Marine for Hire (Front and Center)

by Tawna Fenske

  She hustled back into the house and kicked off her shoes at the door, relieved to feel the cool floor under her bare feet. She set the groceries on the floor and turned to find the light switch. She froze with her hand midway to it, her eyes fixing on the stupid peacock.

  She reached for it, wanting to touch it one more time, to remember Sam’s kindness and understanding. To recall the look on his face when he’d called her beautiful, smart, funny, a good mother.

  A sound snapped her attention back to the moment. She looked up, squinting toward the dark hallway on the other side of the living room.

  The figure loomed in the shadows, his face masked in darkness, as he moved slowly, ominously toward her.

  Toward her babies.

  In a flash of moonlight, she saw the gun glinting in his hand.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Sheri gasped as the figure stepped out of the shadows. Her heart pounded in her ears and the familiar scent of his cologne made her stomach churn.

  “Jonathan. How the hell did you get in here?”

  “Sheridan,” he said, stepping into place behind the boys’ carriers as he held the pistol in one hand like a pageant prop. “Good to see you again. I’ve been getting acquainted with our new home. It’s a nice place.”

  She swallowed, tasting bile. How had she ever loved this man? “You’re insane. How did you get in?”

  “First thing we’re going to do after I move in is install new locks on the doors. It’s much too easy to break in.” He looked down at the gun in his hand and shook his head. “The second thing we’re going to do is have fewer secrets between us. This gun, for instance.”

  “My collection of heirloom firearms was never a secret, you jerk,” she snapped. “You knew about them. They belong to my family.”

  “And as your husband, I’m your family. Keeping your valuables under lock and key the way you always used to—well, that’s going to change now. So is your repertoire of recipes. You’re not still making that potato flake chicken, are you?”

  Sheri took a step forward, her eyes flicking between the baby carriers, the gun, and the menacing look on her ex-husband’s face. “What I do with my personal possessions and what I make for dinner are none of your business. Get away from my babies.”

  He snorted. “They’re my children, Sheridan. I have every right to take them.”

  “Take them? Take them where?”

  Her voice was practically a shriek, but Jonathan looked unfazed. “You’ve been ignoring and disrespecting me long enough. It’s time I took some action. I want us to be a family again, and the only way you’re going to listen to me is if I have your children. Our children.”

  She took another step toward him, her gut twisting in fury and disgust. “Get away from them.”

  Jonathan raised the pistol. “No, you get away. Don’t come any closer. I’ve already packed a bag for you, Sheridan. You’re going to turn around now and walk back out to the car. And for God’s sake, put down that stupid toy. I already threw some things in a bag for the boys, they’ll be fine.”

  Sheri looked down at her own hands, surprised to discover she’d picked up the beanie peacock. She blinked at it as her mind flashed to Sam, wondering where he was and whether she’d ever see him again. She gripped the toy tighter and looked up at her ex. As her eyes locked with his, she took another step toward him.

  “You’re crazy,” she hissed. “How did I never see that before?”

  His finger touched the trigger on the pistol. “Stay right there, Sheridan.”

  Her heart bumped hard against her rib cage as she took a steadying breath and one more step forward. She looked down at her babies. Jackson waved one chubby hand in the air, oblivious to the danger pulsing through the room.

  “Don’t come any closer,” he barked. “Turn around and walk to the car. Now!”

  Disobeying his order, she took another step forward, close enough to stretch out and touch his sleeve if she wanted. She shuddered at the thought of touching him and met his eyes instead.

  “I’m warning you, Sheridan,” he shouted.

  Jeffrey squawked in alarm. Jackson whimpered, his soft snuffles signaling the start of a full-fledged crying jag. Sheri took another step forward, needing to reach her boys, needing to make sure they were okay—

  “Stop right there!” he barked. He held the gun on Sheri for two more beats, then turned and pointed it at the babies.

  Sheri lunged, pouncing on him with every ounce of mama-bear fury she never knew she had. She smacked the peacock against the side of his head, remembering what her father had taught her in a self-defense lesson at age eight. Strike hard and from above.

  Her weapon left something to be desired, but she had the element of surprise on her side. Jonathan stepped back as she hit him across the eyes. His foot tangled with the second peacock lying facedown on the carpet, and he tripped. Staggering, he fell to his knees. She raised the peacock again as Jonathan lifted the pistol.

  He blinked at her, dazed. “Drop the—the—what the hell is that?”

  She hit him again, once more in the face and then in the arm. He kept his grip on the gun, but he was still on his knees, so she kicked him hard in the ribs. She delivered one more smack with the peacock, throwing every ounce of strength into the blow as he toppled sideways.

  “Lesson number one,” she hissed, kicking him in the groin this time. “Don’t ever, ever threaten my children.”

  He dropped the pistol, and she kicked it away, her fingers still gripping the peacock. “And lesson number two,” she snarled. “If you’re going to point a gun at someone raised in a family of gun nuts, make sure it’s not her grandfather’s blowback-operated, semiautomatic FN Model 1910 pistol that hasn’t worked since World War II. There’s a reason I never let you touch it, asshole—it’s an antique.”

  She drew her foot back to kick him again, then stopped herself. He was already down, and her babies were safe. She shook her head in disgust. “Don’t you ever, ever, touch me, my children, or my family heirlooms again.”

  She dropped to her knees beside him, grabbing his wrists and jerking them behind his back. With one hand, she yanked Sam’s makeshift teething ring holder off the handle of Jeffrey’s carrier. She used it to cinch Jonathan’s wrists behind his back, then leaned over the boys to make sure they were okay.

  “Hey, guys,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “Everything’s fine now. Mama’s got you.”

  She stroked a finger over Jeffrey’s cheek, and he stopped whimpering at once. She moved to Jackson, wiping his little nose with the back of her hand. “Shhh,” she soothed. “You’re okay now. Everything’s all over.”

  “Not entirely,” said a voice in the darkness.

  Sheri snapped her head up and blinked.

  A man in black stepped through the front door. Shadows fell behind him as he strode slowly toward her.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Mac!” Sheri screamed, leaping to her feet and launching herself across the room at her brother. “Ohmygod, why are you here?”

  “To offer you protection.” He glanced at the prone figure on the ground and frowned. “Something you don’t appear to need at the moment.”

  “Protection? Protection from what?”

  Mac stooped down and studied Jonathan, checking to be sure his wrists were secure. Then he grabbed him by the hair and brought his face down close.

  “You were never good enough for her,” Mac said calmly. “Now that you’ve answered to her, you’re going to answer to me.”

  He thrust Jonathan away and glanced at each of the babies, ensuring everyone was safe. Then he stood up and turned to face his sister.

  “Sam called me after you kicked him out,” Mac said. “Said he was worried about Jonathan showing up and doing something stupid. He said if you wouldn’t let him watch over you, he wanted me here to do it for him. I moved up the date of my visit to be here in his place.”

  Sheri swallowed, feeling hollow all of a sudden. “Sa
m called you?”

  “And I’ve called the police. They should be here momentarily, so let’s clear up a few things before they arrive, shall we?”

  Sheri opened her mouth to speak—to tell her brother what she thought about his conniving, lying, manipulative behavior—but Mac grabbed her hand and leveled her with a steely stare.

  “You are not speaking. You’re listening. And here’s what I have to say to you.” Mac caught her other hand, his grip warm and loving while his eyes flashed cold in the dim light of the house. Sheri realized it was one of the few times in her adult life she’d seen her brother without sunglasses, even at night.

  “Number one,” Mac said. “You are a good mother. An amazing mother, and if your demonstration of pure, primal maternal instinct just now didn’t prove that to you, you need to seriously reevaluate your judgment.”

  Sheri swallowed, struck speechless by his words. “How did you know?”

  “I know everything, Sheri. This bullshit I’ve been hearing from Sam about your certainty you lack some ‘mommy chip’—that stops now.”

  “But—”

  “Number two,” Mac said, ignoring her feeble attempt at protest as he gripped her hands harder. “Sam is a good Marine, a good man, and a good friend who did his best to return a favor to me. What I asked him to do was watch out for my beautiful, competent, overachieving, stubborn-as-fuck sister. Did he, or did he not do that?”

  Sheri felt her eyes filling with tears. She thought about the last twenty-four hours, about her chaotic day without Sam around to laugh with or cook with or tend to her babies with his offbeat brand of caregiver instinct. She swallowed again, picturing his face in her mind, remembering the feel of his hands on her body, the smell of his skin against hers.

  Did she need a man in her life?

  Maybe not. But she sure as hell wanted one. Her life certainly felt richer and more joyful with Sam in it.

  “Is he still on island?” she whispered, her eyes fixed on her brother’s.

  Mac nodded once, curtly. “I believe so. I can’t say for certain where. His plane doesn’t leave until morning.”

  Sheri stepped back, her stomach flipping over in her abdomen as her heart began to race. “I have to find him.”

  “Why?”

  “I have to tell him I’m sorry and that I understand now and that I want to make love to him forever and—wait, why am I telling you?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Can you watch the boys, please?”

  “The police will be here any minute,” Mac said. “Don’t you think you should wait?”

  “You can explain.” She scanned the room feverishly, looking for her purse. She couldn’t find it, but she spotted her phone on the table and grabbed that. “You’re good at handling authority figures, just tell them I had to run out. And, um—try not to kill Jonathan.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To find Sam,” Sheri said, already moving toward the door. “To throw myself at him and beg him to come back and make a life with the boys and with me.”

  “Sheri?”

  “Don’t try to stop me, Mac.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it. But don’t you think you should put on some shoes? Maybe a shirt that’s not ripped open?”

  But Sheri was already out the door, car keys in her hand, an idea forming in the back of her brain where Sam might have gone.

  Please say it’s not too late.

  She tried his number once, twice, three times while she drove, but the call just went to voicemail. Was the phone dead, or was he just ignoring her calls?

  Either way, she had to find him. She had to tell him what she’d realized.

  She careened into the parking lot at Smith’s Tropical Paradise. There were plenty of cars in the lot, though she couldn’t pick out his Jeep anywhere. Still she had to try.

  She sprinted to the gate, barely noticing the gravel biting into her bare feet, the breeze through her half-buttoned top, the chunk of carrot in her hair that smacked her in the face as she ran.

  The smell of tropical flowers and river water was heavy in the air, and a light breeze tousled her curls, reminding her she hadn’t combed her hair for God knows how long.

  As she approached the gate, an attendant stepped forward in a grass skirt and coconut bra. The woman looked at Sheri, her eyes traveling from the torn shirt to the crazy hair to the crazier eyes. Sheri brushed a hand over her cheek and felt something crusted there, oatmeal, probably.

  Christ, had she even looked in a mirror today?

  “Sorry ma’am,” the attendant said, not unkindly. “The park closed at four. Only luau guests at this point.”

  Sheri looked down at her disheveled appearance. She was hardly dressed for dinner and a show, so she couldn’t blame the woman for assuming the worst.

  “Please,” Sheri begged, spitting a carrot-caked curl out of her mouth. “There’s a man.”

  The woman smiled, understanding flickering across her features. “There always is.”

  “No, I mean—inside. I think. I need to go find him. I need to tell him—”

  “I understand, but I can’t let you in without a ticket.”

  “I’ll buy a ticket!” She looked down, realizing she’d left her purse, her driver’s license, her credit cards, her shoes—hell, pretty much everything, including her sanity—at home.

  She didn’t even have lipstick to make a good impression, but that was the least of her concerns right now. She had to find Sam.

  She looked back at the woman and felt the tears prick the back of her throat. There had to be a way.

  “Please,” she whispered. “This might be my only chance with him.”

  The woman’s face softened. “Tell you what. I’m a sucker for a good love story, and I can see you’re having a rough night. Go find your man. Come back tomorrow and pay for a ticket. And if it works out, you have your wedding here.”

  Relief flooded her whole body, coursing through her veins to mix with the adrenaline. “I promise,” Sheri whispered, knowing for certain it was a promise she meant to keep. “You’re an angel. An angel in a coconut bra.”

  “That’s the best kind of angel,” the woman said, and stepped aside to let Sheri pass. Sheri rushed by her, gravel and discarded bird seed biting into her feet.

  “You want a brush or something, honey?”

  “No time!” Sheri called as she moved through the entrance, her eyes already scanning the grounds for signs of Sam.

  She sprinted across the grass toward a group of tiki torches near a large hut. A cluster of peacocks scattered, squawking their displeasure at her disruption. Hawaiian music lilted on the breeze, and she inhaled the rich smell of smoked pork. Her gut twisted a little at that as she thought of Sam and the burned dinner and how much she wanted him around to burn dinners forever and ever.

  She tripped over something that might have been a coconut or a rooster, but she kept going. She didn’t care. All she cared about was finding Sam and telling him she loved him. That she understood now what he’d been trying to do.

  Her eyes scanned the crowd milling around outside the hut. A few people stopped and stared, probably wondering about the crazy-eyed, food-covered, half-dressed woman barging in on their special event.

  Sheri didn’t care.

  Dinner must’ve ended, but the show hadn’t started yet. Was he even here? Had her instincts led her wrong? It wouldn’t be the first time. Maybe this was a dumb idea. Maybe she shouldn’t have come. Maybe—

  She spotted him against a row of tiki torches. At least she thought it was him. It was definitely a big guy with rumpled hair that curled at the collar, his massive shoulders silhouetted by torch flames and smoke from the fire pits. He was tossing handfuls of birdseed to a cluster of peacocks who pecked and squawked and strutted at his feet.

  She couldn’t see his face, but she was sure it was him. She’d know that body anywhere.

  “Sam!”

  He turned slowly, his face registering
surprise, then shock as his eyes found hers. Sheri reached up to smooth her frizzed hair, to adjust the torn shirt, to wipe the smears of food off her face.

  To hell with it.

  She dropped her hands and stepped forward, determined not to be self-conscious. Determined to say what she needed to say. She took a shaky breath and met his eyes.

  “I want to talk to you about lying.”

  His face creased with guilt and disappointment. “Sheri, I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry I did it so soon after you had your heart ripped out by another dishonest bastard. I know what you said about lying. That it’s the absolute worst thing. Worse than riptides and parking tickets and pubic lice and—”

  “I said that?”

  He nodded once. “Something like that.”

  She stepped closer, shivering a little in the night air as she folded her arms over her torn shirt. “I’m sure I said that. I’m sure I even meant it at the time. But here’s the thing I’ve realized about lying—sometimes, people have good reasons for doing it.”

  “What?” Sam blinked, his eyes flickering with firelight.

  “I’m not talking about cheaters who lie to stick their dick in a stripper,” she said. Her voice carried farther than she meant it to, and a few luau guests turned to stare. She pressed on, determined to make this right. To say what she needed to say.

  “I’m talking about self-preservation,” she said, not sure she was getting the words quite right. “I’m talking about lies to protect someone or help someone who won’t accept help or to be true to a friend or yourself or to—”

  “Sheri,” he said, taking another step forward and reaching out to catch her hands in his. The warmth of them gave her strength, though his eyes were questioning. “What on God’s green earth are you talking about?”

  “I’m saying sometimes lying isn’t the worst thing,” she said, clenching his fingers in hers as a curl of smoke stung her eyes. Or maybe it was a tear of emotion, she wasn’t sure. “I’m saying I weigh ten pounds more than I admitted on my driver’s license. I’m saying I color my hair because I started going gray before the twins were born. I’m saying I wear Spanx under a cocktail dress, and that I haven’t really read War and Peace even though I meant to. I’m saying I didn’t tell you Jonathan was harassing me because I was scared and didn’t want to admit that, not even to myself. I’m saying I ate the last Twinkie but told you it was Kelli, and I’m saying that personal massager under my bed isn’t really for neck pain. I’m saying—”