Cross My Heart

by K. D. Friedrich

  Silence ensued after the others departed. Pete stared at the ground. He’d dreaded this moment since she walked out the door days earlier. Better get the awkwardness over with before she walks away. He glanced up. “I’m sorry about the other night. I’m a mess. I said some things…” His words trailed together into one endless sentence.

  “You sure did.”

  Damn, he hadn’t expected her to agree with him. “It should have never happened,” he added.

  A wounded look crossed her face, but then disappeared. “I’m over it.”

  She marched past him in a swirl of irritation. He hated to upset her, but he had to admit, she presented one hell of a view. Long, toned legs strutted with defiance, while her hips rocked back and forth. Add the click-clack of her stilettos and he was lost, hypnotized by the sway of some erotic pendulum. Regardless of his heated lust and the ninety-degree temperatures, the coldness of her absence left him shaken.

  Her quick dismissal shouldn’t bother him. This was what he wanted, to distance himself from temptation and impossibilities. Letting her go made sense, a hell of a lot more sense than spinning on his heels and chasing after the one woman he knew would shatter his control. Then again, when did anything ever make sense?

  “Cara, wait.” Pete hobbled behind her, fighting the weakness and tension in his knee. “Will you wait a fucking second?”

  Pete grabbed her wrist and swung her around. Beneath his fingers, her pulse quickened. Intoxicating scents of cherries and vanilla swirled around him, invaded him and seduced him. He wanted to taste her again, drag her to the sunny meadow beyond the grounds, lay her down on a patch of wildflowers, and make love to her, worship her body with every weapon at his disposal. She had no idea what power she possessed. One simple word, one stroke, and she would bring him to his knees.

  He tugged her up against him, needing her soft warmth closer, snuggled in the protective comfort of his arms. He tightened his hand around her waist, while the other toyed with a loose curl, dangling in front of her cheek. “This can’t happen.” He eyed the kinky strand.

  “Why not?” she whispered.

  A simple question. Yet, he struggled to come up with a sufficient reason.

  Their gazes locked. Although no words expelled from her lips, desire sang a silent chant within her pleading stare. He traced a finger along her throat, memorizing its silken texture, pride swelling within him as her eyelids slid closed and a subtle moan expelled from her lips.

  “I can’t forget you, Cara. God knows I should. I’m no good anymore. You deserve a hell of a lot better than me.”

  She caressed the marred skin on his neck. Compassion and pity danced in her intense blue eyes, neither of which he wanted. Did she think a few meager scars drove his anger? Did she think he cared about vanity when good men suffered much more? Did she think so little of him?

  Wounds of war ran much deeper than a few patches of damaged flesh. They burrowed in a man’s soul, eating away every pure fiber, every resemblance of humanity, until nothing remained but an empty shell.

  “What happened to you?”

  Flashes of fire and blood exploded in his mind. Gunfire echoed in his ears. He jerked back, burned by incessant demons trapped in his memories. He shook his head, yet the images remained. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw them. He wheeled around, unable to look at Cara. Terrified his nightmares would haunt her as well. Taint her perfection somehow.

  “Pete, please talk to me.” Her hand closed over his shoulder. “What happened?”

  Pete shrugged off her comfort and spoke without turning. “I survived.”

  He’d promised John to look out for her and he planned to keep his oath by removing her biggest threat…himself. He spun on his heels and walked away.

  *

  Cara stood for several moments before she mustered up enough composure to enter the reception. More guests had arrived, filling the hallway leading to the ballroom. Her flesh continued to tingle where his fingers had touched, while at the same time her thoughts ran in vicious circles over his last comment.

  What did he mean, “he survived”? Shouldn’t survival be a cause to celebrate? He should be kicking his feet in the air and showering himself in confetti. Instead, he despised his second chance. When the two words left his mouth, he deflated. As if each uttered syllable sucked every ounce of joy, strength, and pride from his being and then, without any sort of explanation, he walked away, leaving Cara bemused and anxious. If he wanted to scare her, he succeeded.

  She squeezed her way through the crowd. Ahead, a vaulted entrance glittered, adorned in dazzling red and white lights. Through the archway, she caught sight of Stan and John. To her surprise, they shared a toast and a laugh. John patted Stan’s back, a big grin glued to his face. Stan nodded at whatever John mumbled. Amusement lit his expression. Pete stood off to the side. With a beer held tight in his fingers, he glared at Stan. Beside him, Rose tinkered with a button on his jacket. Sensual music echoed across the empty dance floor. Off in the corner, the DJ organized his collection. It all appeared so normal.

  Spicy chunks of meat and mini quiches filled the trays propped on each scurrying server’s upturned palm. Cocktail hour had begun, bringing with it sweet, spicy, and robust scents sure to entice. Too bad she left her appetite back in the parking lot.

  Not ready to deal with Pete, Cara searched for her table. Locating her seat, she sat down. It didn’t take long for everyone to join her. Stan sat on one side of her, John on the other. Pete sat a few seats down. Even though Rose had a table all the way on the other side of the room, she found it necessary to claim a spare seat beside Pete. Any closer to his hip and they would need the Jaws of Life to extract her.

  Rose laughed aloud, the sound like a fork over porcelain.

  “Who does she think she is?” Cara mumbled, her arms folded tight across her chest.

  “If looks could kill, she’d be four days past rigor mortis. Get a grip, sunshine. As much as I like a good cat fight, I’m not in the mood to bail you out of jail.”

  “Here, have a shot, it might cheer you up.” Stan handed her a short glass of brown liquid.

  She sniffed it and winced. “Thanks.” She brought it to her lips and swallowed it quick. God, it tastes like death. With her throat still burning, she glared at the cozy couple, Pete and Rose. Rose touched Pete on his cheek and Cara slammed the glass on the table. A few bystanders lifted their eyebrows, including Pete. Rose just smirked.

  “Okay, sorry, I mistook your scowl for joy. Let’s go.”

  “What?” Cara turned his way. “Where are we going?”

  “The dance floor, where it’s safe.”

  “I don’t dance.”

  Stan grabbed her hand. “You do tonight. Besides, Bertha Wokowitz has been eyeing me like a present on Christmas morning. Any minute, I’m afraid she’s going to hold me down and start ripping off my wrapping. You did offer yourself as my buffer.”

  She burst out with laughter. “Okay, big guy, it’s your toes.” She grabbed Stan’s hand and they walked out to the dance floor.

  *

  Pete fidgeted in his seat, uncomfortable with the sight that greeted him. Several yards away, Cara danced in the arms of another man. Not just any other man, but that son of a bitch Morrison.

  What did you expect her to do? You practically pushed her onto Stan’s arms with your asinine behavior. Oh, shut up, he told himself.

  She passed him another fleeting glance. Her frequent little inspections were beginning to make him downright uncomfortable. A loud snicker coming from his left side made him cringe. He looked over at the bimbo next to him and rolled his eyes. When he turned his attention back to the dance floor, he found Cara glaring at Rose.

  Was Cara jealous? Is that why she kept inspecting his every move? To see if his theory was right, he leaned closer to Rose and smiled at her. Sure enough, he caught sight of Cara, glowering at them.

  Jealousy hurt like a bitch, didn’t it, Cara? He knew, because pain pierced his h
eart each time she allowed Stan to touch her.

  Hey, why should he have all the fun? Let Cara have a taste of envy for a change.

  Pete kept his position beside Rose because her persistence amused him. Yet, Cara didn’t need to know his reason. Let her think the worst. Cara was better off without him anyway.

  Not far behind their table, busboys hustled, tossing dirty plates and glasses in bins. Porcelain cracked against porcelain. Each incessant clank startled him. Some days, like today, were worse than others when it came to his nerves. Over the years, Pete had lost his taste for crowds, too much noise, too much to monitor, too little control. He scanned the perimeter once again, memorizing his surroundings. Before he sat down, he knew the placement of every exit, had an exact headcount, and planned evacuation routes for each quadrant he created in his head. Old habits never die. Instead, they cling to life like a bitch. You can strip the rank from the man, but you can’t steal his training or experience. He watched everything, summed up everyone, and remained forever locked on alert. Active duty or not, being aware of your surroundings kept you and those who counted on you alive, and he refused to let anyone down on his watch again.

  Next to him, Rose giggled. He glanced in her direction and tossed her a forced grin. Mistaking his smile for an invitation, she leaned in and began to caress his shoulder, while her other hand landed on his thigh. He turned away.

  If you don’t like her, why don’t you get up and leave? Out of the corner of his eye, Pete noticed her cleavage. She does have a nice rack. Man, it’s been a long time since I sunk into such a warm, welcoming woman.

  His lust stirred, yet remained tepid. Uncomfortable with his meager reaction to Rose, he shifted in his seat. Pete never had trouble getting his cock to rise when it came to beautiful women, especially when one flashed an eyeful of cleavage in his face. He should be harder than steel. Rose’s breasts were a handful plus, and judging by her lack of modesty, she’d offer one hell of a good night. So why did his dick hang semi-limp, while a pair of beautiful breasts bulged inches from his face?

  You know why.

  Yeah, he knew why and he didn’t like the reason. Nothing compared to the feel of Cara in his arms, not Rose nor the millions of other women walking this earth. Sure, he’d fucked a few women over the years, dabbled in fantasies when opportunities presented themselves. Yet when he opened his eyes the next morning, it was Cara’s warm body he wanted beside him.

  She’s the one I want. The one I will always want. Ironic that she was the one woman he couldn’t have. Isn’t life a bitch.

  His gaze lifted to the dance floor, searching past bobbing bodies and gyrating pelvises to locate Cara’s perfect ass. Heart-shaped and full, her cheeks wiggled as her hips popped back and forth. One glimpse brought his body to instant life. He lowered his eyes to the painful hard-on now trapped beneath his zipper, and frowned. Yep, his equipment still worked. Seems one woman controlled the on switch.

  Rose laughed again. Pete cringed beneath the onslaught of her high-pitched snort. He cast a sideways glance, thankful to discover another guest now held Rose’s attention. Jesus, the woman laughed like a hyena with a nasal infection.

  Shaking his head, he turned back to Cara. He sipped his drink, nursing the beer as if it were his last. According to John, Pete’s drinking surpassed a level of comfort with him. When his dad came for his rare parental visits before his death, he would wait until he thought Pete had fallen asleep before pulling out the pint of Jack Daniels. By morning, an empty bottle usually rested on his father’s chest.

  As young as he was, Pete knew his father wasn’t drinking soda. He wondered why his father drank that stinky stuff. He even asked him once.

  “I drink to forget,” his father answered. “I drink to remember. Most of all, I drink to drown the nightmares.” Seeing his confusion, he patted Pete’s head and added, “Someday you’ll understand.”

  Pete swirled the liquid in his bottle and watched the way the flashing strobes highlighted the liquid. He glanced up, raising his beer. You were right, Dad. He finally understood.

  Tipping his head back, he swallowed down the remainder. On the far side of the room, Pete noticed a situation. He glared past the couples dancing and revelers laughing to a small group of preteens huddled together. He’d observed them outside, smoking behind the dumpster, scratching profanity on the brick wall. Punks no doubt, each one drenched in trouble.

  Pete narrowed his gaze. Centered between them stood a smaller boy. The child’s head hung low, his little hands fisted at his sides. Black hair stuck out in every direction, while big-rimmed glasses swallowed most of his face. Even from a distance, Pete noticed the kid’s bright blue eyes. They reminded him of Dan, the best damn rifleman he had a privilege to lead. The solider fought with a ferocious tenacity often found within a natural born warrior. He noticed the same fight burn in the little boy.

  Unlike the chubby-faced kid across the way, Dan hadn’t been nice to look at. Acne scars covered his cheeks and his mouth carved into a perpetual frown, but his imperfections didn’t matter, not when Dan’s steel blue irises demanded attention. His gaze possessed enough power to silence a dozen raving insurgents and a few loud-mouthed privates. A few yards away, the same haunting eyes glanced up with fear and anger. The effect on Pete was instant and profound. A vivid flash of Dan’s vacant gaze, staring out into the explosion that killed him, darkened Pete’s thoughts. He shook off the shadows clouding his mind before the flashback took over.

  Pete may have let his rifleman down, but sure as shit, he’d defend this kid.

  “Excuse me.” Pete stood without explanation, grabbed his cane, and limped over to the boy.

  *

  From the dance floor, Cara watched Pete stride across the room. With each hurried step, his cane stabbed the wood floor. Utter determination was carved in his features. Limp or not, Pete presented an air of authority few would challenge.

  Pete’s broad shoulders maneuvered past groups of people with stealth. Dozens of uniformed police in attendance, yet nothing swayed him from his destination. She’d witnessed his chivalry many times before, when his need to protect blurred his reason. She wondered what he wanted to defend this time.

  Her attention never left him, even when Stan spun her around the dance floor.

  The second the music stopped, she stepped away from Stan, “I gotta go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”

  “Okay, sunshine. I’ll be at the bar.”

  Fueled by curiosity, she headed toward Pete. He had stopped in front of the group of kids. She worked her way closer, ducking behind an enormous potted plant teeming with oversized leaves and branches. Voices carried through the foliage. Pete stood before a half dozen boys. All looked to be around ten to twelve years old. The smaller one in the center cowered. Tears clung to his thick eyelashes. On the side of his mouth, a trail of blood traveled toward his chin. Towering beside him, a brute of a child glared up at Pete, blood smeared on his knuckles.

  “We ain’t doing nothing,” the brute said. He wiped his fist on his pants. He appeared to be around twelve and judging by his bloated arrogance, the leader of their little gang.

  Pete returned the brute’s glare, upping the intensity tenfold. Several of the other boys took a step back and dropped their gazes. Even holding a cane, Pete demanded respect. Cara had never witnessed Pete in military mode. God, he made her ache. His voice leveled. His posture stiff, yet ready for action, his gaze unyielding.

  “Funny, I thought you had a problem with my friend here.”

  The brute glanced around with a nervous twitch. Not one single boy returned his unspoken request for help. He frowned at the silence. “We were talking, right, JT?”

  The boy in the center, JT, closed his eyes and lowered his head. “Y-y-yes, w-w-w-we were t-talking,” the boy stuttered.

  Cara’s heart ached for JT. She’d known a beautiful girl in grade school with a stutter. The other kids teased her without mercy.

  “Good thing, since whoe
ver has a problem with you has a problem with me, and believe me…” His gaze landed on the brute. “No one wants to have a problem with me.” Pete took a threatening step forward and all the boys scattered like a bunch of roaches struck with a spotlight.

  With an arrogant lift to his lips, rivaling any super hero, Pete squatted beside the child. “You sure you’re okay, buddy?”

  “I d-d-don’t need your h-help.” JT crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Your parents should take a look at your cut. It might need a stitch or two. Where are they? I’ll walk you over to them.”

  Cara watched the kid’s eyes flash from defiant to downright terrified. “N-n-no, p-p-p-please don’t. Grandp-pa will y-yell. He’ll b-be mean to my mom,” he stuttered.

  “What about your dad?”

  JT’s defiance returned. “I d-don’t have a d-dad.”

  Pete frowned with a nod. “Okay, I won’t say anything. How about I show you some moves in case the walking mountain comes back?”

  JT grinned wide, but his joy fell. “Won’t matter, he’s b-better than me. I’m w-weak like Grandp-pa says.” The child may have missed the way Pete’s fingers curled into his palm at the admission, but Cara did not.

  “Only a fool wouldn’t be afraid when surrounded by the enemy. The difference is whether you fall back and cower or swallow the thick lump of fear and fight. I don’t see a coward standing here, kid. Do you?”

  Cara watched in admiration as the boy straightened his posture. He lifted his head higher. “No, sir.”

  “Ooh-rah!” Pete cried.

  “What’s orah?” asked JT. His head tipped to the side a second before he wiped his runny nose.

  Pete grinned. “Not orah…ooh-rah. It’s the United States Marine Corps battle cry, kid. It’s my way of showing respect to a fellow warrior.” He stood and saluted JT.

  “I’m g-gonna be a Marine t-too!”

  “I have no doubt, kid. We take the best, after all. Now…let me show you a move sure to knock any bully on his ass.” Pete cleared his throat. “I mean, butt.”