The Jarheads Collection

About The Jarheads Collection

Author: Sean Michael

Word Count: 808,000

Page Count (pdf): 3068

ISBN: 978-1-77423-171-5

Price: 9.99

Pairing:  M/M/M

Series: Jarheads

Genre: Contemporary

Date Published: September 15, 2021

Publisher:  Sean Michael

Heat Rating:  5

File Types available: epub, mobi, pdf


What happens when a munitions expert brings a baby green marine home for his own personal redneck?

This was the sentence that started it all. Now, six novels and four story collections later, the Jarheads Rock, Rig and Dick have told all the stories they have from their early years on the job to retirement and beyond. The Jarheads Collection brings it all together for you in one volume.

Join the Jarheads as they live their lives, fight and make-up, and love each other the best way they know how.

The Jarheads Collection includes: Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, Personal Leave, Three Day Passes, Tempering, Out of the Closet, On the Sand, Dog Tags and Cowboy Boots, The Jarheads Novellas, Everyday Stories and More Jarheads Shorts.


Three Day Passes

Chapter One

The day was fucking perfect.

George Strait on the stereo, brisket on the grill, can of Ranch Style beans on the counter (thank you, Momma) just waiting to be heated up. There was a case of beer in the fridge, a fifth of tequila in the freezer, and a three-day weekend looking him in the face. He’d thrown a batch of scrubs into the washer, thrown on his jeans and one of Rock’s old t-shirts. He’d been gone for a few days, quick trip down to Panama to do some training and back. No injuries, no emergencies — just flying down, some fake fucking blood and assholes getting out of duty pretending to be injured, and flying home. Bing, bang, boom.

Rig wandered out to the backyard, gave Grim some fresh water, checked the brisket, threw a rock at the fence in hopes of shutting up that yapping fucking beast from next door, then headed back in. He grabbed a beer and settled on the couch, flipping past Jeopardy and Jenny Jones and stopping on Emergency Vets. Oooh…the innards of a turtle. Pretty fucking cool.

The front door banged open, Rock’s voice calling out. “Honey, I’m home!” Before he could reply, Rock’s head popped around the wall. “I brought company — you decent?”

“In body if not in spirit, Rocketman.” He grinned at his own personal marine. Shit, but the man looked good in BDUs. “Who came to play? Reed? Wendling? Gonzales?”

“Nope, new meat.” Rock came around the corner, dragging a kid, not quite as tall as Rock, looking as green as this morning. “Come on, Dick-head.”

“Name’s not Dick-head,” muttered the kid.

He nodded over, looking at Rock with one raised eyebrow. This didn’t look like something Rock usually dragged home. “Hey kid, name’s Rigger.” He didn’t move, just watched, taking a swig of his beer.

“Richard Main.” The kid held out his hand and Rock smacked it.

“Grab a seat, Cherry-Pie.” Rock flung himself down on the couch next to Rigger and grabbed his beer, helping himself to a long swig. “Friggin’ barracks are full-up and the CO’s got us teaming up with newbies straight out of basic. Dickie-boy here is my cherry and I get to keep him until something opens up. Supposed to be fast-tracking them up to speed or something. I don’t know, I just do as I’m told.”

“Pushy asshole. There’s a case of longnecks in the friggin’ icebox.” He grinned and snatched his beer back. “So, you’re set to abusing the young’uns again. You’d think they’d learned after what happened to the last set.” Fuck, but he loved teasing the cherries.

“Last time?” The kid’s voice squeaked.

“Mm-hmm.” He stretched lazily, making sure Rock got a look at his crotch. “Was classified, of course, but I’m a medic on base, so I heard everything. Poor sweet kids.”

The kid was looking from him to Rock and back again, mouth hanging open. Rock was just looking at his crotch.

“Either sit down or go fetch yourself a beer.” He arched an eyebrow, shifting his hips. “You are legal, right kid?”

“I won’t tell anyone if you don’t. I mean — if he’s gonna fuck me up the least you can do is give me a beer, right?” The kid looked at him a moment. “Fridge?”

He pointed through the arched doorway. “Kitchen. Watch for Grim. He’s likely to be sleeping in there.”

“Grim?” The kid was squeaking again.

“Yup. Mastiff. One hundred and ten pounds. White teeth, black nose and ears. Sleeps by the back door. You can’t miss him.” He’d kick Rock’s ass if the asshole laughed now. Grim was quite possibly the biggest wuss in the state, but he looked like a killer — at least until his tail started wagging.

“Is he gonna think I’m stealing the fucking beer?”

“I hope not. They say you shouldn’t act scared — it just pisses ’em off worse.”

Dick snorted. “Gee thanks.”

“Get me one, too, Dickweed.” The kid flipped Rock off and headed toward the kitchen.

Rigger chuckled, “Damn, Rock. Could you have gotten a greener one?”

“They were all pretty fucking green.” Rock let his hand slide down Rigger’s thigh. “This one though…” Rock shrugged. “He felt right, if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, Rock, I got it.” He hummed, stretching beneath Rock’s big hands. “He’s got a nice little body, too. You’re damned good at picking ’em.”

“Years of practice.” Rock gave him a grin, hand sliding to tease his cock for just a moment. “So how was Panama?”

“Hot, wet, fucking mosquitoes everywhere.” He pouted dramatically when Rock’s hand fell to rest below his knee. “Did you have to bring company today, Rock? How long’s he staying?”

“What? You don’t like your present?”

He grinned. “You’re sure he’ll play, Blue?”

Rock shrugged and stole his beer. “Like you said, I’m damned good at picking ’em. I’m betting he’s pure cherry and will jump at a chance at that mouth of yours.”

The cherry walked in, two beers in hand, Grim bouncing along happily behind him. “I met your killer.”

“Ooooh…they do have sarcasm where you come from. Impressive.” Rigger grinned and held his hand out for Grim who came to slobber and snuggle and irritate the fuck out of Rock, which was his real job in life.

“Oh, no, I meant it. Nearly drowned to death in dog drool.”

Rock laughed even as he shifted away, handing Rig back his half-drunk beer and snagging one of the new ones off the kid. The kid sat down in the easy chair, looking a little more at ease.

“So, Rocketman, you get a three-day, too, or are you gonna have to blow the kid up on Monday?” He finished his beer and grimaced. It was warm. He should have gotten the kid to get him a bottle, too.

“Nah, three-days all around, the kid’s safe until Tuesday.” Dick flipped them both off, the experience with Grim obviously making him doubt Rigger’s dire warnings about Rock.

Rigger chuckled and leaned back, looking backward at the kid. “So, spill. Where’re you from? Why the fuck did you sign up? All that shit.”

The kid sighed and took a long swig of his beer. “Indiana and the marines was the lesser of several evils.”

“Ain’t nothing wrong with being a marine,” Rock informed them both with his best and-anyone-who-tells-me-different-will-hear-from-my-fists look.

“Yes, Rock. The marines are stunning and fabulous and the only career choice for a real man. Semper fi, the few the proud, etc., etc.” He grinned at Rock, possibly the only man alive confident and foolhardy enough to push the old bastard on this point.

“Fuck you, asshole.”

“Time and place, Marine.”

“Anytime, anyplace — a marine is always ready.”

A glance at Dick confirmed the kid was watching them with quiet fascination.

“You forget we have company, smartass?” He grinned at Rock. “You’re gonna scare the cherry into apoplexy.”

“If he’s got a problem I know where I can get his ass blown to shit on Tuesday.”


“Oh, relax, Dickwad — nobody dies on my watch. I’m fucking good at what I do.”

“And just think, kid, the Rock here does blow you up, I’ll just patch your ass back up. I’m a flight medic. Patching Marines is what I do.”

Dick was looking back and forth between the two of them, putting two and two together and coming up with a hundred and four. “So you two…”

“Drink beer and fight over the comfy spot on the fucking couch?” Rigger looked the kid square in the eyes. “Yeah, all the damned time.”

The kid nodded and took another sip of his beer.

“So if you don’t mind the wrestling or the fucking dog drool, you can bunk here this weekend,” Rock offered. “Well as long as you don’t mind, Rig. It’s his house,” Rock finished, patting Rigger on the thigh.

Rigger looked at Rock, eyebrow raised. Rock must be sure of the kid, or he’d have never offered. “Sure, kid. Any friend of Rock’s and all that.”

“Thanks.” The kid’s eyes were glued to where Rock’s hand rested on his thigh and fuck if Dick didn’t pull his lower lip in between his teeth.

“There’s a spare bedroom down the hall, past the bathroom. Only one of those, sorry.” Rigger stretched again, humming softly before he stood. “Got a brisket on the grill, Rock. You hungry?”

“Oh, yeah.” Rock’s voice made it clear he wasn’t talking about food, but he left it at that.

Dick stood and put his beer down. “I guess I should get my gear out of your hall then.”

“Make yourself at home. Get the big guy to help, if you need it. Supper’ll be ready in two shakes.” He walked to the kitchen, giving his walk a little extra oomph just for Rock.

Hell, he figured if the kid didn’t play, their days of Monday night football fucks were over. The old bastard deserved to suffer.