by Violet Paige
“Dude, you haven’t hit a straight shot all morning.” Hollywood laughed as he placed his beer on the cooler and put his ball on the tee.
“Whatever. Shut up.” Bolt stepped back and assessed his shot again. They had been at the driving range for an hour and there wasn’t any improvement in his swing.
Hollywood watched as his ball landed near the two hundred yard marker. “See? Like that. Hit it like that.” He reached into the cooler for another beer. “You missed a good time at the O-club.”
“Oh yeah? Nurses again?” Bolt accepted a cold bottle from his friend.
“Nurses, you name it, the girls were there.”
“How’d you do?” He and Hollywood shared the same philosophy when it came to women—have a good time, but don’t get attached.
Hollywood shook his head. “Eh, I got a few numbers, but we leave in a month so I don’t know if it’s worth it. I don’t want to deal with the whole dating thing, then she’s going to get upset when she finds out I’m leaving for six months. It never goes over well.”
“Nope. Never goes over well.” Bolt wiggled his hips into position and glared at the ball. He was going to hit this sucker three hundred yards. He pulled the club behind his back and swung forward.
“WESTPAC is going to be epic. Korea, Thailand, Japan. We are going to be like rock stars over there. I’ve heard the strippers are unbelievable.” Hollywood chuckled.
“Yeah, I’ve heard something like that. I’m just ready for the flying. It’s going to be unbelievable flying over there.”
“Six months of nothing but beautiful women and perfect flying. I’d say we have a pretty good gig.”
“I agree.” Bolt tossed another ball on the tee and grimaced as the shot curved to the far left of the range.
“Ha! Man, you suck.”
“Shut up, Hollywood.” He threw the driver in his bag and reached for an iron. Maybe he just needed to change up his clubs.
“You didn’t say anything about last night. How was the Gaslamp scene? Touristy?” Hollywood asked.
Bolt tried to focus on the ball on the tee and not the scene of the nameless psuedo librarian under him that flashed in his head. He breathed through his teeth.
“That good, huh?” Hollywood wasn’t going to let it go.
“Yeah, kinda met someone.”
“Met someone? What in the hell does that mean?” Hollywood hit another perfect shot.
“Nothing. I didn’t get her number, so I won’t see her again.” Bolt still wondered if he should have at least asked.
“Alright. Glad you had fun.” Hollywood returned to his club and ball. “Want to hang out tonight? I was thinking about going to PB. You up for a few beers?”
“Sure. Sounds good.” Bolt threw the iron in his bag. He was always up for a few beers. “I think I’m calling it, man.”
His friend laughed. “Yeah, you suck today. What, is that girl in your head?”
“Nah.” Bolt picked up his clubs and slung them over his shoulder. “Just an off day. Hey, I’ll see you tonight. What time?”
“Nine.” Hollywood lined up to take another shot. He didn’t look ready to leave.
“See ya.”
Bolt stepped from the shower and grabbed the towel on the rack. He wiped the droplets of water from his face then his chest. He reached for his tags. They weren’t there. He dropped the towel and looked next to the hook where he always put them. Where were they? He searched his dresser, the bathroom counter, and his pockets. Dammit. He hadn’t picked them up this morning at the librarian’s. How could he have left them? Not all Marines wore their tags. It was a personal decision, but after losing Riggs he hadn’t gone a day without them. The guilt tore through him at the thought of abandoning them. It was one thing to take them off. It was something else to leave them behind.
He glanced at the clock. If he left now he could still swing by her place in time to meet Hollywood by nine. He pulled on a pair of jeans, a gray T-shirt, and ran out the door. He prayed the librarian was at home on a Saturday night reading a book.
Bolt lived in Fashion Valley in a one-bedroom condo. He liked it. There was a local bar within walking distance, and he could be on the beach or at work in fifteen minutes. Location is everything.
He pulled onto the interstate and pointed his truck toward the Gaslamp district. The night crowd would be gathering, and he knew parking wouldn’t be easy. It had to be the most popular neighborhood in the seaside city. He slowed near the bar where he met the librarian and pulled behind it to park. Might as well take advantage of the lots where he could. Getting the tags back was worth the five dollars for parking.
In a matter of minutes he was knocking on her door. He rapped his knuckles a few times.
“Yep, hold on.” She swung open the door and he was met with the vision he had of her last night. Her hair was piled high on her head, loose strands flying to the side and she was wearing glasses. He didn’t know a woman could look so hot in a pair of specs. She was stunning. It didn’t hurt she had deep blue eyes that sparkled when she smiled.
“Hey.” He grinned.
“Oh, wow. Hey. What are you doing here?” She looked confused. For a second he worried she might slam the door in his face.
“I, uh—left something this morning. Just needed to grab it and then I’ll leave.” He motioned toward the living room.
She seemed unsure of whether or not to let him in. Her hand had a death grip on the doorframe.
“Can I come in? It’ll only take a second.” He didn’t want to go into the significance of the tags, but if it was the only way to get them back he would.
She stepped back. “Sure. I’ll help you. What did you leave? I haven’t seen anything.”
He immediately walked to the couch. It was covered in spreadsheets and graphs. “I guess you’re not working on the Dewey decimal system?” He chuckled as she rushed to stack the papers together.
“No, it’s for work. Real work.”
With the charts out of the way he shoved his hand between the cushions. Nothing.
“What did you forget?” She studied him while he searched.
“My tags.” He reached between the last cushions.
“Tags?” She adjusted her glasses. “Oh, that necklace you had on?”
He nodded. “Yes. That.”
He watched as she walked to the back of the couch and crouched on all fours, disappearing behind the sofa. She hopped up with the tags clutched in her hand. “Here they are.”
“Thanks.” He took two steps to the other side of the couch and reached for the silver chain. He had never been so happy to see them before.
Before she handed them to Bolt she flipped the metal over in her hand. “Is your name Riggs? Are these military tags?”
He stopped. “No. Riggs was my friend. The other one is mine.”
“Hardcastle?” She raised her eyebrows.
He opened his palm for her to drop them into his hand. “Yep. You caught me. I’m Ben Hardcastle.” He looped the tags over his head and threaded them under his T-shirt before extending his hand. Introductions seemed strange at this point. He had spent an entire night naked with this woman.
She might have wanted to hold back on the smile, but he saw it form on the corners of her mouth. “I’m Skye Stephens.” She chewed on her bottom lip.
“Skye? I like it. Fitting for a librarian.” He winked, liking the way it made her blush.
“I think we both know I’m not a librarian.” She walked to the other side of the couch. “I work for an ad agency. That’s what all of this stuff is.” She pointed to the work stacked on the coffee table.
“Working on Saturday night? That’s no fun.”
She scoffed. “Fun? I don’t even know what that is anymore.”
He was tempted to disagree with her. Last night she had been all kinds of fun. Bolt thought for a second. Hollywood would either kill him or grill him, but for some reason he couldn’t walk out with only his tags. “Come with me to PB. Let’s
go get a beer.”
Skye eyed him. “Beer?”
“Please tell me you aren’t one of those girls who only drinks wine.” With her hair in that bun and those glasses, she looked like a strict coffee drinker.
“I don’t even know what that means, but of course I can drink a beer.” She folded her arms across her chest.
“Ok, then drink one with me. Come on. Let’s go.” His head leaned toward the door.
She looked at her yoga pants and tank top. “I can’t go out like this. Besides, I’m working.”
Remnants of this morning were starting to surface, but he didn’t feel like retreating this time. He wanted her to go get a drink with him, not hide out in her shell. “You’ve got ten minutes.” He settled on the couch.
“What are you doing?” Her hands flew to her hips.
He picked up one of the charts. “I’m waiting for you to go change. Ten minutes.”
She sighed, but he knew he had victory when she stormed to a room at the end of the hall and closed the door. He flipped over one of the reports. There were statistics, lines, and a graph about Balboa Park. He might as well be reading Russian. He studied the next page. There was a charcoal sketch of a face. He looked around the apartment to see if there was any other artwork like it. He appreciated the smooth lines. Skye must have drawn it. There were a few more like it in the stack. He placed them back in the pile, curious about her drawing hobby.
He stood and scanned the apartment. Things always looked different with the lights on. Under her TV was a pile of books, their spines lined in a row. There was a picture as a bookend. He picked it up. Skye smiled from the frame with a group of girls. It looked like a college picture. He returned it to its position and walked to the window.
Her apartment overlooked the inner courtyard of the complex. Lights shone from the pool and there was a fire pit in the corner. It looked like every other apartment building in San Diego: hibiscus flowers, faux waterfall, and lined deck chairs in a row. He thought it fit her. Pretty, but well maintained and organized—not a wild weed in sight. He chuckled out loud, realizing he had just spent more time in the last five minutes analyzing Skye than he had the last five women he had slept with.
Four
Skye held up a pink shirt. No, too bright. She dug into her drawer for another one. She pressed a light blue tank top against her chest. This one might work. She brushed her teeth and dabbed on a pinch of blush. She checked her reflection in the mirror. Was she actually going through with this? True, now she knew the guy had a name, and he wasn’t a doctor or a pharmaceutical sales rep. It was far worse—he was in the military. She kicked herself for not putting the pieces together sooner. But what was there to assemble? It was supposed to be a one-night stand. A botched one, but nonetheless she wasn’t going to forget last night any time soon. Just the way he looked at her made her catch her breath. He was too good-looking. Men like that didn’t appear out of thin air.
She stepped into a pair of black wedges and grabbed a jacket from her closet. No matter how warm and sunny the days were, San Diego nights were always chilly. She ran her fingers through her hair again to shake out the bun she had clipped on top when she was working.
It was hard to ignore the fact that he had caught her home alone on a Saturday night with nothing to keep her company but spreadsheets. The spritz she used on her hair, might hold, but he said something about going to Pacific Beach, or PB as all the locals called it. Beach breezes would blow this to pieces. She gave up and headed for the door.
Although her hand was on the knob, she couldn’t quite muster the nerve to turn it. What if he was some kind of crazy stalker who picked up women at bars and was just waiting for his chance to chop her into tiny bits? She shook her head. That was a completely irrational thought. What if his only interest was getting her into bed? She chewed her lip again, gnawing off half her lipgloss. Of course, he was determined to get her in bed. She had given up all her cards last night by bringing him back to her apartment and getting naked in five seconds flat. There was still another option. She smiled as she pulled the door open. Ben Hardcastle was getting ready to have to prove if he was here for the right reasons. She was going to stick to the golden rule.
“What is this place?” Skye stepped from the truck and took in the building adjacent to the pier. It was wooden and looked like it hadn’t seen a coat of paint or stain in twenty years.
“A bar.” Ben walked to her side to help her step down, but she was already on the pavement.
It was almost entirely outdoor seating. There were people leaning against the railings, beers in hand, fruity drinks with tropical umbrellas scattered on the tables. Skye followed Ben up the stairs, wrapping her jacket a little tighter as the ocean breeze kicked up.
“Dude, where the hell have you be—oh, hello.” A tall, well-built man stopped in mid-rant to smile at Skye.
“Skye, Hollywood. Hollywood, Skye.” Ben introduced them.
“Bolt didn’t tell me he was bringing along a beautiful woman.” He took her hand.
Skye’s eyes darted to her date. “Bolt?” It crossed her mind maybe he hadn’t been honest about his real name.
He nodded. “Yep. It’s a call sign.”
“So you’re a pilot?” Her head tilted to the side.
Hollywood laughed. “Aw, man. You didn’t tell her? That’s funny.”
“Shut up.” Ben looked uncomfortable.
Skye scooted onto the open barstool. “Aren’t there always stories that go with call signs?” The guys nodded. “Well, then you have to tell me the back story on your names.” She looked at both men.
“I think you need a drink for this talk, sweetheart.” Hollywood waved down a waitress.
“There you are!” A tall, lean guy in jeans and a surfing T-shirt dropped into an open seat.
“Eagle, what’s up man? I didn’t know you were meeting us out.” Ben looked surprised to see him. Skye assumed the newcomer must be another pilot.
Hollywood handed out three beers, while Eagle ordered another for himself.
“And I didn’t know we were bringing dates.” He turned toward Skye. “Nice to meet you.”
She smiled. “Nice to meet you. Skye.” She extended her hand to his. “Now I get to hear another call sign story.”
“Oh, we’re doing that?” Eagle accepted the beer from the waitress with a grin.
Hollywood laughed. “Yep. We’re doing that. Why don’t you go first since you got here last?”
Eagle hung his head. “Ah, do I have to? It’s embarrassing. Mine isn’t the most glamorous story.” He took a swig of beer. “When I was in flight school some dudes in my class dared me to shave my head one night. We were pretty plastered. Anyway, the next day I woke up with a white bald head, and that with the combination of this nose,” He pointed to his face. “garnered the awesome call sign Eagle, because everyone said I looked like a bald eagle. Never shaved my head again after that one.”
Skye smiled. She wasn’t sure how to react. Now that he mentioned it, he did have sort of a hooked nose and high eyebrows like a Muppets character. Giggling definitely wasn’t a good idea.
“I’m up.” Hollywood slammed his beer on the table. “Ever heard of the show The Dad?” He searched her eyes.
“Of course. I loved that show. It was hilarious.”
“Well, I was Little Ricky.”
“What?” She studied his face trying to make out the features from the five-year-old boy that she and her family laughed over every Thursday night.
Ben and Eagle started to laugh. “He’s a genuine movie star.” Ben winked at her and she felt that sensation deep in her stomach, the one that she hadn’t stopped thinking about since last night.
Hollywood nodded. “That’s right. I was Little Ricky for three years.”
“But, what happened? After the show ended I don’t remember seeing you on anything else.” She leaned forward in her seat. This was like a Where Are They Now show.
“My parents decided to
move out of California. They didn’t like the lifestyle, so we headed back to the east coast. I was too young to know the difference. I went to college, flight school, and now I’m here having a beer with my buddies and you.”
Skye recognized a flirt when she saw one. This guy had more moves than a chess board. “And Hollywood I’m guessing is to make fun of your illustrious career?”
“Exactly. That and they’re all just jealous. I like to think it’s more of a compliment.” He grinned from ear to ear.
“Oh, I’m sure it’s a compliment.” He had the good looks to back up the name. “So that leaves you.” She tipped her beer toward Ben. This was the story she had been waiting to hear. The one she had tried to figure out since she heard his alternate name. She asked the question but was praying the explanation had nothing to with his possible tendency to bolt on women. “How did you get the name Bolt?”
He rested on his elbows and rotated so his eyes were locked on hers. “Lightning strike.”
“Lightning?”
“It was my first tour after flight school and I was heading out for a night flight. There was a storm rolling in, but we thought we could take off before it was over top of us. It was past the five-mile safety mark, or at least we thought it was.” He paused and she knew there was no hiding that she was absorbed in his every word. “But, as I was rolling down the runway and about to lift off, we had a strike on our tail. It must have been a pop-up cloud or something. We were airborne for about a second then, smack!” He hit the table. “We were right back on the runway.”
“Oh my God. Were you hurt?”
Ben laughed. “Naw. We destroyed a forty million dollar aircraft, but we were fine.”
Skye realized she had been holding her breath. “I bet you were terrified.”
He shook his head. “Not until much later. We were just glad we didn’t fry. It took awhile for it to sink in what had actually happened. It was one of those surreal experiences. You know?” He smiled at her, and for a second she thought he might be talking about more than just his lightning accident. As he stared into her eyes the heat from last night came back to her. “Who’s ready for another round? Want another?”
