Bare Knuckle: Vegas Top Guns, Book 5 (11 page)

Eric shifted in his seat. “Yes, Sir.”

“First up, the National Championship Air Races in exotic Reno,” Fang said with relish.

A collective groan of roughly thirty voices went up around the plain industrial room.

No one liked working air shows. Thousands of tourists, long hours, and a whole lot of being on their best behavior. More specifically, a whole lot of
not
flying.

The last show Eric had manned… Two days before his crash. He’d dressed the part and sold young men on the idea that the Air Force was the greatest thing since horny backup singers to has-been country acts. He’d grabbed that tasty piece of ass after finishing dinner.

At least his faith in his job hadn’t changed. What they did at Nellis, and in the Air Force as a whole, made a difference. No matter the changes in Eric’s life, he believed that with all his heart.

Liam Christiansen leaned across Eric to grin at Mike. “I see that smirk, Strap. Give it up. What are you hiding?”

The man’s shark-toothed smile had become more frequent since he’d reconciled with his wife, Sunny, and because he was counting down to the end of his Air Force enlistment. The man known for nearly a decade as Dash was a two-digit midget—out in less than a hundred days. In fact, out by the end of October. And as if by unspoken agreement, he was Liam now. He hadn’t flown in months, instead acting as the squad’s technical advisor in post-flight debriefings, which meant his call sign was wearing off. He was a man on his way to a different future, which included leaving the Air Force and raising his daughter, Kavya.

Mike laced his fingers over his stomach. “Nothing. Which happens to be exactly what I’ll have to do with Hell No Reno. Nothing at all.”

“Nice,” Liam said. “Bang the boss, get out of the shit details.”

Mike flipped him off. “What would it matter to you? Take Kavya and wear your uniform. Women’ll be lining up.”

“For the wrong reasons,” Eric said, stuffing down a laugh.

Fang knocked his knuckles on the podium. “Bring it down, bandits. I know the dog and pony shows suck. But it’s in the relative vicinity. That means we need a presence.”

Tin Tin hitched an elbow onto the table. He smiled that maddening sweet-as-dimples smile. “Sorry, boss. I’m sick that week.”

Eric almost hated Carlisle. All mouth and too much money. Rumor was his daddy had pulled strings in the Department of Defense to get Tin Tin assigned to the Aggressors. The unit was the best of the best. Their mission was to teach other pilots the newest, most life-saving air combat maneuvers, teaching them to fly as if against any number of enemies.

That mission did not include lunching with rich daddies.

But he had to admit the truth. Although the kid oozed attitude, he had the skills to back it up. And Eric ought to eat crow after the ration of shit he’d thrown at the enviable prodigy over the years. After all, Tin Tin hadn’t been the one to go nose-down in Canadian soil. He’d been the one to warn that Eric’s style of flying was pure trouble. That style had worked just fine over the relatively clear skies of Nevada, to the point of outclassing his colleagues.

Against an unexpected Artic updraft, however, his sharp cornering and low-altitude, surprise-tactic flying had meant finding the limit of his F-16’s capacities. An error. A
dumb
error that, by all rights, should’ve cost Eric his life.

He hated when other people were right, especially that punk. Maybe more than a year on from the crash, Eric’s twelve-step program toward not being an asshole should include making nice with Carlisle. Christ, where Tin Tin was concerned, that sounded like as much fun as shredding his own dick in a blender.

Major Haverty shook his head. “I haven’t said when, Tin Tin. But lucky you, I’ve picked a team on this one.” He aimed a look at Eric. “That’d be you, Kisser. And, Brunch, you too. Wednesday and Thursday. The Patriots Air Team will take over from there, promoting military aviation careers in general.”

Eric cleared his throat. “Sir, I’m not exactly a poster child for the Air Force.” He left off
anymore
because everyone damn sure knew what he was talking about. “Sure you wanna scare off potential recruits?”

“First off, Brunch is pretty enough for the both of you.”

“That’s sexual harassment, Fang,” came a protest from another female pilot.

“Deal with it. Second, you’re a bona fide war hero, Captain. Five tours. A half-dozen honors to show for it.” The major paused, then shook his head. “Let’s just say none of this was my call.”

“Aw, c’mon,” Liam protested on Eric’s behalf.

That was the other emotional fuckup Eric had to deal with, as if Carey, Princess, Fang, Tin Tin and now, damn, even Trish weren’t enough. Some friends affectionately, and some people not so affectionately, called Eric a caveman. Most times he agreed. He wasn’t built to deal with interpersonal shit.

Liam was a different case. The man lugged around a shovelful of one hundred percent guilt. Eric had been the guy to take his place in the Maple Flag assignment in Canada. Eric had been the guy to crash. Hell, shit happened. But Liam was surprisingly sensitive under the standard-issue pilot bravado. Who else would be giving up on the Air Force to raise his infant daughter and teach karate to kids? A nice guy and a family man. He woke up every morning believing he owed his current happiness to Eric for taking the fall.

Eric would let his friend wallow forever if it’d make Liam feel better, but that heavy cloud only reminded Eric of shit he’d rather forget. Pain. Rehabilitation. Wondering if he’d ever walk again.

Now he was relatively hale and hearty, enough to follow his basic imperatives. Fly. Fuck. Fight. That didn’t mean he wanted to face a bunch of strangers. Call him vain, but it got old. That’s why he didn’t want to do the air show. Get trotted out in front of all those people? Have to answer a million questions? The whole time he’d see the
unasked
questions on the civvies’ faces.

Where the hell had he gotten all those scars?

His discomfort wasn’t limited to strangers. Even his buddies checked in on him too often, as if he were an infirmed aunt. Couldn’t they go back to treating him like just another throttle jockey?

He hadn’t thought he was that kind of man, so focused on himself. It had always been more important to find the perfect thrill. To fly the perfect mission. To find a gorgeous working girl and prove he was the best fuck she’d have for a year.

Now…Trish. He was back to thinking about catching the perfect shot.

Watching her.

Yet she’d drawn him out. He’d been compelled to join her in front of the lens. He hadn’t noticed at the time. Afterward, looking at the pictures, he hardly paid attention to himself. His concentration and holy-fuck arousal centered on her. But Eric was in more than half the shots, taking her, whispering in her ear, coming with a grimace of ecstasy he never would’ve recognized as being Eric Donaghue.

Trish hadn’t cared about his scars. Although she’d wanted to talk about what happened—obvious enough—she hadn’t given off the pity vibe Eric had come to despise, even when that vibe came from friends.

Yet he understood his duty. Good airmen always did. Airmen lucky enough to climb back into a cockpit after stuffing one into the ground understood that duty more acutely. Three months of counseling had made that crystal clear, even if the shrink had worn doubts throughout every session.

At least she’d cleared him for flight.

He’d been lucky. Period. So everybody shut the hell up.

Eric said nothing in protest. He never would’ve, anyway. He’d earned his position through dedication and sacrifice. No reason to blow it now simply because he’d been ordered to sit in a booth for a couple days.

Maybe he’d get lucky. They might plant his shiny new plane on the airstrip. Eric could stand next to it. He always felt at home near the F-16s he and the other bandits flew with such diligence. That might help compensate for the in-person shilling.

The meeting dismissed quickly after that, with Fang handing out the rest of the duty rosters and flight schedules. The next Red Flag, in which they’d stage mock war games with ally pilots to brush up on air-combat techniques, was in less than four weeks. Eric wanted to go. He wanted to be a part of it, just like everyone else—and maybe lay to rest whatever doubts people still harbored. He could cut it without needing their sympathy.

In the meantime, maybe he would spend some of that time with Trish.

His phone vibrated in his pocket as he stepped out of the briefing room into the linoleum-lined hallway. He had the ridiculous thought that he’d conjured her call—a reward for having survived a surprisingly awkward morning-after phone number exchange. That implied possibilities beyond another chance meeting at the boxing arena.

Eric found that he didn’t mind the slight nod to a planned future, no matter how fleeting.
Pleased
. Yes, he was pleased by the thought that she’d call.

Any thought of Trish came with the visceral memory of her body, down to the backs of her knees and the way she pointed her toes when she came. Damn, how she’d felt wrapped around him, as if he could sink into all that brightness and laughter.

When he fished the phone out of his pocket, his stomach dropped. Lead weight wasn’t descriptive enough. He slammed headfirst into reality, which colored his peripheral vision sickly yellow.

Detroit area code.

Not his parents.

Odds were ninety-nine to one it had something to do with Carey.

Fucking Christ, let the boy stick it out this time.

He shoved the phone back in his pocket. No way he’d answer it during duty hours.

Instead he walked into the crisp desert sunshine and slipped on his sunglasses. Mike and Liam emerged next, the latter casually tucking on his regulation headgear.

Eric put on his own hat. “Strap Happy,” he said to Mike. “If you don’t get a haircut soon, Fang’ll tear you up.”

Mike passed a hand over his hair and smiled as he grabbed the helmet off his BMW bike. “I’m in regs. That’s enough for me.”

“And for that girl of yours.” Liam bounced car keys in his hand.

Laughing, Mike threw a leg over his bike. “Call her a girl to her face and see what happens.”

Liam shook his head. “Not taking that dare.”

Eric smiled along, but his phone buzzed against his stomach. Probably a voicemail. He’d learned the hard way that letting Carey’s shit bleed into his duty day was a god-awful idea. Crappy flights, bad attitude, near accidents—all because he wasn’t keeping his checks and balances. None of it helped Carey anyway.

The kid sank further and further down.

I don’t know if I can handle another round.

That was a new thought. One he didn’t like. At all.

Hope was all he had to hold on to when it came to his little brother. Maybe the new program was working. Carey had just collected his sixtieth day. All reports until now said he’d adapted well to the creativity-based program. He’d focused his gifts to concentrate on the arts. If he had a possible career once he got out—even designing magazine ads for bubblegum—he might not go back to ripping off cars. In Motor City, it was an appropriate criminal endeavor.

Not for Carey.

Liam punched Eric in the shoulder. “Sucks about your detail.”

He shrugged. “Wanna trade?”

“Fuck that,” the taller man said on a grin. “Compiling personnel audits for the 65
^th
suits me just fine. At home.”

Aside from his overly solicitous nature toward Eric, Liam was one of the most obnoxiously happy guys in their squadron. Mike was a close second, only because his Zen-master front meant he didn’t rub it in.

Eric didn’t count on anything that permanent with Trish, but he had hopes for a nice ride while it lasted. And if nothing else happened, he’d always have her on his wall. Anticipation burned down his spine. That would be his reward. Once he listened to the voicemail, he’d spend some time with Trish’s pictures. Her face, her eyes. The bonuses in every shot.

“Just means neither of us will be flying,” he said. “Sucks.”

Mike leaned back on his bike, shading his eyes against the sun. “No one will fly at the air races except civvy showoffs and the Patriot team. The only thing more arrogant than a Thunderbird is an ex-Thunderbird.”

Eric and Liam joined in with mumbled, good-natured curses. The Thunderbirds and the Navy’s Blue Angels were adept at what they did, fostering morale and patriotism. Retired air demonstration teams such as the Patriots were nearly as effective in that regard. Eric was partial to the Aggressors’ more practical purpose. Fly like the bad guys so other pilots didn’t die. He loved it.

Suddenly Mike smiled past his friends.

Liam laughed. “Princess just walked out behind me, didn’t she?”

“Sure did,” Mike said unabashedly.

Part of Eric craved that relaxed joy, but it wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. No one else could handle the stress of Carey’s crap. Fuck, some might claim Eric had crashed because of his brother. The timing had been right to bear that blame. Two hours after landing in Canada, he’d received a call. Somehow Carey had managed to snag a phone, bawling, screaming, suffering another round of withdrawals. Eric had listened, heartsick, as the phone smacked something and what he assumed had been rehab personnel wrestled Carey into submission.