Jackson began jumping up and down again as he told his grandfather about his plans for the next day. He could still hear the excited chatter even as he reached the door. That unplanned encounter played right into the general's plans. Every now and again, fate smiled on him.
About fucking time.
Hopping into the ‘Vette, he headed for the gate that dumped him right into The Cockpit's parking lot. Making the general a happy man promised to be the death of him. Standing there, in her presence, with her son and her father, had not been enough to dull his appreciation of Casey as a desirable woman. He almost regretted letting go of Jackson when he lunged for his grandfather. The boy's dangling legs helped camouflage the telltale bulge behind his fly. He hoped to high heaven the general hadn't noticed. He'd grown awfully fond of the equipment and would hate to lose it.
Unconsciously, his hand dropped to his lap to do a security check. Yep, everything accounted for.
His mind shifted gears back to Casey's distress earlier in the day thanks to the son of a bitch she'd married. The man had to be dead, above and below the waist, to miss her natural sex appeal. Standing with her in the middle of a crowd with her father right next to her hadn't been enough to quell the reaction in his pants. Oh yeah, this particular assignment would most definitely kill him or get him killed. And here he'd been worried about his top secret mission with the terrorists. Ha!
He slid his car to a stop in front of The Cockpit with only one mission on his mind—to find a willing woman and purge the monster driving him before it steered him in the direction of something colossally stupid. Knowing Casey would not be there to provide any distraction made the prospect even easier. He listened for the distinctive “beep” of his remote entry system before he pushed open the heavy wooden door.
The smells of the bar assaulted him as soon as the door cracked open. The overwhelming odor of beer mingled with sweat and topped by perfume pummeled him, welcomed him home. The hearty shouts from a back room indicated a game of crud in progress, a distinctly military game, and drew a crowd. Securing a longneck bottle ranked as a first priority and then he would make his way back to the game room. Where aviators played crud, there were women. Where women congregated, well, that's where he needed to be.
He pushed through the thick crowd, jostling for space as he headed toward the bar. Gaining his objective, he signaled for the bartender's attention with a brief flick of his hand. He didn't have to wait long for the bartender's girth to turn in his direction. “How long has the game been going on?” He jerked his head in the general direction of the back room.
"Long enough to get rowdy. What'll ya have?"
Ordering up a Corona, he listened to the groans spilling out into the main part of the room. He dropped a bill from his wallet and claimed his cold one with smooth efficiency of movement. “Thanks. I guess I'll go add to the merriment."
It took substantial shoulder pushes and elbow shoves to make it through the malingering throng. Pausing at the door, he observed the game in progress as he evaluated his prospects for the evening. The game was in full swing as he acknowledged greetings from the aviators not actively involved in the play. He watched the unique game with passing interest since he hadn't arrived in time to join a team or form an allegiance.
Crud was a rowdy game played on a pool table and involved throwing a cue ball at another ball and trying to get the ball in a pocket. As he watched, the game rules changed to Combat Crud, allowing full-body contact. A couple of female pilots from one of the other squadrons at Nellis were involved in the game as participants and used their unique female attributes to distract opposing players. Watching them in action warmed his groin. Participating in the raucous heckling made the game even more enjoyable.
In between shooters, his critical gaze raked over the women in the room, ruling out the ones who seemed to be attached or spoken for. Two women standing together on the fringe of the action took notice of him and whispered back and forth between each other. With the steady stealth of a lioness stalking her prey, they advanced on him.
They were attractive young women, both blondes, but neither of them had the natural honey-blonde coloring of Casey. Their tight tops and short skirts put their considerable assets on display, their struts enhancing the wiggles. Four firm breasts, four long legs, two women he'd probably be able to talk into a threesome. Two mouths working over his cock until he came, sharing his cum with both of them. Oh, yeah, one sitting on his face while the other sat on his dick. He wondered if he could talk them into a little girl on girl action.
"Hello, ladies."
"Hello, Marilyn.” The one on the right, in see-through pink, read his name tag.
"Call me Chad.” Damn tag with his call sign instead of his name. Of course, if he'd bothered to change, it wouldn't have been an issue.
"Hi, Chad.” The one on the left had a voice that made men want to hear her screaming out as she climaxed. And a body made for sex.
"Can we buy you another beer?” Wow. Pick up lines in stereo.
"Sure. Whaddya say we head out to the bar where we can actually talk?"
Woman A and Woman B flanked him as they left the back room and searched out a table. That's when he realized he had a significant problem. Little Chad showed no interest whatsoever in any of the tantalizing scenarios his bigger brain had been concocting. Not a twitch, not a throb, not even a “hello, there's a sex Goddess within range.". The damn thing, which had been all up and active earlier in the evening, couldn't be bothered now.
Finally locating a table, but with only two chairs, he sat in one and pulled Pinky onto his lap while Blondie pulled her seat close to his. Four hands caressed his body while Blondie whispered naughty suggestions in his ear and Pinky wiggled in his lap.
Nothing.
Zip. Zilch. Nada.
Not even when Blondie tugged at his zipper from the bottom and suggested Pinky straddle him.
Time for some BFM, basic fighter maneuvers, since he feared even a healthy dose of Viagra wouldn't help lure out Little Chad. “I hate to do this, but if you ladies will excuse me, I just saw a friend in need."
"We can wait for you.” Pinky purred. Purred dammit, and not a peep from his pants.
"He's in a bad way. I have no idea how long this will take.” Long enough for him to latch on to someone and convince them to help him out. His companions pranced away in search of a new target.
It was nothing sort of a gift from the flight Gods that he locked on to Tadpole, a married man. A man he'd be able to talk into leaving before too long. Jostling his way to the bar, he caught the other pilot's attention. As they spoke and polished off a beer each, he maintained his SA—situational awareness. Maybe it was just those two women.
No such luck. Not a single woman in the room stirred his interest, let alone his libido. He cursed himself out quite creatively when he realized he was looking for a tall curvy natural blonde.
At that thought, Little Chad made his obnoxious presence known.
Damn him.
* * * *
Casey trudged through the back entrance to The Cockpit, planning to run in and out. She thought she'd grab some paperwork just in case Chad actually showed up to take Jackson for a ride in the morning. If she did luck into an hour alone, she'd finish up some inventory and payroll work and score an extra hour at home with Jackson this afternoon. Great plan, not that it'd ever come to fruition. In reality, she prepared her speech to her young son for when he was inevitably disappointed. Men like Chad, men like Jackson's no-good father, broke more promises than they kept.
Jackson had talked nonstop through dinner about his upcoming ride in the red Corvette. Where would they go; what would they see; how fast they would go. She didn't know, she didn't know, and not very. She couldn't believe her father actually encouraged the conversation. He made suggestions about where they should drive, all nice straight roads that would allow a Corvette to achieve maximum speed. She felt her blood pressure reach the boiling point on more than one o
ccasion. The logic of allowing Jackson to think this little excursion would actually happen confused her. If she wasn't mistaken, it almost sounded as if her father expected Chad to show up on her doorstep in the morning, as if her father trusted the man. But that wasn't possible. She finally shrugged it off to a “male thing” of men watching each other's back and settled in to enjoy the meal with her father. She refused to allow niggling thoughts of Major Chad Monroe to ruin her evening with the two most important men in her life.
She fumbled in her purse pocket for the key to the office, thinking of the smile on Jackson's face when papa offered to take him for ice cream. Jackson adored his grandfather and delighted in spending time with him. It meant she wouldn't have to leave him in the car while she ran into the bar, or worse yet, sneak him in for a couple of minutes, since her father would drop Jackson off at the apartment when they finished their male bonding session, allowing her son to have one responsible man in his life to emulate. The door creaked slightly on its hinges as she pushed open the flimsy plywood. She sat down at the desk and booted up the computer as she fumbled through the top drawer for her flashdrive. A few clicks of the mouse later and she had transferred the necessary information to the small device so that she could do some work at home. Pushing back the chair and preparing to leave, she heard a commotion in the hall leading toward the bathrooms. Altercations in the hallway were nothing new; there was enough testosterone in this place on any given night to choke a bull. She knew Tiny was behind the bar if she needed to have this latest creep bounced out on his ass.
"What part of “no” don't you understand? The n or the o?” The female voice sounded more annoyed than scared—always a good sign. No need to call up to the bar yet.
"Aw, come on, baby, it'll be good. Ya know it will. Jest quit playin’ hard to git.” The male counterpart slurred his words—not a good sign. An obnoxious drunk usually spelled problems. An obnoxious horny drunk almost inevitably caused grief.
"I said no!"
"Whoa, baby, no need to get rough, unless, of course, you like it rough."
Casey grabbed her cell phone, her finger on the “call” button, in case she needed Tiny and stomped to the door, prepared to come to the aid of the woman, when she heard a familiar voice bark out a command. Curiosity kept her from announcing her presence while peeking out the door.
She caught her first glimpse of the commotion. A petite incredibly buxom bottle blonde wearing a barely-there minidress found herself pinned between the arms of a formidably sized man in cammies. Sure enough, the body belonging to the voice marched toward the scene, anger radiating from him in torrents. Even in the dim light, she recognized the man in the flight suit.
"Sergeant!"
"What's it to ya?"
"Wrong answer, Sergeant. The correct answer is, yes, sir, Major Monroe, sir."
Casey recognized the exact moment the authoritative tone in Chad's voice finally penetrated the lust and drunken haze. The enlisted man immediately snapped to attention, salute and all. She bit the inside of her cheek in an effort to bite back a giggle at the man who looked about to pee himself in fright. So much for the big macho stud attitude. The cornered woman took advantage of his movement to slip off to a spot further down the hall, far enough to be out of arm's reach but still close enough to observe the show. From the rapt attention on the little twit's face, she looked like she was enjoying the exchange.
"Sir, yes, sir!"
"Much better."
Casey listened in stunned silence as Chad proceeded to berate the young airman for conduct unbecoming a member of the United States Air Force. The sergeant had not bothered to change out of his camouflage uniform before heading out for a few drinks to celebrate the end of the workweek, making his occupation obvious. Chad delivered a blistering lecture on not only disrespecting a woman who had clearly made her intentions known, but dishonoring the uniform and all that it stood for.
"No means no, Sergeant, or didn't your mother teach you that? No doesn't mean let me try to persuade you otherwise."
"Yes, sir."
"In and out of uniform, you represent America's finest, the members of the United States Air Force. You never, and I mean never, do anything to disgrace yourself or the Air Force. You show nothing but respect to Uncle Sam and your mother. To all women. Is that clear, Sergeant?"
"Yes, sir."
The man continued to stand so straight and still Casey wondered if he'd had a rod attached to his spine.
"I suggest you apologize to the young lady and haul your sorry ass back to wherever you call home. And, Sergeant? It is in your best interest that this incident never repeats itself, in or out of uniform. If it does, I will make sure this incident is put on record, as well. Understood?"
The recipient of the chewing out had the decency to look castigated. The young man bobbed a quick, “Yes, sir,” and mumbled something unintelligible to the woman against the wall before he tucked his tail between his legs and practically ran back out into the bar. Casey prepared to make her presence known when the woman in question suddenly slithered her way to Chad's side. Casey's feet rooted themselves to the floor. The swelling of emotions she experienced watching Chad stand up for a woman he didn't know from Eve quickly evaporated.
She watched as a perfectly manicured red nail toyed with the neck of Chad's shirt, peeking from his flight suit. “I'm so glad you came back here when you did. I just don't know what I'd have done if you hadn't."
He shuffled half a step back. “I'm sure you would have managed. A loud call for help would have done the trick. You're close enough to the bathrooms that someone would have heard you."
Casey cringed as the woman moved in close again, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. The gnawing at her stomach started slowly and intensified.
"Anyway, I owe you. Can I buy you that drink, now? My friend and I are still interested in an evening with you.” The twit stroked her hand up and down Chad's arm. Apparently he did know her.
With his back to her, she was unable to see Chad's reaction to the oh-so-obvious come on. She knew with a certainty that he would accept the proposal. A proposal for a threesome. So much for practicing what he preached and respecting women. She pushed away the thought that it probably took two women to satisfy him. And of course, after staying up half the night doing God only knows what because she did not want to imagine, he'd be in no shape to humor a little boy in the morning. She turned away to toss the disc back on the desk only to be stopped mid-gesture.
"I appreciate the offer, but it's not necessary. I would have come to the aid of any woman. It doesn't mean I've changed my mind about the evening. My friend still needs me."
"But I assure you it is necessary. Despite what you say, I know you wouldn't have helped just anyone. You helped me.” Casey wanted to throw up as the woman pressed her overflowing cleavage against Chad's chest.
"I'll have to pass..."
"Monique."
Hmm, he didn't know her that well.
"Monique. I have plans for tomorrow and I don't want to take a chance on breaking my promise."
The woman smiled at the implication in the gentle rebuff. Casey heard it as well. Any woman he took home wouldn't be getting any sleep. Neither of them would. Or women, in this case. Her mind started to wander off in a very dangerous direction.
"Must be pretty important plans to turn us down."
Casey snorted at the woman's high opinion of herself.
"Yeah, they are."
A breath she hadn't realized she was holding escaped her lungs.
"Your loss.” The woman turned on her stiletto heels and teetered back to the bar, the cheeks of her butt barely covered by the spandex that had the nerve to call itself a skirt.
She watched Chad as he stood there for a minute, admiring the fit of his flight suit. He looked mighty fine from the back. Dammit! He was doing it again. Acting human. Making her think about him in ways she didn't want to think about any man. She'd survived the past year and Brian's betrayal
by convincing herself that all fighter pilots were chauvinistic pigs. That she hadn't been stupid, ignoring obvious signs of a fatal flaw in her marriage. No, she was not the problem. He was the problem. And all fighter pilots were like him. Her defenses protected her from all the flyboys running around the area. Of all the places to be when she had a beef against fighter pilots. She lived near Nellis Air Force Base, the self-proclaimed home of the fighter pilot.
Except this particular one. What strange charismatic something did he possess that no one else did? Casey knew she needed to shore up her defenses before he crashed right through them.
If only he wouldn't act so damn decent.
Chapter 8
The pilot is the highest form of life on earth.
Chad cast covert glances at his wingman for this particular mission. Four-year-old Jackson reclined back against the leather, his small feet dangling over the edge of the seat, toes tapping together to the beat of some soundtrack playing only in his mind. A huge smile dominated his face as the wind whipped his straight blond hair around his face. With his hands up in the air, he looked more like he was enjoying a wild roller coaster ride than a mostly sedate drive in a Corvette.
Somehow or other, he didn't think this particular wingman would say, I'll take the fat one.
The boy's honest uncensored emotions struck him right between the eyes. Are all young children like this? Or is there something special about this one? He knew the answer to that question, even if he didn't much like it.
He had been drawn to Jackson from the moment their paths collided. A surprise, really, given his steadfast avoidance of children in general since the accident. In spite of that, he'd made a commitment to Jackson and found himself wanting to keep his promise to this young boy; and not because of his interest in his mother or out of obligation to his grandfather.
Was it possible that he was finally healing? His sister insisted—more like harped on the fact—it would happen eventually, not that he ever believed her. But now that he had managed to struggle past the pang caused when he realized the age similarity between his son had he lived and this youngster ... well, he didn't have to tell his sister she was right, did he? She could be so damn insufferable at times. His motto, never tell a woman she was right, especially when that woman was his know-it-all baby sister.
Call of Duty [Class of '93 Trilogy Book 3] Page 11
