Rough Rider (24 page)

“I'm not into marines, Reid. But don't worry, there are plenty of women here who would be more than eager to give you a memorable pre-deployment send-off.”

Not daring to look back, Haley made a brisk retreat.

* * *

Reid stared after the petite blond in consternation. Although he'd arrived without the slightest interest in getting laid, that was before he'd eyed her. She seemed so different from all the rest. Reserved. Almost aloof. Dressed in a pale yellow sundress with a long, loose braid down her back, she'd stuck out like a sore thumb compared to the others in their belly shirts, miniskirts, and booty shorts.

He'd wondered what all that gold silk would look like loose and kissing the dimples of her ass. He shook his head in mild disappointment. Guess he'd never find out.

“
Ay! Cabrón!
” Garcia appeared at Reid's side with two bottles of Dos Equis
and a shit-eating grin. He offered one of the long necks. “Who was that hot little
rubia
?”

“Dunno.” Reid accepted the beer with a grimace. “Never got her name.” He still couldn't figure her abrupt about-face. She'd begun to soften toward him, only to turn frigid as ice in the blink of an eye. “I gathered she's not partial to jarheads.”

“Then best cut your losses, 'cause you sure as shit aren't going to score there. Maybe you should try a
Chicana
? Just pick one and ask her to slow dance. There're plenty of hot little
mamasitas
on that floor who'd go for that six-three frame and pretty boy face.”

Reid took a swig of beer. The dance lessons had finished with a manic performance of “Cotton-Eye Joe.” The lines broke up with dancers dispersing toward the various bars.

“Here's your chance, bro. All you gotta do is offer her a drink. I'll even teach you to say it in Spanish:
Quiero comer tu coño
.”

Reid eyed Garcia with suspicion. “I thought
comer
was ‘to eat.'”

“Eat, drink.” Garcia shrugged. “It's all the same in Spanish.”

“I'm not falling for it, Garcia. I've been around you long enough to have a pretty good notion of what
coño
means.”

“Hey, man.” Garcia raised his hands. “Just doing you a favor. That phrase is sure to come in handy for you one day.”

“I appreciate your concern for my dick,
amigo
, but I'm really not interested in chasing tail. Blond or
Chicana
. I'm perfectly happy to leave the field open, chill with a couple of beers, and shoot some pool.”

“Suit yourself,
cabrón.
But the only balls I'm interested in are right here.” He cupped his crotch with a smirk.

The blare of hip-hop music drew their attention back to the floor. Couples were already pairing for some up-close freak and grind, while a few girls were twerking in groups.

“
Mira ese culo
! Look at that ass, man.” Garcia gestured to a curvy brunette. He up-ended his bottle, emptied it in one long swallow, and then handed it to Reid. “Target sighted,
hermano
. Time to engage.”

* * *

Haley didn't know why she'd let Yolanda drag her to the club. She didn't have time for guys. She was far too busy with work and school even to think about them. Or had been. Until the cowboy. He'd definitely made her
think
, but her budding infatuation died a premature death the moment he'd declared himself a leatherneck. Maybe she wasn't being fair, but the deck was firmly stacked against him.

She already wanted to leave, but Yolanda had driven. Unless her friend chose someone else to take her home tonight, she'd be stuck here until closing. Haley looked around the club with increasing dismay. She hated dancing and was surrounded by marines.

She scouted the dance floor and spotted Yolanda holding up her hair and doing a body roll, sandwiched between two guys. Maybe she'd be driving herself after all. By the look of things, Yo was gonna get a ride of
some
kind.

Yolanda spotted her and waved frantically, beckoning Haley to join her and the two guys. Haley answered with a sharp head shake. If she was going to be stuck here all night, she really needed a drink. She formed a fist with her thumb raised to her lips, the universal drink sign. Yolanda nodded acknowledgment and then ground her booty into her new partner.

Haley considered the acetone wipes Yolanda had shoved into her purse. A few minutes of scrubbing in the bathroom would erase the black marks on her hands. She weighed the consequences. If she got caught, she'd get tossed out on her ass. It was definitely worth the risk.

Moments later, Haley exited the restroom, hands thoroughly cleansed of black marker. She then discovered an ATM at the back of the club and whipped out her debit card. After collecting her cash, she headed for the nearest bar, only to be intercepted by four different guys sporting buzz cuts. She rolled her eyes. More marines. It wasn't too hard to brush them off
yet
, but the night was early and they weren't fully tanked.

She could really use that drink, but the bartenders would ask to see her bracelet before taking an order. With her friend on the floor, her only option was to ask one of the grunts to buy the drink for her. Opting for the devil she knew, the cowboy, Haley scouted the bar. At least she had the excuse of paying him back. She had enough cash to cover her debt and still buy a couple of cocktails. She found him a few minutes later shooting pool with a cadre of his leatherneck buddies.

“Hey, cowboy. I have something for you.” She slapped the twenty on the table where he was setting up his first shot.

Her unintended innuendo was met with silence as his baby blues darted up from the table to meet her gaze. The rest of the group eyeballed her up and down with open interest, making her feel like she'd entered a wolf's den.

She bit her lip, wishing she'd said something else. “I-I mean I found an ATM. I can pay you back now.”

His tawny brows met. “Said I didn't care about that.” He pushed the twenty across the table and turned his attention back to the cue.

That was it? A brush off? Haley's hackles rose. Was this his idea of payback for her earlier snub?
I don't think so, cowboy.

“All right then.” She parked her hip on the edge of the table, blocking his view of the balls. “If you won't take it from me, play me for it.”

He stepped back from the table, his gaze sweeping over her with open cynicism. “You want me to play you?”

His partner at the table sniggered. “If the cowboy won't take you up on it, I will. I'll play you like a sonata, baby.”

Straightening to his full height, the cowboy shot his buddy a dangerous look. She guessed he was a few inches over six feet and wondered how much of that was the boots. Probably only an inch or so. Without them, he'd still tower at least a foot above her five foot two inches.

She dropped another twenty. “Double or nothing? Eight ball, nine ball, nine ball kiss, Chicago, Chinese, Rotation 61,” she rattled off the game variations.

A buff marine in a muscle shirt flashed a lecherous grin. “I'll rotate you sixty-nine, sweetheart.” No doubt about it, they were already halfway to shit-faced.

Haley ignored him. “Slop shot, call shot. Your choice, cowboy. Loser buys the drinks.”

* * *

Reid considered the blond who'd brushed him off like a fly from shit less than an hour ago. When he'd paid her cover he hadn't expected anything in return except maybe a dance, but now she'd positioned herself squarely in his crosshairs.

“So you think you're a player, eh?” Reid eyed her with renewed speculation, wondering what game she was really playing.

“Only pool,” she answered as if reading his mind. “A better question would be what kind of
player
are you?” She slid off the table, letting the double entendre hang.

“Guess you'll just have to find out for yourself. Mind if the lady steps in?” he asked the cluster of marines. The request was purely rhetorical. They all knew he was staking his claim, but he'd still sweeten the deal. “Tell you what, give us some space, and I'll buy you all a round.”

“Go on,” she urged the grunts as if shooing chickens, adding with a grin, “I'm sure Corporal Everett doesn't want any witnesses when he gets his ass handed to him.”

The marines dispersed toward the bar with muffled guffaws.

His interest ramped another notch, Reid propped his cue against the table and cocked his head to study all five-foot-nothin' of her. She was probably no more than a buck ten soaking wet, yet had the balls to go toe-to-toe with him. “You sure talk big for such a puny little thing.”

“I laid my money down, didn't I? What are we playing?” she asked.

“Let's just keep it a simple game of eight ball.” He offered her a cue. “Ladies first?”

“No. Lag for break. I play by the rules.” She set up two balls for the shot.

He came up beside her and leaned over the table, his cue poised. “Always?” He was close enough to smell her, fresh and sweet like ripe strawberries. “Sometimes it's more fun to break 'em.”

She snorted and chalked her cue. “Says the guy whose entire life is dictated by the USMC for what, the next four years?”

“Six more. I signed on for eight.”

“
Eight?
”
She pulled back with a surprised look. “What kind of idiocy is that?”

He stiffened. She had no qualms about speaking her mind, for damn sure. Lucky she was an attractive female. Good-looking women could just about get away with murder. Hell, many had. It was an injustice, or maybe God's idea of a joke, but facts were facts. Men had a long history of making life and death decisions guided by their dicks. His was already exerting a great deal of influence.

“Back home we have another word for it. It's called
patriotism
.”

“Don't get your feathers all ruffled,” she came back. “I just don't understand anyone's desire for that kind of life.”

“The military creates order out of chaos. That often applies as much to the individual as to the mission.”

“That may be, but there are plenty of other ways than the military to ‘find yourself.'”

“I s'pose so,” he replied. “But look how many people waste years of their lives in college only to end up flipping burgers.”

She tossed her head. “And killing skills are so much more practical in life?” Her voice and eyes challenged. Taunted. But he wasn't about to take her bait.

“The Marines teach more than killing. Look…er… Hell, I still don't even know your name.”

“Haley,” she answered softly. “Haley Cooper.”

“Look, Miz Cooper, we obviously don't see eye to eye on this issue, so let's just drop it and play.”

They completed the lag shot, both balls bouncing off the table to return to the head rail. Reid's ball was closest, a millimeter from touching the rail. He considered the table. “Looks like it's gonna be ladies first after all.”

“You sure you want me to break?” She flashed him a smug smile. “You might live to regret that decision, cowboy.”

Reid stood a couple of steps behind and slightly to the right, perfectly positioned to scope her out as she set up her shot. Every movement was too damned distracting. Her dress clung to her ass, riding up as she bent over the table, but not as far as he'd like. He guessed she was a distance runner by the look of her lean and shapely legs. He found his gaze caught in a loop, tracking up and down between her legs and ass.

She broke, and then straightened, tugging her skirt back down over her legs. “You haven't said what your job is, Corporal Everett.”

“Scout sniper.” He flushed, knowing what was coming next. She'd try to put him on the defensive.

“You're a
sniper
?” Her eyes widened. “Isn't that the same as an
assassin
?”

He felt his color deepen another shade, but was careful to keep his expression and voice neutral. “A scout sniper's primary function is to conduct close reconnaissance and surveillance in order to gain intelligence on the enemy and terrain. By necessity, he must be skilled in long-range marksmanship from concealed locations in order to support combat operations.”

“Wow. That was a mouthful. Did you quote all that from some soldier manual?”

“A U.S. Marine isn't a
soldier
.”

“What's the difference? You both make war, don't you?” She studied him as if she knew she'd ventured onto treacherous ground but was still determined to see how far he'd let her tread.

“The Marine Corps' primary mission isn't to
make
war but to
protect
this country and those who can't protect themselves, Miz Cooper.” He continued unapologetically, “Unfortunately, sometimes that does mean war and killing.” She was intentionally pushing his hot buttons, but he was accustomed to maintaining rigid self-control.

“So you actually think some people
deserve
to die?” Her face was flushed, and her green eyes blazed.

“Some do,” he answered levelly. There was no way to win once an argument got emotional. “I'm a peaceful man who believes in minding my own pastures, but I also believe in good and evil. There are a lot of very bad people in this world. Certainly the ones who fly airplanes through skyscrapers. When that kind of thing happens, I believe in doing whatever it takes to protect our own.”

He could see her getting more worked up by the minute, and damned if he wasn't also—just not in the same way. She'd been baiting him from the start, spewing arguments that usually just pissed him off, but in this case, it was turning him on.

His gaze locked on her mouth. Her tongue darted out as if she read his thoughts. She drew a breath as if to formulate another rebuttal, but he'd had enough. Before her lips could spout off anymore of the Pacifist Tree Hugger's Manifesto, he pulled her into his arms and silenced her with his.