Into the Blue (A Wild Aces Romance)

by Chanel Cleeton

  “I’ve had a few relationships throughout the years,” I answered, keeping my response deliberately vague.

  His voice lowered, his tone going gravelly. “You never married?”

  “Nope.” There was no need for him to even ask me that. We both knew the Bradbury gossip would have found its way to him if I had married. So what was he poking at? My gaze narrowed, ready to shift the focus onto him. “How about you? Do you have a girlfriend? A legion of angry ex-wives?”

  “Now why do you naturally assume that my ex-wives would be angry?” His tone turned silky. “Maybe I have legions of satisfied ex-wives.”

  I leveled him with my most no-nonsense expression, the one I reserved for dickwad defendants in court.

  “Call it a hunch.”

  His smile wavered, his expression changing again, his moods mercurial like the weather. I couldn’t keep up with what he wanted, couldn’t figure out what purpose this breakfast served. Were we supposed to be friends? Was he looking for more? Was it guilt that kept him here?

  “I owe you an apology.”

  And just like that, the storm rolled in.

  He sighed. “Maybe an ‘apology’ isn’t the right word. I don’t even know what is anymore.”

  I didn’t want to do this. Not at seven thirty in the morning, when I had a full day in court ahead of me.

  “It’s fine.”

  Liar.

  “Becca.”

  God, it did things to me when he said my name. I didn’t know if it was the familiarity of it, or the way he nearly groaned it, as though he ached the same way I did.

  But he didn’t get to ache. He broke up with me in a letter. I mean, I suppose I was lucky it wasn’t an e-mail, but a letter? We hadn’t been going steady for only a week. We’d been together for over five years. Engaged. And he couldn’t even have the decency to do it in person.

  “Why the letter?”

  I’d sworn I’d never ask him. That I would never let him see how much it had hurt. But having him here, in front of me—

  His eyes swam with guilt. “Because I would never have been able to go through with it if I did it in person. I knew that if I saw you, it would be impossible to leave.”

  “Apparently not.”

  “I’m sorry. I made a mistake. You didn’t deserve to be treated like that. No one does. I fucked up. I’m trying to make it better.”

  “I don’t want any apology. I don’t want anything from you.”

  “That’s fair. I’m sorry just the same, though. So damned sorry.”

  I looked down at the chipped Formica tabletop to avoid having to look into his eyes, needing the moment to catch my breath, to get myself under control. It really shouldn’t be this fucking hard.

  I released my coffee cup, realizing I’d been white-knuckling it, and laid my palm flat on the countertop. My gaze drifted to his palm, inches away, his skin just a shade darker than mine, his fingers long, his hand large. There were nicks and scrapes on his fingers, so different from the guys I usually dated with their buffed nails and soft skin.

  Something about the sight of that hand sparked a memory in me, heat settling between my legs, a new sort of awareness flooding my body. It had been months since my last boyfriend, and considering I’d basically been cock-blocked on Saturday night, I definitely wasn’t immune to the sight of those fingers that had once played my body like a finely tuned instrument.

  I swallowed, telling myself to look away, to think of something else, not to remember what it had felt like to have those same fingers slide inside me, stroking me, teasing me, until I came over and over again.

  His fingers twitched, and I swore the distance between us diminished. He was so close . . .

  Eric reached out, grasping my hand, winding our fingers together before I even had a chance to catch my breath.

  Shit.

  SIX

  BECCA

  Eric’s hand felt warm against mine—warm and big. He squeezed, and even though he touched my fingers, I swore I felt an answering tightness around my heart, as though the power to crush it lay in the palm of his hand.

  I wanted to pull back, had never intended to let him get this close, but here we were, and I didn’t move. The temptation was just too strong to ignore and it felt too good to have him hold my hand.

  “I’m so sorry,” he whispered again, his voice and eyes full of an emotion that spelled trouble.

  This time I did pull back, too close to losing my heart. Too much time had passed, too much between us. I didn’t want to fall into the trap of thinking that this could be something again, of letting old feelings confuse me.

  “I need to go.”

  “Can we get dinner sometime, or coffee, or something?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “I know I don’t deserve for you to let me in again, not after what I did, but what if we just gave it a chance? If we took things slowly? What if we started as friends?”

  I didn’t know how I was supposed to answer that one, what “slow” was with people who had the kind of baggage we did. We’d been engaged; I didn’t know how to pretend we were just two people getting to know each other. At the same time, I didn’t really know him. Not anymore. But what was the point of getting to know him if he was just going to leave again?

  “What’s changed?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What’s changed?” I repeated. “You’re back here, but what’s different? What’s the point? You’re going back to Oklahoma in a few weeks, aren’t you?”

  He nodded.

  “Then what?”

  He shifted in his seat, his expression guarded. “Well, we have the deployment coming up, and then I’ll probably go on to my next assignment. I don’t know where yet.”

  Yeah, I’d been here before.

  “So nothing has changed. Not really.”

  “I’ve missed you.”

  I’d missed him, too. It wasn’t enough. It had been ten years. We’d been apart longer than we’d been together. It wasn’t like we could just hit “Play” and pick up where we’d left off.

  “We still want different things.”

  He didn’t answer me for a beat. “What if we didn’t want different things?”

  I froze. He knew me too well, knew just how to worm his way back in.

  “Don’t try to make this about me. Don’t come back here with your ‘maybes’ and your ‘what-ifs’ and expect me to hang my future on it. I’ve been here before. I know how this goes. You’ve been back, what, a day? Do you honestly think that after everything we’ve been through, I’m going to trust that you want a future together? That you’ll actually choose me?

  “I’m not going down this road with you again. I’ve been there and all it did was give me years of heartbreak. I don’t trust you anymore. There is no us. Not anymore.”

  I grabbed my wallet, putting some cash on the table for my breakfast. I got up on shaky legs, not giving him a chance to respond, not sparing him another glance.

  THOR

  “Have you seen her?”

  I sat back in my grandmother’s worn recliner, in the house I’d lived in through high school, taking a gulp of the tea she’d poured me, not even a little surprised that she’d lead with Becca.

  She’d pretty much raised me in my teens and had been there since the beginning of our relationship. She’d always treated Becca like a member of our family, and when we’d broken up, she’d been the first person to tell me I was an idiot for screwing things up.

  “I have.”

  “How did it go?”

  “Not great.”

  “You broke her heart.”

  It still didn’t get any easier to hear it spoken out loud.

  “Yeah.”

  “She’s a tough girl. She’s been through a lot, los
ing her parents the way she did. You were her only family. And then you left her, too. I’m sure it’s hard for her to let you in again.”

  A lot of Becca’s desire to work for the Solicitor’s Office was to help people who had suffered similar tragedies in their lives by giving them some small measure of peace. I’d always admired her drive and determination, her strong sense of justice that gave her the conviction to do her job and do it well. Unfortunately, her strong sense of justice occasionally meant she resembled Old Testament God—fire and brimstone, plagues and famine—and right now she was a step away from hurling thunderbolts at me.

  She’d let me in for a moment earlier today in the diner, and then the moment passed, and she’d closed me out again. I didn’t blame her, but it didn’t exactly leave a lot of room for an in with her.

  “You’re getting older now. Shouldn’t it be time for you to think about settling down? Starting a family?” my grandmother asked.

  I worked all the time. I was gone all the time, frequently on short notice. Not to mention the deployments. It took a lot of sacrifice and determination to make a military relationship work, and the truth was I’d never cared enough about anyone to put in the effort.

  My grandmother was right. I saw what guys like Burn had, had seen the love between Joker and his wife, Dani. I wanted that, too. But every time I imagined myself having a future with someone, it was always Becca.

  She’d been there in every relationship. It wasn’t fair to all the women in between, but she’d always been the woman I measured everyone else against. There was just a bond there, one I’d never been able to find again.

  With her, it felt like we’d gone right back to where we’d begun, even though ten years had passed between us. Maybe it was how long we’d been together before, the fact that we’d basically grown up together, that I’d always known her better than anyone. Which was also how I knew getting her to trust me again was likely going to be the hardest fucking thing I’d ever done.

  And I still wasn’t sure what my future held—whether I wanted to stay in the military or get out. For all that the job wore on me, for all that Joker’s death had fucked me up, I’d spent a decade building my career, honing my skills to the point that I was now one of the best pilots in the squadron, had already been through my major’s board and was just waiting to pin on the rank. It seemed stupid to throw all of that away, to start over at thirty-two in a new career. I’d been a fighter pilot my whole adult life and I hadn’t a clue how those skills would translate to the civilian world if I did get out.

  As fucking terrifying as it was to white-knuckle it in the jet, the alternative, living my life without a clear path, trying to figure out what I did next when all I’d known, all I’d been good at, was the military, was equally scary.

  “You always were a restless boy,” my grandmother continued.

  I figured “restless” was a polite way of saying that I’d been in and out of trouble for a good chunk of my life. First Becca had saved me, then the military, giving me the structure I needed.

  “The two of you were always after different things—you running from home, from the problems with your parents. She always wanted to dig in, to bury her roots deep, to make up for the way her world had been torn away from her.”

  “I know.” At least, I knew now with the benefit of hindsight and a decade of experience behind me. I hadn’t recognized it then, hadn’t realized that the more she pushed, the more I pulled away, or understood how much I’d regret having done so.

  My grandmother patted my hand, leaning over and pressing a kiss to my cheek. “You’ll figure it out. With as much love as the two of you had between you, you’ll make it work now.”

  I hoped she was right.

  “What should I do?”

  “Figure out what you want. If it’s Becca, fight for her. If it’s not Becca, then you need to let her go. Give her a chance to find someone who wants to put down roots with her. That girl deserves better than what life has handed her. If you can’t be what she needs, then you have to let her go.”

  “I did that ten years ago.”

  She gave me a look. “Did you really? Did she let you go? Can you honestly tell me that you gave anyone a chance?” She squeezed my hand again. “Independent of Becca, use this time to get your head on straight. To figure out what’s best for you. Have some fun. Visit with friends. You look like you’re carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders and you’re about to break. Take care of yourself so that you don’t.”

  “I will. I love you. And I’m sorry I didn’t come home before, that we just saw each other at holidays in Florida. I should have done a better job.”

  I called her every week to see how she was doing, but that wasn’t nearly enough. When my parents’ divorce had gotten crazy, and later when my mother had moved to Florida, leaving me behind, my grandmother had been the one safe haven for me. She’d taken me in even though I’d been a massive pain in the ass, and if I knew what unconditional love was, it was because of her.

  I couldn’t escape the feeling that I’d failed her, too.

  “I love you, Eric. Always. And I’m proud of you.”

  I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “I love you, too.”

  “You’re home now. That’s all that matters.”

  SEVEN

  BECCA

  I didn’t know if it was appearing in court today on the DUI, or Eric’s return, but when I got off work, I found myself going to see my parents rather than home.

  My parents were buried together on a plot in the center of Bradbury’s oldest cemetery. When I was younger, my grandmother brought me here every Sunday after church to pay my respects. When I got older, I came less frequently, but I still tried to visit at least once a month, on their birthdays and holidays. It felt important to remember them and honor them, and somehow my link had become the few memories I clung to and these two stones in the earth.

  Not a day went by when I didn’t think of them, miss them.

  I laid a bouquet of flowers down on my mother’s grave first, followed by my father’s. I sat down on the bench off to the side of their graves, staring at the words etched there.

  BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER.

  DEVOTED HUSBAND AND FATHER.

  They’d both been my age now when they died. My mother had worked at a vet clinic, my father as an insurance adjuster. And we’d all been happy. Close. The kind of family that sat down at dinner every night and talked about their day.

  That was what I’d missed the most—just having someone to talk to. Having that sense of belonging to someone, of being part of a unit. I missed the big house my parents had built, the one we decorated with white lights and wreaths at Christmas, the kitchen where I helped my mother cook, the wall where my father had marked off my height, recording my growth, the tree where I’d carved my initials.

  Maybe that was why I’d pushed Eric to settle down at such a young age, why it had been so important to me that we were building a relationship, that our future included kids, and the white picket fence, and all the things I’d missed out on when my parents died.

  For years after they died, I struggled with dreams of death, with the fear that I’d lose the people I loved the most—my grandmother, Lizzie, and later on, Eric. I’d had panic attacks, spent years dealing with the spiral of fear and anxiety at the possibility of losing someone else. And yeah, I’d held on tightly with a clenched fist. And in the end, maybe it was that grip that had pushed him away.

  I sat on the bench, talking to my parents, feeling like a weight was lifted off of my shoulders with each minute that passed. And then I saw him, standing a few hundred yards away from me, flowers in hand, laying them down on a grave.

  His grandfather’s.

  We’d accompanied his grandmother out here when we were dating, Eric holding my hand while I visited my parents, us standing with his grandmother
while she remembered the husband she’d lost before Eric had come to live with her. Through the town grapevine I’d heard she made sure there were flowers on his grave every single week. It looked like today Eric had made the journey for her.

  Our gazes caught across the gravestones and he gave me a little nod, hesitating as though he wasn’t sure if he should approach me or not, as if he was waiting for me to make a move, no doubt remembering how we’d left things this morning. Part of me just wanted to be alone, but another part couldn’t turn my back on him.

  I gave a little nod and he began walking toward me, his strides slow and measured. We didn’t speak, but he sat down next to me on the wooden bench, staring at the spot where both my parents lay, in a position we’d assumed so many times before.

  I waited for him to say something, but he seemed just as content to sit in the silence as I was, and so we stayed there, close but not touching, a weird sort of peace drifting over me as the beginnings of dusk spread out over the cemetery.

  Finally I spoke. “If we’re going to be around each other, and let’s face it, in a town like Bradbury it’ll happen, I don’t want to talk about us every time. I don’t want to keep rehashing the past. I can’t.”

  “Okay.” He was quiet for a minute. “Are you okay?”

  He knew me well enough to know my habits, to know that I came here when I was upset, when I felt unmoored and needed to get my bearings.

  “I had a bad case today.”

  “What happened?”

  “DUI.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s a second offense, but you know he’ll just get a slap on the wrist.” I stared at those two stones, my vision growing blurry. “But what happens next time? What if he gets into the car with a passenger or he hits someone else rather than a tree? It just seems like we should do more to protect the innocent, like there should be greater consequences for taking a life.”

  “It has to be frustrating when you don’t see justice served.”