled on unsteady feet as the plane continued to bank and shudder beneath them.

  New sounds burst to life, creaking and groaning. Their fleet, their airplanes, split in half. Frantic cursing came from the cockpit after another hard roll.

  “Get them out, now!” Will didn’t know how, but he heard the pilot’s angry shouting, and then the light at the edge of the jump door turned green, and the lieutenant leapt through the opening.

  They all followed, waddling as fast as they could, relying on the training they’d repeated until they waddled to the latrines in the same way. Will couldn’t think of anything, couldn’t remember his name, couldn’t even say a single word, but his training had his body moving toward the door, gripping the frame, and hurling himself into the black French sky.

  His chute ballooned open above him. First miracle. Exhaling, Will tried to look around, tried to orient himself. Parachutes were everywhere, falling above and beneath him. Tracer fire lit the sky, zinging hot and sharp into the metal bellies of their planes and whumping into the open canopies of the chutes in the sky. This is it. Tracer fire will take me out. I’ll burn alive in the sky. Or my chute will burn above me, and I’ll splatter to the ground.

  But the ground was coming up quickly. Quicker than it was supposed to. His body knew, from all the training, what a jump at the proper altitude felt like. How many breaths he’d have. How much time he’d have.

  There wasn’t enough time. The trees were coming in fast—and wasn’t that just the luck, to land in fucking trees? He shifted, trying to steer, trying to move, but the trees were everywhere, suddenly right there, and he knew he’d slam right into them. He’d jumped too low—the plane, diving and climbing and rolling to evade fire had missed the altitude window, and they’d all dropped in the middle of the plane’s maneuvers. They’d jumped at different altitudes, and now they were scattered. Will didn’t see anyone else near him, near enough to slam into the trees with him, and he curled up as best he could. He wrapped his arms around his face and spat every curse he knew as he slammed into the branches.

  * * * * *

  Groaning, Henry lay on his side for another moment, letting the tall French grass conceal his position. He knew he had to move, but he just couldn’t. Not yet.

  The jump had jarred every bone in his body. He’d executed the parachutist landing, had felt all five points hit, but damn. That hurt. Before he knew it, he was stripping his chute harness, undoing his helmet, and sliding the inflatable life vest over his head. Henry hauled his gear up, situating his medic pack and doing a quick check to make sure everything was there. Rifle in one hand, Henry clicked his cricket and waited.

  And waited.

  Silence.

  “Fuck me,” he whispered. The whole jump had been a scattered mess, burning planes falling from the sky, anti-aircraft fire everywhere. He’d jumped from his plane before it had blown, and he thought all the others made it out when he did. The plane, a fireball rolling through the night, had hit the ground before he had.

  And now, he was alone, God knew where, with no idea of the others' locations.

  Closing his eyes, Henry listened, trying to hear anything at all. He’d lost the booming roar of the anti-aircraft guns and the rumble of the
planes overhead. It was deceptively quiet, almost peaceful, and the silence was grating on his nerves. He’d expected anything else. Weapons fire, screaming, calls for “medic!” Anything but this.

  Staying low, Henry ran to the nearest tree line. At the very least, he would find cover and try to orient himself. He was a medic. He needed to be with his troops. Even if, generally, they didn’t want him anywhere near them. “Queer,” they called him to his face. “Faggot” when they thought he couldn’t hear. It was Doyle who had started it, way back in basic, and it was just his luck to keep Doyle in his platoon all through Airborne and into England. The rest of the guys had followed Doyle’s lead. Still, even though they were distant and cold, they came to him for aspirin, bandages, and advice on what to do with the sore on their crotch after a weekend in Bristol.

  Sharp eyes, a disapproving glare, and some ointment later, the troops were on their way.

  Combat would change everything, like training on some kind of ultimate high. The happiest Henry had been was on those long, miserable, awful training exercises. In the pouring rain, miserable and full of piss and vinegar, they’d all huddled together in their holes and tried to cheer each other up. It had been the first time he’d been able to laugh with the guys in his platoon, and they with him. Though they’d all conveniently forgotten about it by the time they were back at camp, he still wanted to do his part. Yeah, the guys in his platoon were jerks, but they were all right. Generally. Gillen had a kid back home. Giordano was the clown, leading the rest of his gaggle on some grand adventure every liberty. Doyle was a jerk, but he couldn't change that.

  He wanted to find his platoon, wanted to be with them.

  Looking around, Henry dropped to one knee at the tree line and dug for his map. It showed the drop zone, the attack routes, where they were supposed to be. It did nothing for him now, though—lost, with no idea where he was. He swore again, shoving the map back in his pants.

  A low groan caught Henry’s attention, and he froze.

  The groan sounded again, louder, along with a curse. There was a shifting in the leaves and the branches on the ground and then the snap of a twig.

  Moving slowly, one foot crossing over the other, Henry crept deeper into the woods. Silently, he breathed through his mouth, open and measured, and raised his rifle. He wasn’t supposed to fight, but he was supposed to defend himself, and all alone in the German woods with God only knew what in front of him, he was going to Goddamn defend himself.

  Except, whatever was groaning seemed to be in pain. And…human. And…alone.

  Henry rolled from behind the tree trunk he’d crouched behind with rifle raised and pointed directly at the groaning man on the forest floor. “Flash,” Henry hissed, using the call and response challenge he’d had drilled into his brain.

  “Son of a bitch…” Rolling toward Henry, the man frowned up at him, one hand on his head. “The fuck are you pointing a rifle at me for?”

  “That’s not the response!” Henry hissed again, gritting his teeth. He didn’t want to shoot. This guy had what looked like a 101st Airborne uniform on, just like Henry, but he could be a German spy. Could have gotten the uniform, somehow. “What’s the fucking response?” Henry kicked leaves at the downed man.

  “Fuck you!” the man snarled. He tried to sit up but groaned and fell back. “Where the fuck am I? Who are you? What the fuck is going on?”

  Dread settled over Henry, pooling in the base of his stomach. He swallowed but didn’t lower his rifle. “Raise your hands and keep them up,” he growled. “I will shoot you.”

  “Asshole,” the soldier grunted, but he raised his hands, slowly peeling one from his forehead. Blood matted his hair, his skin, and trickled down his face.

  “Can you move? Get to your knees if you can.”

  Cursing, he moved to his knees, grunting as though in pain as he rested on his ankle. He sat up quickly, trying to take the pressure off it.

  Henry followed his every movement with his rifle. “Reach into your shirt and pull out your dog tags,” he ordered. “Read them to me.”

  “Dog tags?” the man scoffed. “What fucking dog tags? Who are you to be ordering me around like this? Pointing a rifle at my face—”

  Henry stepped forward, pushing the muzzle close to the other man.

  He stopped talking. Glaring at Henry, he reached for his collar, defiant and pissed.

  His hands closed on the thin metal chain. He stilled, all the color draining from his face. Had he really not expected to find any dog tags? Slowly, he pulled them up over his head, and his mouth fell open as he read the words stamped on the metal.

  “Read it!” Henry demanded.

  “Rollins, William J,” he whispered. He read off the Army identification number, the year of the last Tetanus shot, and the blood type before Henry stopped him.

  Lowering his rifle, Henry crouched down in front of him. Stunned, William stared at him, eyes blown wide. “That’s me,” he whispered.

  “Yeah,” Henry said, nodding. “You’ve got a PFC stripe on you, but not much else. Where’s your gear, Private? Your helmet?” He nodded to William’s bleeding head.

  “Umm…” William looked around him, blank. He shrugged.

  Sighing, Henry unslung his medic bag and pulled out a bandage. He pressed the gauze to William’s head, moving his hand to help hold it in place. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

  “Running out after Davy punched me in the face,” William said, his voice oddly flat.

  Henry frowned. “Who?” He didn’t know of a Davy in their company. He barely recognized William. He was in Second Platoon, and Henry was in first. He thought he remembered seeing William at sick call with Joliet, Second Platoon’s medic, a few times, but then again, maybe not. Reaching for William, Henry ran his fingers down his face, feeling for broken bones, injuries he couldn’t see. He pushed William back, letting him sit flat and take the weight off his ankle. “Why’d he punch you in the face?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” William grunted. He cursed as Henry rolled his ankle. “That fucking hurts!”

  “Shhh!” Henry slapped William, shutting him up. “We’re behind enemy lines, Private! This is German territory, and if you don’t shut up, they will find us!” William shut up beautifully, moving from indignant to stiff and wide-eyed in an instant. Henry went back to William’s ankle. It was strained, at least, but he didn’t think it was broken.

  When William spoke again, Henry almost didn’t hear it. “Where are we? And who are you?”

  Henry sighed. “We’re supporting the allied invasion of Normandy. Tonight.” He shook his head. “We dropped behind enemy lines. We’re in Krautland now. Occupied France. Supposed to be securing the beaches for the rest of the Army in the morning.” William seemed to have no idea what he was talking about. Confusion clouded his eyes, and he shook his head, staring at Henry like he was insane. Actually, William looked insane, no gear, no helmet, and covered in blood with a head wound, but Henry wasn’t going to start making accusations. “As for me, I’m Corporal Henry Iverson, medic, in your same company. First Platoon.”

  There was a flash of something in William’s eyes. Henry frowned as William inhaled and then smiled. “Now I remember you,” William said.

  At that, he leaned forward, wrapped his free hand around Henry’s neck, and pulled him in for a long, hot kiss.

  Sputtering, Henry tried to push him away. His hands tangled in the fabric of William’s uniform as William’s tongue stroked over his lower lip. Moaning, Henry’s mouth fell open, slightly, and then William’s tongue was working its way in, finding Henry’s and stroking alongside it.

  Fuck, it had been so long. Henry had managed to snag a Londoner in one of their last outings to the capital, but that had been a long, long time ago. At the camp—hell no. There wasn’t anyone there who’d ever approached him, not in his company, not in the battalion, not anywhere.

  But William was currently sucking on his tongue like it was part of a delicious cock,
and if Henry didn’t stop him quickly, he’d be embarrassing himself. Grunting, Henry pushed on William’s face, throwing him sideways as he leaned back. He dragged in a great rush of air and forced himself not to wilt.

  William whirled on him, glaring. “What the hell?”

  Shock turned to outrage. Henry glared right back. “What the hell do you mean, ‘what they hell’?” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You do not get to just kiss me because—” He stopped, cutting off his words, letting his hand fall. “What in the fuck was that?”

  “You’re queer,” William said, as if he was just saying the sky was blue, or Nazi’s were assholes.

  Henry blinked at him. He’d never confirmed it. Never denied it, but never confirmed it. “What’s it to you,” he snarled.

  Shaking his head, William continued to stare at him. He raised his hand to touch his lips as if he could touch their kiss with his fingers. “I just…” He shook his head again. “I remember you.” His eyes reflected the almost non-existent light, and they were nearly the only thing that glowed at all in the woods. Crazy eyes, staring at Henry. “I remember you. And you’re important.”

  Inhaling deep, Henry fought the urge to roll his eyes. “We’ve never met before,” he said, trying not to sound like he was speaking to a toddler. “You don’t actually remember me. You just think you do.” Why, Henry couldn’t say.

  “You…eat alone,” William said, almost cutting Henry off. “Your table is full of troopers, but you eat alone. They talk around you. Leave you when they’re done.” William shook his head. “I don’t know how I know that, but I do.”

  And it was true. The guys did leave him alone, but why would William ever care about that? Henry stared at William, not moving. He felt his body tense, his breath rise, and his jaw clench. Felt the curl in his chest that came whenever he had to stand up and defend himself. Fight back against the world.