by Molly McLain
“Nice to offormably...um, officiably...I mean, officially meet you.” He wrapped his fingers around hers, then edged back toward the door, his hands tucked into the front pockets of his jeans. “I really am cool to get that key myself...”
“No!” Where the hell had that come from? “Just...just hold on, okay? I’ll be right out.”
He tipped his head to the side and smiled, his eyes clouding fast with drunken haziness. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to.” Gah, she was such a sucker. “You’re right about Josh and Tony. They’d disown me if I left you to the wolves and you were forced into a four-way with that creepy guard.”
He snorted and scratched a hand over his hair. “Yeah, that would suck. I’m not worried, but I’ll wait if you’re that concerned about my ass.”
She laughed softly and shut the door behind her. Five minutes later—because a girl had to freshen up in the presence of an attractive man—she emerged from the bathroom to find him waiting. On her bed. With his eyes closed and a soft snores puffing from his nose.
Why was she not surprised?
On the table beside the bed and his completely relaxed form, the clock ticked over to midnight and the sky outside lit up with fireworks.
Another year come and gone. And a man in her bed that, once again, didn’t belong.
Despite her resolutions, she couldn’t bring herself to wake him and make him leave.
Chapter Three
The sweet scent of flowers didn’t belong in the middle of the dusty, destitute Afghani village. Then again, neither did he. Still, he huddled next to the hut’s little window with sweat running down the middle of his back and a finger twitching on the trigger of his gun.
He refused to fucking die like this. Like Ernie, who lay at his feet, a crimson stain blooming from the center of his chest. The long, jagged shard of metal had embedded itself deep, taking the light out of his eyes. Like Troy, who’d been hit harder by the same debris. Whose broken, unrecognizable body lay in another depraved dwelling just down the way, under the watch of Sam and Carson.
But blood shouldn’t smell like flowers. Not unless Ernie had been wearing perfume.
More like the fucking Taliban had sent a woman in as bait again. Nasty fuckers.
“Brody,” a woman whispered, confirming his suspicions and sending his attention into overdrive. If they were ballsy enough to send in bait after the IED detonation, these grimy bastards weren’t going to stop until every last one of them was dead. Including the helo unit coming in to rescue them. Goddammit! He wouldn’t—couldn’t—lose any more comrades on this tour!
“Get the hell out of here,” he rasped at the woman, who’d yet to show herself. She must’ve gotten closer though, because the flower scent teased stronger in his nose now. He could also hear her breathing, soft, wispy exhales that he swore he felt against his face. Was she really here, somewhere in the darkness, or was he hallucinating?
“Brody,” she said again, this time more reverently. “You’re dreaming. Wake up.”
If only this were a dream. If only he hadn’t just watched two more of his fellow Marines make the ultimate sacrifice...
“I was cool with you crashing out here, but now you’re drooling on my pillow.”
Huh?
“Come on, soldier. Shake it off.”
He jolted upright and the pretty brunette from the bar jumped back from the side of the bed. Her navy sleeping shirt rose high on her thighs as she slapped a hand over her mouth to cover a yelp. The whole friggin’ room smelled like the hyacinths his grandmother grew in her garden every spring and, given the woman’s damp hair, it was easy to figure out why.
His dry, sleepy eyes slid down the length of her body, cataloguing every curve she didn’t bother to hide, particularly where her skin glowed, unabashedly bare from high on her thighs and down. What the hell time was it anyway? Apparently he’d been out long enough for her—what was he name again? Jessie? Jenny?—to shower and get ready for...what exactly? As far as he could remember she hadn’t been interested in conversation, much less undressing for him.
“Call me a soldier again, sugar. I dare you,” he growled as he finally made his way back to her face, though there was less bark in his tone than he normally gave those who confused him with his lesser skilled military counterparts.
Her cheeks flushed a soft pink, but her eyes sparkled with amusement. “Drool on my pillow again. I dare you.”
Such a spitfire. He liked that. “You know there’s a big difference between a soldier and a Marine, right?”
She pursed her shiny lips and cocked her head to the side, her hair falling in a sweeping curtain off her shoulder. “There’s also a difference between my offer to accompany you downstairs and you baptizing my pillow with your drunken slobber.”
“Yet you chose to shower instead of waking me up.”
“I tried, but you wouldn’t budge.” She lifted a shoulder and padded over to the bathroom, grabbed a tube of something, and flipped off the light. Then she shocked the hell out of him—she climbed onto the other side of the bed like they belonged there together. “You’ve only been out for an hour, but I’m guessing you crashed hard since you were talking in your sleep.”
Shit. “You heard that, huh?”
“Wasn’t much,” she began, slowly rubbing lotion onto her bare legs, not looking at him. “Just something about making it out alive. I saw the ID in your wallet before and since you know Josh and Tony, I put two and two together. You were dreaming about being overseas, right?”
Hell, he might as well add another tat to his body. Nutcase right across his forehead. Everyone thought it anyway.
“Is that why you drank so much tonight? Are you celebrating coming home?” She flicked a quietly curious glance at him from beneath thick eyelashes and he trained his focus on her hands, small, but long-fingered, smoothing that fragrant lotion over her skin. Her toes were painted a pale pink, a color so natural it matched the hue of her lips. For a second, he wondered what she’d look like all made up, but then he chased off the thought, because this woman didn’t need that shit. She was already an angel.
Which meant he needed to draw a firm line in the sand. He was an asshole. A certifiable, ornery as hell jerk. This chick had saved his ass and then she’d let him zonk in her bed. She was good people. He was not, and he needed to remember that.
He could fix that fast. He was good at scaring people off.
“No offense, but that’s none of your business.”
She arched an eyebrow and squeezed another dollop of crème into her hand. “Yet you thought it okay to crawl into my bed.”
“You’re half naked right now. I can see your panties,” he countered, drawing on what he knew best. “You looking for a meaningless Vegas fuck, sugar?”
She blinked at him for a few seconds, her expression unchanged, before she capped the tube and set it on the bedside table. Like he hadn’t just insulted her. “Sorry to disappoint, soldier, but this is just me doing my normal bedtime routine, hoping you’ll get the hint and get the hell out.”
Ah, she liked to play the defensive game of self-preservation, too, huh?
There was no doubt in his mind that’s exactly what she was doing and that was another reason he should leave and fast. Only, he wasn’t ready to go and not because he was still drunk. Which he was, but that was beside the point. He really liked this woman.
“You said your name’s Jenny, right?”
“Yes. And while you prefer Marine to soldier, I definitely prefer Jenny or even Jenn to Reed’s girl. Maybe we can call a truce on that.” She offered him a hand and, though he wanted to touch her—all of her—he hesitated.
“Am I violating man-code right now, Jenn? Or were you hoping to chase off bad memories with that tequila earlier?”
She dropped her hand onto the fluffy white comforter and sighed. “You’re perceptive. Your only superpower or one of many?”
A slow, perverse grin tugged at his lips. “I’m
told I’m a multi-talented guy.”
She rolled her eyes and hit him with a pillow. “Stop trying to talk me out of this shirt, Superman. It’s enough that your ass is imprinting my mattress, isn’t it?”
Not even a little, but not for the first time tonight, he acknowledged that he was interested in more than just sex with this girl. The pull could’ve been something as simple as one lost soul attracting another, but it didn’t really matter the reason. She hadn’t kicked him out yet, so maybe the tethers that kept him from leaving also kept her from showing him the door.
“How about this? I’ll tell you why I was drinking if you tell me why you were.” She pulled her knees to her chest and rested her cheek on top of them. He wasn’t lying about her panties, and if she wasn’t careful, she was going to show him a lot more than just a little pink lace. But, nice guy that he was, he shifted his gaze back to her face, where she waited patiently for his response. Thank God for whiskey dick, because he’d only gotten half hard again before he reined it in.
“It’s after one o’clock in the morning. We should both be sleeping, not hashing out shit neither one of us really wants to talk about. Besides, I’m starving.” He rubbed a hand over his stomach when it growled loud enough to be embarrassing.
She gave a bark of laughter. “Oh, so it’s okay to eat at this late hour, but it’s not okay to talk?”
“Hey, I skipped dinner. Don’t judge.”
Her stomach rumbled even louder than his and she buried her face in her arms and chuckled. “I can’t believe I’m going to suggest this, because I really do want you to leave, but maybe we should order room service.”
She was such a liar. But that was okay, because so was he—he’d eaten less than five hours ago. “As you said, it’s after one in the morning.”
“And we’re in a city that never sleeps.”
Point taken. “I’ll pay if you order.”
She hopped off the bed and sprinted across the room, pulling out a binder full of local menus before he could finish the thought.
***
An hour and a basket of chicken strips later, Jenny fell back on the bed, her belly full. “So tell me your sob story, Superman.”
Brody leaned against the headboard and crossed his ankles, one over the other, his toes wiggling beneath white socks. He’d lost his boots shortly after they ordered room service and it was clear he wasn’t leaving anytime soon. Now she had the pleasure of lounging on one side of the king bed while he took up residence on the other.
“Who said I had a story? Maybe I just wanted to celebrate the New Year.” He winked down at her and she reached over, twisting his shirt in her hand. Like she was tough or something. He laughed.
“You shouldn’t do that,” she warned, rolling over onto her side and poking her fingers into his stomach on the premise of being even more threatening. In reality, she just wanted to see if his abs were really as hard as she guessed. And they were. Maybe she could get him to lose the shirt so she could inspect the full beauty of what lie beneath. How much of his skin bore those dark, sexy tattoos?
“Shouldn’t do what? Laugh at you or give you shit?” He grasped her wrist and held her hand away, both of them struggling for control. She was no match for him, but he played with her a bit, giving her hope she might actually be able to take him.
“Both. It’s rude. And the only reason I let you stay is because you promised you’d talk.”
“I never make promises. In fact, if there’s anything you should know about me, it’s that.”
She stopped fighting his arm and he let their hands drop to the bed. But he didn’t let go. “Didn’t you make a promise to this country when you joined the Marine Corp.? To your fellow Marines, too?”
Something dark flashed over his nearly clear eyes and his throat worked as he swallowed. “That’s completely different.”
“Different than what? What do you think we’re talking about here?” It was a silly question, of course, because she knew what he meant—don’t think I’ll call you in the morning, sugar—and she liked that he’d thought to edge their discussion in that direction. The honesty was nice. But attraction aside, she wasn’t any more interested in him than he was her. At least not beyond the company they shared in these early morning hours, both of them so obviously avoiding being alone.
He tipped his head to the side and pinned her with a knowing smirk. “Come on, Jenn.”
“Oh. That.” She blinked, feigning innocence. “I’m so disappointed. I, like, thought maybe you’d propose or something. You did allude to putting a ring on my finger earlier.”
Now it was his turn to chuck her with a pillow. “You are such a smart ass.”
“Better than a fat ass,” she said, snatching the pillow away from him and propping it between her knees.
He laughed and folded his arms behind his head. “I’m gonna take a wild guess you’re bitter because your boy toy left you for someone else. No offense to you, of course, but he’s always come off as the type of guy who can’t keep it in his pants.”
Ugh. Were they really going to do this? “Saying he left me isn’t entirely accurate, because we were never really together.”
“So he used you.”
Seriously, was this guy some kind of mind reader? How did he know this stuff? “Not any more than I used him.”
“You sure about that? I mean, no matter what you chicks say, you almost always get invested in a relationship even when you say you won’t.”
“Oh, so you’re not only perceptive, but you’re sexist, too. Nice.” She rolled her eyes and resisted the urge to kick him in the shins.
“That’s not sexist,” he protested, shifting to his side so they lay face to face. “It’s a fact. Google it.”
“So you’re saying it’s my fault that I’m hurt? Not his?” It totally was her fault, there was no doubt in her mind. Still, she wanted to see if Brody would try and talk his way out of his ballsy opinion or if he’d own it.
“You knew damn well that he wasn’t going to put a ring on your finger and, if you’re honest with yourself, you didn’t want one anyway. You just don’t like being alone.”
Well then...
“That’s why you haven’t kicked me out yet. That’s why you’re laying in bed—in bed, Jenn—with a virtual stranger at two o’clock in the morning.”
Seriously, when had he sobered up and discovered all the answers to the universe?
“You’re just lucky I’m a nice guy or you’d be on your back, working out your loneliness the only way you know how.”
That asshole! She blinked at him, not quite believing her ears. It was one thing for him to insult her when he had Jameson in his veins and marbles in his mouth, but it was something entirely different when he did it sober. Well, not sober...but not wasted out of his mind either.
“Get the hell out of my hotel room,” she spat, clamoring to her feet and pointing to the door. She pretended her hand didn’t shake and that her stomach didn’t churn like she’d just swallowed sour milk. There was a fine line between honesty and being a dick, and he’d just crossed it.
“Jenny...” He got to his feet, too, and came around the bed, lifting his hands to her shoulders before she could put any meaningful distance between them. Run to the bathroom, maybe, where she could steel her resolve and shutter out his harsh words. His harsh, but true words. “Look at me,” he demanded, yet his voice wasn’t more than a whisper.
“You don’t know me.” She kept her eyes on the floor between his stupid, sock-clad feet.
“That’s where you’re wrong.” His big hands slid down her arms, tender despite their size and strength. “I knew you the second you climbed onto that barstool. I recognized your pain before you said a single word. You wanna know why I drank tonight? Why I have almost every day since my last deployment? It’s because I fucking hurt, too, and I don’t know any other way to deal with it.”
Who was this guy? Why had he come into her life tonight, of all nights? When she’d vo
wed to make a fresh start, no matter how many layers of shit she’d have to shovel away first?
Brody represented the very kind of man she needed to give up. Yet he was also the type of guy—the type of friend—she needed most.
The contradiction made her head spin, and that was reason enough to send him on his way. But, like he’d confessed himself, something about him resonated with her, too.
“Why do you hurt?” Reluctantly, her fingertips pressed against his stomach. The only part of her that made any attempt to push him away. Even then, what should have been a nudge was really more of a caress...a gentle persuasion, hoping he’d open up a little more.
“I watched two of my buddies die last tour.” He broke off and dropped his chin to his chest, blowing out an exhale so deep, she wondered if he’d actually been holding his breath. “Shit like that messes with a guy’s head.”
She nodded slowly, questions on the tip of her tongue she knew better than to ask. How did they die? Were you close? Did they have families? “I know,” she began, but the truth was, she really didn’t. Not at all. “Actually, that’s a lie—I have no idea what you went through. I can’t even begin to.”
Head still down, he squeezed her wrists. “That’s the most honest response anyone’s given me.”
“Brody...” she began, breaking off when no further words came. Here was this big, formidable man standing in front of her admitting that, beneath the steely, bad boy exterior, lay a fractured, miserable soul. What was she supposed to say? What would get through to this seemingly invincible man?
“I don’t even understand it myself, Jenn, so I don’t know how anyone else can. But some think they do. They think I need help.” He gave his head a half-shake, held it, and huffed out another heavy breath. “I can’t wrap my head around that. I mean, I’ve seen it happen to other guys. I’ve seen them fall apart over all the shit that happened over there, but that’s not me.”
“But you said you’ve been drinking...” she offered quietly and he nodded.
