by Radclyffe
“I’m not in any hurry to go to bed,” Tristan said. “So you’re more than welcome to stay.”
“I shouldn’t.” Jett stood.
“Do you need a ride?”
“No, I’m not that far. Thanks for the coffee.” She hesitated. “And for the company.”
“Any time,” Tristan said as she walked Jett to the door. As she said it, she realized she meant it. But she doubted she’d have another opportunity.
Jett was gone before she even left the apartment.
*
“I heard it was bad out there tonight. Are you okay?”
“Fine.” Jett braced one arm against the side of the supply shed. Even with the non-reflective paint, the metal was burning hot to the touch. Registering the discomfort through a haze of mental and physical exhaustion, she jerked her hand away.
Gail murmured in concern and grasped Jett’s arm, turning her hand over and cradling it in her palm. “That’s going to blister if we don’t put some ointment on it. Let’s go to the med tent.”
“It’s okay.”
“No,” Gail said slowly. “It’s not.” She stepped closer, brushing the hair from Jett’s forehead as she continued to hold her hand. She rubbed her thumb lightly over Jett’s cheekbone. “And neither are you. Are you sleeping?”
Jett barked out a laugh. “Is anyone?”
The bombing had picked up, and the noise and ever-present specter of death made sleeping more than an hour or two at a time impossible. Worse, the casualty rate had risen and more and more of the injured she transported were critical. Even those who were likely to recover would never be the same. Life as they knew it, as she knew it, was forever changed.
“Come on,” Gail said. “Let’s go to my tent.”
Jett glanced around quickly, concerned that someone might have heard them. Even though the conversation was completely innocent, as was the invitation, she wasn’t so certain about her feelings.
Jett woke up with the sun in her eyes, and for a few seconds, she didn’t know where she was. She jerked upright, sweeping her surroundings, reaching for the weapon that was no longer there. She was in her room. In her apartment. Safe. She gulped in a lungful of air and let it out more slowly, assessing her situation. She was naked. The cheap plastic clock-radio on the narrow, plain pine dresser said 4:30 p.m. Monday afternoon. She was due back on shift in two and a half hours. Wondering how to fill the time, she stretched out on top of her bed again. A faint breeze came through the partially open window, cooling the sweat on her skin. Absently, she rubbed her hand over her chest and down her abdomen. The breeze and the thought of coffee made her think of the morning, and of Tristan stretched out beside her on the porch, relaxing with a mug balanced on her thigh.
That hour with Tristan was the most time she had spent alone with anyone in months, and to her surprise, she’d been comfortable. Tristan had a way of drawing her out, with her easy smile and her understated confidence. Somehow, Tristan had gotten her to talk about one of the few good things in her childhood. She hadn’t thought about flying with Elenor in years and years.
Maybe opening up to Tristan had been easy because they were both tired. Or maybe it was easy because there was nothing to explain. Medicine and war weren’t all that far apart. Tristan had seen tragedy and defeat up close too. So maybe Tristan knew that at the end of the day, a lounge chair on a tiny porch beneath a leafy tree, quiet words wafting away on a breeze, was as close to peace as she could get.
Jett replayed the conversation and wondered what the three beautiful sisters looked like, that Tristan would somehow distinguish herself from them. Because Tristan was gorgeous. Smiling at the memory of Tristan and the lazy morning, Jett turned on her side and closed her eyes. She didn’t expect to sleep, but she was wrong.
Chapter Six
After the fourth turn around her living room, Tristan grabbed her ID from the small table inside her door, stuffed her keys in the pocket of her jeans, and took to the streets. She wouldn’t be on call again until the following night. Twenty-four hours with nothing to do. She had plenty to do, actually, but grocery shopping, laundry, or even an evening round of golf with her father were not on her list. What was on her list—right up there at the top, as usual—was a good meal, a bottle of vintage wine, and a passionate woman.
She had choices there. She could call Candace, or Darla, or Sue. All bright, engaging women who knew how to have a good time. None of them asked where she went or who she saw when she wasn’t with them. If they already had dates, they just said so along with “maybe next time.” The same worked in reverse. She had no hold on them, and wanted none. When they were apart, she didn’t think about them, except now and then in the midst of an enjoyable fantasy.
Tristan checked her watch. Hell. Six p.m. Too late to call now with a dinner invitation. Even she couldn’t pass that off as anything other than an excuse for sex. She might be casual about her relationships, but she genuinely liked the women she dated too much to treat them like coin-operated vibrating beds. She stopped on the sidewalk by her car, considering alternatives. She could drive to Belmont Plateau, a huge grassy expanse in the center of Fairmont Park where the women’s summer softball league played three nights a week and practically all weekend from March until August. She enjoyed watching the games, but she liked watching the women even more. And she could almost always find company for the rest of the night, if she still needed to unwind.
She dug out her keys and tossed them in the air a few times, staring moodily at her twelve-year-old Saab. After four years of medical school, four years of residency, and one year of critical care fellowship, she ought to be able to sleep any time of the day or night. Usually she could, but not today. She’d been restless from the time she lay down shortly after Jett left. She’d tossed, she’d turned, she’d fallen into an uneasy sleep only to awaken every hour. Jittery and wired, she couldn’t relax. She thought about sex, but she didn’t feel like doing anything about it herself. She was still thinking about sex, but she didn’t feel like pursuing the usual avenues. She was not herself.
Leaning against the fender, she stared at her running shoes and fondled her keys. Try as she might, she couldn’t figure out what the hell was wrong with her. Jesus, she was really slipping. Why the hell hadn’t she asked Jett for her number?
“Like that would’ve done me any good,” she muttered. She pushed off from her car and started to walk. With the setting sun at her back and the neighborhood sounds surrounding her, the stretch of her muscles quelled the jangling of her nerves and she finally started to feel settled. When she reached her destination, she laughed and shook her head. Nothing had been quite right since she’d walked into the parking garage that morning and seen Jett McNally’s ass.
Now here she was back at the hospital. With a shrug she headed inside. So what if it didn’t make sense. This felt right.
*
Tristan knocked on the hospital room door, pushed it open an inch, and peeked inside. “Anybody home?”
“Just everybody,” Honor called back. “Tristan? Come on in.”
“Hi.” Tristan stepped inside and quickly averted her gaze. Honor held a bundle of what must be Jack, but all Tristan had seen was a snow white blanket covered with small blue flowers and a tuft of light brown, fluffy stuff that must be baby hair. And something pale and creamy that might have been a breast. “Oh, hey. Sorry. I just came to say hi. I’ll come back la—”
“No.” Honor nodded toward Quinn, who sprawled in a chair by the bed, looking supremely content as she stroked the hair of a gorgeous child sitting beside her on a footstool. “Stay. We’re all just hanging out.”
Tristan felt a surge of jealousy and couldn’t figure out why. She didn’t have the slightest desire to have children. She wasn’t looking for a wife. So there was absolutely nothing in the room she coveted, unless it was the overpowering sense of belonging that warmed the very air. Belonging. What she’d never felt. Pushing that thought quickly away, she nodded to Quinn and t
ilted her chin in the direction of Honor and the baby. “Everybody good?”
“Great,” Quinn said. “You remember Arly, don’t you?”
“Yes. Hi, I’m Tristan.” Tristan smiled at the girl who looked like she’d been cloned from Honor. Her hair had that yellow shine of youth that would darken to gold with maturity, but like Honor’s, her eyes were already melted-chocolate brown, so unusual in blondes. Dressed in soccer shorts and a loose T-shirt, she leaned with her back against Quinn’s knee.
“I remember,” Arly said. “But you don’t see me, okay? Because I’m not really here.” She gazed at Quinn, adoration in her eyes. “Quinn snuck me in early to see Mom and Jack.”
“Gotcha.” Tristan rubbed her ear. “I’m not even sure I can hear you.”
Arly grinned. “Quinn said you’re going to help coach soccer. We have our first practice next weekend. Are you coming?”
Tristan glanced at Quinn, feeling slightly panicked. In a moment of weakness, she’d said yes to Quinn’s invitation to help coach, but she didn’t know a damn thing about soccer. Other than the fact someone kicked the ball. Somewhere.
Honor must have caught her look, because she started to laugh. “You’d better be careful. This is how it started with Quinn.”
“What started?” Arly asked.
“Quinn coaching. First soccer,” Honor said teasingly, “then field hockey, then volleyball. This year it’s softball.”
“In a few years I’ll be tall enough for basketball,” Arly said eagerly.
Quinn groaned. “Hey, Tris, you play basketball?”
Shaking her head, Tristan leaned against the door, enjoying herself immensely. She’d seen Quinn in a lot of different situations, but she’d never seen her look quite this happy—as if everything that mattered in the world was right in this room. For just a second, Tristan wondered what that would feel like.
“I’ll be there,” Tristan said. “But you’ll have to help me, Arly. I’m not very good.”
“That’s okay.” Arly tossed her a grin that was pure Quinn. “I am.”
*
Jett carried the plastic hospital tray to a table in the far corner of the cafeteria. She had a half hour before her tour officially started, and as she did every night she was on call, she had dinner and then went up to check her aircraft. Visiting hours didn’t start at the hospital until seven p.m., so the cafeteria was almost empty except for scattered groups of house staff congregated around tables, discussing patients and signing out for the night. It wasn’t all that much different from a mess tent filled with soldiers, except none of this group had to worry about being blown to pieces before dessert.
She wondered how long it would be before she didn’t think about where she’d been and the things she’d seen every waking moment. Actually, that wasn’t true. With a start, she realized she hadn’t thought about any of those things—the war or death or even Gail—while sitting with Tristan this morning. Tristan. Jett couldn’t figure her out. She’d never been certain of Gail either, but that had been her own misjudgment. Maybe if she hadn’t woken up in hell every morning, knowing that she might not live through the day, she would have been more careful. She wasn’t going to make that mistake again.
People usually wanted something, and she’d learned long ago if she made it difficult to get close to her or to get anything from her, they quickly turned their attention somewhere else. Then she could decide who to let close, although she never felt the need. When she wanted something other than flying to satisfy her, or when she needed a way to burn off the adrenaline rush or the fear or the anger, she used sex. She could lose herself in sex, wear herself out with sex, as long as she was careful to be sure that what she needed also worked for whoever she was with. She’d gotten good at choosing the right women, and the system of sex without intimacy had worked pretty well her entire adult life. Until Gail.
Tristan was very different from Gail. She didn’t seem to hide much, but Jett had no idea why Tristan wasn’t put off by her stay away signals. That alone was enough to make her wary. She couldn’t figure out her own response either. She hadn’t had sex in longer than she was used to, as her sleeplessness and constant unrest proved, and Tristan had a great body. But Jett didn’t have coffee and conversation with women she had sex with. She had sex with as little personal exchange as possible, other than what needed to be done to pleasure them both. More often than not, bringing a woman to orgasm settled her enough that she didn’t need to come right away herself. She could wait until she was alone, replaying the sights and sounds and sensations, until she came in the solitary safety of the night. Thinking about Tristan jogging across the rooftop, dark hair whipping around her bold features and her powerful body covering the distance in commanding strides, or lazing beside her in the sunlight, full lips parted in a teasing smile, Jett had a feeling her imagination might be enough to hold her for quite a while.
As if conjured by Jett’s thoughts, Tristan appeared across the room, a cup of coffee in her hand. Dressed in street clothes—jeans, a white open-collared shirt, and sneakers—she looked like an ad in some trendy magazine. And just about as foreign. Tristan halted a few tables away when she saw Jett, a question in her eyes. She waited, as if signaling Jett the next move was hers.
Jett didn’t move, her gaze steady on Tristan’s. The choice was hers. The choice was easy. No attachments, no involvement. Being alone was safe. She’d learned that lesson a long time ago, and when she’d forgotten, she’d paid. She looked away, then back. Tristan still watched her, unwavering.
Why? What was Tristan offering, and why did she care? Why did the empty chairs at her table suddenly seem to take on life, mocking her for being a coward? Jett leaned over and pushed one of the chairs away from the table, making room for Tristan.
Seconds later, Tristan settled beside her. “I hope you’re working tonight.”
“I am,” Jett said. “Why?”
“Because there’s something seriously wrong if you came all the way to the hospital to eat this food for dinner.”
Jett looked down at her plate, realizing she hadn’t even noticed what she was eating. She always ordered the dinner special, no matter what it was. Tonight it was lasagna. “It’s not that bad. I think the law requires that cafeterias like this provide nutritionally balanced meals.”
Tristan stared. “Dog food is nutritionally balanced.”
Jett smiled. “You should try K-rations.”
“That bad?”
“Unimaginative.”
Tristan laughed.
“What about you?” Jett asked. “Come for the coffee?”
“No,” Tristan said, sounding perplexed. “I didn’t know what to do with myself, and I ended up here.”
“Not on call?”
“Not until tomorrow night. Usually every fourth or fifth, but we’re short right now. You work what, twelve-hour shifts?”
“Technically twelve on, twelve off for a week, then off for seven days and we start the rotation again. But sometimes we get called in or work longer if things are busy.”
Tristan sipped her coffee. “Always nights?”
“Technically I should alternate between days and nights, but I like nights, and I never have any problem switching for them.”
“Why nights?”
Jett shrugged. “More action.”
“That’s for sure.” Tristan grimaced. “You can pretty much figure after midnight the gates of hell are open.”
“There’s that,” Jett said. “Besides, I like to fly at night.”
“Why?”
Jett almost asked why she was asking, but when she searched Tristan’s face, all she saw was genuine interest. Like earlier.
“It’s more challenging,” Jett replied. “When you can’t see very far ahead of you, there’s always the chance you’ll run into trouble.”
“Or something good,” Tristan murmured.
“That hasn’t been my experience,” Jett said tightly.
“Things could alw
ays change.”
Before Jett could disagree, Tristan pushed her coffee cup away. “So, do you have time to show me your aircraft? I didn’t get much of a chance to take a look last night.”
Jett didn’t need to look at the clock on the far wall to know what time it was. She always knew what time it was. Just the same, she checked it, because just being around Tristan threw her off. Besides not being able to get a handle on why Tristan sought her company, she couldn’t understand why she liked the fact that Tristan did. “I was about to go up and do my preflight check. You’re welcome to come along.”
“Okay.” Tristan stood.
“I don’t think you’ll find it very exciting.”
Tristan smiled. “You might be surprised.”
*
“Hi, Jett,” a surfer-boy-handsome blond in cargo pants and a tight white T-shirt, carrying a clipboard, called from beside the bright red helicopter with a white cross painted on its side.
“Hi, Mike.” Jett gestured to Tristan. “This is Dr. Holmes.”
“Hi,” Tristan said, extending her hand. Off to the west, the sun was just about to set, and the purple glow of the night sky and the warm wind on the rooftop made her wish that Jett weren’t working the rest of the night. It was a night made for walking along the river or through the park. As soon as she thought it, she knew why she’d come to the hospital. She’d been looking for Jett. With a start, she dropped Mike’s hand and put both of hers in her pockets. She’d been looking for a woman after all, she just hadn’t realized it. Her instincts had taken her where she needed to go.
