One Night in Vegas
Page 22
“I know,” he finally whispered. “And Jenny? I—”
“I know.”
And she did.
Only then did the tears stop. No. She chose to make them stop. Acceptance bred stability, if not complete peace. What good would it do to hurl more sadness at it all? Nothing could be changed. The truth…simply was. She had to accept it like a moor accepted the rain.
And eventually, rain brought the ppring.
She closed the thoughts off. Spring was not on the mental menu tonight. She refused to ponder fluffy bunnies and daffodils when she could savor her last hours encased in steely strength, wrapped in complete warmth.
Surrounded by Sam.
She nestled against his chest, pressing a hand next to her cheek to listen to his heartbeat.
Remember this sound. Save it, savor it, commit it into the deepest parts of yourself.
But her senses betrayed her, succumbing to the perfect heat and protection of his embrace. With the thrum of his life in her ears, she gazed up into the stars, and followed their hypnotic peace into sleep.
Chapter Ten
“Eternal sunrise, eternal dawn and gloaming, on sea and continents and islands, each in its turn, as the round earth rolls.”
At first, Sam only gave her the continued thumps of his heart, still beneath her ear, as response to her poetic whisper. The scrape of his hand through her hair soughed in time with the wind against the window, accented by the lusty coos of the roadrunners and the sharp barks of the coyotes.
At last, he emitted a sleepy hum. “John Muir before six, now? You really are the geekiest sex fiend I’ve ever met.”
She flashed him a scowl. “And how many sex fiends have you met?”
A smile tugged his lips. Just as swiftly, it sobered. He lifted his hand to her hair again, letting the strands trail from his fingers, over her shoulder. “Only one who’s taken much more from me than that.”
Less than ten seconds. Less than twelve words. He had her blood tingling, her chest flipping, and her heart breaking all over again—especially as he drew her down for a long, wet, lingering kiss. But as soon as he parted her lips and swept his tongue out for more, Jen forced herself away. Two more seconds of feeling his tongue like that, and she’d be getting hot and stupid with him again.
“We—we need to think about getting back.” Her hair and makeup appointment was at eight. That had to be less than two hours away by now. “Time for real life, my laird-lord on high.” Despite the fact that he’d never appeared more like a perfect dream, the peach and gold dawn making his chiseled nudity glow.
“I should roll you over and spank you black and blue for that nonsense,” he cracked. “But you’re right.”
“If you want the last word here, that feels like a damn good place for it.”
He sat up, leaned over, and reached a hand to L-frame her face. With the other, he guided one of her hands to the center of his chest. “My ‘last word’ to you comes only when this stops beatin’.”
Jen struggled to laugh. It was ironic, right? That by staking his devotion on the beats of his heart, he’d stopped hers from working?
From possibly ever beating the same way again.
In just a night, he’d changed her. Moved her. Made her breathe, hurt, soar, seethe, laugh, cry, and live as she never had before.
In just a night, she’d learned what it was to be in love.
Why had she deluded herself that the truth of it would just…fade? That real life would be the magical blowtorch, razing everything back to the way it was?
Even after Tess and Dan’s wedding—which was beautiful, perfect, and tumble-free for her, thanks to Sam bowing out at the last minute due to a “buddy” at the base pleading for a roster switch—she couldn’t seem to find the right target lock on her life. She made all the right motions. Did all the right things. Her radar was spinning, her tracking instruments fired-up and ready, but every day was like flying through muck, only to loop and land exactly the same place she’d been before.
With no Sam in sight.
One day after the wedding, she secretly thanked him for being polite and granting her some space.
Two days after, she was sick of “space”. And pissed at him.
Three days after, the fury whittled into despair.
At three that afternoon, she planted her elbows on her desk and parked her head in her hands, forming a teepee over her phone’s text screen. Sam’s face and name taunted her from it. They hadn’t traded texts since last week, when he’d messaged to ask her if he could pick up something gooey for her from their favorite Mexican joint just outside base. She’d texted back a decline:
:: I’m having a green smoothie. Need to watch the waistline. ::
She’d swallowed hard, fighting the heat behind her eyes, while reading his response.
:: Why? You’re a perfect little mouse already. ::
She’d purposely ignored him—now realizing, in hindsight, that it was actually her bait. She knew he’d come in to rib her some more about it, and he had. And she’d gotten the dorky, cheap little thrill of basking in his presence for a few minutes, fawning over him like a desperate fangirl.
Pathetic.
Transparent.
But no different than what she was about to do.
Okay, a little different.
Different to the tune of five thousand miles.
She gazed at his tiny avatar picture again. She had a dozen bigger ones in the photos folder but this was her favorite, snapped as he’d come in after a kick-ass training hop one day. His hair was sweaty and tousled, his grin wide and bright.
How she loved him.
How she wanted to capture that smile on his face every day. To spoil him rotten with her cooking every night, and her blow jobs every morning. To massage the aches from his shoulders, and kiss away the demons from his deployments. To let him call her his sexy, sassy little mouse…and to feel his hand on her ass when she stopped believing it for herself.
She wanted their one night for every night.
Because of that, she was going to ride the elevator to the roof again. Then jump off the building.
Figuratively, of course.
But just as terrifyingly.
If she wound up on the sidewalk as a symbolically smashed pancake, so be it. Better a pancake who’d tried than a ball of batter who’d stayed in the bowl, playing life safe.
The decision blazed through her, firing down her right arm. No second thoughts. Do it.
She lifted the pen waiting on the desk, then signed the document she’d completed this morning in perfect detail. The second she finished, Lola appeared. Though technically on the same pay scale and rank as Jen, Lola pretended she saw more and knew more than everyone in the office. She tossed back her frizzy dark hair, hennaed this week to a shade nearing purple, and chomped on her gum while lifting the page bearing Jen’s new signature.
“So. You’re really gonna do this? A transfer to Lakenheath?”
“Yes.” She snatched the sheet back, weirdly protective of it. “I’ve been thinking a lot about it lately.”
“Yeah.” Lola smirked. “A lot.” She tapped at the phone resting on the desk—still open to Sam’s text page.
Jen kicked up her chin. The flat pancake plan was looking better by the second, when she realized Lola would be out of her life. “The base is five miles from Cambridge University,” she asserted. “They’ve got amazing public education courses.”
“Right. Sure. Cambridge. There’s a reason to upend your life.”
Jen maintained her stance. Cambridge was going to be a pretty good part of the pancake consolation package, if everything came to that. If. She wasn’t committed yet. As long as the transfer request was in her hands, she still had the chance to shred it and forget it. Once she walked the sheet across the office and dropped it onto the right stack, wheels would officially be in motion. She’d already talked to the hiring officer at Lakenheath. They badly needed someone like her in the personnel
office, so her request would be fast-tracked for processing.
Every step she took across the tiled floor was like a rifle shot in her ears.
Think of other things. Focus on the logistics first. They’re safer. Stop at the PX for moving boxes. Call the utilities companies to set dates for shut-offs.
Practice what you’re going to tell Sam…
Okay, so logistics wouldn’t work.
She had no choice but to grit it out, step by agonizing step.
The hugest change of her life.
For a man who’d never even said the damn words to her.
You never said them either, girl. When it was time for the big three, you wussed out on him too. Maybe that’s why he’s stayed away.
Halfway there.
The office door whooshed opened as if a Cat Five hurricane closed in. Coincidentally, “Cat Five” was the radio call-sign for Major Skip Tremaine, the man who headed the base’s cross-training program. He was the ideal candidate for the position. With a nose sharp as an F-18’s and a haircut never departing from a strict high-and-tight, the guy was only missing rocket boosters in his backside.
“Ladies!” Tremaine opened both arms like a circus conductor—an image making everyone giggle, since he was still in flight gear. “Eyes up. Attention, please. I have an announcement.”
Again, everyone laughed, though shuffled over out of respect for the guy. Cat Five got excited about a lot of things. Murmurs rippled through the group. Some speculated he’d announce the commissary had agreed to reinstate Taco Tuesdays. Many more banked on the guy revealing his newest tattoo.
When everyone was gathered, Tremaine rocked back on his heels. “I’m pretty fucking excited to tell you all that I’ve talked one of the world’s finest jet jockeys into hanging up his combat wings, and joining us here at the training center. He’s an outstanding pilot and an exemplary human being, with the patience to put up with my special brand of bullshit. I’d ask you all to make sure he feels right at home, but you’ve already handled that task with your usual class and style. Well, you big braw boy, stop skulking in the hall!”
Tremaine’s last few words were drowned by the hoots, shouts, and applause that broke out before he was done.
Braw Boy.
Sam’s call-sign.
What. The. Hell?
Jen barely treaded water in the storm surge of the celebration. She stood, frozen as ice, jostled as everyone rushed and crowded the grinning giant who’d entered behind Tremaine. Well…she assumed he was grinning. From here, all she could see were the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, as well as the gusto with which he hugged every last person in that throng who greeted him.
Which, damn it, made her love him even more.
He always had something for everyone: a warm smile, a listening ear, a compassionate hug. There was a reason Tremaine had pursued him. People were inspired to be their best for him and with him.
But what if he didn’t have anything left for her?
She didn’t—couldn’t—dare to have hope about the reason for his bold decision. No matter how much of the “new” Jenny he’d brought to life during their fantasy night, enough of the old girl existed to make her hang back, still rooted to her spot, clutching the paper she’d been a few steps from filing.
A few steps.
Ten feet away from landing herself across the world from him again.
“Jenny?”
She blinked and looked up, just in time to watch him part the crowd, approaching the counter at which he’d camped so many times just to shoot the shit with her. This time, he didn’t stop at the shelf. Parked one hand on the ledge and vaulted right over.
He landed directly in front of her.
As the room fell to silence, Sam cupped the sides of her neck. “Jenny?”
She lifted her head. He was dressed in flight gear too—and damn, it looked even better from up close. “Yeah?” she finally whispered.
His lips twitched, unveiling an expression she’d never seen on his face before. Was he…nervous? “Say something. You look like a bomb just dropped.”
“Hasn’t it?”
More of the nervousness. It entered his eyes now, turning them into shadows. His hold slackened. “Then you’re not happy about this?”
She blinked again. Lifted a hand to his broad chest, directly over his heart. “Oh, God. Sam.” She wasn’t handling this right at all. If her dreams really were coming true—if he’d given up the green beauty of his land and the familiarity of his home to come live in the desert, with her—then a simple word like “happy” wasn’t enough to contain any of the joy she felt…even a fraction of her heart’s exultation.
“Well, that’s fine, then.” He stepped away. Yanked his hands back, fingers stiff, as if he were suddenly sure he’d break her. “I suppose I…assumed things I shouldn’t have after our time together. Now I’m in a world of sorry about it, too.” In a guttural growl, he added, “To both you and me.”
“Sam!” But her plea didn’t stop him from whirling from her—forcing her to race around, plant herself before him, and shove the sheet in her hand right into his. “Tell me who was the one assuming things, Captain Mackenna?”
His stare was still dark with fury. As he read the first line of the request, it changed to confusion. Then as his lips moved over the text, exploded with astonishment. “Lakenheath?” His head snapped up. “You were going to—”
“Ten more seconds and it would’ve been submitted.” She closed the gap between them. Uncaring of who watched or even took a damn video—and she wouldn’t put it past Lola, because this was much better YouTube fodder than her cats singing old Rod Stewart tunes—she lifted a hand to his perfect, rugged face. “And you would’ve been worth it, Sam Mackenna. All five thousand miles.”
His gray eyes smoldered once again—but this time, in all the right ways. He didn’t veer that beautiful stare as he tore her transfer request in half, tossed both pieces over his shoulders, then reached out for her—
And crashed their mouths together.
Jen was conscious of more woots and claps, but she barely heard the din past the rockets blazing across her senses, the happiness exploding in her heart. Sam wrapped his arms around her with the same jubilance, his grip as dominant as his kiss, his groan matching the need in her sigh. His tongue rammed between her lips before dancing with hers, leaving her with no mistake about who got to lead. No way was she about to argue. No way did she want to.
A part of her almost didn’t believe this was happening. Their love story was the longshot, not the sure thing. The circle aligning with the square. The friendship that had quirked everyone’s brows—and likely did even now, despite their loud cheers.
They were the wild card of a lifetime.
But maybe, just sometimes, Lady Luck liked being a romantic sap—especially when souls were meant to be together. When spirits were meant to love. When hearts were meant to be transformed.
As soon as Sam let her breathe again, she used the opportunity to speak the truth from such a heart: the one threatening to thud its way right out of her chest. “I love you, Sam.”
His dimples became craters from his answering smile. “As I love you, my little hen.”
A delighted laugh bubbled up. The endearment was a Scottish thing, used pretty casually in his country, though he’d never said it over here. With his utterance now, he conveyed a message that made her eyes sting all over again.
He was home.
She was going to make sure he felt that way, each and every day. He was her gift, and she’d never stop being grateful for it—which meant no more looking in the mirror and seeing everything she wasn’t. She owed it to Sam—who’d showed her that she owed it to herself—to believe in everything she was. To have faith in everything she would be, too.
She was more because of him.
She’d be more because of him.
As she framed his face with her hands and looked deeply into his eyes, she also saw the more she’d give
n back to him. The new peace in his eyes. The new strength in his smile. He dazzled her now more than ever—and knowing she was the reason just made this moment even more of a miracle.
Even the sarcastic snort on the air, courtesy of Lola, didn’t fade her shine. “Hen?” the woman spat. “What the hell happened to ‘mouse’?”
Jen precluded her reply with a laugh drenched in joy, resounding with love. “She gambled on a wild card.”
And won.
The End
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