Shea matched him every inch of the way until their bodies melted together under the pleasant Greek sky. It was hard to know where he left off and she began. Aftershocks trembled up her spine, clenching him. Clenching her.
At last spent, and for the moment sated, she settled under his chin. Eric closed his eyes and gathered her into his arms, blessed by the sun and triply blessed by the woman straddling his lap. This was as close as he’d ever get to his unborn babies, but he couldn’t fathom anything better than being inside of her body with them.
Cheyenne’s three brothers or sisters were tucked between two brave souls who’d conquered more demons than most people would face in a lifetime. And they’d done it together. He smoothed one hand up Shea’s sun-warmed back as the wild Aegean Sea lapped at the shore.
She tipped back in his palms, her hands on his collarbones and her eyes bright with mischief. “Skinny dipping?”
He chuckled. “Ah, now you’re brave.”
Before she could answer, Eric pulled her into his mouth, hungry once more. At last, he planted a sealing kiss to her forehead and muttered, “Let’s.”
Lifting his wife to her feet, he took hold of her hand. The wind ruffled her short locks, and Eric knew to his soul that not all runners were cowards. Surely, not Shea. If anything, she’d proven her bravery every step of her two-year journey back to him. It took time, and yes, it was hard, but that was the epitome of courage, wasn’t it? To be strong enough to admit to making the worst kind of mistake, then to face the person she’d hurt most. To be humble enough to beg forgiveness when forgiveness was what she’d most needed to give herself. To leave herself vulnerable to hurt once more. To believe.
Even there under the blue Mediterranean sky, Shea stood at the edge of another scary adventure. Motherhood. Of triplets.
But for now, the sapphire surf beckoned them to come play. Eric lifted her hand to his lips and together they ran like Adam and Eve into the rest of their life. This was after all, the way any fairytale worth the telling ended.
Happily. Ever. After.
The End
Sneak Preview of Jake
Book 16
In the Company of Snipers
“For gawd sakes! Can’t you walk no faster?”
Jake Weylin silently accepted the whining rant of his good buddy, Jamaal McCune, and picked up the pace. Both Marines out of the Corps and down on their luck, Jamaal made the difficult street life he’d chosen worse by drinking his troubles away. This afternoon’s rant evolved from his hangover of the night before. It hadn’t lessened with the stubborn guy’s application of more alcohol. By ten, he was long past inebriated. By noon, he should’ve been flat on his back and snoring like the banshees of Jake’s ancestor’s homeland.
No such luck.
By four in the afternoon, Jamaal was falling-down-sloppy-drunk and crying because he missed his mama. When the big guy decided to put one away, there was no keeping up with him. Jake didn’t blame him. He used to drown his sorrows almost as often as Jamaal did his, but the bigger problem at the moment was the two-inch gash on Jamaal’s right butt cheek, proving once again that even the smallest flask of cheap red-eye did not belong in a man’s back pocket. Why Jamaal had a mini-bottle stashed in his pants was another story not worth telling.
“The place’ll be closed by the time we git there if’n we don’t hurry,” he grumbled while shuffling along, one big palm holding the wad of blue paper towels from the service station on the last corner to his bleeding backside. The Good Samaritan Free Clinic on Good Hope Road was five blocks away from their present hangout in the basement of what used to be an IGA grocery store. With only two blocks to go, Jake knew every step of them would be loud and painful.
“The clinic never closes,” he offered meekly.
He didn’t fight or argue anymore. There was no sense in it. The war in the Mideast had taken the last of his aggression and most of his self-confidence. He didn’t look people in the eye these days and the only reason he’d come to Anacostia was to find Jamaal. He’d never intended to stay, only to look up his buddy and talk about the could-have-beens, the what-ifs, and the whatcha-gonna-do-nows. Maybe see if Jamaal had a spare room to offer a buddy for a night or two. At least that was the plan.
But everything changed when Jamaal opened his front door, blubbering his eyes out. He’d been evicted. Jake almost hadn’t recognized the once proud black man he’d deployed with. Jamaal had sunk into serious depression after his mother passed away, but numbing his pain with booze didn’t pay the bills.
They’d been on the streets ever since because the bond between brothers-in-arms ran strong. It all came down to the fact that Jamaal refused to leave his childhood neighborhood, and Jake refused to leave Jamaal. It was an odd pairing at best: two bedraggled alcoholics who had once belonged in the company of the few and the proud. But there they were, one average-sized white guy and one bigger-than-life black guy, hanging out together in one of America’s toughest neighborhoods and drowning their sorrows every chance they got.
At first, Jake had stood out like a sore thumb on the mostly African American side of the Anacostia River, directly south of the nation’s Oh-Say-Can-You-See capitol. But Jamaal set the local gangbangers and riffraff straight. He’d told them Jake was a trained USMC scout sniper who’d gone crazy during a firefight in Kabul, Afghanistan. Bragged Jake could shoot a man’s head off at two thousand yards, that he’d killed four men with his bare hands in a sneak attack. That he was stark-raving crazy and could snap at any moment. Best watch your backs and be careful.
At least Jamaal got one thing right. Maybe not the stark-raving part, but Jake was pretty sure he was leaning on the down side of crazy. Wasn’t everybody who’d been in the sandbox?
Jamaal jerked to a stop and pointed his index fingers on the hand not holding his butt, at a gray Subaru parked alongside the clinic. “Who dat?”
Jake cringed. After a binge, Jamaal’s grasp of the English language deteriorated along with his good sense. But who indeed was that slender woman standing at the open door of the parked Subaru, clutching the car’s doorframe like a shield to ward him off?
The chilly December breeze shifting through the alley alongside the clinic pulled a loose strand of her hair out from the big black clip on the top of her head. He saw the problem clearly. The clip was too small for the bounteous mounds of brownish, reddish curls she’d tried to restrain. Good glory in the morning, but she was a breathtaking sight to behold. His heart damn near forgot to kick in with another beat the moment his eyeballs latched onto her.
She seemed frozen in place. He’d stopped dead in his tracks, too. The stupid thing in his chest did another funny kind of sucker punch, shutting off his windpipe and wiping his whiteboard clear of all intelligent words, like hello or good evening or hey.
“Huh,” was what fell off his lips. He swallowed hard, certain that he was making a fool of himself. Like that was news...
She’d parked in one of the parking stalls marked Employees Only. Did that mean she worked at the clinic? Jake hadn’t seen her here before, and with all the trouble Jamaal got into, he was here plenty. Was she new? Just visiting? Moving into the neighborhood?
A man could hope.
Another puff of the breeze set the rest of her hair loose to billow like a cloud behind her head. A halo formed around her delicate face at the same time her right brow lifted. Capturing her unruly locks with a quick handful, her nostrils flared. Her shoulders squared and her chin stuck out with defiance. Was she making a stand? Against me? It sure felt like it.
Damn. What a sight.
Just who the hell was she, another mean volunteer nurse at the clinic, or some fiery warrior goddess come from the halls of Valhalla? The sun at her back added to the illusion of fierce, feminine power, the kind that could back a man up as fast as if she’d stuck an M40, bolt-action, USMC scout sniper special up his nose.
Without thinking, Jake took a step away, yielding the alley to this alpha female. She cou
ld have the street too if she wanted it. He didn’t. Then he took another step back in case she didn’t believe him the first time.
“Hell, Jake, I’m gonna bleed to death if we keep walking backwards like we is,” Jamaal complained, shifting his weight from one big flat foot to the other.
“Shhhhh,” Jake whispered, his hand on his buddy’s thick bicep to prevent further altercation. This Amazon warrior already had Jake by the balls, and she hadn’t so much as said hello yet. Or go to hell and get out of my way, but hey. A guy could dream. “’Sides, you got plenty of blood. Let her get into the clinic first.” Nice and easy. Don’t scare her. I’m liking the view.
Jamaal huffed and grumbled. He whined, but held his position.
The woman pulled a backpack out of the squat vehicle, shut the door, and very deliberately headed straight for them instead of the door. Jake stopped breathing, like he had a choice in the matter. The closer she came, the surer he was that he might pass out. Hunter green eyes scrolled over him like he was actually visible to the naked eye, and he was acutely aware that he needed a shave and a trim. A month ago. He smelled like every other guy who lived in an abandoned building. Bad. Really bad.
Nonetheless, his spine straightened, and he didn’t break eye contact with his target. Dread itched up the back of his neck, warning him. Or was he the target?
“Who are you?” she asked, looking at him—just me—as she broke the spell.
His gaze fell to where that simple question had come from. Had sincere concern just passed through those delectable, kissable shells that looked good enough to eat, like the sugary red roses on the top of wedding cakes? God, the closer she came, the more breathtaking she was.
It wasn’t hair on her head, but was some kind of exotic spun sugar that refused to be ignored or controlled. Reddish gold strands of it caressed the pink blush on her high cheekbone, twisting under her chin like tendrils of some loving vine until she captured it and made it behave. The longest darkest eyelashes fringed pretty green eyes, but it wasn’t welcome he saw there. More like, ‘Who the hell are you and what do you want?’
“Ah… ah… I’m Sergeant Jake Weylin, ma’am,” his dumb mouth declared who he used to be to diffuse the situation.
Jamaal grunted and groaned. He was such a baby when he got hurt.
“You’re Marines,” she guessed correctly, stuffing her hair back into its plastic alligator jaws, her sharp eyes cast to the street behind them. “Do you guys live around here?”
Jake nodded, not sure where she was going with that question. Was she going to pay him a visit? Not likely. The transients came to her, not the other way around.
Of all things, the love song from the musical West Side Story showed up in his head with joyous exclamations of, ‘Maria! Maria! Maria!’ That refrain was followed immediately by the USMC men’s choir belting out a raucous, ‘We are proud to claim the title of United States Marine.’
His brain worked like that, forever lost in timeless ballads he couldn’t forget. That was the problem with a lot of guys like him who came back from the sandbox. They couldn’t remember, but at the same time, they couldn’t forget… stuff.
“We, umm, live over there,” he said, motioning vaguely toward the east behind him, where the broken down grocery store stood like a skeleton in a graveyard of broken neighborhoods.
“Well, why are you waiting out here?” she asked bluntly. “Get inside. The last I heard Dr. Jarrett doesn’t perform surgery in the alley.”
He would’ve snapped to at her brusque order, but a shadowy current of—something—shivered between them. The woman gulped one very noisy gulp, giving herself away. Oh. Now he got it. All that bluff and bluster was more worry than challenge. She’s scared of me? That didn’t make sense. A has-been was no one to waste time thinking about, much less fear.
“My buddy here’s Jamaal McCune,” Jake offered quietly, making tentative eye contact so he didn’t come across as threatening. Small talk always worked in delicate situations before. “He sat on some broken glass, and he might need stitches in his, umm, his...”
The woman peered around Jamaal’s considerable rear end, her fingers nervously working—back and forth and back and forth—at the straps of the backpack she’d kept between her and Jake. Yeah, he’d called it right. She was scared, probably because she’d been outnumbered by two halfwits.
Jake tried once more. “You’re new here.”
Her brows went up, but she extended a hand. “Yes, I’m the new CNA here at the Good Samaritan. Lacy Wright.”
Lacy, huh? That’s a pretty name. I like it.
“What’s a… C-N-N-N-N-N-N-A?” Jamaal slurred.
“It’s a Certified Nursing Assistant,” Lacy explained, the edge to her voice replaced with the pleasing lilt of patience. What a difference a couple of minutes made, huh? She almost looked friendly. Well, friendlier.
Jake wiped his fingers on his dirty jeans and extended his hand, ashamed that was the best he had to offer a lady. “Nice to make your acquaintance, Miss Wright,” he said very politely, so damned thankful he wasn’t drunk. Come to think of it, he hadn’t had a drink for more than a week. That ought to count for something.
Her fingers felt small and breakable, a china doll’s fingers caught in the callused confines of his, but her handshake was seriously firm and determined. She might be smaller than him and scared of him, but she meant to be taken seriously.
I can do that.
Loosening her grip, she nodded toward the clinic’s rear entrance and the flashing red sign that clearly said: EXIT when it should’ve said: EMERGENCY ENTRANCE, or something profound like that. “Let’s get your buddy inside where Dr. Jarrett can treat him, shall we?”
We shall. Jake let go of Lacy Wright’s hand, instantly aware how cold the wintery afternoon had grown. How lonely. How weak the fading sun in the western sky had gotten. His index finger rubbed the rough pad of his thumb, missing the satiny whorls of her fingerprints against his.
She must have noticed. A genuine warmth curved the corners of her lips, spilling sunshine all over Jake. It had finally happened. There he stood. In the middle of Anacostia. Him. A nobody. Warmed from the inside out and all because a beautiful woman smiled…
At me.
If you enjoyed Eric, check out the rest of the guys and gals In the Company of Snipers on Amazon.com.
Also on Amazon:
King of Hearts, Deuces Wild Series
Smoke, Hearts and Ashes Series, #1
Ash, Hearts and Ashes Series, #2
If you prefer audio books, several are on Audible. More to come!
Coming soon!
Jake, In the Company of Snipers, Book 16
Joker, Joker, Deuces Wild Series, Book 2
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About the Author
Irish Winters is an Amazon best selling author who, when she isn’t writing, dabbles in poetry, grandchildren, and rarely (as in extremely rarely) the kitchen. More prone to be outdoors than in, she grew up the quintessential tomboy on a dairy farm in rural Wisconsin, spent her teenage years in the Pacific Northwest, but calls the Wasatch Mountains of Northern Utah home. For now.
The wife of one handsome husband and the mother of three perfect sons, Irish divides her time between writing at home, and traveling the country with her man while—writing. (Seriously, what else?)
She believes in making every day count for something, and follows the wise admonition of her mother to, “Look out the window and see something!”
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Eric (In the Company of Snipers Book 15) Page 31
