“Wow. Okay.” Suddenly this conversation bore the weight of potentially being their last. He wasn’t remotely prepared, and he cleared his throat to stall for time. “Do you need a ride to the airport tomorrow? I could take you.”
“She’s coming with me.”
He spun to find a reedy man perched on the stool opposite Mia’s. He had a hipster coif and a smug smile, and Ethan hated him immediately.
“This is my colleague, Nick Baker. Nick, this is Captain Fletcher, from Echo Company.”
Heat burned in Ethan’s cheeks as Nick’s brows rose with recognition. He imagined their conversation ten weeks earlier, lingering in an emptying-out meeting room as Mia relayed the tale of her crazy neighbor stalking around his backyard in his boxers. Nick had probably heard all about his freaky book-filled house, his bizarre idea to mark the anniversary of his survival with a dinner date, and his inability to hold a porcelain cup without rattling it against the saucer. He knew Mia wouldn’t laugh at him behind his back but she would share her concerns with a fellow professional, and if he was reading Nick’s expression correctly, he suspected the man didn’t share her nonjudgmental worldview.
Nick shifted in his seat and clarity dawned like a too-bright, too-hot, hung-over morning. Ethan took in their posture, the way Nick’s stool was angled toward hers, the proximity of her hand to his on the bar, their knees so close they’d probably brushed together once or twice. And he felt like the biggest idiot this side of the Mississippi.
“Anyway, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You’re not,” Mia assured him. “We’re just having one last drink as a project team.”
She gestured to encompass the seven or eight civilians at the bar, but he was pretty sure Nick’s intentions were for the two of them to continue the celebration on their own as the night wore on. He took a step backward.
“I’ll leave you to it then. Safe travels back to DC.”
“I could come by in the morning to say goodbye, if you’ll be around?”
He shrugged, not believing for a second that was an offer she’d make good on. “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
Nick lifted his palm. “Bye.”
Ethan nodded his farewell and turned his back, walking briskly through the crowd to the pool table, and then halted abruptly when he found it occupied by two strangers.
“I won.”
He swiveled as Chance approached on his left.
“Didn’t think it was worth waiting to show you the evidence, so I let these gentlemen take over.” His NCO lowered his voice. “Thought you might want to beat a hasty retreat.”
“Retreat implies surrender.” Ethan managed a rueful smile. “This battle was a clear-cut defeat.”
“You can’t win ’em all, Captain.”
He stole a last glance at the brunette at the bar, at her glossy hair, her confident smile, the eyes that held secrets he’d never know.
“You can’t,” he agreed. “But you can die trying.”
When Ethan got back from Chance’s off-post house that night, where they’d passed a low-key evening ordering pizza and watching baseball, it was after ten o’clock. His chest tightened as he spotted a strange car parked in Mia’s driveway. It had to be Nick’s, and the sting of jealousy as he thought of the other man’s hands on her was so painful he had to take several deep breaths before he could bring himself to cross the yard to his front door.
For the next two hours he paced restlessly around the house, too distracted by speculation about what was happening next door to focus on a book or watch TV. He got as far as opening the cabinet in the kitchen and staring at the single whiskey bottle left there, but shut it again and stalked back to the living room.
By midnight he’d answered every email in his work and personal inboxes, scrubbed the kitchen counters, bagged up a stack of books he planned to donate to the library and polished the dress boots he had no intention of wearing anytime soon. He stowed them in the bottom of the closet and sat on the edge of his bed, sighing heavily.
He didn’t have to look out the window to know Nick’s car was still parked outside—he’d been straining to hear the engine all night. Like it or not, it was time for him to accept reality. Nick had succeeded where he had failed, and a sleepover with Mia was the prize.
Where had he gone wrong? She hadn’t been deterred by the drinking or the messy house, so what was it? Did he push her too far, too fast when he asked what happened to make her afraid? Or burden her with his tale of near-miss death? He was compelled to be honest and authentic with her in a way he never had been before—maybe that was a mistake. Maybe Nick’s practiced charm and smooth lines had given him the edge.
Then again, she’d mentioned her track record of dating self-centered overachievers, and she hadn’t sounded too thrilled with the experience. He hated that type of guy, the kind who viewed women as challenges to be manipulated and won, then discarded as soon as the next one came along—guys who never thought about anything except their own satisfaction. That fit perfectly with his split-second impression of Nick, whose smirking assurance had instantly grated. Maybe Nick was just the latest installment in a series of smug, arrogant assholes who thought they could breeze in and wow Mia with their towering intellects and take what they wanted without ever—
“Oh, shit,” he interrupted himself aloud. “What if he hurts her?”
There was a crash on the other side of the bedroom wall, and Ethan knew instantly that for it to be audible through the thick insulation it had to be a piece of furniture toppling over. Without thinking he was on his feet and running down the stairs, through the living room, his socks skidding on the tiles in the entryway as he flung open the front door with such force that the handle clattered against the wall.
He crossed the yard in three long strides and pounded on Mia’s door with one hand, testing the knob with the other. It was locked, and he banged harder.
“Mia, it’s Ethan—are you okay?”
For every second that ticked by without an answer, his fears became more vividly illustrated in his mind, and an answering rage squalled in his ribcage. What if she was too injured to move? What if she was unconscious? What if that bastard was preventing her from answering the door?
He stepped back to examine the door, assessing the likelihood he could kick it in. He wasn’t wearing shoes, but he didn’t care—he’d break both feet and his hands if it meant Mia was safe.
Dear God, let her be safe.
He balled his fists, took a deep breath—and the door swung open.
“Ethan?” Mia squinted up at him in the darkness, tugging her zip-up hoodie closed over her pajama top. “What’s going on?”
His exhalation was full of relief, but she could tell by the stiffness in his shoulders and the quick movements of his eyes that he was still on high alert. “I heard a crash. I wanted to make sure you were all right.”
“I’m fine. I dropped a bracelet behind the dresser and I was trying to tilt it forward enough to reach down and grab it. My hand slipped and the whole thing tipped over.” She rolled her eyes at her own clumsiness, hoping to broadcast that there was no danger.
“Where is Nick? Was he helping you?”
“Nick?”
“Your colleague. Isn’t that his car?”
“He was too drunk to drive. He gave me a ride to the bar so I had to drop him off, then drive his car to get home.”
“You’re going to leave it here all night?”
She lifted a shoulder. “It’s mean, but I like the idea of him waking up tomorrow and having no idea what happened to his car. He deserves it after his behavior tonight.”
His expression sharpened. “He hit on you.”
“He always does.” Her eyes widened with understanding. “You thought he was here. You heard the dresser fall over and thought we were fighting.”
“I just wanted to make sure you were safe,” he muttered, taking a sudden interest in his socks as he backed into the yard. “Now I know
you are, so I’ll head home. I didn’t mean to disturb you so late.”
The heavy mix of yearning and regret that had tugged at her every waking moment for the last month intensified as she took in his sheepish posture, his body already angled to leave. How many nights in the past four weeks had she concluded hours of vacillation with the decision to go to his house, only to freeze at her own front entrance? How many times had she taken absurd detours in order to walk past his office in the vain hope he’d call to her through the open door? How often had she snapped awake from a vibrantly erotic fantasy about what might’ve happened if their night together had gone differently—and how rarely was she able to get back to sleep afterward, too overcome with humiliation and remorse at her cowardice?
When he approached her in the bar, with that eager smile and warm gaze, a rush of soaring hope swept through her so forcefully she struggled to catch her breath. All this time she assumed he hated her, that he was disgusted by her hot-and-cold signals, that even if she could muster the courage to speak to him, the advance would be unwelcome.
But there was so much pride in his voice when he told her he was seeing a counselor, so much keenness for her approval that she realized she was wrong. Of course she was. Ethan wasn’t Jake or any of his successors—he wasn’t the kind of man to discard a woman if he didn’t get what he wanted exactly when he wanted it.
She was tired of those men, and the vigilance they required. She was tired of being afraid to trust herself. She was tired of fear, of solitude, of the energy required to protect herself from ubiquitous, perceived threats to her body and her heart.
And Ethan was here on her doorstep. He’d looked ready to break down the door when she opened it, on the brink of shoving into her house to stop her nonexistent assailant. Despite everything that had gone between them, all the ambiguity and rejection and frightened withdrawal, he was here. He’d come to protect her.
In twelve hours she’d be on a plane to Chicago. This was her last chance to share herself with this remarkable man, and like hell was she going to be too afraid to take it.
“Ethan, wait.”
The grass was still summer-springy under her bare feet as she descended the step and joined him on the lawn. The night was warm and the trees were thick with leaves. It didn’t feel like autumn, that season of slow decay, of putting away light summer clothes and readying for the long decline into winter.
It felt like a beginning.
She reached for Ethan’s hand, tugging gently as his fingers laced through hers.
“Come inside.”
“I shouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
He still couldn’t tear his gaze from the ground. “It’s late, and you have to be up early tomorrow for your flight. You probably have a ton of packing left to do, and I—”
“I want you to come inside. I want you to spend the night with me. In my bed.”
Now he was looking at her, his eyes flashing in the darkness. “What did you say?”
She took a step closer, her heart pounding as she reminded herself to be brave, braver than ever before. She raised her other hand to his elbow, guided his palm to her waist.
“You were right—someone did hurt me, a long time ago. I want to tell you what happened, and then I want you to make love to me. I want you to touch me until I forget anyone who’s ever touched me before. And then I want you to hold me, so I can wake up in the safest place I’ve ever been.” She flattened her hand over his heart. “Right here.”
“I will.” His voice was hoarse with urgency. “I promise.”
Chapter Eight
“My drink wasn’t spiked—there was no need. I was trying so hard to seem cool and nonchalant that I drank whatever anyone put in front of me. Rum, tequila, vodka, some pink atrocity that tasted like marshmallows—I tossed them back like I knew exactly what I was doing, like it was my fiftieth big, preppy, eating-club party instead of my first.”
Mia sighed, scooting across the mattress to press more tightly against Ethan’s side. She rested her cheek on his chest, her finger idly tracing the insignia on his polo shirt. “Most people assumed I’d been partying harder and longer than everyone since I was from Manhattan. It took a while before they realized I’d spent my chic, urban adolescence bringing textbooks to gallery openings and asking to be excused from my parents’ dinner parties so I could study. Everyone except Jake Greenwald, of course. He saw through me right away.”
“Jake Greenwald,” Ethan echoed, shifting on the pillow to fold one arm behind his head. “Physics major, right? He was always promoting his crappy band, what were they called?”
“Heavy Neutral Leptons.”
“That’s it. He must have been persuasive, because they seemed to play every campus event whether it was a seniors’ bar night or an alumni tea.”
“Did you know him?”
“I only met him once or twice. He was a dick.”
She laughed at his concise summation. “He probably still is. But I was young and naïve, and I’d been swooning over him in a neuroscience seminar.”
“He was at the party?”
She nodded. She could hear his heart beating in his chest, slowly and evenly. She wanted to see the athletic body that unhurried rhythm suggested, discover whether the hair below his neck was as golden-blond as on the top of his head, inspect every inch of his skin until she knew each freckle by heart.
She wanted to get this part over with.
“Look, it really wasn’t such a big deal.” She pushed up on her elbow, propping her chin on her hand. “I drank too much and had an ambiguous sexual encounter with an asshole. It’s nothing new, and I need to get over it. I know firsthand the levels of trauma soldiers encounter, and it’s ridiculous and selfish to be so hung up on something so minor that happened so long ago. I mean, you’ve killed people—this must sound so petty in comparison.”
“Killing people is my job. I get paid for it, and it’s what I signed up to do. Tell me what happened at the party.”
“Like I said, stupid girl, liquor, douchebag guy. Same thing that always happens.”
Ethan’s voice was soft, but he tensed where he lay. “What did Jake do to you, Mia?”
She closed her eyes, searching the momentary darkness for the strength to confess her greatest shame. “I’m not sure.”
When she opened them again Ethan had rolled onto his side. His gaze was intent. “You don’t remember?”
“Only fragments. I know we had sex. It was my first time.”
“Did you consent?”
“I didn’t say no.”
“That’s not the same as saying yes.”
The word hung unspoken between them, as black and ominous as a storm cloud. Mia balled her hand into a fist, studied the white flesh over her knuckles.
“I don’t want it to be…that.”
“It’s not about what you want,” he murmured gently, prying open her hand and entwining his fingers with hers. “It’s about what happened.”
She shook her head. “I’d rather be complicit in a reckless, self-destructive act than someone else’s victim.”
“Because you think that gives you control over every subsequent situation?”
“Yes,” she agreed, oddly relieved at his articulation of what she’d never fully understood.
“So if it happens again, it’s your own fault because you got yourself into it.”
She nodded.
“You know that’s bullshit, right?”
And just like that, cracks began to run across the layer of ice that had sat under her skin since that hazily remembered night all those years ago.
“Yeah. I do.”
Her eyes welled and her face burned. She hauled herself up into a sitting position and turned her back, ready to flee the painful honesty of this moment, but Ethan was too fast for her. He closed his arms around her and dragged her back down to the bed, tucking her head under his chin and holding her tightly as she gave in to the shuddering, gasping sobs that
were more than a decade in the making.
“It’s okay,” he soothed, his voice a warm rumble above her ear. “That night doesn’t need to define who you are or the choices you make. You don’t have to be a victim, but you don’t have to bear the sole responsibility either.”
She nodded against his neck, trying to calm her hitching breaths. “That’s what I want. I want to walk away from the paranoia and the anxiety. I want to be with someone and have no fear.”
In a single motion he sat up and thrust her away from him, holding her at arm’s length. His eyes were pleading and focused, and they locked on to hers with such intensity that she didn’t dare to blink.
“You’re safe with me, Mia, I swear to God. I would never violate your trust and I don’t want you to be afraid.”
The world’s least likely smile tugged at her lips. “I know.”
“Are you sure? Don’t tell me what I want to hear—tell me what you think.”
“I think you’re a good man, Ethan. A man I trust completely.”
His expression faltered, revealing that ugly pain she knew still throbbed at his core.
“Sometimes the people who trust me get shot.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
He inhaled slowly, as if buying time while he figured out how to phrase his next statement. “What you said outside, about tonight—I don’t expect anything. I know it was hard for you to tell me this. We can sit here all night with our clothes on, or you can send me home, whatever you want. I’ll understand.”
“Not a chance. I only put myself through this awful disclosure to get to what comes next.” She moved his hands from her arms to her waist, then flattened her own against his chest. “Don’t be gentle. I’m not timid, and I’m not fragile. I want this. I want you.”
He kissed her then, and it was exactly how she hoped it would be. He wasn’t tentative, and he didn’t hold back. His mouth found hers hungrily, with the full force of his passion.
Enthusiastically she returned the pressure, luxuriating in the soft strength of his lips, shivering deliciously as her tongue found traces of peppermint in the moist heat of his mouth.
Alive Day: Homefront, Book 2 Page 8
