Absorbing the blast, Macho turned away and folded her arms again. Jumpin spoke first.
“It’s up to you, Macho. You can be a dude with hair and one of us, or you can be Gloria Steinem looking for trouble. You weren’t here when Trench started checking her out, and besides, Trench is probably going to die alone.”
Irish added, “Just give him a look next time. Girls — I mean women, sorry — know how to do that. And knock off the 24/7 sexual assault crap. If he directs his comments to you or the other squadron women, then I’ll back you, but it’s not always about you.” The night ruined, he shook his head. “I’m outta here.”
“Me, too,” Jumpin agreed. “Let’s douse this fire.”
Macho took a step to pick up a plastic pail, but Irish snatched it up first. “No, no, I’ve got it! Not asking you to do anything menial. We can do it.” He headed to the gently lapping water to fill the pail.
Before she spun on her heels and headed to the room, Macho’s eyes met Jumpin’s. Humiliated, she hoped the darkness hid the tears running down her face. You stupid bitch! she berated herself as she slogged across the sand with arms folded.
The sound of female laughter wafted over the tropical beach.
* * *
Macho woke up early after a fitful night of sleep on the couch, her male counterparts sprawled about in chairs and on the floor. Olive was sacked out in a lounge chair on the balcony. As Macho gazed through the window past the uninhabited green cay to the blue Atlantic, she could tell paradise was going to offer them another gorgeous day.
Today was her turn to be on duty as the Admin Queen. One of her most important responsibilities was to make sure the snacks and beer were well stocked. Another duty was to go to the airport and pick up the new guy. Ensign Shane Duncan was reporting to the Firebirds as the new squadron Intelligence Officer.
She looked around but didn’t see Trench, her archenemy. She figured he spent the night in an orgy with the college girls and shivered at the thought.
To not disturb her squadronmates — and incur even more ill will than she had last night — she carefully stepped around the sleeping pilots and into the kitchen. Just then the front door opened; Skipper Wilson returning from an early morning run.
“Hey, Macho,” Wilson whispered.
“Hi, Skipper. How was the run?”
Wilson reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a bottled water. “Good. Going to the café for a cup of coffee. Want to come?”
“No thanks, sir. I need to police this place and then pick up the new guy at the airport.”