Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 1

I really wanted was to wrap my hands around John's thick, judgmental head and squeeze until bones shattered.
    I shut my eyes and counted to ten— it didn't work— then twenty, and still the rage swirled around inside me like this thick, black sludge I could practically taste in the back of my throat. Somehow, I managed to get control of my body, mainly my hands, and I eased my grip on the coffee cup and set it aside.
    "You never served in the military, did you, John?" I hissed.
    "No, I had an—"
    "Yeah I know, an injury," I interrupted. "I've heard the story." With calm I didn't feel, I folded the newspaper and tucked it under my arm and pulled a wad of bills from my jeans pocket. "Here's the thing, John. I'm having a hard time swallowing your statement this morning." I slammed the bills on the counter with a thunderous slap; every head in the diner turned in our direction. Theatrical, hell yeah, but I got John's attention.
    "Don't seem to me a drunken coward who dodged the draft claiming he wasn't physically able to defend this country against the enemy, but physically fit enough to beat on his wife, rightly gets a say in who can and can not defend this great country of ours."
    I didn't even wait for a response. A man can only control his rage for so long. Without a word to anyone else, I walked out of the Bonnie Mill to save John Wilson's fool life. Pretty big of this queer, wouldn't you say, considering the son of a bitch didn't think I should be defending his country.
    I don't know if it's because the older I get the less I can tolerate bullshit, due to the shitty mood I'd woken up in, or if I'd just reached my limit, but by the time I got back to the house I was still totally pissed off by John's attitude. I kicked off my shoes the minute the door slammed behind me, and I threw myself down onto the couch. I snatched the remote from the coffee table and angrily clicked through the channels without seeing a damn thing, concentrating more on slowing down my panting breath. By the time I made it through the couple hundred channels the second time, my jaw began to unclench. Giving up on abusing the remote, I picked back up the newspaper I'd thrown on the cushion next to me and was calm enough to read more.
    Halfway through the article, my cell phone vibrated against my hip and I pulled it out, flipping it open without even glancing at the display screen.
    "What?"
    "Are you reading this shit?" Mac's voice came though the phone line, sounding as shocked as I'd been earlier.
    "Yeah I'm reading it now, pretty fucking amazing, huh?"
    "Only twenty years too late. Do you know how much ass I have been denied because of this stupid fucking law? I was in my prime, Gunny. My prime!"
    Macalister Jones and I have been best friends since we first went through boot camp together; he also happens to be the only man I've shared my bed with for the last decade and I'm the only one who's been granted access to his. We've been fucking each other pretty much since we first met, but we are honest-to-God best friends and have never been what you call a couple.
    "Stop your damn whining, you've had the best ass there is," I remind him.
    "No that would be mine, that's why I don't allow you to tap it too often. It's like a rare work of fine art that has to be adored and stroked lovingly, not slammed into and abused."
    "Jones, my bullshit meter is already full for the day," I laugh, feeling instantly better than I had before the phone rang. Mac is a major joker, so it's hard to stay in a pissy mood when under his charm. He's also a big, lovable bastard who'll give you the shirt off his back. Just don't piss him off. Mac is part of the elite scout snipers, which means not only is he skilled in reconnaissance but once he finds you, he can take your ass out. "You still going need a ride from the airport?"
    "No, Gunny. I bought a new car and had it shipped to the airport, what the fuck do you think?"
    "Good, then you won't mind me hanging up on your cocky ass and—"
    "Gotta go. See ya at six."
    The line went dead.
    Flipping my phone shut, I threw it on the coffee table and heaved myself up off the couch and went to make breakfast. It had been three months since I'd seen Mac, so with his gruff voice still ringing in my ears and his fine ass running through my head, all thoughts of John Wilson, DADT, and the rest of the world were pushed out in favor of all the thoughts my little head was having. Over the last few months, Mac seemed to be the