Meagan's Marine (Halos & Horns) (18 page)

“Yep. So, the way I figure it, I’ve been
challenged to turn your
almost
into
definitely
, or even
way
better than
.”

Meagan watched the sparks fly between
the mountain of a man and her friend, who seemed to be weighing his words
carefully.  Finally, the tall, buxom blonde, with short spiked hair and
big green eyes, gave him a nod. “Well, hell. Let the games begin, big boy.”

He flashed another brilliant smile her
direction. “By any chance, is
Niki
short for
Nicolette?”

“It’s short for Nicole…Amanda Nicole…but
I prefer
Niki
.”

He took a step closer and bent his
elbow. “Nicole, could I please have this dance?”

Niki’s
mouth opened, perhaps to protest his use of her real name, but she seemed to
think better of it. She snapped it closed, the lifted her chin as she reached
out and took his arm. “I’d love to.”

“Wow…” Meagan shot Haley a look before
they both turned to stare after the couple already swinging into a Texas
two-step. 

“I know, right?” Haley’s voice purred
with admiration.  “Did you feel that electricity crackling between those
two?”

“Major vibes…major! Man, do they look
good together, or what?” They stood watching the two dance in moves that
totally complimented each other.

“Meagan?”

“Huh?”

“I have never seen my brother act like
that with a woman. And let me tell you, he’s brought some women to my parents’
home, before.  Always girls we knew he couldn’t possibly be serious about.
You know the kind, don’t
ya
? Bleached blonde bimbos
with tiny waists and big boobs...usually fake.”

“Oh yeah, the kind of girls who wear
lots of eye makeup, and short shorts with high heels?”

“Exactly. So, what’s
Niki
like?”

“She’s good people and so are her
parents. Her mom treats me like her own daughter. Why?”

“No reason.” She released a long sigh.
“I’ve always wanted an older sister.”

****

Several hours later, Red closed and locked
the front door, turning around to address his crew of employees. “Good job,
gang; a full house and not a bit of trouble. Now, y’all go home and get some
sleep. That’s an order.”

Mitch heard several shouts of thanks
from various areas of the large space, but he only searched for a single face.
He found Meagan exiting the storeroom with a case of beer.

“You heard the man,” he said, grabbing
the beer from her and placing it on the bar above her cooler. “Go on and get
some rest. I’ll fill up the cooler for you.”

She nudged her way around him. “I like
to do it myself. I have a method, and it makes it easier on me for the rest of
the night.”

The feel of her brushing by him in that
clingy spandex had him hissing in discomfort.

She turned to him, surveyed the
situation and gave him a cheeky smile. “You
gonna
live, Mitch?”

He grunted under his breath. “The jury’s
still out.”

She started filling her cooler
methodically, everything in its own designated spot for easy distribution. By the
time she’d emptied several cases, he and Meagan were the only remaining people
in the club. He’d been forced to pick a spot off to the side, far enough away
to keep him from losing his mind. The sight of her, bending over the cooler in
that second skin, desert
camie
suit, had just about
done him in.

She approached, reaching for her
backpack. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. We need to talk.”

She pulled her keys from her pack. “We
are, aren’t we?”

“Seriously.”

She dropped the backpack on the floor
and sighed, whether from exhaustion, or irritation at the suspected subject
matter, he couldn’t tell.

She leaned back against the bar, her
elbows resting on the marble surface. “So talk.”

Mitch stifled the urge to gawk at her
breasts, straining against the confines of her spandex suit.  He swallowed
hard, wishing for some other noise in the silence of the huge building. “We
can’t let what almost happened the other night—I can’t let that happen again.”

“So why are you here?”

“To tell you.” He braced himself as she
pushed herself away from the bar to approach him.

“Well, hell Marine, you could have
called me to tell me that.”

He looked off to the right. “I didn’t
want to call. I felt like I owed you an explanation face to face.”

“The irony in that statement is that you
can’t even look at me.”

He clenched his jaw to steel himself
before he turned his gaze on her, and groaned aloud. At some point, she’d
unzipped her suit to somewhere in the area of halfway down. He couldn’t tell
how far down, because he couldn’t seem to pull his gaze any further than her
breasts spilling out of the top of her push up bra.

“Look at me, Mitch.”

“I thought I was.”

“Not my face.” She reached up to pull
his chin upward until their gazes met. “It’s kind of difficult to do that when
my entire persona is sending a different message, isn’t it?”

He swallowed again and managed to nod.

“You see, that’s what you’ve been doing
to me. Avoiding me, yet getting so upset because I wore this tonight. Why? I
can tell you like it on me.” She paused to run her hands slowly down the silky
material along her sides. “Is it because you wanted me to wear it just for your
eyes?” The edges of her lips curled in a seductive smile as she took a step
closer. “That can be arranged.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Rejection hurts.”

“I don’t want you to be afraid of me.”

“I’m not.”

“Ever. I don’t ever want you to be
afraid of me.”

“I won’t be.”

“Even when I lose control?”

“You won’t.”

“Even when I wrap my hands around your
neck and squeeze the life out of you?”

He saw it then…a flash…a millisecond of
fear…of remembering those several moments. He reached out slowly for her,
turned to the long mirror behind the bar and pulled her in front of him. He
wrapped his right arm around her waist, holding her there as he used his left
hand to pull her hair back then up, away from her neck. He lowered his mouth,
so tempted to taste her, lost in the luscious smell of her, the feel of her in
his arms, against his chest and the hardness of his arousal. She was ready for
it, her eyes closed, head tilted just so…her pulse throbbing at the base of her
neck.

“Open your eyes, Megs.” He stared ahead,
meeting her gaze in the mirror, then used his right hand to trace the still
visible bruises on her neck.

“I can’t let this happen again…ever. Do
you understand?”

She reached up to hold his hand, kissed
it tenderly. “You won’t.”

His heart nearly burst from wanting this
woman in his life. His need to protect her prevented him from speaking those
words. “I can’t be sure of that, babe. And until I can, I can’t be around you.”

“Then do what you have to, Mitch, to be
sure of that.”

“I’ll try, but it may be impossible to
know for sure.” A barely perceptible movement, a slight rise of her left
eyebrow, caught his attention.

“Marines don’t try, Mitch. They
do
.”

Chapter
21

Accusations, Denials, and Restless
Nights

Meagan tried to get comfortable—fluffed
her pillow for the fifth time since she’d crawled into bed at 2:30 a.m. 

At 3:30 she gave it up and made herself a
cup of chamomile tea. In an unusual turn of events, she had the place to
herself. There was no sign of
Niki
yet, and the
LeBlanc’s had insisted that Buck spend the night with them. She sat in the
darkened living area, and sipped at her tea, lamenting the waste of such an
opportunity.

The sound of light tapping caught her
attention. She stood, goose bumps rising on her flesh as she waited for the
sound to return. It did, and she panicked once she realized it was coming from
her bedroom. “Oh…Go-d…” she whispered, stammering on the word once she
remembered she didn’t believe anymore. “What now?”

Meagan tip-toed into the dark of her
bedroom and waited, holding her breath, until the tapping sounded again. This
time she pinpointed it, coming from the southernmost window. Thankful for the
black as pitch cover, she tiptoed to the window, hoping to find a squirrel or
some other critter illuminated from the street light. She pulled the heavy
curtain back, screeching at the sight of a human form hulking just outside the
window. An instant later, a small light shined on the culprit’s face.

“Open the door.” Mitch spoke in a low
monotone.

“What are you doing here?”

“Open the damn door before somebody
turns my ass in for either breaking and entering, or a peeping tom.”

She grabbed her robe on the way to the
front door, and turned on a living room lamp. She pulled it open and he
entered, looking panicked, as well as thoroughly confused.

She threw her arms around his waist,
hugging him tightly. “I’m not sure I understand you, but I’m glad you’re here.”

“You sent me a text, so I came,” he
hissed, hugging her back hard before grabbing her arms and holding her away
from him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, and what are you
talking about? I didn’t text you,” she whispered.

His jaw set angrily, he pulled out his
phone and showed her the screen. It showed a text from her.

SHE NEEDS YOU

She shook her head. “It wasn’t me.”

“Is anyone else here?” he asked.

She shook her head, remembering they
didn’t have to whisper. “No.
Niki’s
not home yet,”
she said, her voice at a normal pitch.

“Good. Where’s your phone?”

“In my backpack.”

“Get it.”

“Are you calling me a liar?” She didn’t
much like the tone of his voice.

“Please, just...” He raised one hand for
emphasis. “Get the damn phone.”

She released a huff of pure indignation
as she looked around for the pack. It wasn’t in the living room, or the
bedroom. She checked the kitchen and the back bedrooms, even knowing she
wouldn’t have brought it in either of those rooms.

“Where’d you put it?”

She turned on him, angry and fed up with
his attitude. “I don’t know! I didn’t call you dammit.”

“It must be here somewhere.”

She looked in a few more places then
threw up her hands. “Call the damn thing.”

He did, smirking at her. “How convenient
that you couldn’t find it.”

“Shut up and listen for the ring tone,
jerk!”

They stood stock-still and quiet.
Nothing
.

“What are we listening for?” he asked.

She glared at him. “Uh…a ringtone?”

“No shit? I meant is it an old fashioned
ring, or a specific ring, or do you have a song programmed in?”

She turned away from him as though
listening, but more to conceal her face from him. How could she have forgotten
the song…his personal ringtone song? She closed her eyes and sucked in her breath,
praying wherever it was, her battery was good and dead. In that instant, she
pictured her backpack as she’d last handled it…car keys in one hand, bag in the
other.

“I didn’t bring it in. It must still be
in my car.”

He walked to the kitchen door and opened
it. “Let’s go get it.”

“How many times do I have to tell you I
didn’t call you?”

“None, if you show me the fucking
phone!”

“You watch your mouth in my home.”

 He hissed through his teeth. “I’m
sorry! But, after everything that’s gone on in this house, do you doubt how it
made me feel to get your message?”

“It wasn’t my message!”

“Prove it!”

She grabbed her keys from the counter
and stormed to the door, mumbling about Jarheads being more trouble than
they’re worth. She checked the front and back seats, and found nothing. Mitch
checked under the seats and even in the trunk, even though she insisted she
hadn’t opened the trunk since getting the new spare tire. She cringed a little
less as he called her number again, this time absolutely certain he wouldn’t
hear it.

“I left it at the club.”

“But you had your car keys,” he argued.

“I removed my keys just after you handed
me the backpack, remember? But I dropped the damn thing on the floor when—when
I—when you rejected me. And
that’s
where it is…in the club.”

“Seriously?” He looked doubtful.

She ran her hands through her hair and
tried to keep her tone from sounding hysterical. “You’re trained to notice
details. Did you see me walk out of the club with it?”

“No—I didn’t.”

 “Well, there you go. And now that
you’ve called me a liar to my face
several
times, I’d really like you to
leave.”

“Why were you so glad to see me when I
got here?”

“Because I didn’t know you were such a
jerk, then.” She pointed to the Chevy truck he’d parked in her drive. “Go.
Now.”

****

Mitch was half-way back to his place
before a thought came to him. He pulled his truck into the next turn lane and
headed northeast of his current location. Within ten minutes, he was at the
back door of the club and using his keys, the only other set besides the ones
belonging to Red, to unlock it and let himself inside.

Before it even shut behind him, he’d
spotted her backpack. He picked it up from the spot, exactly where she’d
dropped it, and pulled the zipper. He dug around for a while before he gave up
and dumped the contents on the bar. The phone fell out, slid across the slick
marble to hit the concrete slab under the cooler.

“Son of a bitch!” He grabbed it, or
rather the three separate pieces it broke into, meaning the back, the front,
and the battery. He put everything back the way it was supposed to be and
pushed the power button.
Nothing.
He popped the back off again…no easy
feat when you
wanted
the son of a bitch to come off. He checked the
battery, the card, every connection he could think of and snapped it back into
place. Wondering how in hell he was going to explain a busted phone, he held
his breath and hit the power button again. “
Oorah
!”
He pumped his fist when the screen lit up. Hit the phone function and the call
log button.

Calls received: None

Text messages received: None

Calls sent: None

Text messages sent: None

“No…no…no…
Aarrrgghh
...
dammit
it to hell!”

After he’d turned it off and on several times,
and discovered varied new and unique ways to cuss like a Marine, with the same
results, he finally gave up the fight. He threw everything back in her pack,
and dropped it right back where she’d left it.

Totally disgusted with himself and his
luck, he walked over to the men’s restroom. He used the head and washed his
hands afterwards, using lots of soap and hot water. As he lathered, he wondered
about the percentage of men in the civilized world who actually washed their
hands after taking a piss. If they’d spent as many years as he had in the dry,
middle-east, sleeping in sand with nothing but your helmet, or an empty water
jug as a pillow, they’d know. Afghanistan—where a man spent as much time
fantasizing about showering for hours at a time, as he did about women with big
tits. If they only knew what it was like to not be able to, they’d wash their
fucking hands. He finally finished and toweled dry, then hit the back door to
lock up and make the drive home.

His side door stuck, as usual, so he
kicked the bottom to get it open and entered his drab-looking rent-house. It
wasn’t exactly a palace, according to middle class standards, but he figured it
wasn’t bad, considering the rent was cheap as shit and utilities were included.
Anybody and everybody had informed him that was non-existent these days, but
he’d lucked out. It just so happened the husband of the couple he rented from
was retired USMC, circa Vietnam war, and didn’t need the rent money to survive.
The dude was slightly disfigured, but Mitch didn’t want to ask if it happened
in Nam. He figured if the man wanted to talk about it, he’d bring it up. If
not, it sure as hell wasn’t
his
place to ask.

An hour later, Mitch tossed his Lee
Child novel onto the bed and got up. He’d read the same page several times and
still didn’t know what the damn thing said. Maybe getting a little two-legged
distance between him and these four walls would help.

He changed into some sweats and eased
his feet into a pair of expensive running shoes, a gift from his new brother-in-law.
He stood, sighing with satisfaction at the better than average fit. One more
thing civilians took for granted—running in anything other than combat boots.
What a certifiable pain in the ass—as well as back, feet, and knees.

He warmed up by doing some stretches
then hit the street running. He’d almost completed the first mile without
incident, but nearly shit himself when an old piece-of-shit truck backfired.
One more thing civilians didn’t respect: the ability to walk, run, drive for
days, weeks, months…anywhere in this entire country without having to worry
about an IED blowing off various parts of your body or snipers taking pot shots
at you.

Nope. They just didn’t get how precious
the gift of being here, living
here
in the USA was. With all its
problems…crooked politics, ignorant voters from all parties, biased media
coverage, congressional standoffs, and what not…it was still the best fucking
place in the world to live. Anybody who didn’t think so could kiss his ass and
move the hell out.

The next two miles produced very little
excitement for him. Someone blew a car horn unexpectedly and a guy loading some
sheets of plywood in the back of a flatbed let one get away from him, causing a
loud pop when it fell. He still hadn’t rid himself completely of the basic
instinct to duck for cover. So far, he’d managed to keep it to a mild flinch
rather than a full-fledged ‘hit the deck’ type of move.

Mitch reached Lakefront Park, and ran
the length of the boardwalk extending over the water before heading back home.
By the time he turned onto his street, a red and orange glow was beginning to
light up the eastern horizon. He’d just finished his stretches in the front
yard when the husband half of his land lord couple pulled up in the drive.
Roger Guidry’s truck, an old Ford, battered and spotted with primer, might look
like crap on the outside, but ran like a piece of well-maintained equipment.

“It’s a great morning for a run, ain’t
it Mitch? It’s nice and cool and not too humid. How
far’d
you go?”

“To the boardwalk, about six miles, I
think.”

“Yeah…yeah…sounds about right.”

“I’m glad you came by, Mr. Roger. I’ve
got your rent for next month. Let me go get it for you.”

Roger gave him a slightly crooked smile.
“That ain’t why I’m here, but I do need your help to unload a few things,
though.” He opened his door with a little difficulty and stepped down, then
walked to the back of his truck. “Some things are kind of difficult to manage
with this thing.” He waved one prosthetic arm with a type of grabber attached
where the hand should have been.

“
What’cha
got
here?”

“Things for the house. My old lady has
been after me to fix this place up, put some money into it. Just didn’t want to
make it too nice for the trash that was living here the last few years. Every time
I’d put something in, they’d tear it up. Now that I have a good renter, I’m
glad to do it.”

 “Well, thank you, sir. I
appreciate the compliment.” He lowered the tailgate and slid a large box to the
edge of the truck bed to examine it. “What do we have hear? A portable heater?”

“It’s a portable fireplace. We got one
for our family room this year. That old fireplace of ours wasn’t
cuttin
’ the chill for the wife and I anymore, and we used
one of these as an insert. Son of a gun works like a charm and does it, using a
lot less energy, too.” He elbowed Mitch with his right arm. “The wife said this
place could use a little romantic ambiance, and you can roll it wherever you
need the heat. Living room or even…the bedroom,” the old man said, with a wink.
I also bought some paint for the inside. I got painters coming to give me an
estimate in the next couple of days.”