Page 40 of Hidden Desires

After lunch, Jack shows me his “secret room,” which turns out to be a converted garage lined with model airplanes and framed photos of his squadron. He walks me through each one, telling stories about the men he flew with, the places he’s seen. There’s a model of a C-130, his favorite, and he lets me hold it, careful not to break the delicate wings.

“You ever think about going back?” I ask, tracing the plane with my finger.

He shakes his head. “Naw, twenty years is enough. Besides, I have better things to do now.”

He looks at me when he says it, and my stomach flips.

We spend the afternoon reading, dozing, and making out on every available surface. Around six, Jack orders Italian from a place across town and sets up a picnic in the living room: plates on the floor, a checkered blanket, a bottle of wine. We eat and talk about everything: childhood injuries, embarrassing crushes, the time he accidentally set his friend’s mailbox on fire with a homemade rocket.

He asks about my hobbies, and I freeze for a split second, heart thumping. I want to tell him about my camming, but the words stick in my throat. How can I, when it’s so wrong and obscene? I feel like I’m lying by omission, but banish the thought from my head. Instead, I go on about my old swim team, my obsession with crossword puzzles, the art history class I loved in college. He nods, listening, and I can see he wants more, but doesn’t push.

After dinner, we end up on the couch again, watching a documentary about deep-sea explorers. Jack sprawls, arms out, and I curl into his side, breathing in the smell of soap and sun and something uniquely male.

He turns to me, tracing my jaw with his thumb. “You’re quiet, baby girl,” he says.

I shrug. “Just happy.”

He smiles, kissing the tip of my nose. “Me too.”

We make love slow this time, the movie forgotten in the background, his hands everywhere, patient and gentle. He touches me like he’s memorizing a map, every inch a new discovery. I come undone in his arms, and after, we lie tangled together, hearts beating in sync.

As I drift off, I feel a weight in my chest, equal parts joy and terror. I’m falling for this man, and it’s not just about sex anymore. It’s not just about the thrill of being with an older alpha male, nor the thrill of doing this behind my parents’ back. I want this—want him—more than I’ve ever wanted anything.

And I know, deep down, that I’m going to have to tell Jack the truth about my secret job.

But not tonight.

Tonight, I let him hold me, let myself believe that this is real, and let the world disappear outside his walls.

The morning after two days of non-stop sex and carbs, the human body enters a weird stasis. It’s too lazy to be horny, too content to be hungry, but too restless to go back to sleep. I stretch out on Jack’s bed, basking in the scratchy perfection of his heavyweight sheets, and listen to the sound of his voice drifting in from the kitchen. He’s on the phone, talking low and serious. Something about a memorial, or a reunion, or maybe both. I try not to eavesdrop, but his voice is gravel and honey—impossible to ignore.

Eventually, I roll out of bed, pull on one of Jack’s big t-shirts, and shuffle into the kitchen. The light in here is gorgeous, all gold stripes and sharp angles, catching on the streaks of flour still dusting the counter. Jack’s at the table, reading news on his iPad, steaming mugs already set out.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he says without looking up. “Sleep well?”

“Like the dead,” I yawn, and steal his mug. Black coffee, bitter as sin, just the way I like it. “You always up this early?”

He grins, setting the iPad aside. “Twenty years of reveille at oh-six-hundred. The Air Force kills your ability to sleep in.”

We nibble on toast and fruit, sitting across from each other, bare legs tangled under the table. There’s an easy quiet to it—no rush, no need to fill the silence with noise or jokes. Just the warm hum of two people who know what it’s like to be alone and are suddenly, miraculously, not.

Out of nowhere, he says, “I used to hate Sundays.”

I tilt my head, surprised. “Why?”

He shrugs, picking at the edge of his toast. “When you’re in the service, Sundays mean the week’s about to start again. The mission. The grind. You spend the whole day bracing for the next hit.”

“I take it you don’t miss it?”

He thinks for a minute, eyes fixed on something in the middle distance. “I miss parts of it. The people. The purpose. But mostly, I miss what I thought my life would be like when I got out.”

The words hang there, weighty and true, and I want to ask more, but I get the sense he’s not done.

“I ever tell you I was married once?” he says, still not meeting my eyes. I pause, surprised, my heart beating rapidly.

“No,” I say softly, trying to look normal. “When was this?”

“Oh, ages ago. Twenty years at least. It didn’t last, obviously. She was great, but the Air Force wasn’t her thing. I was always gone. Training, deployments, bullshit meetings in the ass-end of nowhere. She wanted roots, and I was still flying loops.”