Tombstones (Beekman Hills Book 4)

by K. C. Enders

  The engine rumbles to life, and I can’t help the snort that escapes in a most undignified manner. I’d deny that it was even me if I thought I could get away with it.

  “What’s so funny?” Jack asks while maneuvering the huge dark gray truck out into the street. He pulls his seat belt across his broad chest, clicking it into place. Shifting, he pulls his phone from the front pocket of his jeans and hands it off to me. “It should be connected, so just pick a playlist or whatever. But tell me what’s so funny.”

  “Not a thing. Just … could you have found a bigger truck? I know you’re not overcompensating or anything.” I scroll through his music app, looking for something, anything that’s not R & B or metal.

  “You giving me a hard time about my ride?” He smirks, raising a brow. Merging smoothly, Jack slides onto the interstate and heads north toward the Catskill Mountains.

  Finally settling on a list, I pick some music—a little bit indie, a touch of alternative, perfect road-tripping tunes. “I would never consider busting on your wheels, but really, this is huge.” I can’t miss the cocky grin that spreads across his face.

  “You like how big it is, sweet cheeks?” He hits me with a roguish grin that makes my insides turn hot and fluttery. “Grew up on a ranch in Montana. Big trucks are all I know. Hauling cattle, moving hay—gotta have size and power to get the job done.”

  I laugh at his ridiculous play on words and ask, “A ranch? Why’d you leave? That sounds like heaven.”

  “Mmhmm,” he hums. “Hard work that never ends. No vacation, and the hours are shit.”

  “How’s the Army any different?”

  Jack glances at me before changing lanes and passing a slow-moving line of cars. “The scenery changes in the Army. Haven’t you heard? We get to travel the world.”

  “You refer to it as the sandbox,” I say, turning toward him. “I love the beach as much as any good Southern girl, but how can you tell me the scenery in the desert is better than snow-capped mountains in Montana?”

  I turn down the music, not wanting to be distracted from our conversation because, right now, there is something else going on with his tone—anger, melancholy. I thought he loved his job, but I’m wondering if I got things wrong.

  Jack stares out the windshield, one hand resting casually over the steering wheel while the other scrapes across the light beard covering his cheeks. Silence stretches between us, so thick that I’m not sure if it might be best to change the subject entirely or just let it go. Let him brood and stew over on his side of this ridiculous small-dick mobile.

  “I needed to leave. The scenery in my town was working hard to tie me down and suffocate me. I had one shot at getting a college education, and the only way for that to happen was for it to be fully funded and be in the name of service to our country. And the farther from home, the better,” Jack says, his voice eerily calm and low.

  “You were running.”

  “I was. Not afraid of going back, I’m an entirely different person now. But, at the time, I needed to go.”

  The finality of his statement leaves no room for doubt that the discussion is done. Obviously, this is a sensitive subject to him, and it’s not like this thing with us is going anywhere other than the mountains. This is not a relationship, just a between-deployment hookup for him and a recalibration for me. A reminder that there are good guys out there. Men with manners and honest intent. He’s been perfectly candid about what this is and what to expect when his respite ends. He’ll go; I’ll stay. End of story. The end of our story anyway.

  We exit the highway and wind along mountain roads, slowing to pass through small towns. Snow piled high on either side of the road.

  “You, uh …” Jack clears his throat, breaking the silence that has accompanied us for most of the drive. “You want to stop and get a bite to eat before we head to the cabin?”

  “I could eat.” Turning toward him, I wedge myself into the corner where the seat meets the door. “I’m sorry if I touched on stuff you didn’t want to get into, but is this going to be awkward now?”

  “Don’t want it to be. I should be the one apologizing, not you,” Jack says, pulling up to a small Italian restaurant. He puts the truck in park but leaves the engine and heater running. “Look, I love my family, and I love Montana. Ranch life made me who I am, but I wanted more. My mom and dad have never left the state; they hardly even leave the ranch. They had no idea I went through the application process to West Point. I didn’t tell them until I was accepted and everything was in place. And then I left.” Finally, he turns his head, meeting my gaze. “Let’s go in. We can talk more over dinner, okay?” His eyes are pinched at the corners, a cross between pleading and pain.

  I purse my lips and nod. “’Kay, or we can just fill our bellies and go snuggle into the cabin and pray for a snow storm.”

  He relaxes, and the corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk. “I like that. Hang on,” he says as he hops out of the truck and comes around to my side. Instead of just holding the door, Jack steps into my space, offering his hands.

  “I’m perfectly capable of landing my dismount,” I tell him, pivoting and sliding out of the mile-high truck.

  “You are, but maybe I wanted my hands on you a little. Get things back on track before we go carb-load for the marathon later.”

  He crowds my space, running his hands around to my ass, pressing me to him. Teasing, the promise of orgasms hanging in the air. Because this is strictly physical. Here and now. This weekend and maybe one more, and then he’ll be gone again. Nothing but a memory that brings a smile to my face and makes my vibrator a woefully inadequate substitute.

  “Let’s do this thing then.” I push my way past him and pat his firm ass as I go.

  Jack’s chuckle floats behind me as he closes and locks the truck. His hand settles low on my back just as I reach the door, and he steps aside, allowing me to go first.

  “Two, please,” he tells the hostess, and we’re seated right away at a small table in front of the window, looking out over Main Street of the quaint little town.

  “Wine, Kate?”

  I nod, and he turns to the hostess before she has a chance to scurry off back to her station.

  “A bottle of Chianti, please, and calamari while we decide. Thank you.”

  The table is covered with an old-school red-and-white-checkered cloth, the dim glow of a candle dancing in the minimal space between us. Our knees brush with each shift as we peel off our coats and settle them on the backs of chairs.

  “Your vino?” a heavily accented voice asks. White apron, black dress, and the swish of nylon stockings, a short woman approaches our table. Her black hair is pulled back into a severe-looking bun low on her head. She splashes bloodred wine into a glass and hands it to Jack, heavily resting the bottle on the table. “Is good, I know this, but you taste, eh?”

  “I believe you.” Jack nudges the glass toward her with a broad smile stretched across his face, nodding at the bottle. “Are you the owner here?”

  “Taste,” the force of nature insists. She lets go of the bottle and crosses her arms under her ample bosom. There is no other way to describe the shelf of modestly constrained chest this woman has.

  Jack lifts the glass and sips the dry red. “It’s good, perfect,” he says.

  “Of course,” she states on an authoritative nod, pouring a full glass for me before filling Jack’s glass. “You listen to Angelina; I no tell you wrong. Now”—she briefly assesses us—“Bolognese for you, and for the lady, my lasagna. You too skinny.” And, with that, she marches toward the kitchen, barking in Italian.

  I close my menu and pick up my glass of wine, taking a healthy sip. “I guess we’re done ordering,” I say, checking over my shoulder. The last thing I want is for Angelina to bust me making fun of her. “I wonder what we’ll get for dessert.”

  “You think we’ll get dessert?”

  “If you clean your plate, you might. I’m too skinny, so I think I’m guaranteed to get mi
ne.”

  “Oh, you’re going to get yours; that’s for damn sure.” Jack’s voice drops low, and he gives me a searing look that holds absolutely no mystery but all the promises in the world.

  Chapter 10

  Jack

  JESUS FUCK, I DON’T know what I was thinking on the drive. Why the hell did I get all personal? That shit doesn’t fly here any more than it does on a mission. Thankfully, Kate rolled with it and defused what was about to become a shitshow, all three rings running.

  Angelina brings our calamari and an antipasto, telling us, “Mangiate!”

  So, we eat and eat and eat as our newly adopted Italian aunt brings us more food than we can realistically manage.

  “Oh my God,” Kate sighs as she leans back from the table. “I’m so full.” She spreads her hands across her flat belly, eyes wide and pleading.

  We’ve hardly even touched our main courses, and I’m not going to lie, I’m kind of afraid of how little we’ve eaten.

  “I’m not gonna make it through this,” I say, scooping another bite of pasta onto my fork. It’s savory and thick, full of meat and covered in Parmesan cheese. The best I’ve ever had, including my time stationed in Italy. That was good, fantastic actually, but this tastes like Zia Angelina made it just for us. I pop the forkful into my mouth, effectively throwing Kate under the bus, since it would be bad manners to talk with my mouth full, and our plates are getting checked over.

  Kate kicks at my shin, fully aware of my cowardice. “Angelina, this is amazing—”

  “Of course it is.” Nothing like the confidence in her craft this woman has.

  “But I can’t eat another bite. Can I take the rest with me? And maybe some tiramisu, too?” She smiles sweetly, and while I know it’s not for me, that curve and pull of her lip and the pink blush of her cheeks burrow into my soul.

  I push my pasta around my plate as I chew, afraid to put my fork down. Evidently, I can’t win with this though because I get scolded for playing with my food. But small miracles, I also get my plate taken away with nothing more than a slap on the wrist.

  “Jesus, she’s scary as fuck,” I murmur, leaning forward in my seat. No doubt, her hearing is as sharp as can be.

  “Would you shut up? God help you, if I get guilted into putting one more thing into my mouth, I will literally die,” Kate hisses, eyes wide. Her foot impacting with my shin again tells me loud and clear that she sees the lewd thoughts running through my head. “That includes your dick, so just don’t right now. I swear, I’m going to explode.”

  “Let’s go while we still can,” I suggest.

  Standing from the table, I get Kate’s chair and help her into her coat, putting mine on as we step up to the hostess. I don’t even bother looking at the bill, best to just pay it and cut sling load. I hand over my card and sign the slip as a huge to-go bag loaded down with food appears in front of me.

  “Thank you, Angelina. Dinner was a memorable experience.”

  She hands me the bag, which is way too heavy to just be leftovers and dessert, and pulls me down to her squat level by the collar of my jacket. “You a good boy.” She pinches my cheek, hard, and soothes it with a sound pat. “You take care of your girl. Make sure she eats enough, eh?” And, when she moves on to Kate, holding her at arm’s length for just a moment, her eyes sparkle, and her lip mischievously curls up. “Diventerai una brava madre,” she says, soundly kissing Kate on each cheek.

  My Italian is not great, but even I can figure out she’s saying something about a good mother. I toss a couple of twenties on the signed bill and wrap my arm around Kate, leading her out into the cold evening.

  “What did she say to me?” Kate asks as I hand her up into the truck.

  “I couldn’t tell you,” I mumble, tucking the bag of food behind my seat and climbing in. I hit my GPS and wind out of town, toward the cabin I rented for the weekend.

  While Kate spreads out on the couch, red-and-turquoise-striped socks kicked up on the coffee table, I fuck around with the fireplace until the cabin’s living room is filled with the crackle and pop of the logs and the cozy glow of flames.

  “That’s quite the manly feat,” Kate says as I plop myself down against the far arm of the leather sofa, tucking one foot under her ass for warmth and the other under her knees. Anything to be touching her. She pulls a blanket off the arm of the couch and throws it over her lap and my legs. “Tell me something.” She soothingly runs her hand from my ankle to knee and back again.

  “About what?” I scoot my ass down and lean my head back on the plush arm.

  “Anything. Work. Home. Your greatest fears or what you want more than anything out of life.” This is one of those soft moments where her accent hints at itself. Where there’s more drawl to her words, melodic and relaxing.

  “A lot of shit to cover there. We already touched on home, so work? I enjoy what I do. I feel a huge sense of purpose most of the time. The missions, the people, their faces, and gratification when we clear out the trash and make way for food and supply drops. No one likes a bully. Doesn’t matter the color of your skin, religion, or even what grade you’re in.” I leave out the parts about hunting down the bully, infiltrating their strongholds, and taking them out in whatever way is necessary. Most people tend to like security better when they don’t have to know the details of how it’s attained and maintained. “What about you? Greatest fear?”

  Kate snorts and shakes her head. “Born and raised in Miss’ssippi, but you know all that. I guess …” She smooths the blanket, tucking it in around my legs. “Damn it. I guess my biggest fear is that I wasted way too much time on Chance, and I’ll never … eh, forget it. It’s stupid.”

  I wiggle my foot, digging into her side with my toes, tickling. “Tell me.”

  She drops her head back, focusing on the dark wood beams stretched across the ceiling, her lips pursed with her thoughts. “I’m afraid I’ll end up the spinster kindergarten teacher. That the only kids I’ll ever have are the ones in my class.” Her eyes close briefly before she rolls her head to the side to steal a glance at me.

  My brows rise, and my mouth falls open in shock. “Are you kidding me? Because of that asshole? You sure as shit didn’t turn the man gay, Kate.”

  “I know that. Deep down and rationally, I really do, but …” She shrugs and shifts, turning so that her back is against the opposite arm of the couch and her arms are wrapped around her bent knees. All closed off, visibly protecting herself from the world.

  And that’s the last thing I want. It’s one thing for me to lock up and compartmentalize, my job—my life at times—depends on that, but I want her to feel safe here with me. I’ll have to examine the why of that later.

  I reach under the blanket and pull her feet into my lap, wanting contact, needing to hold on, if just for now. “You’re so much more than that. So much better than his shit.” And it hits me, what Angelina said before we left the restaurant. “You’ll have all of it, and you’ll make an amazing mama someday.”

  She will. Jake has been talking her up nonstop since school started. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that boy had been trying to set me and his teacher up. But that’s ridiculous; he’s five. A tiny dictator, entirely possible. But matchmaker? I doubt it.

  “Mmm, maybe.” Her jaw cracks with a wide yawn. “Not something to deal with today, but that’s my fear. Total FOMO. What about you? Fears? Desires?”

  I dig my thumbs into her arch, kneading the tension away. I don’t want to tell her that I have the same fear. That I want the family life that Tripp has, but I’m scared shitless that I wouldn’t be able to balance it with my job. That I’d fuck it up. And then it wouldn’t just be my life I was ruining. That, if I had a family, people depending on me, and, God forbid, a mission went south, that would be the ultimate failure. One I’m not sure I’m willing to risk.

  Instead, I slide my hands up her legs, wrapping my palms around the backs of her knees, and tug. Kate squeals as I pull her across the couch un
til her ass is nestled between my thighs.

  “I’m afraid of falling asleep on this couch. And I desire nothing more than to lay you out across that big bed back there and worship every inch of your body.”

  Tossing the blanket aside, I scoop Kate into my arms, wrapping her legs around my hips, and stalk to the bedroom. And then I make my desires a reality. Peeling off her layers like I’m unwrapping my final Christmas present. The one you want to draw out and make last forever. I kiss, lick, and nip my way up her body, paying special attention to the dip of her hip, the sensitive skin under her tits. The hollow of her clavicle.

  Pulling a sigh from Kate, I swallow a grunt and slide between her warm, creamy thighs, slowly fucking her. Drag and pull. Thrusting and grinding until I feel her clench and shudder, and only then do I let myself go.

  Chapter 11

  Kate

  I BARED MY SOUL, and now, it’s just a matter of time until Jack pushes me away, and this thing ends. Dies an epic death. Our expiration date is looming, getting closer every single minute. But even I know that when a chick starts talking babies, guys typically run for the hills.

  Though with the written-in-stone end date, it’s been kind of liberating, knowing I can say just about anything because he’s leaving regardless.

  I slide from between the sheets and sift through the clothing strewed across the floor. The air is frigid, and the fire needs to be stoked. While I stir the embers and add another log from the basket on the hearth, I pray for some kind of coffee miracle in the kitchen.

  As the steaming liquid gurgles out of the machine, hands slide around my waist, tugging me back into a hard wall of muscle.

  “Morning,” Jack mumbles into the rat’s nest that is my hair. His nose brushes the shell of my ear as he pushes my hair to the side. Goose bumps run along every inch of my skin as he kisses down the column of my neck.