Bill sat back, crossing his arms over his chest. “Dude, her dad is the vice president. Now that she’s back with her own kind, she isn’t going to be into a grunt, unless you have a silver spoon hidden away somewhere I don’t know about.”

He intentionally relaxed his jaw. “I assume you have a point?”

“I love you, man. You are the epitome of reliable and dependable. Great for getting a damsel in distress out of the jungle, for example. Not needed so much back in public society. I’m just watching your six.”

Bill had always had an issue with the perception of class. He’d grown up poor—poorer than most—and saw people with any kind of status or wealth as the enemy. Rick had tried to point it out to him in the past, but Bill didn’t even realize his bias.

Regardless, Rick didn’t consider this topic any of his friend’s business. Yes, he felt some pretty serious attraction toward Doctor Cynthia Myers. Yes, if they lived within driving distance of each other and she showed even the slightest inkling of interest in pursuing a relationship with him, he’d be hard-pressed not to ask her out.

Reality didn’t include any of that.

“I appreciate that, but you can get off my six. She called me exactly once after coming home. She was struggling with reintegration.” He gave a shrug saying that things like struggles with reintegration were self-explanatory and came with the job. “Never heard from her again.”

His friend stared at him for several moments before he nodded. “Good.” As the waitress set their plates in front of them, he clapped his hands together and rubbed them. “Ahh, here it is. You ready?”

Bill bowed his head, and Rick looked at him for a moment before he followed suit and said, “Thank You, God, for the safe return home, for Bill’s healing, and for this food. We love You.”

Rick took a juicy bite, and the flavors mingled in perfection on his tongue. As he chewed and swallowed, refusing to hurry that first perfect bite, he considered his best friend. He’d shaved his beard, but he hadn’t shaved today, so he had a thick shadow of black hair on his cheeks. His dark eyes shone under a University of Alabama-Huntsville ball cap.

Bill sliced into his burger to dissect it into two even halves. “It only matters because of next week.”

The team had been ordered to go to the White House so that the president could personally give them awards for their part in saving the vice president. Rick had fought the idea, but Colonel Jenkins—who fully understood why Rick and his team had no desire to receive awards from the president—got his orders from a general with a lapel covered with stars who gave them no choice.

“Next week?” Rick asked innocently. “Not sure what you mean.”