The Lieutenants' Online Love

by Caro Carson

  He glared daggers at the back of her head, hating all those tendrils and curls and flowers. His heart contracted hard in his chest; those flowers in her hair were pink and blue.

  Ballerina was Michaels.

  The house lights went dark. The chair to her left remained empty. The orchestra continued tuning up, the random, discordant notes from individual instruments screeching into his skull.

  An usher with a flashlight asked Thane if he needed help finding his seat. Thane grabbed the program from the usher and sat in the closest seat that was open. He watched Michaels look down her row to her left, then to her right.

  He refused to feel guilty. Michaels wouldn’t exactly jump for joy if he came sidling through row D and took Drummer’s seat. She’d have a heart attack. She hated him as much as he hated her.

  The conductor raised his baton; the overture began. Thane wasn’t directly behind Michaels, but off to the side, so he could see a little bit of her profile. Her face was illuminated by the light of her cell phone as she typed something rapidly. Her earring sparkled as it reflected the phone’s light, then she tucked a curl behind her ear. Her hair was disconcertingly feminine, a few little braids holding the flowers among those loose curls. It looked like something a bride would wear.

  Total overkill.

  Typical Michaels. He hoped she hadn’t paid money to have her hair done like that. Tonight was just supposed to be a meet and greet. She’d placed way too much importance on the whole thing. She’d taken it too seriously.

  The curtain rose, and she turned off the too-bright light of her phone screen. The audience applauded. Thane’s phone buzzed in the inner pocket of his blazer. Two shorts and a long.

  No way in hell was he going to check that. All those months of pink words, all that hope he’d placed on them, and she’d been lying to him the whole time. Her personality in real life was nothing like she’d been online. There was a word for that, for people who developed fake online personalities just to see if they could capture someone’s devotion: catfishing. She’d catfished him, damn it.

  He stewed, he steamed, he looked at her and then resolutely looked at the stage instead. Ten eternally long minutes later, the people onstage were still dancing at a stupid party. Not even dancing—it was just slow walking. There was no point to it, just a parade of historical gowns.

  He wished he’d never come.

  He wished the app had crashed.

  I would have spent my whole life wondering where you are.

  He was spared that much, at least. He knew exactly where she was—and he wished like hell he didn’t.

  Michaels looked to her left one more time. She looked to her right again. Clear on the right. She wasn’t even watching the ballet she supposedly loved so much. She was looking for him, her little catfish victim.

  She’d have to keep looking. Drummer was a definite no-show.

  The interminably long ballet kept going and going. Onstage, a rat with a crown on its head was tiptoeing around a bed. Who thought of this stuff? It was as unfathomable as everything else this night. A lame swordfight followed between the rat and the nutcracker. Thane watched the back of Michaels’s head as she dropped her chin to look down to her lap. A quick flash of light followed. She’d checked the phone, of course.

  To see if I answered. Me, of all people.

  The woman to the right of Michaels shifted angrily in her seat and held her hand up in an exaggerated way to block the light. The phone went dark immediately, but Michaels’s profile was lit now by the white light from the stage as fake snow started to fall.

  He could see her face clearly. It was easy to read her lips as she said, “I’m sorry.” She bowed her head. She didn’t even look at the stage.

  Neither did Thane. He looked at her and all the sorrow on her face, the—the hurt.

  Thane scrubbed his hand over his jaw, so recently shaved for a woman he’d thought he knew. He couldn’t look at Michaels’s bowed head, at the sad curve of her mouth. Instead, he stubbornly looked at the stage, where, finally, what he recognized as ballet was taking place. Dozens of women in white tutus and white pointe shoes were striking ballet poses in a snowstorm for some reason, jumping in a formation of two rows so perfectly aligned, they put the military to shame. For a second, one flash of a second, Drummer thought how easy it was going to be to tell Ballerina something he could genuinely appreciate about her beloved ballet.

  One millisecond later, he remembered who Ballerina was, and he couldn’t take the flash of pain, not one more time. He was on his feet without thinking, sidestepping out of the aisle, ignoring dirty looks from the usher and sneaking out the door.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Thane’s phone buzzed in his pocket, two shorts and a long.

  He wasn’t going to look at that app ever again.

  The mezzanine lobby was mostly empty except for the bartenders at a bar set up at one end. The Austin city lights were bright, a view that would be romantic in other circumstances. Any other circumstance.

  He knew he should leave, but he sank onto the only furniture in the place, a long bench covered in black leather. What a frigging disaster this night had turned out to be.

  So why wasn’t he leaving Michaels in the middle of her little row in the middle of her little ballet?

  The theater doors to his left and right opened, and people began pouring out for intermission. Thane opened his program, prepared to duck behind it as he kept an eye out for Michaels. He needed to know where she was in order to avoid her.

  There. She walked right past him in pair of high-heeled sandals, deadly-looking stiletto heels.

  He didn’t look away; he needed to keep track of her. Her skirt ended well above her knee. Between her hemline and her pink-polished toes, her nude legs drew his eye. She moved differently in high heels than she did in combat boots, that was for sure. He’d always thought she was pretty, but he hadn’t seen her legs since that day by the pool, when she’d been barefoot in a sports bikini. Tonight, in high heels, she looked...elegant.

  All right, she looked sexy. Then again, high heels made a woman’s legs, any woman’s legs, look sexy. The last thing Thane needed to see was a sexy Chloe Michaels. He resented her for looking so good, all dressed up for a night on the town with a man. With him.

  If she’d known it was him, she wouldn’t have come here at all.

  He was leaving, damn it, but she was leaving first, heading straight for the stairs with quick steps. Her skirt swished around her thighs and she moved as lightly on those high heels as if she wore them all the time, when he knew for a fact she did not. She nearly ran down the stairs, disappearing from his view, her hand barely touching the rail.

  He didn’t care where she was going. For at least sixty seconds, he sat still, telling himself he didn’t care. It would probably be safe for him to leave using the opposite stairs. But his phone felt heavy in his jacket pocket. Had she left him a message—had Ballerina left Drummer a message—telling him where she was going?

  Thane stood up to leave.

  And pulled his phone out. White screen, pink letters. I know cell reception in this building is spotty, but if you get this, stay in your seat. I just realized there is a D130 at orchestra level. I’m in D130 on the mezzanine level. I’ll come down and find you. I’m so sorry for the confusion! I’m here, I promise.

  He slid his phone back in his jacket. He had every intention of going down the stairs and out to the parking garage, but instead he went back into the theater. The house lights were up, bright. He stayed close to the wall, cursing his own curiosity with every row he passed, until he stood at the balcony railing.

  Down below, to the right, were the doors closest to the stairs Michaels had just taken. Row D had to be close to the stage. Everyone who was going to leave for intermission had left at this point. Perhaps only a quarter of the audience remained in their seats, so it was easy to spot Michaels as she walked in.

  The sorrow had been replaced by an expectant look. She smile
d, radiant with hope, and Thane felt his heart contract again. This was wrong, all so wrong. She was going to be disappointed in just a minute. Whoever was sitting in Orchestra D131 was not him.

  It was like watching an accident unfold in slow motion. She found the right row. She tugged her dress into place, fingertips grazing that pale pink ribbon around her waist as she looked down the mostly empty row. Thane glanced down it, too. There were a few elderly folks still seated. A middle-aged man, too, probably twice her age with the beginnings of a bald spot, easy to see from above. Chloe kept a determined smile on her face and scooted her way down the aisle. She made contact, polite conversation with a sweet smile. She touched the sleeve of the man with the bald spot, and from here, Thane would have sworn he saw the word Drummer on her lips.

  No?

  No, the man shook his head.

  She nodded, she gave the group a little wave, and she turned around to walk out. Thane looked, really looked, and he saw Ballerina walking away, light on her feet, hair done up in feminine flowers, skirt swirling around her thighs. Ballerina.

  His fantasy. If Drummer had been any other man in Central Texas, he would’ve been suckered into believing that this graceful Ballerina was authentic. She wasn’t, and Thane knew it. He sat beside her in the office, rode beside her in troop transports and coordinated company exercises with her. He knew the sound of her voice over the radio in his HUMM-V and over the radio in his patrol car. He knew Michaels. That girl down there was a fake, deceiving a man who’d been nothing but kind and supportive to her since June.

  The audience began filing in again. The orchestra started tuning up. Thane sidestepped the entire length of the balcony railing to the far side of the mezzanine, just to avoid the woman he’d come to see—the woman who’d come to see him, with hope and anticipation written all over her face. Her disappointment had been equally obvious.

  So is mine.

  Thane headed for the lobby, his feet feeling heavier with every step. There was no one to talk to, no one to see. The lobby was almost empty, except for the bar in the corner. Thane headed over.

  The bartender nodded toward Thane. “What can I get you, sir?”

  With a lift of his chin, Thane indicated the whiskey bottle on display. “Single. On the rocks.”

  So few words to sum up so much.

  * * *

  Chloe returned to the mezzanine level at a more sedate pace. She wasn’t going to let her hopes rise too high, not again, but as she walked down the aisle to row D, she looked toward the center. Maybe, finally...

  Her seat was empty. The one next to hers was empty, too.

  “Are you coming in or not?” The man in the aisle seat had done the usual half twist to tuck his legs to one side.

  Chloe mustered up a polite smile. “No, sorry. I’m not going to...no. Sorry.”

  She dragged herself back up the stairs, reached the lobby and checked her phone. Again.

  She didn’t have much of a signal, so she walked closer to the windows and held her phone out. Maybe her messages hadn’t been sent yet. Maybe they were all piling up, waiting until she caught a better signal. Maybe Drummer’s phone was being just as unreliable. Maybe the performing arts center’s Wi-Fi had been overwhelmed by a thousand phones at intermission.

  She turned off her phone’s Wi-Fi and switched to cellular data, hope rising in her heart just one more time.

  She stood there with her hand outstretched, staring at the white screen like it was a crystal ball, until her hand started to tremble.

  She was a fool.

  Behind her, a pair of long black leather benches ran parallel to the glass wall. She sank down on one and stared out at the city lights as the lobby emptied and the theater filled. At least the view of Austin didn’t disappoint her. Everything else, every single other thing, did.

  She didn’t have the heart to go back in the theater and sit with that empty seat beside her for another hour. The last hour of her life had been miserable as she’d stared at the stage, trapped between the empty seat to her left and an angry woman to her right. Not that she could blame the woman. A bright cell phone screen was inexcusable in a dark theater, but Chloe had checked her phone because she’d felt so desperate. Quietly desperate.

  They say most men lead lives of quiet desperation. But you’re not like most men.

  Yes, she was. She would have given anything for anyone, anyone at all to come fill that empty seat. Someone too old, too young, handsome or plain, too thin, too fat, someone who talked brashly or stuttered shyly—she didn’t care. It would have been Drummer, and if she’d felt no romantic spark with him, she still would have had someone to talk to. She still would have connected with a human being who wanted to know her instead of waiting with that awful, achingly empty seat beside her.

  “Michaels? Is that you?”

  Good God. Thane Carter. She focused on the city view and pretended she hadn’t heard him.

  He walked right up to her, blocking the view. “It is you. Mind if I sit down?” He didn’t wait for her answer, but sat on the bench with her. She scooted away a few inches, but she couldn’t go far, because she was on the end of the bench. Jeez, he didn’t have to sit right beside her on this one. Right next to her was an entire second bench.

  “I’m—I’m waiting on someone, actually.” She looked over her shoulder at the last few stragglers who hadn’t gone back into the theater. Drummer could still show up. There might have been an accident on I-35, all lanes closed, traffic redirected, detoured through side streets. Drummer, of course, would have too much common sense to try to check his phone or type her a message while he was behind the wheel.

  Carter looked over his shoulder, too. “Where is he? I assume it’s a he?”

  She sat up a little straighter and looked back out the window.

  “Big secret?” he pressed. “Hot date? Must be a hot date. I’ve never seen you so...” He had the nerve to flap his hand in her general direction, from her head to her lap. “So...girly.”

  “Could you please leave?”

  He held up a glass tumbler of ice and amber liquid. “As soon as I’ve finished my whiskey.”

  “Shouldn’t you be in the theater with whatever woman you came here with?”

  “You know, it’s possible I came by myself, because I enjoy the ballet.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “No, it isn’t.” He frowned and took a slow, deliberate taste of his drink.

  She stopped watching his lips on the glass and folded her arms across her chest, her usual defensive posture around him. “Is she even here?”

  “Oh, she’s here, all right.” Carter’s gaze dropped to her folded arms for the barest of seconds, then back to the Austin view.

  Chloe looked down. Crap. Folding her arms in uniform was no big deal. Maybe it even gave her a little tough swagger. But in a dress with a V-neck, it emphasized her cleavage. She dropped her hands to her lap, then the bench. She felt the pink satin ribbon under her fingers and smoothed it out. The ribbon was such a sign of how desperate she was not to miss Drummer. She’d been afraid the flowers in her hair weren’t obvious enough, so she’d stopped at the flower stand in the lobby to buy a yard of satin ribbon to tie in a bow around her waist, so that her black dress wouldn’t be so black. Quiet desperation.

  “How about you?” Thane asked. “Don’t you want to get back inside and see the rest of the show? I bet you love the second half.”

  She frowned at his mocking tone.

  He kept it up. “I bet you think people interpreting the emotions of candy canes and gingerbread makes perfect sense. I bet you call it art when it’s nothing more than holiday tripe.”

  She gasped at his attack. “Yes, it’s art. Art doesn’t have to be tragic.”

  “It does if art imitates life.”

  “The Nutcracker Suite is some of the most thrilling choreography set to some of the most stirring music ever written. It’s a lighthearted subject and a joyful setting, but that doesn’t negate the
fact that it is a work of genius that millions of people have enjoyed for over a century.”

  Carter raised an eyebrow at her lecture, then raised his highball glass in a toast.

  She relaxed the tiniest bit.

  “There’s no plot.” He tossed back a swig, not a sip, of the whiskey. “It’s a boring Christmas party followed by a snowstorm and dancing candy.”

  This was just what she needed, a horrible, emotional evening capped off by Carter insulting one of her favorite things in life. She could have cheerfully shoved his butt off the bench with her stilettoed foot, but instead she slid the last inch away from him and sat on the end of the bench in silence.

  She debated whether or not Carter would consider it a victory if she moved to the second bench until the glass window reflected movement at the staircase. She looked toward the stairs and blocked out everything and everyone except the man coming up the steps. He was a little frumpy and rumpled, but harmless-looking. Could he be Drummer?

  The man called out to one of the lobby stragglers, then walked over to shake hands with him.

  She let out the breath she’d been holding.

  “Who are you looking for?” Carter looked around her to the staircase. “Don’t you know where your date is?”

  “I’m not on a date.”

  “Really? This is how you dress when you go out by yourself?”

  The man hated her. First her face, now her dress. She hardened her heart, or she tried to. It was difficult when her feelings were already so battered. “I’m not on a date, but I’m not by myself. I’m expecting someone, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t take his seat.”

  “I’ll move when he shows up.” Carter swirled his ice for a moment, then checked his watch. “He’s really late.”

  Carter always wore a watch, but this wasn’t his sturdy, shock-proof outdoorsman model. This one was sleek and sophisticated—a surprise. His whole appearance was a surprise, actually. She’d never seen him in civilian clothes. Board shorts and a bare chest by the pool didn’t count.