by Anne Marsh
Roddy takes a step forward. This puts his shiny loafers toe-to-toe with my bare feet. If this were my house, his ass would already be on the curb, but it’s not. So I step backward and let him come in. Naturally, he’s the kind of asswipe who takes an invitation for coffee and decides it means he gets to come over on Christmas and Easter, because he sweeps past me and into the living room. Marlee marches around throwing open the curtains and blinds.
“You haven’t made many changes,” Roddy tells her. He’s still clutching the fucking roses like a lifeline. Then he proceeds to identify all the pieces of furniture they picked out together, followed by the when and the where. If he were a dog, he’d have whipped out his dick and pissed on the stuff, too, just so I knew where I stood. Roddy’s got history with Marlee.
I could kiss Marlee when she cuts him off mid-description of a particularly ugly painting of ships hanging over their ex-sofa. “Why are you here, Roddy?”
Thank fuck she doesn’t hug him or offer to make him coffee. I lean against the wall, arms folded over my bare chest. Roddy’s gaze keeps straying to me, then jerking away, as if ignoring my being half-naked means he doesn’t have to think about the why.
Yeah. I fucked her, buddy.
She chose me.
Roddy finally stops hovering and drops onto the sofa, displacing a half-dozen small pillows. When he tries to find a place to set the flowers down, Marlee’s got him beat. Her coffee table is full of scented candles and little bowls of shells and colored sand. There’s no room for a beer, let alone a dozen long-stems. He finally shoves the bouquet in her direction.
“These are for you,” he says, announcing the obvious. We all know he didn’t bring me flowers.
“I’m crushed.” Not really, but I do feel slightly murderous. This is the guy who made Marlee feel inadequate. He broke her heart, pulled away from her, and made her feel empty inside. It seems wrong that he’s prancing around her house, acting like a few flowers make him a superhero and a sensitive guy. Marlee doesn’t even like cut flowers—she wants them to have roots, which means you bring her shit in pots and then help her dig the hole to plant them.
“Why are you here, Roddy?” I listen carefully, but Marlee doesn’t sound like she’s about to fall into his arms.
He ignores me.
“You didn’t answer your phone,” he counters. “Or my emails.”
She shrugs. “I’m pretty sure we said everything that needed saying during our court-ordered therapy sessions and then afterward, through our lawyers. I don’t have anything left to say to you.”
That’s my girl.
Despite her matter-of-fact statement, Roddy’s face kind of softens, although honestly the man is more dough boy than not. I have no idea what she ever saw in him. “I miss you,” he says, holding the flowers out again.
I swoop in and grab them. “You shouldn’t have.”
“Prick,” Roddy mutters, just quietly enough that I can’t make a big deal out of it.
“There’s a vase in the kitchen,” Marlee says, effectively exiling me. Her kitchen opens to her living room, separated by a waist-high pass through. The lack of wall means I hear Roddy’s next words all too clearly.
“I want you back,” he announces and grabs her hands. “I want us to be a team. A family.”
The lack of wall means I have a perfect view when Marlee stumbles, off-balance, and lands on Roddy. He takes immediate advantage, running his hands up her arms and wrapping himself around her like some kind of fucking octopus with a death wish. Forget putting flowers in vases—I’m gonna shove the whole bouquet up his ass, thorns first.
I toss the roses in the sink and mentally plot a course for Roddy.
The only thing saving his life is that Marlee’s already on it. She climbs off her ex, and I’m pretty sure she pays zero attention to where her knees and elbows go, because the man yelps and lets go real quick, which is the only point in his favor. I’m about to eject him from our house when I get a good look at Marlee’s face. She looks… wistful.
“Really?” she whispers.
Fuck. Me. Roddy’s said the magic words.
This is so not good.
I can’t compete with that. I’m not the family guy, the stable guy you can count on to be there. Maybe Roddy is. Marlee said that I was her wingman—and there is a wingman’s rule book. Every guy knows it. If I’m the wingman, that makes Marlee the pilot. It’s her choice who she goes home with—and it’s my job to make sure she gets her choice. I’m supposed to have her back, to look out for her, and to hook her up with her fantasy.
“I miss you,” Roddy says, holding out his hands. “You make me better and my life’s empty without you. You’re the one who asked for the divorce, not me, and I want us to be together again.”
“Because you were never there.” She doesn’t take his hands, but her own kind of flutter up and then back down again. As if she’s thinking about it. As if maybe it’s my presence that’s holding her back. And then she slides a glance at me, and I don’t know what to fucking think.
“You didn’t talk to me,” she continues, looking away from me. “You couldn’t even be bothered to fight with me. You just—removed yourself. Ignored me.”
Roddy stares at her and drops his hands. “I love you.”
Present tense. Not past.
He’s got that to offer her, too.
She inhales softly, and it’s as if I can see her rifling through her memories. As if she’s got a photo gallery of her ex up there in her head, his image memorialized there forever. Whatever happened at the end—or even in the middle—her marriage wasn’t all bad. She has good memories, too. Memories starring Roddy and not me.
“We’re over,” she says.
“When we got married,” Roddy says slowly, not moving from his spot on the couch, “you made me promises. You promised me love and you promised me forever. I screwed up, and I’ll own that.”
I must have made a sound—bet it was a fucking snort—because both of them whip around and stare at me. Roddy is the first to speak.
“Excuse me,” he says finally, meeting my gaze head-on for the first time since he realized I was half-naked and all Marlee’s.
I settle for giving him the death stare. Marlee’s got her back to me—she can’t see my face now. “Vann.”
He makes a production out of saying my name, as if he’s already forgotten it. He thinks he can screw with my head, but I’m a trained professional. I let him see the knowledge in my eyes, the desire I feel for Marlee. We’ve slept together. I’ve been balls-deep inside her. She was mine as recently as this morning—and the Rodster has nothing. Squat. Shit.
And then the fucker makes the mistake of looking Marlee over. Not her eyes or her gorgeous face. Nope. He stares at her tits, her belly, lower… and makes it perfectly, silently clear that if I’ve been Marlee’s most recent, he’s been her most. Goddamn it. Does she make that hoarse, needy groan for him, squeezing his dick right before she comes her head off?
I’m better.
That’s what I have to remember.
“I’d appreciate it if you gave us some space,” Roddy announces, as if accommodating his desire to be alone with my girl is the most reasonable request ever.
Which is why there’s no way in hell I’m moving. Marlee kicked him out once—I’ll handle things for her this second time around. Plus, we’re having a baby together and that definitely counts for something.
“Don’t particularly see the need.” Maybe Marlee and I can feed his blooms to the trash compactor together as one of those couple-bonding activities women’s magazines are always talking about. And yes—I’ve read those. Guy’s gotta look at something when he’s waiting for the dentist, and it’s priceless intel. Kinda like getting handed a combination to do and wishlist.
I got to hand it to Roddy, though—he’s no longer a quitter. He tries again.
“Because I want to discuss our relationship with my wife.”
I meet his death glare with one of
my own.
“Ex.” Those two letters make all the difference in the world.
“Vann.” Marlee twists in her seat, staring at me with an expression I can’t read.
Wingman.
Wingman.
Wingman.
The fuckster takes this opportunity to reach over and grab her hands again. This time, she lets him. “I want us to get back together,” he announces.
Rewind.
I. Don’t. Think. So. “You took your shot. It’s over.”
Pretty sure that’s what the word divorced means—and it’s the explanation and see-you-later that should be coming out of Marlee’s mouth. Except she sort of freezes, staring down at their hands, and Roddy seizes his chance.
“I’d really like for us to get back together,” he repeats softly. Clearly, he’s decided to pretend that I’m not present—and that Marlee and I haven’t just spent the night together.
I’m about to remind him that I’m still present, when she slays me with a single word.
“Why?” I’m not thrilled that Marlee’s apparently settling in for a fucking heart-to-heart with her ex. He had his shot. He screwed it up. I don’t care that he’s driven out here from Nevada or that he stopped to pick up flowers. That doesn’t cancel out the years he spent ignoring Marlee and freezing her out. See? I may not be the king of chitchat, but I know how to listen. So why does she sound… so fucking wistful? Why is she even listening to him?
I only have so much time before Marlee’s pregnant and our deal is over. I certainly don’t want to share any of it with her ex-husband. Even if I had until now and the end of the world, it wouldn’t be enough and I still wouldn’t be in a sharing mood. She’s the last cookie in the package, the one cold beer in the fridge, the blankets on the bed. In one word: mine.
And I’m her wingman.
I have to look out for her.
“I love you,” Roddy trumpets as if there’s a private tune playing in his head, one accompanied by a brass band and clashing cymbals. And then he leans in and kisses Marlee right there in front of me.
It’s a sweet, reverent kiss. I try telling myself it’s the kind of kiss you give your eighty-year-old aunt. But, yeah. That’s bullshit. Marlee’s ex is just getting warmed up, and maybe he’s not as stupid as I thought, because he’s giving her something I can’t. Feelings. Emotions. Genuine caring radiates off him and he just might be offering a future, too. I can’t fix this, can’t MacGyver it. I mean, I could shoot the guy—a dozen different ways of killing him come to mind—but that’s not the fix Marlee needs. She needs her family, her team, her unit.
So what if she makes my life better, too? Roddy may be a fixer-upper—but I’m a fucking teardown. I’m the hunting cabin in the woods where the roof and the floor are inches apart and the whole shithole’s covered in vines.
Her hands come up. She gently pushes him away, but is that what’s right for her? She needs time without my watching like the fucking peanut gallery. She needs the space to think this over and choose what’s best for her. Wingman. So before she can say anything, I do the best thing I can.
I leave.
I take my barefoot, broken-down, broken-hearted wingman self right through the wide-open front door and out of Marlee’s life.
I’m Marlee’s friend. Her go-to guy. The man who promised to fix everything for her. But Rhodes Carlson isn’t a something—he’s a someone. The day after I meet lover boy, I flop back on my mattress in my empty, has-no-furniture house and take a good look around me. I could be packed and on the road in five minutes. I’ve always thought that ability went in the plus column, that it was a character trait to be proud of. Maybe I was wrong about that. Because I don’t put down roots. I don’t know how to hold on, and I definitely don’t know how to make a permanent place for myself.
My virgin, never-been-pictured walls stare back at me accusingly, and I mentally try to imagine hanging something there. Nope. No can do. I faceplant on my bed, worn out after a ten-mile run followed by a three-mile swim. A few more yards and I might have had a coronary from sheer exhaustion. After I stripped off my clothes, taking a shower seemed far too Herculean a task, so I’ve settled for marinading in my own juices, naked, on my bed. The knot in my shoulders intensifies, a burning kink that no amount of stretching can fix.
Because my shoulders aren’t the issue—it’s a whole different region of my body and an organ further south. My fucking heart. It’s as naked as the rest of me.
Roddy came back for Marlee. Came bearing flowers and baring his heart. He’s not afraid to tell her how he feels or that he fucked up big time when he let her walk away. I still want to kick his ass into the middle of next week for hurting Marlee, but I also admire him. Just a little—and I’d never admit it out loud. He’s done something I’ve never been able to do. He’s said I love you and he means it.
I’m no doctor. I don’t know why they couldn’t have children before, or if there’s a fix for what’s broken there, but I suspect he’s going to make a compelling case for trying. I imagine the two of them standing in some pink or blue nursery, arms wrapped around each other as they watch a baby sleeping in a crib. I can see Marlee’s smile lighting up her face, the way the corners of her eyes crinkle up when she’s happy. She’s gonna make an amazing mother, an amazing family.
Just not with me.
I flop back on the bed, throwing an arm over my face. My heart twists tighter in my chest, reminding me it’s always been there but that it’s really not okay with the slide show of Marlee’s happily ever after that’s playing in my head.
It’s not that I don’t do relationships—it’s that I don’t know how. At twenty-six, I’m a relationship virgin. I’ve had girlfriends, but they’ve been brief encounters. Nice women, but we met at bars or clubs or at the gym and none of us were looking for forever. We’d had some good times, shared a few orgasms, and then we’d headed our separate directions. I’m not knocking the pleasure. There’s too much bad shit in life, too many black moments to not enjoy the good times when women strip off their clothes and ride you like a cowgirl.
I like a good orgasm as much as the next guy, and I’ll make sure my girl gets hers, too.
It’s just… that’s not enough anymore.
I’ve done multiple tours of duty as a US Navy SEAL and I’ve fought battles where people die. Good soldiers, bad guys, sometimes people who accidentally ended up on a battleground when they thought they were minding their own goddamned business. If she decides Roddy’s her best choice, I’m not going to pout or stand in her way. I’ll be a good friend and cheer her. I’ll tell her I understand.
Even if I fucking don’t.
Sometimes, wingmen lie in a good cause.
We had sex. It was fun. The orgasms were nothing short of mind-blowing. But at the end of the day it was supposed to be about baby-making—baby-making and helping Marlee get what she wanted. A family. I wasn’t ever supposed to be her long-term man or any part of that family. I was the part-time father, the drive-by presence in that future.
I want to change those mission parameters.
Suck it up, soldier. You accepted the mission—you don’t get to whine about it now. I’m not going to be that guy, the one who can’t or won’t accept that his girl’s moved on and that he’s fucking pathetic, hanging around her work, her place, her spot at the bar. I’ll just have to get over her. Throw myself into work. Train for a fucking Ironman competition.
Because we’re over, and the saddest part is that we never really started.
I never told her I was developing feelings for her—un-friend-like, lover-like feelings.
I take a moment to let it sink in.
I love Marlee.
And being a dumbass, I not only fell in love with her, but I gave her away before I realized what I’d done.
I’m busy wallowing in my misery when someone yanks my door open and storms inside. Her heels tap-tap-tap across my living room, leaving no doubt that the owner is pissed as hell. Presumably, I
’m her target. Seconds later, when I turn my head to inspect the new arrivals, a familiar female form appears in my bedroom doorway like an avenging Valkyrie. Or maybe it’s the Furies who go for blood? Doesn’t matter. Ava’s here, she’s pissed, and I’m betting I’m her target.
Naturally, Finn and Ro are right behind her. Finn launches into a complicated set of charades behind Ava’s back, presumably designed to convey precisely why she’s barged into my bedroom. I haven’t got a fucking clue what he’s trying to say. Maybe I shouldn’t have turned my phone off at the start of the mini-marathon. Maybe then I would have had a heads-up. A fucking clue.
“For a place that trains guard dogs, we’re surprisingly easy to invade,” I mutter from my prone position on the bed. My give-a-fuck meter is apparently broken, however, because I don’t move. They can stare all day at my naked ass.
“What did you do to her?” Ava demands.
The her in question requires no explanation.
“Nothing,” I announce, and I’m one hundred percent correct.
A towel slaps me on my ass. Guess someone’s tired of ogling my backside. I wrap it around me and sit up.
“Then why is she alone?” Ava demands and smacks me on the arm with her iPhone. Since her phone’s snuggled in a ruggedized case that could withstand a tank, it hurts.
“She has the Rodster,” I tell my nemesis.
Ava snorts. “Her ex? She doesn’t want him. He’s headed back to Nevada.”
“He said he wanted to get back together. He brought flowers.” Great. Now I sound like a whiney five-year-old.
Ava looks at me. Then she looks at Ro and Finn. “Is he always this stupid?”
Finn shrugs, but neither he nor Ro comments.
“Check your phone,” she orders. It’s not hard to imagine her terrorizing a courtroom.
I slap a hand around my bed until I come up with my phone. Turn it on. I have new messages, including one from Marlee that must have arrived during the last mile of my mini-marathon.
She’s sent me a photo.
We’re not talking a Time Magazine-worthy shot. This isn’t one of those heart-wrenching pictures where you see someone about to die or have a world of hurt inflicted on him. The person in the picture isn’t standing in a sea of devastation, surrounded by broken up bits of his life. Marlee is standing in front of an open bathroom door. She holds a small, white cardboard box, and she’s flashing the picture-taker a vee sign.
