“At ease, men,” said Fernando, clearing his throat. “I think most of you know our resident reporter. Miss Buckman, this is Sergeant Jackson Connor, the man who led the extraction party today. Men, Miss Buckman has got something she’d like to say to y’all.” Then he turned to me. “The floor is yours, Miss Buckman.”
I looked at each of the men in turn. The oldest couldn’t have been more than 30; the youngest, a teenager who barely needed to shave. But they all had hard bodies and the flinty expressions of men who’d seen too much.
“I didn’t get a chance to thank you before,” I said, my voice carrying across the length of the long canvas dormitory. “You know, what with all those distracting bullets flying around and the angry mob out for blood.” There was a soft murmur of laughter, but I had to close my eyes briefly as the feeling of terror began to crawl up my throat again. I swallowed twice before I could continue. “So, thank you—all of you—for saving my life.” My eyes locked on Sergeant Connor. “I mean it—without you guys, I wouldn’t be here now.”
I’m not sure if I imagined it, but his hard expression seemed to soften slightly.
“I’m flying home tomorrow,” I continued. “Someone told me that the Bronx is safer than Lashkar Gah . . .” I paused as a few more laughs echoed down the room, and even Sergeant Connor cracked a small smile. “But the next time any of you are in New York City, I’d love to buy you a drink. I work for the New York Times, a great big building on Eighth Avenue, so I’m pretty easy to find.”
I looked across at Captain Fernando.
“That’s it,” I said softly.
As I left the room, I could feel Sergeant Connor’s dark blue eyes burning into my back. I squared my shoulders as I walked away. The bastard had called me a stupid bitch; but he’d also saved my life . . . and said I was smoking hot.
I’d been back in NYC for three months. I’d tried several times to find out what had happened to Omar and Anoosheh’s family, but so far—nothing. They’d disappeared into the chaos of a country still at war after more than a decade of intervention.
I kept thinking about what Sergeant Connor said to me: had I made things harder for the troops still out there? I’d had such a strong belief that I held the moral high ground, but now I wasn’t sure. I certainly hadn’t improved things for Anoosheh, but my articles about the plight of women’s education in Afghanistan and elsewhere had garnered plenty of publicity, and several charities had benefitted by receiving substantial donations from the public. So maybe it had been worthwhile.
My musings were interrupted when Allison, my PA, put her head around the door.
“Hey, MJ, you’ve got a visitor waiting for you in reception.”
I frowned at her.
“There’s no one on the schedule?”
Besides, it was after six on Friday, and most people had already left for the day.
She shrugged, a mischievous look on her face.
“Nope, no one scheduled, but you’ll want to make time for this one, I promise.”
“Well, who is it?”
She rolled her eyes.
“You’re the reporter—go find out!”
Irritated but intrigued, I rode the elevator down to reception, scanning the lobby for my mystery guest.
My breath caught in my throat when I saw Sergeant Connor leaning against the wall, his arms folded and an amused expression on his face.
He wasn’t in uniform and he looked far more relaxed than I’d seen him before. He was dressed in worn blue jeans and a plain gray t-shirt stretched over his broad chest and shoulders. I remembered that chest all too well, especially as it had starred in several erotic dreams.
The automatic doors slid open bringing a gust of air toward me, along with the faint scent of soap and something more masculine.
I realized that I was still staring, and the corners of his mouth lifted in a smile.
“Sergeant Connor!” I choked out. “This is a surprise.”
I held out my hand and he shook it.
His tanned hand was large enough to completely cover mine, and the palms were rough. His grip, however, was surprisingly gentle.
“Jackson,” he said. “My friends call me Jack.”
“Mine call me MJ. So what are you doing here? Can I help you with something?”
“Waal,” he said, a slow drawl in his voice, “I met a journalist out in Afghan who said she’d buy me a drink if I was ever in Manhattan. So here I am.”
I blinked rapidly.
“Oh, okay! Sure!” My laugh was a little nervous. “I definitely owe you a drink. After all, you did give me valuable sartorial advice about my footwear and, you know, saved my life.”
He grinned for the first time since I’d met him.
“Sartorial advice on footwear? Did you swallow a dictionary, Ms. Journalist?”
“Did you graduate from charm school, Mr. Marine?”
He laughed loudly and several people turned to look at us, although it was possible all the females still in the building were already looking.
“So, how about that drink?” he asked again, his eyes flicking up and down me quickly, but not so quickly that I didn’t catch him doing it.
“Do you usually take drinks from stupid bitches?” I asked, my voice bland.
He winced and looked uncomfortable for a second.
“I’d like to apologize for saying that . . .”
I interrupted him quickly.
“Well, I was stupid. I made a very bad error of judgment, and if it hadn’t been for you and your men . . .”
My voice trailed off and a shudder ran through me as the memories made my stomach lurch.
“I’m still sorry,” he said softly, then touched my arm, a light, fleeting touch.
His eyebrows lifted as we both felt the shock of something like electricity, a connection arc between us. I licked my lips and risked looking into his eyes. His gaze was so intense, I had to turn away quickly.
“But I’m only a bitch to ex-boyfriends,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.
He grinned again, his eyes crinkling at the corners of his deeply tanned face.
“Noted. I think I’ll take the risk.”
I smiled as he held out his hand to me.
We might have had a very bad start, but now it looked like a very promising beginning.
Oo-rah.
A Rocky Road
“SO, WHERE DO you want to go?” I asked.
Jackson smiled and shook his head.
“I’m just a lil ole country boy let loose in the big city. I might get taken advantage of. I’m countin’ on you to keep me safe, Ms. Journalist.”
“Hmm, I can see that. An innocent in the big, bad city.”
“Waal now, I wouldn’t say innocent exactly,” he drawled, his eyes glinting.
No, there was nothing innocent about Jackson Connor.
“Don’t worry,” I said, patting his arm. “I’ll protect you. You’re on my turf now.”
His eyes twinkled with amusement and I could see him holding back a smile. He was so different from the angry, intense Marine that I’d met in Afghanistan.
He walked with an easy grace, a long-legged stride, confident in his body, owning the space around him. I’d seen his calm competence in an emergency first hand. This was a restrained version of it—a certainty that he could face anything.
But as we walked along the street, I picked up on several non-verbal cues that he’d probably prefer I didn’t notice. I’d spent enough time with military personnel that I recognized the signs.
His eyes roved constantly, even as he maintained a light-hearted conversation. I saw him swiftly assessing everyone who passed us, automatically estimating the potential level of threat. No one was excluded: shoppers, office workers, mothers with strollers, even an elderly lady with a cane was analyzed before being dismissed from his automatic threat triage. He glanced upwards frequently, checking the skyline for snipers, I guessed. A street vendor made him frown, and his right hand tw
itched, as if seeking an absent weapon.
He was friendly but he was alert, not truly relaxing until we entered Walter’s Bar, a small, low-key hangout that I liked to go to. It had a dart board where I played with colleagues from work sometimes, and ESPN blared from the flatscreens around the room.
It was early evening and the bar was busy with the after-work crowd, so I led the way to my favorite booth opposite the horseshoe-shaped bar and plopped onto the cracked leather seat. It offered a little more privacy than one of the tables in the center.
Jackson took a position where he could see everyone who entered the bar, then, apparently satisfied with our seats, picked up the menu.
“What’s good?”
“Pepperoni pizza or wings,” I answered immediately.
Walter’s had a small menu that served basic bar food, but I liked it because it was friendly and unpretentious, not because the food was great.
Jackson licked his lips and a small shiver of anticipation ran through him.
“Man, I can’t tell you the number of times I dreamed of buffalo chicken wings while I was in the sandbox,” he murmured.
“My treat,” I reminded him.
“That wasn’t part of the deal.”
“I can buy you an $8 pizza,” I smiled. “Not exactly the going rate for saving someone’s life, but it’s a start.”
“Is that so?”
“Hell, I’ll even let you get a side of fries, if you like,” I winked at him.
He nodded eagerly.
“And a cold draft beer?” I suggested, knowing how much the guys deployed to Afghanistan longed for an ice cold, crystal clear beer on each and every one of those hot, dusty, draining days.
He groaned, an expression of yearning washing over his face which I took as a ‘yes’.
I placed our order with the server and sat back in the booth.
Jackson fiddled with a paper napkin, absently shredding it, a small frown on his face as his eyes checked out the entrance for the third time in five minutes.
“Relax, Sergeant,” I said, smiling to soften my words. “No insurgents here.”
His chin jerked up as his eyes narrowed with irritation, but then he blew out a long breath and I saw the set of his shoulders loosen.
“Occupational hazard,” he nodded with a wry smile. “I’ve only been stateside four weeks and away from the base for two days—not long enough to switch it all off.” And then he murmured softly, “If it ever switches off . . .”
I smiled reassuringly. I knew that he couldn’t turn it off any more than he could stop being a Marine, but maybe I could help him relax a little more. I understood how he felt. Once you’ve experienced something life-threatening, you’re more aware, you can’t help it. You’ll always be watching, even if it’s unconsciously.
“I get that. I felt like I was on the biggest rollercoaster for the first two weeks I was back home. Every time I heard a loud noise, I jumped. I’m better now. Although sometimes . . .” and I shrugged.
He nodded with understanding and maybe a little relief.
“But if you’re interested, there’s another exit out the back, although Walter is a little picky about who he lets walk through his kitchen.”
Jackson grinned.
“Sounds like you’ve done a few covert ops in here.”
“Something like that,” I smiled, happy to see him begin to relax. “Dart competitions can get pretty intense.”
He chuckled quietly, but then he went back to shredding his napkin and an uncomfortable silence started to settle. Just as it was verging on awkward, he looked up.
“Did you find that girl? The one you were interviewing?”
“Anoosheh,” I sighed. “No, I didn’t. I heard a vague rumor that her family had made it to Pakistan, but . . . it’s just a rumor. I’m still hopeful . . . or maybe I should say I’m still hoping . . .”
He nodded, his expression closed off.
I let my journalism training kick in—I was used to getting people talking, it was part of the job.
“So,” I began, “what part of the south does this country boy come from?”
“Gulfport, Mississippi.”
“Oh, my gosh! Don’t tell me your parents named you after Jackson, Mississippi!”
He gave a low chuckle.
“No, ma’am. My grandpappy on my mother’s side. But I can’t say for sure where his name came from. What about you? Where do you hail from?”
“I’m a Philly girl.”
“Good football team.”
“You follow the Eagles?”
His expression hardened as he swallowed and looked down.
“My buddy did.”
It didn’t escape my notice that he’d used the past tense.
Luckily, the food arrived and Jackson inhaled his meal with barely a glance in my direction, although his moans and groans as he ate his chicken wings bordered on pornographic—certainly to my mind.
“Hungry?” I asked, lifting an eyebrow as I idly chewed on a French fry.
His tanned cheeks reddened with a faint blush and he looked up sheepishly.
“I’m just teasing you, Jack. But I promise, no one is going to try and take those wings away from you.”
He muttered something under his breath and I watched with fascination as the tips of his ears turned pink. But then he leaned back in his seat and fixed me with an amused stare.
“So, havin’ saved your life an’ all, does that mean I get dessert, too?”
“Wow, you’re pushing your luck now, Sergeant. Hmm, let me think about that. Yes, saving-of-life would definitely merit a portion of ice cream.”
“Huh, is that right? I was thinking more of waffles with banana, brownies, hot fudge sauce and chocolate ice cream.”
“Well, you’re out of luck because Walter’s has vanilla, chocolate or strawberry ice cream.”
“Damn! I was really craving hot fudge.”
“Why, Jack Connor! I’m sensing that someone has a sweet tooth!”
“I sure do like my sugar,” he smiled right back at me.
And then he licked his lips. Those full, pink, sensuous lips.
The man was a darned tease.
And a flirt.
But he was only in town for a short visit, and hot as he was, I didn’t do one-night stands. Not for a couple of years now. I wasn’t cut out for it. No matter if I only slept with a guy once, my heart always seemed to get involved. Although something told me that making an exception for Jackson would be a memory worth having. But still . . .
“What are your plans while you’re in town?” I asked, changing the subject.
He finished up the last of his wings, wiping his mouth on the napkin while he chewed thoughtfully.
“I’ve got a buddy up in Scranton that I’m gonna go see. But other than that . . .” He shrugged casually. “Guess I’ll take a look at the Big Apple, see what all the fuss is about.”
“You’ve never been here before?”
“Nope,” he said, popping the ‘p’. “Like I said, I’m a country boy at heart.”
“Well, I’m sure your friend will really appreciate the visit.”
His expression was hard to read as he nodded.
Instead of trying to figure out what it meant, I watched as the server brought his chocolate ice cream, smiling with fascination as four scoops disappeared in double-quick time. I could feel the pounds piling on my thighs just by looking at him. I swear that some calories are carried by air, like a virus.
When his dish was clean, we ordered coffee. I took mine with sugar; Jackson didn’t bother with it. Honestly, he’d already had so much sugar, I was relieved that he hadn’t fallen into a diabetic coma. Even though he hadn’t been living on MREs the whole time he was overseas, the man had obviously missed pub grub.
Chatting with Jackson was easy once he’d relaxed, but I started to realize that we had almost nothing in common. He liked Country music and I liked anything with a Latin beat; he loved action movies and I
liked weird and emotional European films; I’d gotten my Masters in Journalism and he’d graduated high school at 18 then joined the Marines; I’d lived in New York my whole life and this was his first visit, but he wasn’t thrilled so far.
And yet . . . and yet . . . there was a pull, a draw, a something in his eyes that said he found our differences intriguing, maybe an invitation or a challenge. I wasn’t foolish enough to think that his visit was simply to take me up on my offer to buy him a drink . . . and yet . . .
I couldn’t put my finger on it.
He was attractive—no one with eyeballs could deny that. But there was a self-sufficiency, a commanding quietness that drew me in. He moved effortlessly through his space, a man at ease with himself, a man who knew that he’d accomplished things beyond the understanding of most people. It wasn’t arrogance, but simply confidence in his abilities and his place in the world.
And he made me laugh.
Who would have thought that the intense, aggressive Marine that I’d met under such trying circumstances could tell jokes and tease and flirt?
It was the most fun dinner I’d had in forever.
We’d had something of a tussle for the check before it came, and I’d cheated by paying when I went to the bathroom. Jackson hadn’t taken it well and brooded for at least 30 seconds.
“Well, I suppose I’d better get going. One of us has to get up for work tomorrow,” I said at last. “Thank you for a very entertaining evening. I’m glad you came by.”
“So am I—best chicken wings I’ve had in nine months. And the company wasn’t bad,” he teased.
“Why, Sergeant Connor! You’re in danger of paying me a compliment.”
He laughed lightly.
“Is that a fact? Waal, my grandpappy always told me to treat a pretty girl like a lady. And he’d damn well kick my ass for letting you pay. But I can’t say as I’ve gotten a lot of chances to mind my manners lately with any sort of female.”
“Any sort of female?” I raised my eyebrows. “And now you’re in danger of sweeping me off my feet with all that sweet-talk.”
Battle Scars Page 2
