naturally. Had it been after her promotion? Whatever, but her breasts were perfect—fit right into the champagne glass, filled it beautifully. But hidden under her Navy uniform, no one would ever know.
The rest of her body is flat and hard. She works out at the base gym, and muscles ripple just beneath the surface of her skin.
Julie puts on some deodorant and reaches for her uniform shirt. She pauses. She has a new recruiter starting today. Last name Ackerman. First name Samuel. She got his file two days ago. The picture showed a serious man with a strong face, handsome even, and piercing eyes. Her hand reaches for the bottle of French perfume on the dresser top. She gives a quick squirt—just a little—at the base of her neck. She has to be a professional after all. But fuck it, she is a woman, hasn’t gotten any for something like six months—and even though she is Petty Officer Giacalone, head of Naval Recruiting for Midwest District #3, the toughest recruiting district in nearly the whole country—and even though she has single-handedly brought the numbers up to at least respectable levels—she is still a woman, for Christ’s sake.
Even though no one she works with seems to notice.
She steps back in front of the mirror again. As satisfied as she can be on a Monday morning after another weekend with no romance, she puts on her Navy blues and pins her hair back. Her eyes are wide and brown, her face pretty.
If you can get past the nose, she thinks.
She goes down to the kitchen, gobbles down a bowl of Cheerios, chases it with the remains of her lukewarm coffee, grabs her briefcase, and hops into the Mustang. She fires it up and heads for the office.
Her new recruiter should be arriving any minute.
Thirty-Eight
It doesn’t take Samuel long to get to Troy from Lake Orion. Just a quick stretch of I-75, exit on the Metro Parkway, and before he knows it, he’s smack in the middle of Troy, Michigan. The ultimate Detroit suburb: shopping malls, strip malls, heavy commercial/industrial sites, and a shitload of traffic. The sky is typical for Michigan at this time of the year: Navy gray.
Samuel glances at the directions on the sheet of paper next to him. He veers slightly over the center lane, and someone honks a horn at him. Samuel jerks the car back, sees the cross street he’s looking for, and minutes later, pulls up in front of District #3 Headquarters for Naval Recruiting.
Samuel looks at the building. It’s got Navy written all over it. Dull, impersonal, and not a trace of personality. Just a small brick square with glass doors at the center and an American flag waving proudly in front.
For a moment, Samuel is able to see things from the outside looking in. He seems to float above himself, over his body, over the building. Can see himself standing by his car. Hears the flag flapping in the early morning breeze.
His mind surges with positive energy. He can do this. He can be a recruiter. He can get through whatever it is they’re going to make him do. Talk to high school students? He can do that. Talk to mother and fathers, telling them what a great experience the Navy has been for him? He can do that.
As long as no one fucks him or tries to sabotage him, everything should work out.
No more shit like what happened in ordnance. With that fucking prick Wilkins, or like the asshole Nevens…
But they both had it coming.
Samuel shakes his head. He can’t think like that. He’s right, but it’s too risky.
But it feels good. It feels… powerful.
His body calm, his mind focused, Samuel walks to the building, opens the glass doors, and steps inside.
Thirty-Nine
Julie Giacalone is crunching numbers. It’s all about numbers. Meeting the quota. A never-ending process. Get the recruits. Fill the slots. Kiss ’em and ship ’em. Keep the leads coming.
It’s something that she has always been able to do. She’s good at achieving her goals, the professional ones anyway. There’s something about the
The rest of her body is flat and hard. She works out at the base gym, and muscles ripple just beneath the surface of her skin.
Julie puts on some deodorant and reaches for her uniform shirt. She pauses. She has a new recruiter starting today. Last name Ackerman. First name Samuel. She got his file two days ago. The picture showed a serious man with a strong face, handsome even, and piercing eyes. Her hand reaches for the bottle of French perfume on the dresser top. She gives a quick squirt—just a little—at the base of her neck. She has to be a professional after all. But fuck it, she is a woman, hasn’t gotten any for something like six months—and even though she is Petty Officer Giacalone, head of Naval Recruiting for Midwest District #3, the toughest recruiting district in nearly the whole country—and even though she has single-handedly brought the numbers up to at least respectable levels—she is still a woman, for Christ’s sake.
Even though no one she works with seems to notice.
She steps back in front of the mirror again. As satisfied as she can be on a Monday morning after another weekend with no romance, she puts on her Navy blues and pins her hair back. Her eyes are wide and brown, her face pretty.
If you can get past the nose, she thinks.
She goes down to the kitchen, gobbles down a bowl of Cheerios, chases it with the remains of her lukewarm coffee, grabs her briefcase, and hops into the Mustang. She fires it up and heads for the office.
Her new recruiter should be arriving any minute.
Thirty-Eight
It doesn’t take Samuel long to get to Troy from Lake Orion. Just a quick stretch of I-75, exit on the Metro Parkway, and before he knows it, he’s smack in the middle of Troy, Michigan. The ultimate Detroit suburb: shopping malls, strip malls, heavy commercial/industrial sites, and a shitload of traffic. The sky is typical for Michigan at this time of the year: Navy gray.
Samuel glances at the directions on the sheet of paper next to him. He veers slightly over the center lane, and someone honks a horn at him. Samuel jerks the car back, sees the cross street he’s looking for, and minutes later, pulls up in front of District #3 Headquarters for Naval Recruiting.
Samuel looks at the building. It’s got Navy written all over it. Dull, impersonal, and not a trace of personality. Just a small brick square with glass doors at the center and an American flag waving proudly in front.
For a moment, Samuel is able to see things from the outside looking in. He seems to float above himself, over his body, over the building. Can see himself standing by his car. Hears the flag flapping in the early morning breeze.
His mind surges with positive energy. He can do this. He can be a recruiter. He can get through whatever it is they’re going to make him do. Talk to high school students? He can do that. Talk to mother and fathers, telling them what a great experience the Navy has been for him? He can do that.
As long as no one fucks him or tries to sabotage him, everything should work out.
No more shit like what happened in ordnance. With that fucking prick Wilkins, or like the asshole Nevens…
But they both had it coming.
Samuel shakes his head. He can’t think like that. He’s right, but it’s too risky.
But it feels good. It feels… powerful.
His body calm, his mind focused, Samuel walks to the building, opens the glass doors, and steps inside.
Thirty-Nine
Julie Giacalone is crunching numbers. It’s all about numbers. Meeting the quota. A never-ending process. Get the recruits. Fill the slots. Kiss ’em and ship ’em. Keep the leads coming.
It’s something that she has always been able to do. She’s good at achieving her goals, the professional ones anyway. There’s something about the
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