She claimed her underwear and yoga pants off the floor, putting them on as she said, “I have two plane tickets leaving for San Francisco in a couple of hours.” She picked up her tank top, tugged it on, then looked at him. “Will you go with me,” she asked softly, “and give a sample of your bone marrow for our son?”
He swallowed heavily. “I will.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Early evening, the next day, Pacific Beach
Eric knocked once, and when no one answered, he tried the knob. It opened this time. Barging inside the house, he called out, “Mikey!”
Nothing but silence.
He stomped into the living room. A suitcase was next to the couch. Scowling, Eric cut through the kitchen, where dishes in a drainer were dry as bone, as if they’d been sitting there for a while. “Kyle!” He made a beeline for the master bedroom, and finally spotted his friend through a sliding glass door which led onto a balcony.
Mikey was seated in a white plastic chair, feet propped on a small glass table, beer in hand, staring at some palm trees.
Eric hauled open the door and stepped outside. “What’s going on?” he demanded.
“Hey.” Mikey briefly glanced over. “Nothing, I guess.” He tipped his beer bottle at Eric. “Just having a drink.”
Just having a drink? What kind of answer was that? “Are you fucking impaired?”
Mikey went back to staring at the palms, as if they were the most fascinating trees ever invented. “Probably.”
“I had to lie to the skipper yesterday,” Eric continued, barely able to manage a civil tone. “Tell him you’d called in a personal day on Friday when we both know you were a no-show. Fuck, Mikey, you’ve done some crazy crap in the years I’ve known you, but you’ve never gone UA.”37
Mikey’s eyelids fell shut. “Ah, hell, LZ. I’m sorry. I had to take off for San Francisco, and I forgot to call it in.”
Eric deepened his frown. No naval officer just forgets to call in on leave. He inspected his friend closer and…“Shit, you’re wearing your Sienna face, Kyle.” Eric’s anger collapsed. “What did she do to you this time?”
“Oh, it’s world class.” Still staring at the palm trees, Mikey told his story: about having a son, about how the poor kid was seriously ill.
By the end of it, Eric felt like he’d been hit on the back of the head with a pool stick. “Jesus,” he breathed. “I’m so sorry.”
Mikey swished the dregs around in his beer, then downed them. “Thanks for covering my ass Friday.”
“Yeah.” Eric gestured at the bottle. “I need one of those.”
“Fridge.”
Eric snagged two, came back out and handed one to Mikey, then sat in a lounge chair on the other side of the small table.
Mikey squinted up at the sky. “I saw him. My kid. I had to pretend I was a work colleague of his dad’s, ’cause the parents haven’t told him he’s adopted, yet.” He sipped his new beer. “The father turns ten shades of pale when he first meets me, right? Two seconds later I figure out why.” Mikey leaned forward and set his beer bottle on the table beside his feet. “My son’s a damned mini me.”
Eric cracked open his beer and drank in silence. He couldn’t imagine seeing a replica of himself that he’d never even known existed.
A string of knots marched up the side of Mikey’s jaw. “Seven years old and in a hospital bed. How fucked up is that?”
There was no answer for how fucked up that was. Poor kid. Eric gazed off to the right, where the street ran past the front of Mikey’s house, watching two surfers skateboard by. They were dressed only in swim trunks, their boards tucked under their arms, homebound as the rosy shades of sundown began to drop over Pacific Beach.
“I need you to take me off the flight schedule for a few days,” Mikey said.
That was a no-brainer, but Eric nodded, like he hadn’t thought of it. “Bad timing, though. The DEA came into the squadron yesterday while you were gone. The Carrera chase is back on.”
Mikey turned to look at him. “Gamboa and that blond prick showed up?”
“Yep.” Eric swigged his beer. “We’re doing a fast-rope op Monday.”
Mikey swung his feet off the table. “I want in, LZ. I’m good, really.”
Eric propped his beer bottle on his lap. “You’d flunk the pre-flight ORM38 safety checklist, man. You know I can’t put you up there if you’re not one hundred percent.”
Sighing, Mikey slouched back in his seat. “What a bummer to miss that.” He grabbed his beer off the table and glugged down a quarter of it. “Who’ll you put in the left seat?”
“I was thinking Jobs.”
Mikey cracked up. “Bring diapers, then.”
Eric smiled. “He’s a solid stick.” Steve Whitmore, call sign “Jobs” because he was a computer and techno whiz kid, was the squadron’s newest Lieutenant JG.39 His rank put him in his early twenties, but he had the kind of gee-whiz, apple pie face—complete with freckles—that made him appear half his age.
“How was it seeing the ballbuster again?” Mikey asked.
Eric snorted. “I just about fell to my knees.”
“To thank God for her return or to peer up her skirt?”
“In shock,” Eric said on a laugh. “I didn’t think I’d ever see her again.” A two-month-long thought that had lodged a wad of loneliness in his throat like an incurable case of tonsillitis. “I’m taking her out to dinner in a couple of hours.”
Mikey released a long sigh, shaking his head. “Dumbass.”
“No…”
“Girl like that isn’t giving it up on the first date, LZ.”
“I don’t want her to.” Well… “I don’t need her to, at any rate.”
“Then you’re stupider than I thought.”
“This isn’t only about sex, Mikey. I like this girl. A lot.” The second he’d seen Nicole in the wardroom, he’d felt…good. There’d been a knotted excitement in his belly over being around a beautiful woman he was totally hot for, but also…something more. A feeling of anticipation, because whenever he was around her it was like he could be a new version of himself, and he couldn’t wait to find out who that was.
“It can’t be about a relationship,” Mikey argued. “She’s stationed in Colombia.”
“And I deploy anywhere from three to ten months at a time. Flexibility in making this kind of shit work is a given for a Navy pilot.”
“Okay, you know what”—Mikey threw up both hands, his beer bottle dangling from one—“it’s your fucking balls you’re handing over to be put in a stump shredder, so whatever.”
“Not all women screw over men, Mikey.”
“Spoken by a man who’s never been in love.” Mikey pointed the neck of his beer bottle at Eric. “If you do fall for her, LZ, she’ll twist your nuts up—painfully, trust me. It’s what women do, like, it’s in their genes or something.” He took a long draw on his beer. “Crap, what am I talking about If? You’re already a total goner for Gamboa, aren’t you?”
Eric finished off his beer and smiled.
Chapter Twenty-Four
That night Eric took Nicole to Blue Point Coastal Cuisine on 5th Avenue in the historic Gaslamp Quarter of downtown San Diego. The place was known for its seafood, and although the prices were high, they weren’t exorbitant. Impressive enough to say “you’re worth it,” but not so expensive that an expectation might be presumed to be attached. Nicole would twist his nuts off if she thought that.
They were settled in a booth by a window, the dark leather of the seats contrasting dramatically with the bleached white tablecloth and goblets of blue glass. Above them, dome-shaped light fixtures cast a dim glow. They had a close-up view of the city street, which made for some interesting people watching. Saturday night downtown brought out all the twenty-somethings in their sluttiest gear, tats and tits and thongs showing, enough mascara and lipstick to keep a drag show in business for weeks.
Unlike the brazen chicks on the street, Nicole had on light
makeup and was wearing blue jeans that were tight, but just a bit, heels that were high, but not by much, and a blue silk button-down blouse that was feminine, but without showing even an inch of cleavage. Basically, she was dressed like a woman on a date…but not really.
Getting past her armor was tonight’s ultimate challenge…and figuring out why she was so defended against him. Besides the whole I’ve-seen-you-naked-and-almost-balled-you-in-the-most-bizarre-circumstances-imaginable thing, he couldn’t fathom what he’d done to deserve her cold shoulder.
He ordered a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc to kick things off, and they both decided on clam chowder for an appetizer. She was still perusing the menu, her brows softly knitted as she made her decision.
He was having the salmon. “So how did you get shot?”
Her eyes snapped up.
He tapped a spot under his own left collarbone. “I saw your old injury.” And we both know how I saw it. Really would be nice if his mind didn’t keep going there all night.
She shrugged lightly. “I was a rookie on my first takedown of a meth house, and blazed inside like I was the toughest thing God ever made.”
He nodded. Just like on Isla Gorgona… After my late arrival, I figured my reputation could use some flash. Who had planted the idea in her mind that she needed to flaunt her skills so much?
And who was he to question that?
Hey, O’Dwyer, is there enough room to land here?
Yes, sir, there’s room. I got this… Buzz! Crunch!
He cleared his throat, then smiled a little. “I did the same thing when I was new to the cockpit. I didn’t fly in an unsafe way, but I definitely pushed the envelope.” He held her gaze for an elongated moment. “I think we’re a lot alike.”
“No.” Nicole closed her menu with a tight precision that made Eric’s heart thud. “Actually, you and I are complete opposites. I’m a middle-class woman of color with rough edges, and you’re shiny and pretty and rich.”
He screwed his mouth tight at the corners. How—?
“You think I can’t tell you come from money?” She flicked a hand over him. “Look at you. Your shirt wasn’t bought off the rack. No way. It fits you too well. And your fluent Spanish? You learned it as a child from a nanny, didn’t you?”
He inhaled air through his nose. Guilty as charged, on all counts.
The waitress arrived. “Are you two ready to order your entrees now?”
“No, thank you.” Nicole handed the waitress her menu. “We’ll only be having appetizers this evening.”
“Oh. Okay.” The waitress collected Eric’s menu, too, then bustled off.
“Let’s get this over with,” Nicole clipped out.
“So you’re just going to tuck tail and run,” Eric said. “Like you did at the Hotel Cali?”
“I’m not running.” Nicole’s eyes sparked fire. “I just don’t want to be here. I’m keeping my promise to you with this date, and that’s it.”
A spot in his chest burned. Maybe he’d grown to believe too heavily in his own press—that he was a shit-hot, good-looking naval aviator—because that stung. “I’m not asking you to marry me and have my children, Nicole. I’m sitting here saying that I think there’s something special trying to grow between us.” Frustration charged through him, swift and sharp-edged. “If you’d quit stomping your boot on it.”
The tips of her ears reddened. “You know what’s between us, Eric? Demons inside our heads—stuff about what happened inside Carrera’s hacienda on his dining room table. We’re curious as hell about what it might be like to see it through. That’s all. Nothing special. Only lust. After all the orgasms pass, you’ll go back to your perfect little life while I—”
“Fuck perfect,” he snarled.
Nicole’s mouth closed.
He quickly glanced out the window, inhaling several calming breaths as he watched a woman amble by with the bottom half of her ass cheeks hanging out of her short skirt. “I’m going to tell you something very personal, Nicole,” he said, facing her again, “because I want you to understand that your accusation of perfection is the worst possible insult.” He set his palms on the table, on either side of his plate. “For my whole life I’ve had to contend with a father who expected nothing but flawless precision from me, my three brothers, and my mother. He demanded it, which gave us no choice but to scramble and try to give it to him. But perfection is impossible. So we lived under the constant stress of failure. Do you have any idea what that does to a person?” He exhaled a hard breath. “The four of us O’Dwyer boys have grown up to be internal rage machines.
“My brothers don’t think I know this about them—they assume they’ve done an effective job keeping me out of their personal lives—but I do. Brock, the eldest, is a flaming alcoholic. Not around my father, of course. It’s two drinks, and that’s it. Lance pays whores to spank his ass and call him a waste of skin. Brett is a competitive street fighter, who’s flipping out about how he’s going to pull off that secret now he’s joining my father’s company. He could hide it when he was away at college, but he sure as shit can’t show up to work with bruises on his face.
“Me? The only reason some pro isn’t shoving electrical butt-plugs up my pooper is because I was closest to my mom and she saved me. I got out of my family before I headed too far down the toilet, although I have my days. Now I exist as not much more than novelty dog crap—not even real dog crap—in my father’s estimation, and I struggle not to feel guilty as hell for abandoning my brothers to that coldhearted man. And my mother?” His blood rampaged through his veins. “She broke under the pressure. She couldn’t handle my father’s expectations, so she checked out of the game and killed herself.”
Nicole’s eyelashes stirred.
“It was a serious wake-up call for me to get my own life together.” Eric snatched up the wine bottle and sloshed more Sauvignon Blanc into his goblet. “So don’t judge people by the skin they wear, Nicole. We all have our issues we’re dealing with, hard issues. Anyone who ever tries to convince you he’s perfect is lying his damned face off.”
After a second, Nicole nodded, her brown gaze softening with sympathy, but not pity, which he profoundly thanked God for. He would’ve promptly fallen out of love with her if she’d pitied him.
“I think I can relate to the kind of pressure you’re talking about,” she said. “My father allowed me to make mistakes—gracias a Dios—but I could never just be good at something. I had to be the best. Always.”
His heart did a slam-dance against his ribs. That explained a lot. He picked up his wine glass. “I hear my dad’s voice inside my mind, lecturing—Eric this and Eric that.” He took a sip then set down the goblet. “Unfortunately, half the time I think it’s my own voice, which is completely screwball.”
“The same thing happens to me. Although”—she smiled tightly—“I know it’s my father’s voice lecturing me.”
Their gazes held. Candlelight from the single votive glinted off the tips of her lashes.
The waitress came and set down their clam chowders.
They ate their soups in silence for a couple of moments. It was a companionable silence, though, and the tension between them eased.
“So tell me something embarrassing about yourself,” Nicole said.
He glanced up at her.
She slanted a look back at him, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You want to break my image of you as the perfect naval aviator, don’t you?”
“Ah. Very true.” He sat back, resting the tips of his fingers on the edge of the table. “Okay. Here’s something: I know all the words to the song, Biggest Part of Me.”
She stilled. “What…? You mean by REO Speedwagon.”
“Oh, no. By Ambrosia.”
Her lips twitched harder. “Dios mío, that’s pretty…” She tried to sober her expression, but didn’t quite succeed. “If I asked you to serenade me with that song, would you?”
He flashed her a wide grin. “Only if sex was g
uaranteed at the end of the date.”
She snorted, a half-laugh. “That’s that, then.”
“I figured.”
“I think you’re messing with me anyway.”
“Unfortunately, no. My mom was a nut for love songs. She played them around the house. Constantly.”
Her brown gaze softened again. She set down her spoon, pushed her half-eaten chowder forward, and set her forearms on the table, creating a horizontal bar in front of her chest, her fingers clasped. “I want to be straight with you, too, Eric.”
He hesitated for half a beat, then left his soup spoon in his bowl and sat back again. “That would be nice.”
Her chest moved. “Normally, I wouldn’t tell you this. But I trust you. Plus, I’ve already sort of been outed by Aagaard, which is something I’m going to deal with now I’m back in the States…although I’m reasonably certain Ryan won’t tell anyone. Anyway, I need you to promise me the same. This goes to your grave.”
The band retightened around his ribs. “Of course.”
She glanced over her shoulder, but there weren’t any other diners within hearing range. “My father is a former drug smuggler. And, yes, before you offer comment, I’m aware of the irony: I hunt drug dealers. No need to elaborate. It was my dad himself who practically tied a ribbon around me and presented me to the DEA, like I’m on this earth to pay his penance.” She ran a hand over her mouth. “Anyway, rewind twenty-six years. My dad testified against his kingpin boss and got himself put on the man’s hit list. My family went into witness protection when my mom was pregnant with me, which means I’ve spent my entire life looking over my shoulder, sleeping with one eye open, and keeping a low profile.”
If Eric surged up right now and punched a hole in the wall the violent act would probably put an end to Nicole’s story, so better not. But it was a huge fucking struggle to maintain a calm outer front when so many brutal fantasies were rapidly filling his mind: throats being crushed beneath the pressure of his fingers, bones breaking, blood on his knuckles, the whole going-clocktower-deal on anyone who’d ever prevented Nicole from feeling safe in her bed at night. How hosed up was it, to be raised like that?
Wings of Gold Series Page 16