Laughing their asses off, his fellow cadets were merciless in their creative teasing and inventive names, his favorite being Blown-Out Badger. Hell, he didn't blame them. Had the boot been on the other paw, Buck would've done the same thing. He'd have been leading the chant, more than likely up on a desk, beating his hands on the ceiling for effect.
To his credit, Professor Matthew Firestone—a dragon shifter with one hell of a sense of humor and a good friend of his brother-in-law’s—worked really hard to keep a straight face and didn’t flunk him on the spot. Nope, Firestone was super cool. Even gave Buck extra credit for “courage and perseverance under fire.”
All of that should’ve been enough to make Buck rethink all his plans, but there was more. He’d been covered from head-to-toe in nasty, boiling Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, the stench that emanated from his very pores smelling worse than the bathrooms at the Sundowner the day after the all-night Schnedeker Skunk’s Family Mating Party. Any sensible person would have, at the very least, taken the day off. But bowing in the face of defeat was for cowards, and no Blackthorne anywhere had ever been called a coward.
Crazy? For sure. Stupid? The males, after too much whiskey. But never, ever, a coward.
He tried to laugh it off as he pulled pieces of aluminum can from the stubble covering his jaw, the exposed skin of his arms, and way too close to the family jewels on the front of the crotch of his pants and both of his thighs. Matt Firestone demanded he see the Academy doctor, even though Buck’s honey badger was already working to repair the plethora of gashes, cuts, scrapes, and burns. All Buck could do was blow out an extremely exasperated breath and head to the infirmary.
Climbing the stairs of the Academy was the first time he'd stopped to ask himself if he was doing the right thing. From one step to the next, he started seriously contemplating going back to the lovely, quiet retirement he'd been enjoying since leaving the Marines.
Stepping onto the main floor, he unconsciously made an immediate right. Three steps toward the clinic, lost in thought, Buck was damned near bowled over by the scent of fresh, clean moss just like the swamp right out his backdoor. Inhaling deeper, he caught a whiff of ozone, the clean aroma that filled the air right after a lightning strike. As if that wasn't enough, the whole wonderful perfume was topped off with the citrusy scent of verbena. It was the best thing he'd ever smelled, and dadgummit, his honey badger was right there with him.
Pushing against the inside of his skin, doing his damnedest to jump right out into the open and make his presence known, that badger was hot on the trail of something good. And, well, so was Buck’s cock.
Jumping to attention, pushing against the zipper of his camos so hard he was sure the zigzag design would be there forever, it took all of his considerable control not to sprint down the hall. Walking slowly, counting his steps, and trying hard not to draw attention to himself, Buck's eyes slid side to side.
It was a covert mission of the highest order. She—that elusive creature known as his mate—was somewhere close by. She had to be. No other scent could make both man and badger stand at attention.
“Where is she? I know she’s here. Why can’t we find her?”
“Hell, if I know,” Harry, the honey badger with whom Buck shared his soul, growled. “If you’d have let me outta here ten seconds ago, we’d already have found her, have her naked, and be having our wicked way with her.”
“Yeah, okay, Casanova,” Buck grumbled. “Save it for somebody who doesn’t know you.”
“Like you’re any better. Do you even remember the last time you got laid?” Not waiting for an answer, the surly, old honey badger snarled, “Nope, neither do I. You need—”
“I need you to shut the hell up,” Buck snapped, slamming his mental shields tight as he opened the door to the infirmary.
Instantly engulfed in a heavenly fog of the same tantalizing scent from the hallway, Buck bypassed the waiting room by sneaking in behind another patient and followed the softest, sweetest voice he'd ever heard.
"No, I cannot go easy on these cadets, Del. What the hell do you want me to do? Tell them it's okay to skim that mountain with the bottom of the plane? As long as you don't crash land or blow us up, we can fix the rest?"
It was her. His mate. She was close. Really close.
"Oh, I know." There was a sharp snap of fingers followed by a loud single clap. "The doofuses that can't fold their socks, let alone pack a chute. You know the ones, they always had momma to do everything for them. Doesn't matter if they have wings or not. They think I'm gonna be a stand in for their dear old mum."
Slapping his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing out loud as she put on a posh British accent, pronouncing mom as mum, Buck wanted to see her more than he wanted his next breath. Not only did his mate smell absolutely edible but she was also sassy and full of life. He already liked her…a lot. And so did the raging hard-on in his camos.
Creeping forward, he kept watching, moving ever closer as the conversation he was eavesdropping on just kept rolling along.
“Yeah, I get that,” a second female voice, the one he knew went with the name Del and also happened to be carrying a shit-ton of irritation in it that was directed at his mate, retorted. “Nobody knows your process better than I do. This is the second cadet you’ve carried in here today.”
“They’re alive, aren’t they?”
“Well, yes, but…”
“I’ve never had one die on my watch, have I?”
“Well, no, but—”
"No, but…" Chuckling, the sound full, robust, absolutely fantastic, his mate went on. "Is that your professional opinion, Dr. Weathersbee? Can I get a second? Don't you have like nineteen specialties?"
"I could ask you the same thing, Dr. Lightfoot." The doc's voice was filled with friendly admiration and a lot of affection. "Don't you have something like seven Ph.D.s and an M.D. but chose to jump out of completely good airplanes? And what's worse, teach others, who do not have the benefit of wings like yourself, to do the same?"
“I do!” Dr. Lightfoot—Buck’s mate—laughed right out loud, that sound even a hundred times more intoxicating than her chuckle.
Heart racing, his palms suddenly sweaty, and his cock asking “What the fuck, man? Can you hurry it up?” Buck damned near hit the floor when she admitted with a serious case of the giggles, "I actually have ten, well, eleven if count the M.D., but they're all in stupid shit that keeps me inside and my eyes glued to a microscope. I need the feel of the wind through my wings…"
"And the sound of your own voice barking orders." Dr. Weathersbee laughed before dropping her voice several octaves. "Freddie, you can’t toss cadets out of airplanes without their consent ever again. Is that understood?"
“Ma’am, yes, ma’am,” his mate barked right back before hooting with laughter. “But honestly, Del, I didn’t throw either of them out of the plane. They literally jumped out of their own accord, pulled the ripcord perfectly, then ran right into the same damned tree.” Stopping to gasp and wheeze—even those sounds turning Buck on as he imagined her doing them naked and in his bed—his mate laughed, “It was like George of the Jungle in fatigues.”