Andy slouched into a chair, a picture of feigned nonchalance. His nervousness was betrayed by the way he kept fiddling with the wide leather band of his beloved wristwatch. “It’s all right. I’ve had it a few times. Like I said, it’s no big deal.”
Jones took one of the cans off the plastic loop that held the six-pack together. “Drinking some brew and having a few smokes. Just a regular old, no-big-deal Saturday night. You were planning to go up to the quarry, huh?”
Andy gave Jones a perfect poker face. “Up where?”
“To the quarry.” Jones exaggerated his enunciation.
Andy shrugged. “Never heard of it.”
“Don’t try to con a con artist. I know you know where the quarry is. You’ve been up there while I was doing laps. You don’t really think I didn’t notice you—sneaking up on me like a herd of stampeding elephants.”
“I was quiet!” Andy was insulted.
“You were thunderous.”
“I was not!”
“Well, okay, so you were relatively quiet,” Jones conceded, “but not quiet enough. There’s no SEAL on earth who would’ve missed hearing you.”
Melody couldn’t stay silent a moment longer. “You swim laps in the quarry?”
“First he runs five miles,” Andy told her. “I know, because I clocked it on my bike. Then he swims—sometimes for half an hour without stopping, sometimes with all of his clothes on.”
It was Jones’s turn to shrug. “Every so often in the units, you take an unplanned swim and end up in the water, weighed down with all your clothes and gear. It’s good to stay in practice for any situation.”
“But the water up there’s cold in August,” Melody argued. “It’s October, and lately we’ve had frost at night. It must be freezing.”
Jones grinned. “Yeah, well, lately I’ve been swimming a little faster.”
“And then after you swim, you run another five miles back here,” Andy said, “where you work out with your weights.”
Melody knew about the weights. She’d been getting dressed each morning for the past week to the sound of clinking as Jones bench-pressed and lifted enormous-looking weights. But she’d had no idea that he ran and swam before that. He must’ve been up every morning at the very first light of dawn.
“Even though I’m on vacation, it’s important to me that I stay in shape,” he explained.
She nearly laughed out loud. This was the man who was going to prove to her how average and normal he truly was?
“But we’re getting sidetracked here,” Jones continued. “We were talking about beer, right?” He held one of the cans out to Andy. “You want one?”
Andy sat straight up in surprise.
Melody nearly fell over. “Jones! You can’t offer him that—he’s twelve years old.”
“He’s clearly been around the block a few times,” Jones answered, his eyes never leaving Andy. “Do you want it, Andy? It’s not particularly a great brand, but it’s not bad, either—at least as far as American beers go. But you probably already know that, right? Being a beer drinker.”
“Well, yeah. Sure.” Andy reached for the can, but Jones wouldn’t let go.
“There’s a catch,” the SEAL told the boy. “You can’t have just one. You have to drink the entire six-pack right now. In the next hour.”
Melody couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “There’s no way Andy could possibly drink an entire six-pack by himself in an hour.”
Andy bristled. “Could, too.”
Cowboy leaned forward. “Is that a yes?”
“Damn straight!” the boy replied.
Cowboy popped the top open and handed him the can. “Then chug it on down, my friend.”
“Jones,” Melody hissed, “there’s no way Andy could drink that much without getting…” She stopped herself, and Cowboy knew that she’d finally caught on.
She was right. There was no way this kid could drink two cans of warm beer, let alone an entire six-pack, in an hour without getting totally, miserably, horrifically sick.
And that was the point.
Cowboy was going to make damn sure that Andy would associate the overpoweringly bitter taste of beer with one of the most unpleasant side effects of drunkenness.
He watched as Andy took a tentative sip from the can, then as the kid wrinkled his nose at the strong beer taste.
“Gross. It’s warm!”
“That’s how they serve beer in England,” Cowboy told him. “Chilling it hides the taste. Only sissies drink beer cold.” He glanced at Mel. She was giving him an “Oh, yeah?” look, complete with raised eyebrow. He’d had a chilled beer with dinner tonight himself. He shot her a quick wink. “Come on, Andrew. Bottoms up. Time’s a-wasting, and you’ve got five more cans to drink.”
Andy looked a little less certain as he took a deep breath and a long slug of beer, and then another, and another. The kid was tougher than Cowboy had thought—he was actively fighting his urge to gag and spit out the harsh-tasting, room-temperature, totally unappealing beverage.
But Andy wasn’t tough enough. He set the empty can on the table, burping loudly, looking as if he was about to protest as Cowboy opened another can and pushed it in front of him.
“You don’t have time to talk,” Cowboy said. “You only have time to drink.”
Andy looked even more uncertain, but he picked up the can and started to drink.
“Are you sure this is going to work?” Melody asked softly, sliding into the seat next to him.
It was already working far better than he’d hoped. Melody was sitting beside him, talking to him, watching him, interacting with him. He was aware of her presence, aware of the heavenly blue of her eyes, aware of her sweet perfume—and more than well aware that he still had a hell of a long way to go before he gained her total trust.
But that wasn’t what she’d meant. She’d been talking about Andy.
“Yes,” he told her with complete confidence. It would work. Especially with the cigarette factor.
Taking a lighter from the pocket of his jeans, he picked up the half-empty pack Vince had sent over. They were old and stale, Andy had said. Yes, this was definitely going to work.
Cowboy held out the pack to Andy, shaking it slightly so that one cigarette appeared invitingly.
Andy thankfully set down the can of beer and reached for the smoke. He may or may not have wanted it—but Cowboy knew what he was thinking. Anything, anything to take a break from having to drink that godawful beer.
Cowboy could hear Melody’s disbelieving laughter as he leaned across the table to give Andy a light. “Good Lord,” she said, “I can’t believe I’m sitting here giving beer and cigarettes to a child.”
Andy couldn’t argue with her use of the word child. He’d taken a drag of tobacco smoke and was now coughing as if he was on the verge of asphyxiation.
Cowboy handed him his can of beer. “Here, maybe this’ll help.”
He knew damn well it wouldn’t. It only served to turn Andy a darker shade of green.
“I can’t…drink any more,” he gasped when he finally found some air.
“Are you kidding?” Cowboy said. “You’ve got to finish that one and drink four more. We had a deal, remember?”
“Four more?” Now Andy looked as if he was on the verge of tears.
Cowboy opened another can. “Four more.”
Melody put her hand on his arm. “Jones, he’s just a kid….”
“That’s the whole point.” He lowered his voice, leaning closer to her so Andy couldn’t hear. “He’s a kid—who wants to hang out with high school seniors who are too young to drink themselves. It’s dangerous in those woods, the way that quarry’s flooded. If those kids are going to be walking around up there in the dark, they should be doing it sober, not drunk.” He turned to Andy. “You’re not even a third done. Get busy, Marshall.”
Melody’s grip on his arm tightened. “But he’s—”
“On the verge of learning an important lesson,” Cowboy interr
upted. “I don’t want him to stop until he’s got to stop. Believe me, it won’t be long now.” She was about to protest and he covered her hand with his. “Honey, I know this seems harsh to you, but the alternative is far harsher. Imagine how awful you’ll feel if some Sunday morning we’ve got to go and drag that quarry because the boy genius over there was out staggering around drunk and stupid the night before and fell in and drowned.”
She hadn’t considered such dire possibilities, and he could see the shock in her eyes. She was close enough for him to count the freckles on her nose, close enough to kiss….
Her thoughts must’ve been moving in the same direction because she quickly straightened up, pulling her hand out from underneath his.
She’d touched him. He saw her realize that as a flush of pink tinged her cheeks. All that talk about keeping his distance—and she was the one who couldn’t keep her hands off him.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
“I know that wasn’t about you and me,” he quickly reassured her. “That was about your concern for Andy. I didn’t read it the wrong way, so don’t worry, all right?”
But before she could reply, Andy bolted from the table and lunged for the bushes.
Cowboy stood up. “Go on inside, Mel. I’ll take care of him from here on in. I think it’s probably best not to have an audience—you know, save the last shreds of his manly pride.”
The sound of Andy throwing up a second time seemed to echo in the stillness of the night. Melody winced as she got up and moved toward the kitchen door. “I guess I should go in before I join him in sympathy.”
“Oh, hell, I’m sorry—I didn’t even think of that possibility.”
“I was making a joke. Granted it was a bad one, but…” She smiled at him. It was just a little smile, but it was a smile just the same. His heart leaped crazily at the sight of it. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything? A towel or maybe some wet washcloths?”
“No. Thanks. I’ve got a spare towel in my tent. No sense making you do extra laundry.” A joke. She made a joke. He managed to make her feel comfortable enough to make a joke. “Go on, Andy’ll be fine. I’ll see you later.”
Still, she hesitated, looking down at him from the back porch of the house. Cowboy would’ve liked to believe it was because she was loathe to leave his sparkling good company. But he knew better, and when he looked again, she was gone.
“Hey, Andy,” he said as he gently picked the boy up from the dirt under the shrubbery. “Are we having fun yet, kid?”
Andy turned his head and, with a groan, emptied the rest of his stomach down the front of Cowboy’s shirt and jeans.
It was the perfect topper to a week that had already gone outrageously wrong.
But Cowboy didn’t care. He didn’t give a damn. All he could think about was Melody’s smile.
CHAPTER NINE
THE BABY WAS working hard on his tap-dancing routine.
Melody looked at the clock for the four millionth time that night. It read 1:24.
Her back was aching, her breasts were tender, she had to pee again, and every now and then the baby would twist a certain way and trigger sciatic nerve pain that would shoot a lightning bolt all the way down her right leg from her buttocks to her calf.
Melody swung her legs out of bed. The only way she was going to get some sleep was if she got up and walked around. With any luck, the rocking movement would lull the baby to sleep.
She shrugged her arms into her robe and slipped her feet into her slippers and, after a brief stop in the bathroom, headed downstairs. She actually had a craving for a corned beef sandwich and she knew there was half a pound of sliced corned beef in the fridge. If she was really lucky, she’d manage to make herself a sandwich and eat half of it before the craving disappeared.
But the light was already on in the kitchen, and she stopped in the doorway, squinting against the brightness. “Brittany?”
“No, it’s me.” Jones. He was sitting at the kitchen table, shirtless, of course. “I’m sorry, I was trying to be quiet—did I wake you?”
“No, I was just…I couldn’t sleep and…” Melody tried to close her robe to hide the revealingly thin cotton of her nightgown, but it was useless. The robe barely even met in the front.
Her urge to flee was tempered by the fact that she no longer was merely hungry—she was starving. Her craving for that sandwich had grown out of control. She eyed the refrigerator and gauged the distance between it and Jones.
It was too close for comfort. Heck, anything that put her within a mile of this man was too close for comfort. She turned to go back upstairs, aware of the irony of the situation. The baby had been quieted simply by her walk down the stairs, but now she wouldn’t be able to sleep because she was restless.
But Jones stood up. “I can clear out if you want. I was just waiting for my laundry to dry.”
She realized that he was wearing only a towel. It was fastened loosely around his lean hips, and as she watched nearly hypnotized, it began to slip free.
“Andy did the psychedelic yawn on my last clean pair of jeans,” Jones continued, catching the towel at the last split second and attaching it again around his waist.
Melody had to laugh, both relieved and oddly, stupidly disappointed that he wasn’t now standing naked in front of her. “I’ve never heard it called that before. As far as euphemisms go, it sounds almost pleasant.”
He smiled as if he could read her mind. “Believe me, it wasn’t even close to pleasant. In fact, it was about four hundred yards beneath unpleasant, way down in the category of awful. But it was necessary.”
She was lingering in the doorway. She knew she was, but she couldn’t seem to walk away. The towel was slipping again, and he finally gave up and just held it on with one hand.
“How is Andy?” she asked.
“Feeling pretty bad, but finally asleep. He had the added bonus of the dry heaves after Vince and I got him cleaned off and into bed.”
His hair was still wet from his own shower. If she moved closer, she knew exactly how he would smell. Deliciously clean and dangerously sweet. Jones had the power to make even the everyday smell of cheap soap seem exotic and mysterious.
“Why don’t you come sit down?” he said quietly. “If you’re hungry, I could make you something to eat. Same rules apply as during dinner. We talk, that’s all.”
Melody could remember staying up far later into the night with this man, feeding each other room-service food and talking about anything that popped into their heads. Books, movies, music. She knew he liked Stephen King, Harrison Ford action flicks and the country sounds of Diamond Rio. But she didn’t know why. Their conversations had never been that serious. He’d often interrupted himself midsentence to kiss her until the room spun and to bury himself deeply inside her so that all talk was soon forgotten.
He’d told her more about himself this evening than he’d had the entire time they’d been in Paris. She could picture him as a boy, looking a lot like Andy Marshall, desperate for his father’s approval. She could imagine him, too, getting into the kind of trouble that Andy attracted like a high-powered magnet. She was dying to find out how he’d turned himself around. How had he gone from near juvenile delinquent to this confident, well-adjusted man?
Melody stepped into the room. “Why don’t you sit down?” she told him. “I’m just going to make myself a sandwich.”
“Are you sure I can’t help?”
“I’d rather you sat down. That way, I know your towel won’t fall off.”
He laughed. “I’m sorry about this. I honestly didn’t have anything clean to put on.”
“Just sit, Jones,” she ordered him. She could feel him watching her as she got the cold cuts and mustard from the refrigerator. She set them on the table. “What I really want is a Reuben—you know, a grilled sandwich with corned beef, sauerkraut and Swiss cheese on rye? Thousand Island dressing dripping out the sides. Except we don’t have any Swiss cheese or Thousand Island dres
sing.”
“Salt,” he said. “What you crave is salt. But I read that you’re not supposed to have a lot of salt while you’re pregnant.”
“Every now and then, you’ve just got to break the rules,” Melody told him as she took two plates from the cabinet.
“If you want, I’ll run out to the store,” he volunteered. “There’s got to be a supermarket around here that’s open twenty-four hours.”
She glanced at him as she got the bread from the cupboard. “I can picture you at the Stop and Shop wearing only your towel.”
He stood up. “I’ll put my jeans on wet. It doesn’t bother me. Believe me, I’ve worn far worse.”
“No,” Melody said. “Thanks, but no. By the time you got back, the craving would be gone.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. It’s weird. I get these cravings, and then as soon as I’m face-to-face with the food, I get queasy—particularly if it’s something that takes me awhile to prepare. Suddenly, the food I was craving becomes absolutely the last thing I want to get anywhere near my mouth. I stand a better chance if I can make it and start eating it quickly.” She sat across from him at the table to do just that. “Help yourself.”
“Thanks.” Jones sat back down. He pulled one of the plates in his direction and took several slices of bread from the bag.
“So what happens next with Andy?” Melody asked.
“I’m going to get him up early,” Jones told her, reaching for the mustard. “Let him experience the joys of a hangover. And then we’re going to go over to the library and get some statistics on the correlation between starting to drink at age twelve and alcoholism.” He glanced up at her, licking his fingers. “I think it would be a really good idea if you came along.”
“What possible good can I do for Andy by coming with you?”
“Oh, it’s not for Andy. It’s for me. I want you to come because I enjoy your company.” He smiled as he took a bite of his sandwich.
Melody tried not to feel pleased. She knew his words were just part of his effort to charm her.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Saturday’s really the only morning I have to sleep late.”
Tall, Dark and Dangerous Vol 1: Tall, Dark and FearlessTall, Dark and Devastating Page 90
