Love Letters Volume 2: Duty to Please

by Emily Cale, Ginny Glass, Christina Thacher, Maggie Wells

  He hadn’t told anyone near to him about Ginger or the letters—was it still possible that she’d gotten word of the attack? He tucked his wallet into the back pocket of his jeans and shuffled the papers back into the ammo bag. The photo he slid into his shirt pocket, next to his flight itinerary. If only he had told someone, anyone, how important she’d become over the course of their correspondence, someone could have gotten word to her that he hadn’t just bailed.

  Right, genius, you should have spilled your guts to the rest of the convoy. That would have involved telling the group of soldiers—who he’d been traveling with, eating with and living with—that he’d been impersonating one of them for the past two years.

  *

  Jo shook out the last towel of the load of laundry she was folding in her tiny living room. She was hot and sticky. The AC was out again. The old ranch-style house wasn’t much, but it was hers.

  Blowing a damp tendril of flyaway hair off her forehead, she stacked the towel on the pile that already partially covered her low couch. The house was quiet, but it was too hot to work in her even-hotter adjoining art studio. Her eyes fell on the bookshelf against the far wall, to the brightly striped shoebox she’d decorated after the first pal-a-soldier letters had come. A soft, lost kind of sadness stole over her heart when she looked at the box.

  He hadn’t shown up. That night at the Lincoln Center, she’d taken off her stupid, uncomfortable heels and limped back to her car, angry that she’d let herself be drawn in only to have her hopes dashed. When she arrived back at her Honda, it was to find a ticket tucked neatly under her windshield wiper—in her rush to get to the opera, she’d done a sloppy job of parallel parking.

  Still, she’d haunted the mailbox for a few weeks, hopeful that there would be some explanation. When none had come, Jo had fired up her old laptop and waited for her bare-bones internet service to spit out the search results on his name, fuming the whole time.

  He’s probably married.

  God, why are all men scum?

  Maybe he died.

  The last thought ground her cynical pity party to a halt. Then, she’d found the article.

  Spencer Corwin, overseas correspondent embedded with the 102nd Brigade, critically injured in convoy attack.

  An estimated 108 pounds of explosives were released in a cluster munitions attack over the 102nd last week, as it passed near Baghdad. The brigade was part of a military supply chain that furnishes medicine, rations and other necessities to the region. Corwin, who was first triaged at the Baghdad Emergency Surgical Hospital before being medevacked to Landstuhl Regional, has been documenting the travels of the soldiers for the past two years. Doctors removed shrapnel from his torso, rebuilt his shattered right hip, and placed him in a medically induced coma to increase the journalist’s chances of survival after abrupt brain swelling threatened his life.

  Her heart had dropped to her stomach. It didn’t register at first that he had lied, just that he was hurt and that she needed to go to him and…

  Then it had hit. Embedded correspondent? Funny she hadn’t looked him up before then. She’d just blindly accepted the details of his letters. Because she had craved the adventure, the excitement.

  Especially after their letters had turned intimate.

  She clicked his online biography, then his resume, and then clip after clip of his sun-burnished, gorgeous face reporting on the life of the soldiers he was traveling with. She’d torn through the stacks of letters he’d written over the past two years, feeling like a complete idiot for being conned by a…by a…by a…

  Dear Ginger,

  Your last letter was extremely unfair. I can’t stand the thought of you, perfect and naked and ready for me, only too far away for me to touch. If I were there, you wouldn’t be aching, left wanting when you finally drifted off to sleep. Your body would be well loved and your eyes would close only after I’d made you come so many times that you give in to exhaustion.

  And you would never have to sleep alone.

  Write back soon, I’m going crazy here.

  Spencer

  *

  Spencer,

  It’s no more unfair than having to actually sleep alone after the delicious sound of your voice, the way you said my name at the end of our phone call. Fodder for many, many future nights of fantasies, just so you know how hot that was. I can’t imagine how good we’d be together in real life—just thinking about it is wildly distracting. I want to know how you feel, how you taste, I want that same voice in my ear while I’m wrapped around you, ready to completely fall apart for you.

  To hell with write back soon, come home soon.

  Ginger

  She’d reread every letter, even the ones that made her blush, made her stomach twist with a hot, heavy curl of desire. As she’d reread them, it all sharpened into crystal clear focus. Spencer had never flat-out told her that he was a soldier. Sure, there was the military lingo and the updates on their progress through Iraq, but he’d never flat-out lied.

  Not like she had lied to him.

  Along with the articles about the attack were pieces on Spencer himself, on his charity work with the children’s hospital, an interview that said he was a self-professed comic-book geek and a photo series of him rock climbing in Arizona. He was everything she’d been thinking of when she made up Ginger—educated, adventurous, traveled—with a little bit of nerd thrown in to make him aggravatingly appealing.

  This was the man she’d come to treasure. His warmth, his sense of humor, the way he could make her feel—even though he was physically absent—as if she were the only woman in the world. She knew she should have trashed the letters, but they had become too precious to her. Now, she tore her eyes from the box, shaking her head to clear the fog of confusion that clouded her mind whenever she thought about Spencer. As much as she’d been hurt by his little white lies, she was just as guilty.

  It was noon, and the repair company couldn’t get there to fix the antiquated AC until tomorrow. Ice cream for lunch sounded heavenly. After a quick shower, Jo slipped into a pair of cutoffs and a T-shirt. She grabbed her car keys and headed to the door. Just before her fingers hit the knob, the doorbell rang.

  Without thinking, she twisted the knob and opened the door to the bright summer sun. Spencer Corwin stood on her front porch. The breath halted in her lungs. He was taller than she’d imagined, thinner, but just as heart-stoppingly gorgeous as the photo he’d sent with his first letter. He was also leaning on a slim, retractable cane.

  “Hi,” he said, and smiled. If it was possible, he got better looking when he smiled. “Ginger?”

  She took in the perfect evenness of his dazzling smile, the neatly cut sandy-brown hair, the strong jaw. Scratch that. He looked better in person than his picture. Better than his headshot.

  “No.” Acid rose in the back of her throat, and it took her a moment to register the emotion—panic.

  I don’t look a damned thing like the picture I sent him.

  Shit. Jo blinked, stepped back into her foyer and slammed the door in his face.

  *

  Spencer stood, stunned, on the front porch of Ginger’s house. He leaned close to verify the house number, running his fingers over the plastic numbers that were fastened beside the front door, afraid he’d picked the wrong house and would have to call back the cab that had just dropped him off.

  He’d heard her voice once, a static-filled call that had lasted an hour—fifty minutes of the best conversation he’d ever had and ten hot, rapid ones where they’d both expanded on some of their hotter correspondence. He knew that Ginger was the woman who’d answered the door. Lifting a hand, he rapped on the door, gently.

  “Ginger?” There was no response. “Ginger, look, I know you’re pissed that I didn’t show in New York. I was in an accident. My—the convoy was bombed. It sounds like bullshit, I know, like some lame excuse, but—”

  The door flew open and a small, compact shape topped with a blur of red came at him. He dr
opped his cane and stumbled back a few steps before he regained his footing and planted his feet.

  “Get out of here, Spencer Corwin, get the hell out!”

  Spencer managed to corral her flailing wrists and yank her against him. “Calm down. Ouch, damn it. Stop it.”

  She struggled, but he held fast. The woman in his arms felt short. That was a surprise. Ginger was leggy, she’d said as much in her letters. But the voice was definitely hers.

  “What the hell is going on here? Is this some kind of joke?” He leaned close, pulled her closer, so that their noses nearly touched. “Your hair is really red.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  He let go of her wrists and spanned her waist, pressing her to him, working his hands down her waist and lower back. Curves. Yielding, definitely dangerous curves. He felt a low, deep ache fire up that he hadn’t felt since before the attack. The Ginger he knew was model-thin, near waifish.

  “You’re not skinny.”

  Muffled, from the vicinity of his shirt collar, the voice he knew sounded near boil-over.

  “Thanks for that. Stop manhandling me and get off my lawn. You have no right to be here.”

  Spencer pulled back slightly, shook his head and tried to sort out what was going wrong, where. He’d come expecting her open arms, the warmth and intimate friendship that he’d come to crave through their letters. Not her anger.

  “I have every right.” He threaded his fingers up through her hair, noting as he sifted the long tendrils through his hand. Ginger has short hair.

  “You’re here to save face. Maybe you should just write me an apology letter. Or, you know, hold a press conference.”

  Ouch.

  “I’m here because I’m in love with you.”

  She went still in his arms.

  He brought his other hand up to cup her chin and ran a thumb over her cheekbone. Her skin was so, so soft. “I’m in love with you. Say something.”

  He listened to her deep, panting breaths for long seconds before she spoke. Her voice wavered. “I waited for you, Spencer. At the Met. You lost your chance.”

  God, that tremble derailed him. He lost track of whatever was plaguing the back of his mind. A lump formed in his throat. He didn’t believe that he’d lost his chance. He would, he could explain.

  “I came to explain what happened.”

  She turned into his palm, and his fingertips were suddenly damp.

  “Explain what? That you lied to me about being a soldier? That you led me on, let me think you were some kind of hero, when you were just a…a…a jet-setting reporter looking for a cheap thrill from some lonely, desperate…”

  “I was in a coma, Ginger.” He couldn’t keep the hint of dry amusement from his voice.

  “I know. I followed your story after the attack, for a while. I stopped reading anything after they said there was a chance that you’d never wake up.”

  “Why are you still angry?”

  “Because I let myself…feel things for you, too. And I thought I might never get the chance to know who you really were.”

  Her flat, deflated tone cut into his heart. He had hurt her twice. And they hadn’t even met yet.

  Spencer knew that his best bet was to come clean, and hope that the bond they’d built over vast miles and many months would carry over into reality.

  “You’re right. I wasn’t straightforward about who I really was.” He took a deep breath. “One of the pal-a-soldier coordinators was sorting a stack of letters on base the day before we left. There was a pile of rejected letters—ones that didn’t include pictures. The guy explained to me that if the pen pals sent photos with the first letter, there was a better chance that they were interested in ongoing correspondence with their soldier.”

  “I didn’t send a photo with my first letter, because…”

  “Shh. Please, let me finish.” Spencer pulled her in and she didn’t resist. He rested his chin on top of her head. Her hair smelled like fresh shampoo, a warm coconut and spice mixture that made his mouth water.

  “I remember thinking that it was such a waste, just throwing all of these letters away. So I snagged one. It was yours. I was hooked right away. I mean, all your traveling, your studies, the places you’ve been, they fascinated me.”

  “Spencer.”

  “Shh. I shouldn’t have led you to believe that I was a soldier. I am—I am nothing even close to as brave as the men who lost their lives that day we were attacked.”

  “Spencer, my photo…”

  “You’re beautiful. I wish that I could see how beautiful in person.”

  Her fingers fluttered to his face. “What? You can’t…”

  “Just enough to do this.” And then he kissed her. He threaded a hand through her hair, tipped her head back, and leaned down to capture her mouth. He knew he’d taken her by surprise, because she gasped oh-so-sweetly into his mouth. If she was still mad, she didn’t show it. Her gasp turned to a low, soft moan that had him pulling her in tighter.

  They kissed for long, breathless moments, each brush of lips melting into the next. He delved gently into her mouth, and her tongue darted back. His hands inched into the waistband at the back of her shorts, and her fingers skimmed up under the back of his T-shirt. He didn’t need to see her if she felt this good, if she tasted this good.

  She pulled away, and Spencer caught a heavy breath of searing, humid air. He was without his bearings until she laced her hand in his.

  “Say something, Ginger.”

  “Come inside.”

  It was official. He now had his first post-coma hard-on.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  *

  Jo led Spencer inside, her heart racing. He loves me. Oh, my God, no, he loves Ginger. She was Ginger, to some extent. She’d started to write the pen pal program as herself, but her first letter had gone unanswered. Maybe her life was so vanilla, so, so boring, that no one was interested. She had been born and raised in New Jersey, without making too much of a splash between then and now. Well, she was the creative type, she could fix that.

  She’d found herself addicted to making up a whole other woman. The photo of the blonde had been a borrowed portfolio picture from some modeling site. The adventures, the travels, the classes in exotic academia—were all figments of her wandering, wistful, wishful imagination. Of course, they were all things that Jo desperately wanted to do.

  Like Spencer Corwin.

  Oh, yeah. Right now, she wanted to take him to bed.

  Which still doesn’t make what you did right, said a pesky little voice in the back of her mind.

  It sure felt right when she closed and locked the front door behind him and pressed him back against it. Rising up on her toes, she caught his mouth with hers, lingering in a deep, aggressive kiss until he reached for her, lifting the hem of her shirt. She made short work of his tee, feeling her breath hitch when they came together, chest to chest.

  She ran a hand up his cheek, to brush a thumb over his cheekbone.

  “You really can’t see?” Her heart twisted.

  “I can see some. Not enough to drive, not enough to read, but enough to know that you are one very sexy blur.”

  Jo laughed as he leaned in and kissed up her neck, trailed his fingers over the exposed skin of her stomach, murmured into her ear as he nipped toward it.

  “You’re going to have to lead me to your bedroom.”

  Jo felt the throaty laugh rumble up, let it loose with a series of small bites to Spencer’s shoulder. “Oh, I will definitely lead you there.”

  She kicked off her shoes and took his hand again. He let her lead him to her bedroom. When she guided him onto the bed and straddled his waist, he steadied her, two strong hands on her hips.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Jo was suddenly nervous.

  “Oh, yes. Don’t worry. If you made up how good you are at this, I’ll teach you whatever you need to know.” He swatted her behind, playfully, making her laugh again and arch toward him.

/>   Her hands slipped over his biceps, up to his shoulders, threaded into his hair. Leaning in, she caught his mouth for another slow, simmering kiss.

  “Describe the room for me.”

  Jo rocked back on her heels and looked around. She’d never really studied her room in much detail. It was full of things she loved, things that made her happy, made her smile, inspired her. “There’s a vintage dressing table on the far wall. It’s dark wood with a gilt mirror. I collect old perfume bottles, they’re lined up on top…”

  Spencer started kissing her collarbone, long, slow, hot sweeps of his lips and tongue that made her eyelids and breasts feel heavy.

  “Go on.”

  “The walls are painted pale mint green. I have old travel posters hanging on almost every wall. France, Greece, Italy—oh, God.”

  Spencer had slipped his fingers under the straps of her bra and pulled them down her arms. His breath fanned over one hardened, exposed nipple. “Mmm-hmm. And?”

  “The bed is an antique. Four poster. Came from my grandmother’s estate.”

  “Lovely, I’m sure. Keep going.”

  “There are bookshelves on either side of the bed. Dark wood. There are…Spencer!”

  He caught one of her nipples in his mouth and was drawing on it, rhythmically, with a hot, sure suction that shot straight down between her legs. She clutched his head, bucked in his lap. He drew away, letting her breast loose with a soft pop that echoed in the quiet room.

  “More.”

  “Guess I’m not so bad at this, either.”

  Jo struggled to concentrate on the room, on anything aside from his wicked grin. Anything aside from the erotic sight of his hands coming up to cup her breasts, his mouth lowering toward the other, untended peak. She squirmed on his lap and he growled and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her down against him. He was hard, and Jo stuttered, “The a-a-armoire…”

  Spencer took her other nipple between his teeth, flicking the captured tip butterfly-light with his tongue. Jo raked her hands through his hair and uttered a few very coarse words. He didn’t have to hold her down against him, she was rocking in his lap, pressing rhythmically, pleadingly against him. “Touch me. More, everywhere.”