Stolen September: A Military Romance

by M. C. Cerny

  My hand slaps my bare thigh as I stop inside the house at the base of the stairs, catching my breath. “Bruiser, get back here with my shoe!”

  This mutt is going to be the death of me. The little trickster nabbed the flip-flop off my foot as I was getting the mail. He loves the sound my shoe makes as it flicks on my foot with each teasing step. My chest heaves and sweat trickles between my breasts as I shake out my short dress. The humidity is awful today, and I say a little prayer that dog hasn’t grabbed another shoe. Old Navy is about an hour away, and I don’t relish a drive there and back for a half dozen pair of flip-flops at three dollars a pop. I buy my flip-flops in bulk with this puppy. Wryly, I muse, I’m not entirely sure how much I’ve missed Tank this time.

  We were stationed to Fort Bragg seven months ago, and my husband has been deployed six months of that time. I probably miss him about as much as Bruiser would miss my flip-flop if he ever came back with it. Fort Bragg has been an adventure, with a missing shipment of furniture, which put us back at square one without a proper couch or dining room table all over again. I was determined to not use our joint credit card, after learning my lesson last time. Luckily a family down the street was moving and their two teenage sons were more than happy to move the furniture for ice tea and store-bought cookies.

  A dart of black fur races by me and I step out of the way with barely enough time before I’m almost knocked down. It’s pointless to call Bruiser’s name again. That damn dog barely listens to me. He goes nuts when someone comes knocking on the door. He’s terrified the UPS driver and the mailman, countless times barking at the front window like they’re going to be his new snack. He’s a real joy to get into his crate, which he’s almost grown out of. When Tank comes home that’s the first thing on my list I need his help with.

  Bruiser worms his warm body with silky fur next to mine, glancing up with his puppy eyes—dark, fathomless orbs that reflect nothing but love. He puts his head down and wiggles his butt, tail thumping, and I shake my head. He is supposed to be the runt of his Labrador litter, which is how Tank adopted him for free when one of the families on base had a batch of unexpected puppies. Kind of a two-for-one deal, seeing as how my husband presented him as a deployment present. We don’t plan on having kids for a while, so this lump of coal-dark love is the equivalent of my push present. So even though Bruiser is my dog, he loves Tank unconditionally and conveniently forgets who feeds and walks him the second my other lump of handsome broad shoulders comes home.

  Bruiser gives a low bark.

  “Shush, you big baby.”

  I pat his head and scratch behind his ears.

  “You miss Daddy, don’t you?”

  He perks up and barks louder this time, running off. There’s plenty of mischief for him to get into between now and tomorrow, when Tank is scheduled to get home.

  Standing up, I brush myself off and walk into the kitchen. I find my mangled flip-flop on the tile floor and toss it in the garbage. The navy blue plastic foam that matches my dress is mangled beyond repair. It’s warm enough that I don’t need shoes in the house, and I putter around looking for something to do—anything but wait, because that’s the hardest part of being separated from Tank. I finally mastered my Instapot, and have a roast cooking now so I don’t have to stress about prepping anything tomorrow. I want him to come home and be completely mine, with our mutual attention spoken for.

  A knock at the door sends Bruiser into a frenzy, and I don’t have time to get him in his crate to open the door. It swings open and I recognize the fatigues bent over rolling on the ground with the dog. Barking and swirls of camo maneuver in the entryway until Bruiser takes off to find his extra-large dino bone. You might say that was Tank’s deployment gift to the dog.

  “Honeybee.” He stands up, blocking out the light from the open door, and with a sharp, stinging cry, I launch myself in his arms. I can’t help the flood of emotions that overwhelm me, and as much as I’m trying to meld myself into his arms, I’m pushing back so I can inspect that he’s come home fully intact. He lets me go and I back away to take in this man I love more than anything in this world. His face looks tired and travel weary, while the muscles of his body, built before his absence, seem to have multiplied tenfold.

  “Damn it, Tank!” I’m sniffling and look like an unmade hot mess. He’s always catching me off guard.

  His foot kicks the door shut behind us as I’m backed up against the wall. His hand brushes back my loose hair as he tilts my chin up to his face. Thick fingers brush the fresh tears off my cheeks.

  “Hey, I’ve always wondered what it would be like to come home to dinner cooking and my wife barefoot in a skimpy house dress. All that’s missing is for her to tell me she’s pregnant.” He’s hoisted me up in his arms again, hiking up my dress as I wrap my legs around his waist.

  “You jerk. I’m not pregnant.” I bop him on the shoulder and get a ride as his abdominal muscles shake with laughter.

  “I should hope not, little lady. You’d have some explaining to do.” He swats my butt playfully while carrying me into the kitchen. I’m settled on the countertop, where his hands travel up my legs to my hips under my dress.

  “You’re home early. I’m happy.” I don’t care about getting all dolled up tomorrow to greet him. This is a million times better.

  “You miss me?” he asks. Big oaf. What does he think I’ll say?

  I jerk my head over his shoulder to Bruiser, who comes into the kitchen holding his dino bone, showing it off proudly. “I missed you about as much as Bruiser likes his daddy-bone.”

  “Cute, Honeybee.” He chuckles, resting his head against mine. His hands don’t stop their exploration of my body and I sigh, content to feel his touch all over me.

  “How’d you get back early?”

  He grunts. “Classified.”

  I pout, wondering if he’ll relent and tell me, but he never does with things like that. I don’t pry further and instead I run my fingers over his shoulders and scratch his fuzzy, shorn head.

  “Tell me how your job is going.” Tank is deflecting. He doesn’t want to hear about how I hate doing data entry eight hours a day, five days a week, but it’s giving me something to do while he’s gone. I’m working on ways to find more of myself. He’s got his passion and I need to find mine. I don’t feel the same level of despondency as I did early on. I’ve connected with my girlfriends Kate and Hope from back home and we started an online book club. It’s fun posting pretty pictures of the books we love.

  I push Tank back and hop off the counter, holding his hand. I pull him into my corner of the living room to show him my latest project.

  “What’s this?” He pushes around my little table of objects and sees my small, refurbished MacBook pro.

  “Kate, Hope, and I started a book club. I take pictures of the books we read and put them on my Instagram. I started writing a little. Who knows, maybe I’ll write a military romance book.”

  “Romance, huh?” Tank gives me a look with a spark in his eyes that says I’m going to get a good fucking first, and then some romance. We haven’t had many deployments, but I sense this is the way of things. I don’t have any issues with an eager husband, except for missing him so damn much.

  “Yeah, why don’t you give me some inspiration, big boy.” I tap his chest playfully.

  Tank growls and gives chase. I scream a little and Bruiser joins in, barking loudly. I run up the stairs to our bedroom and don’t bother shutting the door.

  Tank barrels in and Bruiser playfully nips at his pant leg, trying to pull him away from me.

  “Oh no, Mommy is mine, you crazy mutt.” Tank guides Bruiser out of the bedroom and locks the door. My puppy whines outside and I don’t know who I feel sorry for.

  “He’s going to bark and scratch,” I remind him, smirking. It’ll be the second door that needs replacing in this house, but I don’t think my husband looks overly concerned. In fact, he smiles like it’s a challenge.

  His head dips
down, “More than you will, Honeybee?”

  I roll my eyes, scoffing. “I don’t bark, Henry.” I’m backing away from him until my legs bump against the bedframe. I sit down and scoot back as Tank comes closer. He shucks his clothing off piece by piece. When his boots are off, he looks at me the way a lion studies its next meal. I shiver and lean back on my elbows, enticing Tank to do his worst. He stands between my legs and raises them up on the bed, parted. His hands reach for my silky panties and tug them off, tossing them over his shoulder as he pushes my dress up, exposing me to him. I shiver as if the room is cool. He licks his lips, edging closer to my center. Breath huffs from my lips as my hands fist the sheets.

  So much for making the bed this morning when he taunts me.

  “We’ll see, wife. We shall see.”

  Excerpt from Love Under Construction

  Looking for a romantic comedy? Try my Love By Design series, starting with: Love Under Construction.

  CHAPTER ONE

  HUNTER

  “This is it?” Following the GPS, I made the turn, trusting the crisp British woman named something like Sally or Margaret to guide me since my passenger was enraptured with looking out the window. Her slim profile was mostly hidden by her loose pale blond hair while her delicate nose pressed against the fogged glass. Perfecting my poker face driving down the street, I waited for a shimmery ghost to appear and ward us off the property. At the least, I expected Freddie Kruger to slice my tires and Jason to run out of the woods donning a hockey mask and chanting, “cha-cha-cha.” God Save the Queen and my new truck from the pitfalls over cliffs and best friends with big ideas.

  My foot pressed the brake, pulling up next to a grey two-story Victorian era house in a depressed block of homes that looked haunted and fresh off the set of The Conjuring. You know, the kind that has wooden siding falling off it, complete with creaking uneven doors and cobwebs thick as wool crowding the window corners, or so I imagined. Looking at it made the shaved hair on the back of my neck stand up, but I would never admit that to anyone even if I were captured by hostiles and water boarded. It didn’t matter that I spent the bulk of my Marine career with the Corps of Engineers; a haunted house was not getting to me.

  This house, and I was being generous calling it that, had to be the worst of the lot. A dilapidated structure beyond that must have been a garage of some sort or a place to hide the bodies in winter. If you were looking for the Bates Motel, this could be it, circa the 1890s.

  Overgrown shrubs and grass blocked much of the front yard and a large tree had fallen over what I assumed was a gravel driveway from at least fifty years ago. It was a landscaper’s nightmare project between the barren looking grasses and dead shit everywhere. Honestly, I’d be surprised if they didn’t dig up a body somewhere on the property. Tall columns framed the front porch or what was left of it. All I could see from my vantage point inside the truck was a set of rotten wooden steps and a goodly sized hole in the porch veranda. A swinging chair that looked like it had one time been a perfect spot for sipping sweet tea hung precariously by one chain, the rest dragging down on wooden planks. The varnish had easily chipped away a quarter century ago.

  A sigh filled the truck from the passenger seat next to me. “Isn’t she gorgeous?”

  Confused, I looked back at my best friend of ten years, wondering what crazy ideas that fancy design school in Brooklyn had given her. Naked women with hands full of tits were gorgeous, but this… this building looked like it should be condemned from the structural damage alone, forget about how ugly it was. She needed her eyes and maybe her head examined, but I kept those opinions to myself, merely responding with a grunt in reply to her question.

  I couldn’t bear to be the bringer of bad news and watch her little nose scrunch up, lip torn to shreds by her perfect front teeth, and those blue eyes of hers welled with tears. I might be an asshole in general, but this girl could wreck me faster than a truck on Interstate 84 barreling like a bat out of hell on ice. Nope, I was keeping any opinions I had about this house to myself.

  “The realtor even said the house isn’t haunted.” She looked back out the window transfixed, while I let the potential horror of the situation work itself into my mind fully.

  Think about this, Hunter… Think before you speak. My commanding officer had said that to me easily a thousand times during my first deployment. Aaron Henderson would have been proud to know I did not make this woman cry, not on purpose anyway.

  Barely concealing my wince, I asked, “Did the realtor have those ghost hunters check it out to make sure?” My fingers tapped the wheel annoyed, and Taylor Jane touched them, freezing me with her smile. Her touch did that to me, an immediate balm that sucked out the bad feelings and replaced them with good ones even years later. It was some kind of woman voodoo when she did that.

  “Oh, Hunter, ye of little faith.” Her face softened with a side smile and I felt myself falling deep down that rabbit hole of no return.

  What kind of a fucking realtor gives a house a character reference? “Ooh, it’s nice with a white picket fence and the bodies are buried the required ten feet from the property line and propane tank.” A whack-job, that’s who, and probably one with a snarky accent like my GPS wench, Sally.

  “Yeah, babe, because that’s a legitimate reference for a house that looks like it’s about to fall down.” Muttering was all I could manage besides sticking my big foot in my mouth.

  “Hunter.” She rolled her eyes, and I swore I should have thrown the truck into drive and headed to St. Mary’s for some damn holy water and Pastor Rooney to lead the exorcism, because I was sure spinning heads were coming next from behind the fallen door on the porch.

  Worry filled me because I knew firsthand how impetuous my best friend could be. “You, uh, didn’t sign any papers yet, did you? I mean… please tell me you haven’t done anything with it yet.” I paused, trying to find a delicate way to say this to Taylor Jane before heaving a sigh and cutting right to the most important question I had for her. “For the love of God, Taylor Jane Bryant, please tell me you had an engineer come and look at it first?” I was hoping this was still in the idea phase and I could talk her out of it, maybe find some other depressed house with far less problems to flip, or heck, not at all. I would find walls in my own house she could paint, put up shiplap, and decorate if it meant not committing to a money pit nightmare.

  “Of course I did.”

  Groaning, I could only imagine what unqualified idiot she might have hired and I was insulted she waited until now to consult with me.

  “To which part?” Who in their right mind buys a property within a week of moving home? Getting through a conversation with Taylor Jane required major clarification and a few Hail Marys. We had been close at one time and the distance between us now hurt, though it was arguably all my fault.

  “All of it, Hunter. I had Scott Crenshaw look it over last week and then I put an offer in.”

  “Honey.” I was going to kill that fucking idiot. “Scott Crenshaw barely passed junior year geometry.” My mind winced remembering the dipshit kid who had a longtime crush on Taylor Jane until I was forced to have words with him that same year before prom. Jackhole pissed himself and I hadn’t even touched him. I wondered what balls he grew even thinking of speaking to her in the decade since that passed. That fucker knew I had a construction business since I came back from my last deployment.

  Shaking my head, I figured that was another confrontation looming between us in our very near future. Taylor Jane was off-limits to the idiot population if I had any say in it.

  “He went to college.” Taylor Jane huffed defensively and this time my eyes rolled. I’m sure Scott went to college. Probably some online school that had no way to adequately measure his ability to tell if a building was capable of standing, let alone undergo major renovations of the sort I’m sure Miss Design TV had hopes of doing.

  “Hardly the same thing.” Mumbling under my breath, Taylor Jane eyeballed me from under her thi
ck lashes. Because we were fighting, I waited for her blue eyes to laser mine faster than a whooshed light saber slaying me. I rolled my eyes to look at her in a stalemate.

  The only geometry Scott Crenshaw paid any mind to involved the curvy ones attached to a willing and available female, which had better not be Taylor Jane. Shoving a protractor right up his ass was tempting. I wasn’t normally an over protective dick, but part of me felt a responsibility to her over the years that defied time, folded notes in tenth grade, geography, and a few verbal spats.

  She continued to ignore any concerns I might have had for the haunted pile of wood and proceeded to tell me more details. “I’m so lucky I found it when I did, even outbidding a second buyer.” Her enthusiasm under normal conditions was contagious until I sorted out what she actually said… there was a second buyer?

  Someone else wanted this dump… and she spent more on it?

  Oh Christ.

  My brain hurt trying to keep up with her. I’m sure luck had nothing to do with this, just a bubbled housing market that had yet to recover fully in our part of the country.

  “You know, it was actually under budget, quite a steal.”

  I’m sure it was a steal, right from her pretty little bank account. I was going to strangle that bank manager when I saw him next. If it was still Phil Harmond or his kid that took over, Paul, I was going to torture the life out of them both and then maybe bury them in the backyard of this shithole for taking advantage of her.

  Her overly positive attitude told me this was pretty much a done deal. In fact, I’d place bets that she’d already signed the paperwork, damning the next three to six months of my life working on this thing.

  My choices were to either help her, or I’m sure smarty-pants here would find someone else to do it. Yeah, only one option here. I sure as hell didn’t want a shitty contractor taking advantage of my best friend.

  “Taylor Jane Bryant.” Using her full name, something only her parents and myself did, I needed her attention focused. “Honey, there’s a lot that goes into flipping a property. I mean, did you talk to anyone about this? What about your dad?” If her father, Alan, knew about this I had to shake my head at what the world was coming to. Alan Bryant was as protective of her as I was.