Free Georgia's English Rose by JT Harding

I
whispered.
    “Nah. Not a thing.”
    “Why were you flirting with him like that?”
I said, trying not to let the hurt show in my voice.
    “It was a bit of fun, Lil, that’s all. You
know it’s you I love,” and she kissed me once, hard, taking my
breath away.
    “It looked like flirting to me,” I said, a
little happier. Her kisses always made me happy, and I realized how
quickly I was becoming used to the touch of her lips.
    “I like him,” Georgia said. “Not like I like
you, but he’s sweet. And I see some of you in him too, I guess.”
She leaned close to me and put her hand on my shoulder. We were
almost exactly the same height, but any similarity ended there.
“When he was showing me how to fish,” she whispered in my ear, “I
think he got quite excited.”
    “Excited?” I whispered back.
    “You know, down below? I felt him pressing
it against my butt.”
    “Oh, that’s disgusting!” I said.
    “Yeah, kind of. But he’s so sweet too.”
    “You’re not…” My voice caught. “You’re not
gonna… going to let him do anything, are you?”
    Georgia laughed. “Of course not. Don’t
worry, Lil, I’m all yours, little darling.”
    My stomach turned over and I kissed her
lightly.
    “Let’s go play this game then,” Georgia
said.
    It was clever of Michael to come up with the
idea. Most new pilots were shot down because they didn’t see danger
coming. High in the air death came from all directions, above,
below, right, left, ahead and behind. It might come from anywhere.
His teachers had drilled that into him. Most new pilots stared
straight ahead, but that was not where danger lay. It might come
from above, perhaps behind your left shoulder, and before you knew
what was happening bullets were ripping your plane apart around
you.
    So Michael gave us tennis balls and stood in
the middle of the lawn while we ran around throwing them at him.
Every time we hit him he lost. Every time he saw the ball and
ducked or caught it was a victory for him, and might mean the
difference between life and death when he flew the skies alone.
    When we started the game we hit him a lot.
On his broad shoulders, the back of his head, balls bouncing off
his cheeks. After a half hour Michael managed to dodge more than
hit him. After an hour we missed almost every time, even when we
threw from right behind him. He stood on one spot, playing by the
rules he had invented, feet planted in the grass, upper body and
head turning and seeking, leaning and ducking.
    We laughed and giggled and when she got
bored Georgia started swooping at Michael pretending to be a
Messerschmitt and sometimes he tagged her and sometimes she darted
away untouched. I watched and after a while joined in, tossing
balls at him from close range, slapping him on his arms, ducking to
avoid his hands as they came back at me.
    I noticed Georgia allowed him to catch her
now and then, but I was not jealous any more. I knew what she was
doing and loved her even more. In a few days Michael would be in
the air fighting for his life. He might never come back from his
first flight, and if he did the fear would gnaw at his belly until
the next time. He knew, we all knew, exactly what might happen.
    So Georgia let him catch her, let him
accidentally brush against her full breasts, accidentally touch her
rounded backside. And I found myself joining in too, my heart
hammering when Michael caught me the first time and his hand slid
across my shoulder before skirting around my breasts. With Georgia
he wasn’t quite so gentlemanly, unless hers were simply more
difficult to avoid.
    He laughed as though it meant nothing, and I
laughed back, excited and scared.
    “Enough,” Michael said at last. Sweat poured
from his face, and I’m sure Georgia and I were as hot. He sat on
the grass with his legs stretched out, leaning on one elbow.
    Georgia wanted to play some more and
continued tagging me. I glanced at Michael, relaxing on the grass,
lighting up a cigarette, smiling