In the desolate winding backroads of Redwick only a few homes, spread dozens of miles apart, were still lit. The clock was inching closer to one in the morning and out of everyone still awake, Terrance was the most disturbed by far. It’d been an awfully unnerving day for him, as today was the anniversary of the mass casualty event that ended his time in the corp merely two years prior.

Until this waking hour, the former Marine hadn’t thought about its significance (by forcible, personal choice). He’d sworn it off from his peripheral to the best of his ability, actually listening to his therapist and taking his prescribed medications - even if it meant overmedicating with things that weren’t. Yet, here he was in his over worn kitchen whiteknuckling his gun, heart beating through his ears as he came face to face with three figures at his front door.

One of them he was more than familiar with.

General Darlene Cross.

It was more or less the same feeling he held in his first close call in combat, a 7.62 round clipping his exposed ear beneath his helmet and sending him to what he thought for certain was the afterlife. Shock, regret, and the most potent emotion of all - fear. Not fear that life was over, but of what was going to become of it once he came to. Coincidentally, it was the exact same feeling he had the last time he saw General Cross - a day he promised he’d never return to again as long as he lived.

Too bad she didn’t believe in promises, and damn sure not ones from her most proficient jarheads. And besides, this matter was beyond him, it was beyond everyone he knew in this microscopic town.

Worst of all, it was teetering beyond the entire state of America.

That’s why instead of quick drawing and putting them down like dogs through the flimsy door like they all were aware he was capable of, Terrance stood militant, doing nothing as the general and her security detail let themselves in - courtesy of the spare he’d hidden in a flower pot on the windowsill. Just like he’d done many times in his barracks he avoided eye contact until it was given to him, those searing deep brown eyes holding absolutely nothing in them as they greeted his own.

“Richmond,” General Cross began, “my apologies for barging in at such an inconvenient time. Forgive me?”

He said nothing, forcing himself to breathe and slowly drop his firearm to his side holster.

“Good. Take a seat Mr. Richmond. There’s something we need to discuss.”

Terrance simply nodded. Following instruction as he was taught, he took a seat at the rickety wood table before them. For a second he couldn’t help but to gaze at the hardware her security was toting, matching M16’s in corp standard finish. Still he averted his attention to the matter at hand with the most self restraint he could’ve mustered being half sober.

“I won't be long. As of 1500 hours ago, the state of affairs in the new southern border have crumbled beyond repair. We are - without being hyperbolic - in dire need of internal intervention-“

“And how the fuck do I fit into that?” Terrance interjected. It came out of his mouth faster than his brain could register for him to clamp it

She was quick to spit back at him, “Let me finish, Richmond…remember the time we spoke. In the hospital”

The headache forming behind his eyes began to pound with a fury. Of course he did, he thought about it every single night before he drowned himself in Percocets and cheap brown liquor to forget it.

“I passed you a message from my superiors. Do you recall that Richmond?”

“…yeah. Yes ma’am I do.”

“Right. And I also told you that if this were to touch US soil in any capacity, you would either be a leader or a state owned lab rat - you picking up my drift here?”

Again a nod, this one more somber, yet more alert.

“Right now, I’m giving you a chance to do more with your life. As far as I could see from just a few months' close observation, you are entirely adamant on killing yourself before you face up to the boogeyman that was your last mission. Your noncompliance to cooperating in this upcoming operation hinges on whether you can continue wasting away in what you call a life…or my superiors snuffing you out to keep this quiet like we both know they’ll do.”

Now it all made sense - the unshakeable feeling he was being watched for the last few weeks. That the things he routinely obsessed over being in place were moved. No matter how hard he tried to sleep at night, Terrance still could feel the sinking feeling of not truly being alone.

“Now, let’s rip this bandaid off shall we? There was no ‘homegrown environmental’ incident that shut down the borders to the southern states in October. It seems that the virus that you and your team were exposed to in Baghdad was found on a compound rural in Alabama. One family of seven was infected while three neighbors were able to escape the carnage unharmed. They are what we now know are asymptomatic carriers, and in their attempts to flee into a more populated society for help - they created ground zero. In the span of four months, every state from the Texas to Tennessee border has gone dark. All we know now is that there is a high probability this will jump the militarized border that all sectors of the armed forces have set in place, and the only people that can help us are the survivors in the red zone that have succeeded in keeping it back…and you. Only one of two documented survivors of the VK-virus that are, by all intents and purposes, immune after physical exposure. There’s a plane leaving in two hours to the outskirts of our war room, there you’ll be moving into our state monitored living quarters and will be attending your first debriefing of the current situation."

For once, Terrance had nothing to say. No quips back. No attempts to harm the people in front of him. The only thing he could do was nod, force back saliva that so badly wanted to spew out of him, and submit. His bloodshot eyes followed her slacks as she headed back out the front door. Prompt as she promised.

Before being escorted out of his home she spoke to him in a more looser, personal tone, “Don’t fuck this up Terry. I’m going out on a limb for you. Sober the fuck up for the next hour, pack your shit, and I’ll find a way to get you enough dope to keep you afloat during your time with us.” she then scoffed lightly, “you go cold turkey you just might fuck this for us both. Let’s not rehash the past, alright?”

With that and the slow stampede of boots she and her entourage were gone into the country night.

The clock began its grueling tick now. Terrance Richmond was back in the corp, and both his traumatic exposure and immunity to VK would be the one thing that kept him alive.

Tonight, may be Cameron’s first New Year’s Eve single, and while he wouldn’t admit it to his inner circle just yet, but he preferred belonging to one woman. Especially on a night like this, with the live band echoing faintly, he craved the feeling of soft curves and amber perfume in his orbit, to people watch with and laugh at inside jokes. Of course, he made eyes at others, but it has gotten difficult to glean good intentions.

The only person he could tolerate such extravagance from was his new agent, Harold, who insists on being called Hal. He would never miss an opportunity to show off the prize pony at his indie management company, Accelerate Sports. Cameron’s goals shifted after his grueling time on Isaiah’s compound. That survival of mental and physical torment adjusted how he saw his future. He wanted the value of family to be the epicenter of his image, and that included building a team that felt like a second home. Some viewed his decision as risky, while others saw it as an opportunity for smaller agencies and athletes through his support of a lesser-known agency.

Hal was in the center of the room, a man of nonintimidating stature, hand on his middle, belly laughing after holding his umpteenth toast tonight—a tradition that felt more meaningful as the clock marched toward midnight. Servers whirred about ready to provide hors d'oeuvres or take an open bar order, the champagne flutes stacked for the final countdown. Cameron clamored his way through a sea of cigar smoke, lustful eyes and even some filled with envy. He learned the countenance all too well working with Isaiah Wade.

 “How many of these events are you going to hold in my name, Hal?”

“I dunno,” Harold’s New England accent creeped out, his stare adjusting from the cigar in his hand to Cameron. 

“How often do you get to play the fuckin’ Super Bowl during your first season?” Cameron couldn’t fight the grin that spread across his features nor the sudden heat on the back of his neck.

“A lot of players do—”

“From the bench. You’ve thrown over 4,000 yards, 32 touchdowns, and are in Rookie of the Year discussions.”

“Alright, alright, you got it.” The stem of his champagne flute disappeared in Cameron’s hands as he smiled for the small school of blazers and ties staring back at him.

“This is not a party, think of it like a cocktail hour…on New Year’s!” Hal’s loosening tie gave himself away.

”You've been to one of those, right?” If only he knew Cameron’s idea of a cocktail hour was sneaking sparkling apple cider and wine coolers on Thanksgiving in his preteens. There was admittedly a wealth and experience gap that kept them sharp, constantly learning about the other.

“Yeah, I think we had one of those after my father’s wake.” Cameron took a sip of the decades old, fermented wine, this time catching eyes with his tone-deaf manager. He tracks them as beads of nervous sweat begin to float above Hal’s brow. The Dead Dad Card always works. 

“I’m going to go for a walk, ‘kay?” This time Cameron’s cool blues met a pair of shifty brown irises. He didn’t have to think too hard about which substance led to that. 

“These doors are open to you whenever you need them. You’re the,” he hiccups, “future, Cade!” 

He watched as the man could no longer resist the champagne tower or miniature ceviche cups, falling into a cigar-hazed stupor. Cameron forefingers committed the salute as his farewell to the zealous agency head. 

Wide strides taken by athletic legs pass by each archway until the clatter of the not-a-party softened behind him. A grand pair of sliding doors and floor to ceiling windows marked the arrival to his temporary respite. 

The room was nothing short of an Architectural Digest subscriber’s fantasy. Hanging tea lights glimmered high alongside the view of the city from where Harold’s home was perched in the mountainous of Texas Hills. Vines and leaves of greenery coiled along each corner, some botanicals held in planters, enticing the room as a hub for relaxation. One sofa, conversation-pit style and a few hanging chairs made it hard to not seek connection, especially as Cameron’s line of sight was also pleasantly disrupted by the beauty of whom he’d craved all night.

“Looks like I have never had an original idea, ever.” He joked. The woman startled, turning to follow the baritone that hung in the room. 

Her body was fit to a black slip dress that hugged her figure like a second skin. A singular strap falling beyond her shoulder was met by thick locks of hair that were teased and blown out just for the occasion. Red stained her heart-shaped lips, and if Cameron had it his way they would paint a crimson trail from his neck to the waistband of his briefs.

“Oh! I’m sorry, didn’t think…I-” A heady combination of awe and prosecco were the wedge between her ability to form another syllable. Immediately Cameron wishes he’d said something, anything different as her appearance set off every alarm in his body. 

Of course she’s heard of the man of the hour, but pictures or videos gave her no idea of how it felt to be in his presence. He’s endearingly large, dwarfing her 5’7 in heels over half a foot. She lets her eyes take in the drink in front of her just once before he resumes speaking.

“My bad, if I was interrupting your zen,” a hand ejects from the pocket of his leather jacket. The piece was simple enough and his stylists’ way to prevent him from showing up in just a tank top. When Cameron wanted to party, standing on furniture in just a wifebeater was his go-to.

 “I’m Cameron.” He says as if his face wasn’t plastered in the foyer and half of the grocery store magazines in the Greater San Antonio area.

“Myra, personal assistant to Randall Montgomery," She delivers a strong handshake despite the undercurrent of neurons firing off between them. 

Her eyes were the color of black coffee accentuated by a thin liner and curled lashes, skin nearly poreless. If Randall was anything like half of the players he knew, she was much more than a merit hire. Randall was starting with him this upcoming season and now, he’s committed to keeping a steady eye on him.

“That’s what's up,” he nods, pretending not to mentally crunch the numbers needed to steal her from his new teammate.

Instead, Cameron just kept enthusing about the surroundings, surprising them both with his knowledge and she’d giggle or sip more of the Cosmopolitan in her hand. He also told her about his philanthropic dreams, his plans to support sustainability. A word Myra wouldn’t bet to hear out of a new quarterback’s mouth.

 “The sunroom is my favorite part of the house. It’s a cool place to clear your head…or hide from a crowd.” 

“That obvious, huh?” His eyebrows raised at her assumption. “That I’m a bit out of place here.”

The words left Myra’s mouth sooner than her brain could filter and now she’s apologizing for her deprecating admission. Up on her feet, back and forth in crystal embossed heels that glinted under light. Cameron’s eyes followed Rene Caovilla caging her toes to the shine on her lipstick. 

Myra was to the affair a Warhol piece to a garage sale in his eyes, contrasting the muted and tattered washes of Hal’s house with vivid color. He simply stood up and it was enough to bring the anxiety train to a stop. 

“Hey-hey-hey, let’s not do that,” his tone hushed, “you’re here for a reason.”

She blinked up at him, a line of tears threatening to leave her lower lids. To avoid their fall, she had to look anywhere else, realizing Cameron painted each sector of the room with his nature, and his humor she couldn’t stay sad for long.

Myra’s stare remained steady on the outside, the lights of the skyline, anything but back at the handsome first round draft pick. It would only remind her of the hour steadfast approaching. The energy of New Year’s demanded change.

“Do you believe in resolutions?” her voice cracked when she asked.

“I believe in goals. They need discipline, that most people here don’t have.”

“Well damn.”

 “I mean, I’m just sayin’, half of the people in here come by just to satisfy their vices.” Cameron glides to the seat beside where she was before, his long legs spread for comfort.

Myra was drawn closer to him. A careful hand just caressing the back of her knee had her fighting a shiver. He’s probably familiar with women just falling over themselves to sit on his lap. So, Myra refused, choosing to stand right between his legs.

He continues after taking in the sight before him, “It is rare to find someone at one of these things that isn’t snorting or popping something.”

She rolled her eyes in jest. “I bet, I’ve seen enough people coming off of a bender. I keep Narcan on me for whoever might need it.”

“Definitely, not my poison though.”

“Then what is?”

He looks at the designer shoes and can make an educated guess on at least one. She looks down at her hands adorned with simple gold rings--the ring finger empty to Cameron’s surprise.

“Work. I’m supposed to be here to celebrate meaning I’m off the clock. My mind won’t stop thinking about the next report I have due, or Randall’s agenda." 

“I’ve had the Savior’s plays memorized since I was 11. I knew them all before they handed me the official handbook. They don’t leave my head.”

“How exactly does that work?” Myra is sitting now and they’re knee-to-knee, a call for personal space nowhere to be found.

“While other kids were being grilled on their times tables, my father made me watch footage until I could damn near feel the tackles by muscle memory.” Cameron looked up as he recalled the memory, something that was meant to hinder his educational past now a plus.

He rakes a palm over his head with a hiss. “I usually don’t get this deep with strangers. I promise I’m not the trauma dumping type.”

“It’s all good, nothing wrong with being vulnerable.” A content smile is fought by Cameron’s lips. 

“Just returning a favor,” Myra elbows him. 

“Next time? Would I be able to get you out of here before you change your mind?” Terracotta tinted cheekbones and gleaming teeth are on full display to him, newly aglow with the revelation of a new connection. 

“You’re the man of the hour and the clock strikes in forty-five minutes. Wouldn’t it be impolite to leave?” Myra questions.

“According to my agent this ain’t a party. Besides, looking at you, the last thing I’m thinking about right now is being polite.”  

Myra was swept up by him within seconds, a large hand on her waist leading her further away from the crowd. Where they were in the house provided Cameron just enough time to think about where to take her. 

In a blink, her back was against the door of a room with signage and no lock. 

Coat Room.

“W-wait, I don't want to leave my coat.” Her voice full of faux worries was cute to him. Curly, lush eyelashes could bat an entire herd of men her way, yet somehow Cameron was lucky enough to be only one spellbound. 

“Yes ma’am. I’m sure you can’t handle tonight’s wind in just silk.” Myra snorted at his try of a concierge's voice. With her bottom lip taut between both rows of teeth, she pulled him in to the room by her grip on his jacket.

One more step backwards and they were in a volley of furs, leather and designer trenchcoats. A trifold divider caught Cameron’s attention. A vanity without a chair. The room looked purposefully unfinished sans the thousands of dollars in outerwear. 

Before Myra could speak, his calloused hand was holding her face with a tenderness she had yet to see from him. Her eyes mirrored his as he mapped her face to his memory, and sealing his findings with their lips. 

She isn’t even surprised that he’s gamified the art of kissing. Cameron knew when to pull back, especially when he wanted to hear her whine for more. Her bottom lip pulled away from his capture and Myra dove back in, lips locking and frantic breaths filling the small space around them.

“I want you,” says Myra, eyelids clenched closed. “I want to see you lose control.” Her hands are on her own body, opening the slit to reveal a black garter, and when she pushed the curtain of silk back--red panties already ruined with arousal. 

He shrugged off the designer jacket styling pulled on him, giving Myra a show of his biceps. He also reached in the inner pocket for a condom before shooing it back to the floor.

“A little overconfident?” 

“Never unprepared.”

She presented herself to him like a gazelle to a lion, and they were both too far gone to care if anyone walked in. 

“Who made you this wet, baby?” He nudged her hand away to feel her wetness, then he fingered her slowly, earning himself pants and the cute squirms of frustration on her face.

“You, Cameron. My body only wants you.” Myra didn’t have ‘confess her crush’ on the to-do list for today, and now she is mere seconds away from yanking her boss’s teammate impossibly closer.

He grabbed the hand that held her dress open and placed it over his clothed member, “This,” Cameron cursed once Myra began to rub him through his pants, delighting in his flinching when she spent time on the tip. “...is what you do to me, Pretty.”

They were a flurry of fabrics as their lips connected again, full of fervor and bite. Myra held in a squeal as she was momentarily in the air, her bottom connecting to the small dressing table in the room within seconds.

She leant back on her palms, and was claimed by his lips once more, now focusing their attention on the underside of her jaw and neck. Marks of desire began to bloom hot as he continued his venture down her body, encouraging gasps when he was at a spot that particularly melted her reserve. The bottom of her heel took purchase at his lower back, urging him closer. 

“The dress stays on. It’s rented. Try not to make too much of a mess.” Myra managing to order him between bated breath.

Cameron replied with a grunt, pulling the thin straps down to reveal her breasts. Nipples the shade of blackberries called to his mouth and hands. His hands grabbed and nipped over her bare chest, inhaling more of the intoxicating scent she wore tonight. Myra gave him breathy moans, especially when he paid attention to her nipples. The pebbled flesh was rubbed by his index and thumb, while he delighted in taking the other in his mouth. 

He felt her fingers thread through the loops of his slacks and the bottom of his white tank. The undershirt was discarded, unveiling more cut, tawny skin. Myra’s nails raked along his body, making a pit stop at his abdomen before yanking on his belt this time. That loosened quickly and Cameron’s slacks and briefs dropped to his ankles.

Myra’s underwear was next, the flimsy lace dropping to the floor with a kick of her foot. 

Her dress’s fabric folded like layers of molten chocolate at her hips--her bottom half now completely at his mercy. 

Lazed up and downward movements came after he aligned his penis with her folds, his head bumping against her clit like small teasing kisses, then back down to her entrance, coating himself in her arousal. Myra never thought she’d have to beg, and frankly never had to until now. 

“Just fuck me, Cameron. Stop playing.” 

“I’m not playing with you,” Cameron pushes in, cupping the back of Myra’s head before it could touch the cold of the mirror. His lips were on hers as he stretched her out for the first time. A shattered breath left her mouth agape, Cameron taking the opportunity to nip at her bottom lip.

Short, shallow thrusts let him work deeper into her. Myra’s moans were melodic, escalating in scale while she unraveled, but he had to remind her they aren’t actually in private. One businessperson looking for his peacoat can lead to them getting caught and his bare ass on TMZ. 

But the sex was too good for them to quit nor harp on that reality. His hand splayed at the mirror as he fucked into her deeper, longer, harder. Myra’s head lolled back, still cradled by his hand. 

“This is what you wanted, Myra. Look at me.” 

Beneath dampened lash extensions her eyes nearly crossed looking at him. Nothing would’ve prepared her for his arrogance in every physical arena. The gratification he got from pleasuring Myra, finding her spot, felt no different to him than a game-winning catch.

“You’re so fucking---” her raspy voice carried off with another groan. Her hands gripped the edge of the desk so hard her knuckles went white. “‘Gonna make me cum, Cameron, please.” 

“You want me to make this pussy cum, huh?”

“Yes!”

“You trust me?” Enough to have sex within hours of meeting you. “Turn around. Show me.” 

Myra felt like Bambi following his command but was steadied by the dressing table once again. Cameron’s lithe forearm crossed over her chest and his hand covered her neck and jawline with ease. He pulled up the back of her gown and entered her. 

“Fuckin’ gorgeous, you know that?” His grip on her neck gave her no choice but to stare at the reflection in front of her. It was lewd, unbelievable and yet turning her on more. The motivation behind his stormy blue eyes, the sheen that coated their skin and the pure shock to her nervous system that was Cameron Cade, captured all at once. 

Myra started rocking back against his thrusts, her walls squeezing upon every release. Their pleasured moans and the smatter of skin-on-skin soon became the only sounds the coatroom held. With her neck in Cameron’s grip, he’d pull her in for an impassioned, open-mouthed kiss. 

“That’s right, damn. Keep throwing that shit. Use me.” 

His hands moved from her torso to her hips, guiding her while he met her thrust for thrust. Knees weakened and a string of profanities left Cameron’s mouth. Use me. He’d repeat in her ear.

Myra’s fingertips daring to make more marks on the mirror as they brought themselves to their peaks. Her orgasm came without a warning, body arching while he was still rutting inside of her. 

“Oh you're cumming, My...that’s all for me. Give it to me."

She shook and spilled all over his lower abdomen after chasing her release greedily. Myra caught one last glance of her face before he flipped them over again. Her roots were puffy, tears streaking her face and her lippie was smudged.

What shocked her most was that Cameron was still hard and hadn’t finished yet. His stamina will drive her crazy. Myra hissed from overstimulation, her legs just moments from giving out. He hooks them both over his arms and focuses on hitting that spot that turned her into jello.

“Eleven fifty-two.” Cameron gave her a sweet peck while she adjusted. “Eight more minutes to go.”

“That’s not how that works at all,” Myra let out an airy laugh. He captured her lips much longer then, fucking into her at a dizzying pace.

“Three...Four,” kisses to each side of her chest. Her hands held on to his shoulders for stability, while his arms still held her legs. Cameron tried to keep his grunts low but feeling her was a taste of something new.

The noise outside of the coatroom began to pick up, “Eleven fifty-seven," she gasped.

Myra noticed the analog clock above the entrance. You could hear some whispers from attendees and party horns. Kisses five and six were on her legs, they jolted when met by their softness.

“I can’t, Cameron, it’s-too much,” Myra squeezed harder around him impending her second release. She bit her lips to manage her noises. They could hear the muffled chants and shrills of the party.

“Yes, you can, hold it for me for a minute. Eleven fifty-eight, baby,” Cameron pace didn’t waver, and the evidence of her arousal coating his dick only made him want to edge her more. Her lips kiss-swollen and pouting, eyebrows furrowed and sweat glossing all parts of skin he could touch.

“I don’t listen to pouts,” he declared.

Myra tried her only trick and failed. She received forehead kisses instead of penance. The clock became harder to focus on the closer she approached orgasm.

Cameron’s hips stuttered, dropping his head into Myra’s neck. He lost track of the count when her velveteen walls gripped her harder. His eyes rolled back as he thrusted into her, relinquishing it all to the waves of pleasure that crashed into him.

“5….4….3…2…”

They both broke apart one after the other, Myra first, Cameron started thumbing her clit and continued until she came again. He filled the condom inside of her with the feeling of her walls holding on to him. Once he imagined that barrier wasn’t present between them, he’d had one of the hardest orgasms he’s ever had.

“Happy…fucking….New Year.” Cameron rasped, taking one look at his Rolex to confirm the time. They clung to each other, unsure what to do with their limbs but prayed a soul wouldn’t enter this room for at least another hour.

…and that dream was cut short with three knocks. “Hey uhh…it’s me Hal. Let me know when you two are done in there….”

Myra hid her face in Cameron’s neck as they burst into laughter. As they settled, they untangled limbs and allowed themselves to just be reckless twenty-somethings on New Year’s. Their hearts calmed at a similar pace, easing the tension from salacious to something more lighthearted and warm. There wasn’t another way either would want to ring in midnight.

• • •