Mitzi's Marine

by Rogenna Brewer

  No kids.

  DRESS SHOES WEREN’T MADE for running. But Bruce managed the distance without a serious slip. Thanks to his new all-terrain leg, he could push himself further than before. Pavement gave way to gravel and he didn’t miss a beat. Slowing to a stop, Bruce propped himself against the metal fire door at the back of the recruiting station to catch his breath.

  There were days like today when he felt unworthy of the uniform. He loosened his tie and dragged it through the collar. As if he’d let everyone he cared about down.

  The sock on his right foot was soaked through from the melting snow. His left foot, too—he just couldn’t feel it. But his stump throbbed a constant reminder of all that had changed. Eyes closed, he let the sensation take him back to Iraq. He’d been about to say No kids.

  Or maybe he’d said No kids. He couldn’t remember.

  How tragic if those were his last words to Freddie.

  Don’t wait too long to make me an uncle.

  The RPG had ripped through the truck then.

  If Bruce had sat on the end…

  What if? What if he’d been two minutes earlier? Two minutes later? Missed the transport altogether? Sat next to Luke? Instead he’d pushed Luke and Freddie to one side and hogged the middle.

  And his brother and his best friend were dead.

  CHAPTER THREE

  BY THE TIME MITZI RETURNED to the office, Calhoun had showered and changed into combat utilities. She tucked her hat and handbag back into the bottom drawer, along with the prescription of birth control she’d picked up at the VA, and settled in at her desk.

  She didn’t know if he could still run a five-minute mile, but she knew the word can’t was not in his vocabulary.

  Unfortunately that stubborn streak extended to his personal relationships, as well. Come mid-afternoon she wanted to scream at him out of frustration. She’d never quite understood the term deafening silence until now. Everything left unsaid over the past eighteen months lingered in the air like the half-eaten egg salad sandwich she’d tossed out at lunch.

  If they were going to work together they’d have to learn to communicate again. She’d been wrong to reject his offer of a truce.

  But she’d be damned if she’d tell him that.

  “School’s out,” she said with a nod toward the pedestrian traffic outside. Within minutes two girls, trying to look much older than their seventeen or eighteen years, walked through the door.

  The pair stopped in front of Bruce’s desk while he continued to do whatever it was he was doing at his computer. Mitzi was pretty sure his emails to his old command had little to do with recruiting.

  “May I help you?” he asked after a while.

  “Hi.” Swallowed up by an oversize varsity letterman’s jacket, the first to speak wore a cheer skirt and cropped top underneath. Mitzi didn’t know her name, but the other girl was Kelly Casey. Kelly had on jeans and layered T-shirts. She carried drumsticks and hid behind her schoolbooks.

  Mitzi could relate to the band geek. She’d been one. As well as captain of the swim team. What she’d never been was a cheerleader. Or a blonde.

  She’d never seen the two together before. They made an odd pair.

  “Hi, Heather,” Bruce responded without inflection.

  Heather took that as an invitation to perch on his desk and Mitzi got a glimpse of the name on the back of the jacket. Calhoun.

  So that’s how they knew each other.

  Heather must be Keith’s girlfriend.

  “So are you, like, a Marine?” Heather picked up Bruce’s stapler and played with it until he took it from her and set it out of her reach.

  “I am a Marine.”

  “Did you, like, fight in the war or whatever?”

  “Whatever,” he agreed. Calhoun stood up so that he towered over the two girls. “Excuse me, ladies. I’m busy right now.” Heather shrugged. Whatever.

  Kelly followed her to the door before turning around. “Will you tell Keith we were here?” Her cheeks, already pink from the winterlike weather outside, brightened. “And that I can’t tutor him this Saturday. I have to work.”

  Calhoun offered a curt nod. Mitzi frowned after the departing pair, then at him.

  “What?” he demanded.

  “Whatever.” She shrugged. “Be careful.”

  “Of those two?”

  “The last recruiter is gone because he gave in to temptation. Seventeen may be legal in this state, but there’s a very fine line—”

  “You know me better than that.”

  “It’s not you I’m worried about.” That uniform and all that brooding silence could be hard for a young girl to resist. Mitzi propped herself against his desk and picked up his stapler. “Don’t you remember what it was like to be seventeen?”

  At seventeen he’d been her whole world.

  “No,” he denied, taking the stapler from her. The brush of his hand took her by surprise. Every scarred knuckle, every callus on his palm were as familiar to her as the memory of his touch.

  “Me, either,” she lied. Heaven help her, she wasn’t seventeen anymore and it was hard for her to resist.

  Lest she forget, when she was twenty-four he’d brought that world crashing down.

  She crossed the room and picked up the folder with his travel orders. “Here,” she said, handing it to him. “You left this on a chair and it wound up on my desk.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “Not a problem,” she said, heading back to her desk.

  “Did you read them?” He sounded curious, not angry.

  His curiosity intrigued her. “Your orders are none of my business, Gunny.”

  “I just thought you should know I’m only here temporarily.”

  It sounded like a warning not to get her hopes up. She knew better. “I guessed as much.”

  “Once my detachment gets back to The Boathouse, I’ll be joining them. I’ll have to pass a physical fitness test first. But as soon as they call…” He shrugged.

  He’d be gone. Back in the line of fire.

  Not a matter of if, but when.

  The Boathouse was a modern space-aged building tucked into the boat basin at Camp Pendleton in San Diego. If his recon unit wasn’t there they could be almost anywhere.

  Which was obviously where he wanted to be.

  Anywhere but here.

  “It’s what you wanted.” Was it petty of her not to be happy for him? Even if he got himself killed just to prove he was worthy of being called a Marine?

  “Hey,” Keith called out, coming through the door, basketball tucked under his arm. “I hear there’s a new Marine Corps recruiter in town. Where do I sign?”

  “Over my dead body,” Bruce declared.

  “I’m serious.” Keith approached the desk and Mitzi retreated to her side of the room.

  “So am I.” Bruce stood with his hands on his hips. A dozen cold calls his first day down the list of high school seniors and not a single lead, then in walks his eighteen-year-old brother ready to sign on the dotted line.

  As if he was ever going to let that happen.

  Keith dropped into the chair opposite Bruce’s desk, put his basketball and backpack at his feet. “Seriously,” he said, kicking back, with his size thirteens up on Bruce’s desk. “I want to join the Corps.”

  “Seriously.” Bruce knocked Keith’s feet to the floor, then sat where they’d been. “You’re going to college.”

  “College is an expensive waste of time.”

  “Coach says your scholarship prospects are good.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So you’re going.”

  “You didn’t.”

  Bruce crossed his arms. “And look where it got me.”

  “I don’t see what’s so bad about being you.”

  “Then you’re not looking hard enough.”

  “It’s family tradition. You—”

  “Didn’t have the same opportunities you have. And sure as hell didn’t have your grades.
You’re a smart kid—act like it.”

  “I’m sick of school.” Keith pushed to his feet, full of restless energy. They were roughly the same height now. When had the kid shot up those last few inches? “I’m sick and tired of people telling me what I can and can’t do.”

  “And you want to be a Marine? You’re going to have someone in your face 24/7 telling you when to eat, sleep, drink and take a piss. Hoorah!”

  “That’s just boot camp.”

  “What’s that poster behind me say?”

  Keith tilted his head to see around him. “Every Marine a rifleman.”

  “Deer hunting. Few years back. Me, you, your dad.” Despite the fact that Uncle John had been more of a father to him than Big Luke, Bruce couldn’t bring himself to call his uncle and stepfather Dad, so he settled for John. Or your dad when talking to Keith. “You stared down that three-point buck, but couldn’t bring yourself to shoot.”

  “I was thirteen.”

  “Fifteen.”

  “It was my first time hunting. And I don’t like venison all that much either,” he added for good measure.

  “You been hunting since? To a rifle range?”

  “No,” Keith admitted. “But I know how to shoot and I know I’ll get the training I need in boot camp.”

  “Go home,” Bruce said.

  “So I’m not you. There are other jobs in the Marine Corps besides Force Recon.”

  Bruce had been Recon, parachute and diver qualified when he’d gone through BUD/S training and integrated into Navy SEALs. He’d added recruiter to his list. And if he was any kind of a recruiter he’d be showing Keith his options right now.

  But this was his brother and there was no way in hell he was going to put the kid in harm’s way. Just because Keith knew how to fire a weapon didn’t mean he knew jack about war.

  “Like what, admin?” Bruce asked. “Think you’re going to sit behind a desk all day until your ass is as wide as the chair? No matter what your military occupational specialty, you’re going to fight. That’s what a Marine does.”

  Unless you’re a recruiter stuck behind a desk.

  “Maybe not admin,” Keith agreed. “But there are some pretty cool jobs in the Marine Corps.”

  “Like…?” Bruce prompted.

  “Cameraman. I took a photography class last year. I’m pretty good at it.” The kid had done his homework.

  But it was Bruce’s job to know all eighty of the Marine Corps occupational fields. He reached for a thick three-ring binder and opened it to “Combat Camera.” “What do all of these jobs have in common? Combat illustrator,” he read. “Combat lithographer. Combat photographer. Combat videographer. Could it be the word combat?” he practically shouted. “Besides which—” he slammed the book shut “—I don’t have an opening for a cameraman. That’s CNN’s job these days.”

  “I’m not a kid anymore. I’m eighteen. I don’t need your permission. I could walk into any recruiting office in the state and enlist,” Keith threatened.

  “Try it and I’ll kick your ass from here to Timbuktu.”

  “What the hell, Bruce? I came to you. You’re my brother. You’re supposed to help me!”

  Bruce could understand being sick of school. Sick and tired of being told what to do. At eighteen Keith was well on his way to becoming a man. What he couldn’t understand was his brother turning his back on a chance to play basketball for four more years.

  That didn’t make sense.

  “I’m trying to help you.” Frustration tinged Bruce’s voice. “Trust me. I know you well enough to know you’re not cut out for the Marine Corps.”

  He didn’t even realize he and his brother stood toe-to-toe until Mitzi put a gentle but firm hand on each of them. “You’re scaring my DEPers.”

  Keith slunk back to his seat. And Bruce sat back on his desk. The front office was full, every couch, every chair occupied. When had that happened? Three guys and one gal. DEPers, kids on the delayed entry program, enlisted while still in high school for guaranteed jobs after graduation.

  Mitzi handed him and his brother a can of soda, presumably to cool them off. Bruce popped the top. “What’s this I hear about you needing a tutor?”

  “So you’re just going to change the subject?” Keith accused, tapping his can before opening it.

  “Skinny, dark-haired girl. Lives around the corner from us.” Bruce held his ground.

  His brother wavered under his steady scrutiny. “Kelly Casey. I help her with math, she helps me with Spanish.”

  “Since when do you need help with Spanish?”

  With Bruce on the offense, Keith became defensive. “Since…whenever.”

  “Mom mentioned your grades were slipping.”

  “One lousy B on a calculus test.”

  More than one, according to their mother. “You’re better than that,” Bruce said. “And by the way, Heather stopped by today.”

  “So?” Keith took a big gulp of pop and hid whatever it was he felt for Heather behind a shrug.

  Was Heather the reason for Keith’s general lack of interest in continuing education? Did he think he was going to marry her? Live happily ever after?

  Bruce glanced over at Mitzi, involved in discussion with her DEPers. It looked as if they were getting ready for physical training. She’d changed into gray sweatpants. Dark blue letters spelled out Navy down one leg. She wore a snug gray T-shirt that showed off the athletic lines of her body from her slender neck to her slim wrists.

  He could circle those wrists with one hand. Band them like steel. Hold them above her head. Kiss all the hollows of her neck. She’d put up a fight at first because she hated giving up control.

  She glanced back, caught him drooling over her breasts and signaled her displeasure with the tilt of her chin. Then she gathered her crew and headed outside.

  Bruce watched her all the way out the door. His self-imposed abstinence had gone on too long. Eighteen months too long. He hadn’t gone that long since… He’d never gone that long.

  Did Estrada know the secrets to her surrender?

  Would the schoolteacher be the one snuggling up next to her for the rest of his life? Bruce could have had that lifetime commitment. Before his injury it had seemed that clear. After, all muddled.

  But no one married their high school sweetheart.

  Least of all a Marine.

  “Girls can cloud a guy’s judgment,” he continued. “Maybe you and Heather should think about taking a break for a while. At least until after graduation.” He knew firsthand that break meant break up. “And I don’t want your girlfriend and her friends hanging around the office anymore, either.”

  “Heather’s not my girlfriend,” Keith said. “We haven’t dated since eighth grade.”

  Eighth grade? The kid was dating in eighth grade?

  Bruce hadn’t started dating until… Okay, Mitzi had been in ninth grade, but he’d been in eleventh—a junior. It took a lot of restraint for a guy to wait that long for a girl. The wait had been worth it, though.

  Definitely worth it at the time.

  “She was wearing your jacket,” Bruce pointed out. He didn’t know what they called it these days—dating, not dating, hooking up. But back in his day, a guy gave up his letterman jacket for only one of two reasons. He was getting laid. Or he wanted to get laid. “Are you sleeping with Heather? And her friend? Because that’s just asking for trouble.”

  Keith pushed to his feet again, fists balled. “What business is it of yours anyway?”

  Bruce was back on his feet, too. “You damn well better be using a condom. Every time,” he warned. “You have your whole life ahead of you. Don’t screw it up!”

  Keith snatched his backpack. “Who are you to give me relationship advice? Your fiancée is dating my coach!” He took an envelope out of his backpack and placed it on Mitzi’s desk. “Invitation to Career Day. You don’t get one.”

  Bruce picked up Keith’s forgotten basketball from under the chair. He called to his brother
just as Keith reached the door. “Hey!”

  Keith caught it in one Calhoun-sized hand. If Bruce had anything to say about it, his brother would play college ball.

  Heather walked in carrying Keith’s letterman jacket.

  She waved to Bruce. “Hiya.”

  Bruce offered a halfhearted wave.

  To Keith she said, “You left your jacket at Kelly’s again.” Not so sweetly.

  “I told you, I gave it to her. Hers got stolen at band practice. She doesn’t have the money to buy a new one. And it’s starting to get cold.”

  Heather rolled her pretty brown eyes. “I’ll find her a hoodie or something of mine to wear.” She parted with Keith’s jacket grudgingly. She might not want the other girl to have it, but that didn’t mean she didn’t want it for herself. “Kelly can’t meet up with you on Saturday. She volunteered to pass out books at the VA hospital again. I don’t see how being a candy stripper is supposed to make her a better doctor.”

  Had Heather just said candy stripper?

  Not the brightest bulb in the box. Not the dimmest, either. Her comment seemed calculated.

  “Actually,” Bruce couldn’t help but point out, “volunteering is a good way to see if you’re cut out for something.” To Keith he said, “I’m going to start putting my DEPers through their paces next week.” Did he even have any DEPers?

  Keith accepted the challenge. “I’ll be there.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “BE WHERE?” Mitzi asked, coming in on the tail end of their conversation. Keith and Heather were already on their way out the door.

  “Do I have any DEPers?” Bruce asked.

  “Don’t think so.” She twisted the cap off her water bottle. “All your kids were absorbed into other stations when the last recruiter left several months ago.”

  He sized up the kids lined up at the minifridge. “Mind if I borrow a couple of yours?”

  “Knock yourself out.” Sipping water, Mitzi looked fresh as a flower. Her kids looked a lot more wilted.

  “How far did you run them?” He started unbuttoning his uniform shirt. His hands stalled in the process. Was she checking him out?

  More likely inventorying his body parts.