A tiny baby. A wedding band on my left hand, shiny and new, still unfettered by the nicks and scrapes that would appear over the years, the wear and tear of life, marriage, a military marriage.
Hope. Love. Joy.
“She’s beautiful,” Alex whispered, his voice cracking. “So beautiful.”
Tears ran down his cheeks and it wasn’t until I felt the wetness on my face that I realized I was crying, too—big, heaving sobs born of incredulous wonder and so much relief.
I looked away from Alex, my gaze falling onto the most perfect sight I’d ever laid my eyes on.
She was wrinkly and chubby-cheeked, her lungs getting a workout as she cried, her face scrunched up as she railed against the world for disturbing her slumber. The nurse placed her in my arms and I stared down at her, feeling as though I’d had an out-of-body experience, unable to believe she was here and she was really ours.
Hannah Marie Rogers looked up at me with big blue eyes—her father’s eyes—and I fell in love. Head-over-heels in love.
“Hi.” My lips curved into a smile, tears tumbling down my cheeks. “I’m your mama.”
She blinked, her gaze locking on mine, and a look flashed in her eyes, her cries quieting, recognition steady between us.
I love you. I will always love you. My heart is yours.
“She recognizes your voice,” the nurse said.
I nodded. I’d read how babies recognized the sounds they heard in the womb, but seeing it in my daughter’s eyes, having that bond between us—
My life had been defined by so many moments—happy ones, sad ones—a knock at the door, a kiss, a glance.
“I think she does.”
I turned toward Alex, lifting the baby in my arms slightly so he could get a good look at her.
“That’s your daddy, Hannah.”
His lips brushed the top of my head as he reached out and stroked her cheek, his cheeks wet, eyes shining.
“She’s so beautiful. She looks exactly like you.”
I smiled. “She has your eyes.”
Wonder filled his voice, clutching my heart in a tight fist and sending it tumbling through my chest.
“Yeah. She does.”
He wrapped his arm around me, our daughter between us, and in that moment, everything was utterly perfect.
* * *
“Can we come in?”
Jordan peeked around the door to our hospital room, a big smile on her face and Julie on her hip.
I grinned. “Of course.”
She opened the door, revealing Burn, Thor, and Becca. The guys were still wearing their flight suits and had clearly just come from work. They carried giant pink balloons that read “It’s a Girl” and lush bouquets of flowers.
“Easy’s been sending like a million pictures, but it wasn’t enough. We’ve been dying to meet her,” Jordan added. Her gaze drifted from me to Alex. “Congrats, Papa.”
His lips curved into a smile brighter and sexier than any I’d ever seen on him, the obvious pride blinding. “Thanks. She’s sleeping in her bassinet.”
Jordan handed Julie over to Burn and came over and gave me a hug.
“I’m so happy for you guys.”
The tears—happy, exhausted, awed tears—that had been my constant companion these past couple days bubbled up again.
“Thanks.”
She made her way over to the bassinet while I greeted the rest of the group.
“She’s gorgeous,” Jordan commented, staring at our two-day-old daughter. “Absolutely gorgeous.”
She really was. I’d always liked kids, always wanted my own, always thought they were cute, but there was something about your child that was everything. I’d read about this kind of love, had people tell me what to expect, and yet the power of it was so unexpected.
She was everything in my eyes.
They all made their way over to see her, the guys lowering their voices to keep from waking the baby. Burn gave Alex a hug and the look that passed between them—hell, the look on all their faces—
Burn held Julie cradled in his arms like she was the most precious thing to him. Her little head rested on his green flight suit, a spot of drool landing above the Wild Aces patch. Thor looked on with an indulgent smile on his face, the fighter pilot I’d seen slamming shots at bars mellowed to something else, this big, tough guy making faces at a baby.
And Alex—
I’d never seen him look happier.
Hannah stirred, a shriek coming from her bassinet, and before I could get out of bed and pick her up, Alex swooped down and scooped her up in his arms, his voice taking on the hushed tone he always used when he talked to her. Burn and Thor moved closer, Thor’s fingers waving in the air at her as he began speaking in what could only be described as baby talk, a sound I never imagined I’d hear from big, badass Thor.
“God that’s sexy,” Jordan commented, a wry grin on her face. “Nothing like three fighter pilots reduced to mush by two babies.”
Becca laughed. “Amen.”
We stayed there, watching our men, snippets of their conversation filling the room, talk of flying and what Alex had missed at work interspersed with the occasional reference to the girls. Halfway through the conversation, Alex’s gaze drifted to me, and he sent me a deeper smile, one that tugged at my heart.
“I love you,” he mouthed to me.
“I love you, too,” I replied, the power of those words overwhelming me, the love staring back at me filling me with peace.
My vision blurred, and something clicked inside me.
I’d never really understood why Michael loved to fly so much; never comprehended how he lived with the risks he took, how he could go up every time, knowing this time he might not come home. Eventually I learned to accept that it just was, that loving him meant loving every side of him, including the biggest part, the one that had me passing sleepless nights with worry or sitting next to a nearly packed suitcase on the floor, tears raining down my face as I smothered the sound of my sobs, as I faced another six-month stretch without him, another cycle of missed birthdays and holidays, memories we’d never make together.
With Alex, I accepted it because it just was. I’d been a fighter pilot’s wife before; I knew the score. But I didn’t understand it. Still. And if I were really honest, there was always a tiny piece of myself I kept ruthlessly locked away, that knew I’d never understand it.
Now I did.
It’s a moment—a kiss at bedtime, a mumbled “I love you” in sleep, the sight of boots in your entryway, a much-awaited homecoming, a text in the middle of the day, a hug when you need it most. It’s a million, tiny infinitesimal moments that fill your heart, that get you up in the morning and push you through the stupid fights, the nights filled with worry, the stress of daily life.
It’s rolling the die and hanging everything you are, everything you have, everything you want on a moment, on love. It’s having the courage to stand when you’ve fallen, and finding someone who will walk beside you, your hand tucked in theirs, when you do. It’s the hope that pushes you through.
It’s everything.
I’ll never understand exactly what it is they find in the air, the adrenaline rush they chase every single time they go up, but I understand the why of it now, the passion that drives you to keep on, even when all your losses are stacked against you. I understand the risks they take, the terrifying, daunting risks for one moment of perfection—
For a little girl with chubby cheeks, copper-colored hair, and her father’s blue eyes. For a man who loves you with every fiber of his being, who risks his life day after day for the things he believes in, for you. For a dream you clutch in your palm and protect at all costs—
I’m happiest with my feet planted firmly on the ground. But my heart—
It flies.
See wher
e it all began in
FLY WITH ME
Turn the page for an excerpt from the first Wild Aces Romance by Chanel Cleeton
Available now from Berkley Sensation
JORDAN
There was a time in a woman’s life when she had to accept that wearing a headband made of pink—glittery—illuminated penises was too much. I couldn’t put my finger on the number—and I definitely couldn’t do it after my fourth tequila shot—but I figured that at thirty and still single, bachelorettes had ceased to be a fun rite of passage, and had instead become a wake-up call that if Prince Charming wasn’t coming soon, I’d have to start exploring my options in the amphibian variety.
Of course, it didn’t help that this was my sister’s bachelorette—my cute-as-a-button, too-young-for-wrinkle-cream sister’s bachelorette. Or that she was marrying my high school ex-boyfriend. I didn’t care; I mean we hadn’t been together in over a decade, but the fact that my future brother-in-law had once seen me topless added to the surreal feeling of the whole thing.
I took shot number five like a champ.
“I’m getting married!” Meg screamed for what might have been the fifteenth time that night. Somewhere between dinner at Lavo and partying at Tao, this seemed to have hit her with a vengeance. On anyone else, it would have been annoying; on Meg, it was somehow still adorable.
At twenty-five, she was the baby of the family. A good five inches shorter than me, we shared the same blond hair and brown eyes. We both had curves, but on her, they were bite-size. I was a king-size—tits and ass that could put your eye out—not to mention the pink phalluses bobbing awkwardly on my head.
It had been Meg’s idea to dress up, and I hadn’t been able to disappoint her. So here I was, thirty years old, terminally single, wearing penises on my head, a hot pink barely there tube dress, and fuck-me Choos that topped me out at six feet. If I ever got married, I was so not doing a bachelorette. Or bridesmaids in hideous dresses. Or arguing with my fiancé over whether we’d serve filet mignon or prime rib. I loved meat as much as the next girl, but the drama surrounding this wedding had my head spinning, and I was just the maid of honor. If I were the bride? I totally got why people eloped.
My parents could do the big wedding with Meg. At least they’d get the budget option with me—if I ever got married at all.
Shot number six came faster than a virgin on prom night.
I wasn’t really even tipsy. I could definitely hold my liquor, but this was Vegas, and everything about tonight screamed excess, and as depressing as it was to be the eldest, even worse, I felt like the mother hen to the group of three Southern girls ready to make the Strip their bitch. It was time to up my game.
I rose from our table and headed over to where Stacey and Amber, my sister’s friends from college, were dancing, determined to kick this feeling inside of me’s ass.
When I’d look back on this evening, and it would play in my mind on repeat for months to come, this would be the moment. Freeze it. Remember it. How often could you say that you could pinpoint the exact moment when your life changed?
I could.
If I had anyone to blame for the wild ride that came next, it was Flo Rida. Because as soon as “Right Round” came over the club speakers, my tequila-fueled body decided it needed to move. It was the kind of song you couldn’t resist the urge to dance to; it made normal girls want to grab a pole and let loose. Okay, maybe just me. But it felt like kismet, like the song played for me, to breathe life into my sad, old self. So I danced, pink penises gyrating and flickering, hips swaying, hair swishing, until my world turned upside down.
NOAH
“Dibs.”
I took a swig of Jack, slamming the glass down on the bar.
“You can’t call dibs, asshole. There are four of them.”
Easy shrugged with the same nonchalance that had earned him his call sign and made him lethal behind the stick of an F-16. He lulled you into thinking he was just fucking around. He never was.
“Are you saying I can’t handle four chicks?”
“I’m calling bullshit on that one.”
The guy got more pussy than anyone in the squadron, but a foursome was ambitious even for him.
“Fifty bucks,” he offered, knowing my pathological inability to back down from a challenge.
“Fuck you, fifty bucks. You can’t bang four chicks.”
Easy’s eyes narrowed in a look I knew all too well.
“Watch me.”
We all gave him a hard time for being a princess because his face was a panty dropper, but he could throw down like nobody’s business. Lately, though, this shit had been getting darker and darker. We’d broken off from the rest of the group, Joker had gone back to the hotel to call his wife, and now Easy was drinking like he wanted to die.
The Strip had seemed like a good idea four hours ago, but I was tired and now I just wanted to collapse in the suite we’d booked at the Venetian. I’d flown four sorties leading up to today, each one more demanding than the last. Today’s double turn had topped me out at six flights this week, and my body definitely felt it. I was tired, my schedule screwed six ways to Sunday, and right now I was far less concerned with getting laid than I was with getting more than five hours of sleep.
Our commander, Joker, was on my ass for the squadron to perform well at Red Flag—our international mock war held at Nellis Air Force Base in Vegas. As the squadron’s weapons officer, it was my job to make sure we were tactically the shit. Babysitting F-16 pilots with a hard-on for trouble? Not in my job description. It was really sad when I was the voice of reason.
Sending a bunch of fighter pilots to Vegas for work was basically like putting a diabetic kid in a candy store. We got as much training done as we got tits and ass. And considering we pulled fourteen-hour workdays? That said something.
“It’s a bachelorette party,” I ground out, the subject already hitting way too close to home.
The flash of pain in Easy’s eyes was a punch to the nuts. Shit. It was worse than I’d thought.
“Screwing around isn’t going to change things,” I added, trying to keep any judgment or sympathy out of my tone.
If it were anyone else, I would have minded my own business; but it wasn’t anyone else, it was Easy. He’d been my roommate at the Academy, gotten me through pilot training when I’d struggled, flown out to Vegas when I’d somehow graduated from weapons school.
Easy threw back the rest of his drink. “Be my wingman for ten minutes. I won’t go after the bride. Then you can leave.”
I’d been ready to leave an hour ago.
“You owe me for the twins in San Antonio,” he reminded me.
Shit, I did.
“Ten minutes.”
He nodded.
I turned my attention to the group of girls dancing; they looked young and already well on their way to drunk. I was definitely calling in my marker at a later time.
At thirty-three, I was getting too old for this shit. Most of the squadron was either married or divorced, Easy and I among the few single holdouts left.
It wasn’t that I was opposed to marriage. I’d thought about how it would feel to land after a deployment to a girl who’d throw her arms around me and kiss me like she never wanted to let go, instead of landing to my bros carrying a case of beer. Hell, I saw the way guys climbed out of their jets, their kids running toward them on stubby legs, looking like it was Christmas, their birthday, and a trip to Disney World all rolled into one.
Even a fucker like me teared up.
I wasn’t Easy; I wasn’t trying to screw my way through life. I wanted a family, a wife. But I’d learned the hard way that not many girls were willing to stick around waiting for a guy who was gone more than he was around, who missed holidays and birthdays, who came home for dinner some nights at 11 p.m., and other nights not at all. It was hard to agree
to moving every couple years, to deployments that stretched on and on, to remote assignments, and Sorry, honey, this one’s a year, and you can’t come.
I got it. It was a shit life. The kind of life that sliced you clean, that took and took, stretching you out ’til there was nothing left but fumes. But then there were moments. That moment when I sat in the cockpit, when I was in the air, up in the clouds, feeling like a god. When the afterburner roared. The times when we were called to do more, when the trips to the desert meant something, when we supported the mission on the ground. The times when we marked a lost brother with a piano burn and a song. I couldn’t blame Easy for needing to let off steam, the edge was there in all of us, our faithful companion every time we went up in the air and took our lives in our hands.
We flew because we fucking loved it. So I guessed I already had a wife, and she was an expensive, unforgiving bitch—
Fortysomething million dollars of alloy, fuel, and lube that could fuck you over at any given time and felt so good when you were inside her that she always kept you coming back for more.
JORDAN
As the soberest one in the group, I noticed them first. To be fair, they were pretty hard to miss.
A loud and more than slightly obnoxious bachelorette, we’d run into our share of guys tonight—preppy polos and leather shoes with tassels—some single, some married, all looking like they’d served a stint in suburban prison and were now out in the yard for good behavior. They had that wide-eyed overeager look, as though they couldn’t believe their luck—Look at the shiny lights on the sign. Did you see the ass on that girl?—and Vegas was their chance to make memories that would keep them company when they were coaching Little League or out buying tampons for their wives.
These two were something else entirely.
They walked toward us, and I stopped dancing to enjoy the show. They didn’t look like anyone had let them out for good behavior, or like Vegas was their grown-up amusement park. They looked like this was their world, and they carried themselves like fucking kings.
On Broken Wings Page 24
