Meagan's Marine (Halos & Horns)

by Lori Leger

  “Hold it, Megs. Don’t get me wrong, I want this, and I want it tonight. Just not here.”

  She pulled him back for one final kiss before jumping down from the bar. “I agree. Let’s go to your place. You drive and I’ll follow.”

  “My place isn’t much to look at right now. I mean, I don’t need mu—”

  “—You have a bed?” She slipped her hands under his shirt again, touching, exploring.

  He groaned as she pushed up his shirt and her mouth found his bare skin.

  “Do you, Mitch?”

  She had to repeat the question twice before he could manage to answer. “Uh, yeah.”

  “What size is it?”

  Her question threw him off. Considering all his blood supply was in his groin area at the moment, it was no wonder he was confused. He stepped back, looking down at the front of his jeans. “Uh…right now, I’d say it’s pretty big.” He gasped as she pressed close to him. Her throaty chuckle broke through the fog of his sex-obsessed brain.

  “I’d have to agree with you, but I meant your bed.”

  “What?” He struggled to concentrate.

  “What size is your bed? You’re not sleeping on a military cot or anything are you?”

  “No! It’s a bed…regular size…I mean not king, but not one of those small bunk bed sizes, either.”

  “Good,” she purred before grabbing his hand. “Let’s go.”

  ****

  Five minutes later, he pulled his truck into his driveway with Meagan hot on his tail. He’d been so consumed with thoughts of her, he didn’t realize until he stepped into the cool October air how badly his head ached.

  A second later she was on him again, all aggressive hands and tongue, teeth and nails. His hand shook as he struggled with the lock and key, finally succeeded in pushing it open. She hurried in, pulling him behind her as she homed in on his bedroom—easy enough since there was only one bed in the house.

  She squealed at the sight of the bed. “A queen size…that’ll do nicely,” she purred, before attacking him in earnest. His shirt was off before he could form a thought, and she’d pushed him back on the bed to pull off his boots. One boot flew off, then another, and soon he was laying there in his boxer briefs watching, in amazement, as she peeled off her own clothes.

  The sight of her reaching for the front closure on her bra spurred him to spring to a sitting position.

  “Wait! I want to do that.” He reached out and she came to him, settling her hands on each of his shoulders. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long.”

  He curved his hands around her waist and explored the smooth landscape of creamy skin, tracing her ribs and splaying his fingers across her belly. He reached around to her shapely butt, slid his fingers under the waistband of her bikini panties and pushed them down until they fell to the floor, exposing her lovely hips and pelvis to his hot, hungry gaze. But, as beautiful a sight as it was, that’s not what he ached to see or touch.

  He pulled her close, fitting her between his legs and cupped her breasts, rubbing his thumbs lightly over nipples covered by a sheath of delicate lace. Even as he felt her tremble, his head pounded, and pain sliced through him. But he was a Marine, dammit. He’d pushed through many a confrontation with the enemy, dealing with one kind of pain or another. Damned if he’d let a headache ruin this night for him.

  Slowly, he unclasped the front closure of her bra, releasing the most beautiful breasts he’d ever seen in his life.

  “Good God, Megs. You are so damn beautiful.” He reached out to cup the twin globes—just the right weight in his palms. He passed his thumbs, oh so gently, over the areolas, enlarged from having carried a child. He traced a barely visible stretch mark that ran on the side of one breast. I bet you breast-fed Buck.

  “Yes, I did.”

  He looked up, realizing he must have spoken the question aloud. “I would have liked to see that.” He suddenly felt weak, as though he couldn’t support his head a moment longer. Strange how his need for this girl somehow sapped him of every ounce of strength he possessed. Pulling her close, he kissed the bottom curve of each plump breast then laid one side of his face on the soft, cool expanse of her abdomen and closed his eyes.

  ****

  Meagan gasped at the heat radiating from Mitchell’s face. She pulled back, and he nearly fell forward off the bed. Supporting him with one arm, she placed one hand over his forehead. “Oh shit, Mitch, you’re burning up.”

  “Nah, I’m fine,” he said, reaching for her but coming up short. He winced and brought his hand to his forehead. “But my head is killing me.”

  She pulled back the covers and pushed him flat against the mattress. “You need to get in bed and stay there.”

  “I don’t have a problem with that, as long as you’re here with me.”

  “I need to make a call first. Niki said something today about a bad-ass-virus that comes on suddenly.” She threw her shirt back on to ward off the room’s chill and grabbed her cell phone.

  “Meagan?”

  “Just hang on, Mitch.” She punched in Niki’s number.

  Her friend answered, sounding sleepy and slightly perturbed. “This better be important, girlfriend. I was dreaming that Liam Hemsworth and Chris Pine were fighting over who was going to take me to senior prom. Kate Middleton had leant me her wedding dress to wear and I looked damned good.”

  “Sorry Nik, but Mitch is seriously sick. Didn’t you say there was a bad virus going around?”

  “Meagan?” Mitchell croaked from the bed.

  “Hang on Mitch! Nik, I think it started with a bad headache, and now he’s developed a high fever.”

  “Any hurling yet?” Niki asked.

  “Nope, no sign of that.” She jumped, as a low roar came from the area of the bed—turned to see Mitch puking into a small trash can he’d pulled onto the bed with him. “Oooh boy…scratch that. We are suddenly having a major hurl fest here.” Carrying her phone with her, she ran to Mitchell’s kitchen in search of something larger than the tiny trash can. She found a never been used plastic mop bucket and brought it to him. “Here, use this,” she said, then ran to get a wet washcloth for his face and head.

  “Yep, we had a guy do that right in the office today. Said his head hurt worse than his tequila and Jagermeister hangover. Thankfully, I couldn’t relate to that, but it brought that big ole red-neck to his knees, I tell ya. The hospital is overflowing with people dehydrating from this thing. Mostly old people and little kids, though. Strong as Mitch is, I’m sure he’ll be fine. The good news is that the symptoms—nausea, headache, fever—are usually over pretty quick, like in a couple of hours. He’ll spend the next 24 hours feeling listless, but it’s over after that.”

  “What’s the bad news?”

  “It’s highly contagious, Meggie. How close did you get to GI Joe tonight?”

  “Close enough. Shit!”

  “Shit!”

  Meagan released a sigh. “Okay, what do I do for him? Fluids and fever reducer?”

  “Yep, that’s about it, and Pepto as soon as he can hold it down. You realize, of course, that right around the time he starts to feel better, you’ll probably be laid flat with this thing.”

  Meagan cursed under her breath as Mitch took another turn at what sounded like a dinosaur roaring into the mop bucket. “I know there’s a possibility of that happening, but I can’t leave him like this, Nik.”

  “Listen, the last thing you should do is bring that crap home to Buck. You stay there, I’ve got the next two days off and if you’re not back by Monday I can get him to that Mother’s Helper sitter you use occasionally. Don’t worry about Buck and me. We’ll be fine.”

  “Thanks Nik, you’re a lifesaver.” She disconnected and went to Mitch, wiping down his forehead with the cool, wet cloth.

  He fell back on his pillow, holding his hand over hers as it held the cloth in place. “You need to get out of here so you don’t get sick.”

  She gave him a grim smile. “Niki says
it’s highly doubtful I’ll escape getting it at this point. My main objective is not to infect Buck with this, because it’s hell on children and old people.” She flushed the contents of the bucket and basket down the toilet before rinsing them out. She turned at a muffled curse to see Mitch struggling to walk from his bed to the bathroom.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “I need the bathroom,” he groaned. “You don’t have to stay here, you know. I can take care of myself.”

  “I didn’t say you couldn’t. Here,” she said, handing him the bucket. “You may need this while you’re in there. Call me if you need me.”

  He answered with a grunt and shut the door.

  Meagan used the time to survey the rest of Mitchell’s house. True to his word, there wasn’t much to see: A few pieces of furniture here and there, a shelf holding a set of speakers and docking station for his phone, and a few framed snapshots of Mitch in fatigues with what she assumed were some Marine brothers.

  Her search brought her to the kitchen where more photos littered the fridge, mingled with business cards and held up by an assortment of magnets, probably left by previous renters. One photo, in particular, stood out from the rest. It was a shot of a much younger Mitch, and Tex Broussard, flanking a third man, a tall, lanky guy wearing a huge grin and a Santa hat. Indulging her curious nature, she lifted it off the fridge to check the back for some kind of label or description. Afghanistan, Christmas Day, 2001—The Marines have landed and have the situation well in hand…Me, Tex & Bobby

  Bobby…the one whose funeral he hadn’t been able to attend? A shiver ran through her as she placed the picture back in its spot. A loud thump from the bedroom had her rushing back to find Mitch on his knees and trying to crawl to his bed, dragging the bucket awkwardly in one hand.

  “I told you to call me if you needed help,” she scolded.

  He pinned her with a feverish gaze. “I thought you left.”

  She helped him to the bed and heaped the covers over his shivering body. “I’m not leaving just yet.” She’d consider her options later, once she’d helped him through the worst of this. She ran back to the kitchen and scrounged around until she found a bowl. She filled it with cold water and carried it carefully back to his room to place it on the small nightstand beside his bed. Seating herself beside him, she dipped the washcloth in the water and rung it out before she placed it on his head.

  “God that feels good,” he groaned.

  “How’s the headache?”

  “Hurt’s like a Mofo…”

  “Still nauseated?”

  He held up the bucket with one hand and let it drop weakly to the bed. “Uh huh…”

  “Think you could hold down some water?”

  “No, but I’ll drink it anyway. I already puked everything in my stomach. Anything’s better than the dry heaves.”

  As soon as she returned with a glass of water, he downed it. She sat and watched in silence as his face revealed several steps of severe nausea, culminating, finally, in him emptying his stomach into the bucket, yet again.

  Within the next two hours, they repeated the process four times. When Mitch finally dozed off, Meagan took the opportunity to catch some sleep on the one new piece of furniture he owned—a high quality, extremely comfortable, leather recliner.

  She awoke at the sound of a muffled shout from the bedroom. Using the light from the bathroom to guide her, she spotted Mitch easily, swinging his arms as though he was lashing out at some invisible enemy.

  Meagan dipped the cloth in cold water and placed it carefully on his forehead. Only after he seemed to calm a little, did she seat herself beside him on the bed. She reached up to feel his forehead and face, knowing it would be clammy and fevered.

  As soon as she made skin contact, she was flat on her back with Mitch looming above her, his hands wrapped dangerously tight around her throat. She tried to scream, with no more success than a guttural whimper.

  CHAPTER 19

  Feverish Not-so-Friendly Fire

  Meagan flailed, slapped, and pushed at him, but she was no match for his strength, nor whatever it was he was experiencing in his feverish nightmare. She banged her hand on the nightstand, sending a sharp pain through her wrist, but also jogging her memory. She reached for the bowl of cold water and missed, panicking at the darkness licking at the edge of her vision. She kicked and hit with renewed vigor, managed to knock one of his steely hands loose for a second—just long enough to catch a breath and reach the bowl.

  Cold water doused the both of them and he let go, his eyes wide, though still blind to what had happened. He fell back on the mattress, instantly subdued, as Meagan gasped for air, sputtered and choked on water that had gone up her nose.

  Still coughing, she sat up, managed to pull herself out of the bed. She ran to the kitchen just to get some distance between them and finally caught her breath. His moans reached her from the bedroom, and she stood there, alone, and wondering what to do. Obviously, she’d need assistance if she was going to help him, but who? Instinctively, she knew he’d feel strange about having just anyone around him in this state. Remembering a particular card she’d seen on the refrigerator, she walked over and pulled one from the center of the menagerie.

  Matthew ‘Tex” Broussard

  Retired USMC

  Putting Smiles on the Faces

  Of Women Everywhere

  Come Ride a Real Cowboy…Yee Haw!

  She flipped it over to see a phone number on the back and thumbed it into her cell phone.

  ****

  Thirty minutes later, Meagan stepped aside to let Tex inside, exchanging a grim smile with the man.

  “I’ve gotta admit, Meg, you were the last person I expected to get a call from tonight.” Tex stepped through the doorway and gave Meagan a friendly hug.

  “Thanks for coming so quickly, Tex. I’d have done it myself but I don’t think I can handle him alone.”

  “You shouldn’t have to. Where is he?”

  She pointed down the hall. “His bedroom’s that way.” After following him to the room, she stood two steps back, still wary of getting too close to him. The feeling of his hands around her neck, and her, desperate for air and fighting not to black out…that was a memory likely to stick with her for years to come.

  As soon as Tex placed a hand on his forehead, Mitchell’s eyes flew open. He gripped Tex’s arm with one hand and his neck with the other. Tex, however, blocked the moves with astounding ease.

  “Whoa there, Master Sergeant, it’s only me—Tex. No need to be so fu—freaking—inhospitable, asshole…even if you are fighting off a raging fever. Sonofabitch, he’s burnin’ up, Meg.”

  Meagan ran around him to grab the bowl that had fallen to the floor, filled it with fresh water, and grabbed a handful of washcloths. She dipped one in the cold water, wrung it out slightly, and placed it on Mitchell’s forehead.

  Tex turned Mitchell’s head to the side. “A cloth on the back of his neck is effective, also.”

  She plastered one there at the base of his skull, and another on the front of his neck and chest. She used a fourth to wipe his face and soothe his eyes.

  Mitch awoke at that point and stared at her, his gaze heated with fever, his voice dry and raspy.

  “Thirsty.”

  Tex held him up as Meagan gave him a drink of cool water.

  Mitch gulped down the water and sighed afterwards, licking his lips. Once his head was back on his pillow, he looked up at Tex. “Why are you here?”

  “Meagan called me. She needed some help with you. How you feelin’, man?”

  “Like shit on a shingle.” His gaze travelled to Meagan. “Did I hurt you?”

  A gut reaction had her hand flying to her throat, even though her mind longed to protect him. “Of course not, Mitch. I’m fine.”

  He gave her a listless nod. “Good. You’re the last person…in the world…I’d want to…”

  She released the breath she’d been holding as h
e faded off to sleep. After dipping all the cloths in the cool water again and replacing them on his heated face, she sat back, exhaustion oozing from her pours. She jumped at the question from Tex.

  “Did he hurt you? Is that why you called me?”

  She tugged self-consciously at her collar, and turned away. It didn’t stop Tex from stepping around to face her and pushing her hands aside to examine her neck.

  “Aw damn, Meagan! He attacked you?”

  “I—I was able to dump the bowl of water on him before I blacked out.” She despised the quaver in her own voice.

  “Shit! You’ve gotta know that was from the fever.”

  She gazed up at Tex. “I know that. Unless he—he did—that sort of thing on a regular basis.”

  He shook his head, leading her into the living room to talk. “Not to my knowledge. Some guys reacted violently if they got wakened suddenly. Mitch was usually the one waking everyone else up.” Tex turned to stare at his Marine brother. “He took care of all his guys—took it personal as hell if somebody got hurt, or worse.”

  “What was it like for y’all over there, Tex?”

  “Afghanistan? It’s a shit hole, hon. Ain’t no other way to describe it. And Mitch and I were good enough at our jobs to spend a hellacious chunk of our last ten years in the Corps there. Sometimes being the best at what you do comes at a high price. Experience counts in a war zone. Experience that could save lives on the side you’re fighting for.”

  “I’m sure the men under your command appreciated having leaders around with wisdom and experience.”

  “Even though sometimes it didn’t make enough of a difference to bring ‘em all home, like in the case of your boy’s dad. It sucked losing a good man.”

  She sighed, slumping forward on the couch. Using her hands, she rubbed at her sore neck. “It surely did.”

  Tex walked into the kitchen and returned with a clean, wet dish-drying towel. This one he draped carefully around her neck. “I’m sure as hell sorry about that, Meg. It must have been difficult for you. What was his name?”

  “Christopher Martin. His middle name was Buckley. It was his maternal grandfather’s name, and I believe it had been his mother’s maiden name. Chris was crazy about that old man.”