by Marie Force
Thank God I didn’t marry Andy or anyone else before I met John.
The relief is so overwhelming, it brings tears to my eyes.
“Am I hurting you?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“What’s wrong?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
He doesn’t understand, and with him moving inside me, I lack the brain cells to form a coherent sentence. I’ll tell him later, after. What’s happening right now requires my full, undivided attention even as my work phone rings again.
My personal cell chimes with texts. I. Don’t. Care. I, who am normally chained to my phones, my iPad, my email, my social media, couldn’t care less about any of it.
The lovemaking may be tender and sweet, but the finish is explosive. We cling to each other like lifeboats in a stormy sea, which is my last conscious thought before I sink into deep sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Five
JOHN
I know I’m no longer in Afghanistan. I know Ava is gone and I’m in New York, in bed with Julianne. I know those things, even in sleep, but I’m flashing back to before the deployment, to the day the ship was bombed, when I woke up with Ava and thought about how I had only four months to go before I’d be free to resume the life I put on hold when I agreed to the five-year assignment to one of the military’s most elite teams.
It was an honor to be asked, the thrill of a lifetime to train with those incredible men, to stand ready to deploy at a moment’s notice, should the need arise. But after meeting Ava almost two years earlier, I wanted other things. I wanted a wife and a family and a real home. I wanted a life that couldn’t be ripped from me without warning.
I was four months away from having it all.
I was watching SportsCenter on ESPN when the broadcasters interrupted their show with the news about the attack on the Star of the High Seas. I switched immediately to CNN and watched the coverage in stunned silence for two minutes before the phone rang.
I knew in my gut it was the call I hoped to never receive. I took the call and heard the one word that confirmed my life as I knew it was over.
“Go.”
Without replying, I put down the phone.
“Who was that?” Ava’s face is pale and stricken from watching the horror unfold on TV.
They were estimating at least four thousand people were on the ship, all of them likely dead.
I should’ve told her. I should’ve told her at the beginning and given her the choice. And now it was too late. I put my hands on her shoulders, drank in the details of her sweet face and tried to commit her to memory in the seconds we had left. “I’m sorry, Ava.”
“For what?” She sounded frantic, as if she was tuning in to the fact that whatever was happening, it was big.
“For having to leave you.” I kissed her, hugged her, told her I loved her, and then I grabbed my go bag from the front hall closet. Then I was gone, leaving her and everything else I owned behind. I wept all the way to the base, knowing it’d be a very long time before I’d see her again. I wasn’t sure, in those first minutes, how I’d survive without her or how I’d stand not knowing if she was okay in my absence. I had that fifteen-minute ride to mourn the loss of life as we knew it and to prepare for the mission ahead.
I hated myself for doing that to her. I hated myself almost as much as I loved her. I hated that I was too weak to leave her when I knew I should have. I hated that she’d be left alone with no support, no information, no nothing. I took a big gamble, and I lost. The one I loved most would be hurt terribly when she figured out I wasn’t coming back. That was unbearable to me.
For a second, only a second, I thought about declining the mission. My career would be over, but I’d get to keep Ava. In the end, I couldn’t do it. As much as I loved her, I couldn’t let down the men who were like brothers to me.
I arrived at the base, and the mission took precedence. The rest of my dream was on fast-forward—the long, uncomfortable flight, years on the trail of Al Khad, nights in caves, blazing-hot days, freezing-cold nights, crap food, loneliness, fear, fury, agony, grief and never-ending love for Ava. The near miss at the four-and-a-half-year mark, the raid on the compound, the deaths of Tito and Jonesy before we were even inside the building, being shot in the leg, the certainty that I was bleeding to death, pleading with the medics not to take my leg, waking from the coma, my leg gone, my body ravaged, finding Ava, seeing her, hearing she had someone else and was planning to marry him.
It’s a dream-slash-nightmare that plays on repeat, over and over and over again like some sort of unfunny version of Groundhog Day. I’ve had it before, and like then, I struggle to break free, to wake up, to escape the images that haunt me. This time, though, there’s a light that hasn’t been there before. It’s far off in the distance, beckoning me to walk toward it. If I can only get there, I might have a chance. But my leg hurts, my body is tired, my head is pounding, and the light is still so far away.
I wake up sobbing, sweating, shaking.
Jules is there, soothing me, wiping away my tears, talking to me in that calm, competent tone I latch on to like a lifeline. She draws me into her arms, and even though I don’t want her comfort, I can’t bring myself to reject it. She is softness and safety and sweetness. She is the light waiting for me on the other side of the nightmare.
I hold on to her, taking her strength and making it my own.
If you ask me later, I won’t be able to tell you how long we stay that way. It’s a long time before I’m calm enough to apologize to her.
“Don’t.”
I start to pull back from her. “I shouldn’t…”
“Shhh. Stop. Everything is fine.” She holds on tighter, so tight I can’t escape, not that I want to.
With no choice but to stay put, I sag into her embrace, close my eyes. My face is pressed against her breasts, but this isn’t about sex.
It’s about something so much bigger.
* * *
JULIANNE
I’m undone by whatever happened with John. I was asleep when he began thrashing next to me, and when I saw that he was crying…
God, my heart. It just exploded with compassion for him, realizing he was having some sort of flashback. I want to know more. Does that happen a lot? Does he need treatment?
He’s sleeping peacefully now, hours later, but I’m wide awake, wired, worried about him and a tiny bit concerned for myself as I fall deeper into this thing with him, knowing full well there’ll be no way out once I hit bottom.
I don’t care. Not now, anyway. I will when it’s over, but for now… I’m like fierce, fearless Jules, who has no fucks to give for anything that isn’t him and whatever he needs when he needs it.
I get out of bed and put on the T-shirt he wore under his uniform earlier. It smells like him, and I love how he smells. I’ve never been the girlfriend who wanted to wear her guy’s clothes, but maybe I am now. In the entryway to the suite, I find my purse and grab the bag I carry with me at all times and take it into the bathroom, where I floss, brush my teeth and put in my retainer. And yes, I still wear my retainer because the orthodontist told me I have to if I don’t want crooked teeth again.
With my oral hygiene seen to, I settle on the sofa with a bottle of water, my personal phone, my work phone, John’s phone and my iPad. I go through the hundreds of texts, emails and voicemail messages we’ve received in the last few days.
I go through my work phone first, make a to-do list that’ll take me a full day to get through, answer emails from colleagues and producers looking to book John, even if it’s later on. They’ll take him whenever they can get him. That list is long and includes everyone who is anyone not included in the original tour.
On his phone, I find calls from several of the biggest sneaker and apparel companies, a New York publisher interested in his memoir, a frozen-custard company that wants him to be their new pitch person and an agent from one of the top talent agencies on the West Coast, asking for a meeting when
we’re there next week.
I simply can’t fathom the breadth and depth of what’s coming his way. The custard thing is a no-go, but the rest of it has me intrigued. I’m glad to know he’ll be able to do whatever he wants after he retires from the Navy and will have the means to live like a king. He deserves nothing less.
I’m about to power off his phone when it chimes with a text from Ava.
My heart stops when I read the words she’s sent.
Hey. Are you awake?
I stare at the screen for the longest time, not sure what to say or do or think. Why is she texting him in the middle of the night? Where’s Eric? I haven’t clicked on the text, so she can’t see that it’s been read, but it may as well be lit up in neon in Times Square for the effect it has on me.
This is what it must be like to be struck by lightning, to be going along, minding your own business and then be hit with a bolt from the sky that makes every part of you feel like it’s on fire.
When I have no choice but to blink, I power down the phone and stash it back in my purse. I have to tell him she texted, don’t I?
I sit in the dark, reeling and trying to figure out what to do.
Does she want him back? Is that why she’s texting him at three in the morning? And if she does, what will he do?
Fierce, fearless Jules isn’t feeling quite as fierce or fearless after seeing that text.
Chapter Twenty-Six
JULIANNE
I wake in the morning to his hand sliding from my thigh to my hip, under the shirt of his that I still have on, to cup my breast as his hard cock makes itself at home between my ass cheeks. I’m wallowing in the sensual glow of his touch when I remember the text from Ava.
“What’s wrong?” he asks from behind me.
“Nothing.”
“Then why did you just get all tense on me?”
“I didn’t.” My voice is high and squeaky, the way it gets when I lie. If any member of my family was here right now, they’d call me on it. Although, in light of who I’m in bed with, I’m deeply thankful that no member of my family is here.
“You sound funny, too.”
Before I have a second to prepare, he’s moved me onto my back and pushed the hair back from my face. And dear God in heaven, the man is hot in the morning with the dark whiskers on his jaw and the fierce glow of those beautiful eyes gazing down at me with care and concern.
I swallow hard. I can’t lie to him, and not telling him would count as a lie. I clear my throat and lick my lips.
“What is that in your mouth?” He moves my lip and busts up laughing. “Are you wearing a retainer?”
“Yes! What’s the big deal?”
“How old are you, Poppy?”
I offer him my best mulish expression. “None of your business.”
“You are out of high school, right? Don’t tell me I’ve been breaking the law here. That won’t be good for my reputation.”
“Very funny. If you must know, I’ll be thirty next month.”
“And still wearing your retainer.” Those eyes I love so much dance with glee as he totally makes fun of me, and I don’t even care. “Such a good girl.” He kisses his way down my body and has me spread out before I can tell him he can’t have that if he’s going to make fun of me.
Who am I kidding? He can have whatever he wants, and what he wants at the moment is to lick and suck and finger me to a screaming orgasm. Before I can process that, he’s on top of me, inside me, and taking me back up on the most thrilling ride of my life. I’m coming down from my second orgasm in ten minutes when I remember Ava’s text.
I have to tell him.
I die at the thought of telling him, especially when he’s still inside me, throbbing and filling me the way no one else ever has or ever could.
“Sweet Poppy,” he whispers against my neck. “You’re so damned perfect. Thank you for being there for me last night. I’m sorry I was such a mess.”
I touch him everywhere I can reach, hair, shoulders, back and ass. “Please don’t be sorry. You never have to be sorry with me.”
“You have to take that thing out of your mouth. You sound like Elmer Fudd.”
Exasperated and amused, I pop out the retainer and put it on the bedside table, trying not to think about the possible germs it might be coming into contact with. This is the Presidential Suite at the Four Seasons. There’re no germs here, right? “Happy?”
“Yeah, I am,” he says, smiling. “Incredibly happy when I expected to be the exact opposite during this media tour from hell.”
He’s happy. He’s smiling. He’s at peace.
And so am I.
I can’t tell him about that text now. I just can’t.
Today, we have an appearance on CBS This Morning, where I get to meet Oprah’s best friend, the amazing Gayle King! I die when she asks if I want to take a selfie together. After that, we’re at The View, where the ladies go wild over John, and I beat back the ugly green beast that wants to beat up all of them for daring to flirt with him.
He’s mine, the beast cries out, even if that’s so not true. They love him, and I should be thrilled, but I’m pissed for reasons that make no sense, even to me.
I receive a text from one of my high school friends, who’s going through a hideous divorce. In our group chat, she says, If you’re single, ladies, stay that way. Men suck. They’re all horrible. Every single one of them.
Mine isn’t. I’m smug as I watch him banter with Whoopi, Joy, Sunny and Meghan. He makes me so proud with the way he presents himself in the interviews. He is calm, cool, confident and composed. No one would ever know that he was sobbing in my arms less than twelve hours ago. No one will ever know that.
On the way back to the hotel, Muncie tells us that Amy is taking him to Chelsea Piers and asks if we want to go.
John gives me a look that melts my panties. “My head is hurting.”
Apparently, he’s not talking about the head at the top of his body.
“I’d love to, but I have to work,” I tell Muncie. “You guys will have fun. The Piers are great.” Earlier, he told me they visited the 9/11 memorial yesterday, which he found haunting and incredibly moving.
Today, I resolve, I will go home. I will do laundry and pick up more clothes. And by two o’clock, as if I had nothing else planned, we’re back in John’s bed acting as if the world will end unless we have all the sex.
I’ve never been happier in my life.
However, the secret I’m keeping from him nags at me like a fingernail over an open wound. It’s wrong that I haven’t told him, and now, too much time has gone by. If I bring it up, he’s going to want to know why I didn’t tell him sooner. I won’t have a good answer for that. I can’t very well say I kept it from him because I don’t want him to talk to her or go back to her or do anything but what he’s doing right now.
“You with me, Poppy?” he asks gruffly.
You’d never know the man lost a leg a few months ago or spent a month in a coma or gave himself a concussion yesterday. His stamina is admirable, as is his mastery of me. I’ve never come so much in my life as I do with him.
“I’m most definitely with you.”
He likes that answer.
I throw myself into showing him how much I want him, how much I love this, how much I love… him. Oh God, that wasn’t supposed to happen, but how could it not?
Afterward, we sleep like the dead and wake much later.
He runs his fingers through my hair. “I want to take you somewhere.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. This is your city. Where should we go? I want some of that New York pizza you raved about.”
I can’t take him anywhere near Tribeca, where I live close to my brothers. I think of Roma’s on the Upper East Side, which is one of my favorites. “I know just the place, but you can’t go out looking like… well, like you.”
“We’ll get the security guys to take us. It’ll be fine.”
I’
m such a girl, because the idea of going out on an actual date with him has me giddy. “Do you think we can swing by my place while we’re out so I can get some more clothes?”
“Fine by me. I’d love to see where you live.”
It’s a risk. My place is right between Eric’s and Rob’s, but what’re the chances I’ll run into them? Slim to none. We don’t show up at each other’s homes without texting to make sure it won’t be a wasted trip, and besides, they know I’m not there.
We shower together and get ready for a night out.
The security detail that Marcie hired is efficient and discreet. If they think it’s odd that I spent the afternoon in John’s suite, they would never say so. Besides, we told them we had work to do, and because I have zero fucks to give, I don’t care if they know we spent the afternoon fucking like rabbits.
They get us out of the hotel and into a silver SUV. I don’t see any sign of the reporters who were staking out the hotel, which is a relief.
John is wearing jeans, a wrinkled light blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, aviators and a San Diego Padres ball cap. He looks nothing at all like the polished naval officer who’s been on TV the last few days. Since we’re getting door-to-door service, he decided to leave the crutches at the hotel.
That makes me nervous, but I’d never say so.
He holds my hand in the car, and I want to pinch myself. This is happening. My phone chimes with a text that I glance at, my stomach free-falling at the words from Rob to me and Amy.
This is bad, you guys. Eric won’t talk to her, he won’t talk to me. He’s being really weird. I’m afraid they’re done, and Camille is worried, too. I don’t know what to do.
No. I want to scream. No, no, no. They are not done. They can’t be done. I can’t picture either of them without the other, for one thing, but if she’s single again… John would drop me in a hot second for her. I have absolutely no illusions about that.
