“God, I could eat a horse.” Jules glanced at the next table over. A master sergeant was cleaning away an unfinished box of Burger King chicken tenders. Anna’s stomach rolled over.
She hadn’t seen anyone lust after chicken like that since Beth hit her second trimester with Jacob.
“Jules—”
“Have you ever dipped fries in a milkshake? Because, oh. My. God. Better than an orgasm.” The wonky eyebrow appeared. “Tells you something, doesn’t it? Giggidy my ass.”
Anna’s face screwed up like she’d bit a lemon. She didn’t need that mental image. She scrubbed her tongue over the roof of her mouth, swallowed hard, then put on her best poker face. “Have you two had counseling?”
“Counseling’s for fucking losers,” Jules said.
Out of the corner of her eye, Anna tracked Jackson moving her way. She gave a subtle head shake. He stopped.
“You’ve had some major life changes this year,” Anna said delicately. Brad still wasn’t working, but Jules had been tight-lipped with any other information. “Lots of stress. Are you sure divorce is the right answer?”
“It put you better off, didn’t it?”
Anna’s phone dinged a text message alert. “It put me different.” She glanced at her phone even though she knew what it was.
Here if you need me.
“See?” Jules said. “Better off.”
No, not better off. Jackson had an expiration date. “Temporary reprieve.”
“Suppose it doesn’t matter how good your lawyer was. Brad won’t get off his ass long enough to fight me.” Jules straightened. “Hel-lo. Hottie checking us out.” She winked and waved.
And Jackson, happy-go-lucky, grin-at-anyone Jackson, didn’t crack the barest hint of a smile.
“This repeal of don’t-ask-don’t-tell is seriously hurting the uniform hotness factor,” Jules said. “God, I want a milkshake.”
“Does Brad know you’re pregnant?”
Jules went from slightly irritated to radiating pissed-off anger in half the time it would’ve taken her to down a large shake, which was probably three nanoseconds. “Are you calling me fat?”
Anna held up a hand, more to stop Jackson than to make peace with Jules.
Jackson dropped into an empty seat at the end of a long row of tables.
Jules kept talking. “I could take you to human resources for that. The workplace isn’t supposed to be hostile. What a woman does with her own body is nobody else’s damn business.”
“I’m asking as your friend.”
“Well, who asked you to be my friend?”
Neil had.
A couple lifetimes ago, back when it had been Jules doing Anna the favor.
Anna stood. “Shirley had a good lawyer. Talk to her.”
“Where are you going? You have to work this afternoon.”
“I’ll get a ride.”
Jules flounced away. “Don’t be late,” she snapped.
Anna’s phone dinged again. Jackson was slouched as much as he ever slouched in uniform, phone in hand, watching her.
She didn’t check the message, but gave him a single nod. A minute later, he was walking her out to his truck.
“Thanks,” she said. She rubbed her arms over her jacket. But her teeth chattered and the quivering in her stomach had nothing to do with hunger.
“Looked like a big mess.”
“Makes my divorce look like a prance through the daisies.”
He slid an arm around her shoulders. “Not too glad he hurt you, but I appreciate that the idiot gave me a chance to get to know you.”
“You just want to get laid.”
“Anna Grace, that’s no way for a proper young lady to talk.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Yep.”
“If one of your troops was having personal problems, what would you do?”
They stopped at his truck. He gave her the wary eye. “You know someone needing some counseling?”
“He separated over the summer.” She brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “But he’s not doing well.”
Jackson handed her his phone. “Name and address, if you’ve got it.”
“Forget who you’re talking to?” she asked with as much cheek as she could muster.
“Never, Anna Grace.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead, right there, in uniform and everything, then boosted her up into the truck. “Thought you needed reminding.”
She needed reminding all right.
Or, more appropriately, her heart needed reminding.
This one had an expiration date.
MAMIE WAS RIGHT. He’d met someone, and she’d kicked him in the collard greens. That was the only explanation he had for calling his commander to ask for a personal afternoon so he could kick a guy in the tulips because a woman asked him to.
Not that he was that up front with his commander. He’d told the colonel he needed to be a good wingman.
He swung by home, gave Radish some bonus attention, and changed out of uniform. Then he drove a couple of miles up the road to the address Anna had given him in the land of the cookie-cutters, the ones ostentatious enough to compare to Russ’s Confederate mausoleum.
Anna had been sparse with the details. Today, anyway. She’d told him enough about her friend at work the past couple of months for him to fill in a few pieces.
Friend’s husband lost a brother to the war, fell to pieces. Never a Southern gentleman, but a real something else now.
Grief was a bitch.
Anna Grace’s words, not Jackson’s.
The house was a big brick number with an arch over the front door, oversize front windows looking out on the lawn, and fancy landscaping in the middle of the block.
A big oil stain smeared the driveway. A motorbike was sprawled half on the grass. Two garden gnomes sat in the center of the yard, one tilted, the other modified to give the street the finger.
Jackson blew out a resigned breath and pulled himself out of the truck. Only took a minute to get to the door and ring the doorbell.
But he had to stand there ringing the doorbell for fifteen minutes before a chubby guy with bloodshot eyes and two-day-stupor breath answered. “What the hell?”
“Brad Hutchinson?”
“Yeah? What the fuck’s it to you?”
“Rodney sent me.”
The guy’s face blanched. “Rodney’s dead, motherfucker.”
He shoved the door. Jackson shouldered into it. “You dead? ’Cuz Rodney ain’t too happy with sacrificing his life so you could piss your own away.”
The guy came out swinging.
Criminy.
Jackson ducked, then rolled his neck. He didn’t want to do it this way, but didn’t look like he had a choice. He turned to face Brad. Brad got his bearing, let out a feral growl, and charged.
His shoulder rammed Jackson’s chest. The impact made Jackson stagger backward into the house. Took some of his wind out of him, but it was the sucker-punch to his kidney that made him mad.
He flipped Brad off, then stepped back. “Feel better?” Jackson asked. He winced, gingerly touched his back, wary eyes on Brad.
Anna Grace owed him for this one.
“Motherfucker,” Brad said again. He rolled to his feet, fist flying.
Jackson thought about taking it again.
But self-preservation won out. He hauled off and socked the guy in the jaw.
Brad landed in the foyer with a thud. His stomach jiggled beneath his stained T-shirt.
“Now you feel better?”
The lug blinked at him. His eyes went shiny. “Fucker. Rodney did send you.” He pressed his palms into his eye sockets. His shoulders shook and he drew in a series of soggy, ragged breaths that took Jackson on a trip down memory lane to the night he’d lost his father.
Jackson let himself into the house and kicked the door shut. He slouched against the wall out of Brad’s reach, staring down at his own hands until the other man was spent.
&nb
sp; “Who the fuck are you?” Brad asked again, this time without the charming venom.
“Friend of a friend.” Jackson reached for his phone. He winced at the ache in his lower back. Moving would be a pain in the turnips for a few days. “You need help.”
“Yeah, I need friends with the balls to tell me that to my face instead of sending pussies like you.”
Jackson cut him a look over his phone’s browser. “Can’t imagine why they don’t want to talk to you.”
“Part of my charm, dude.”
“Your wife like it?” There was the number he was looking for.
The silence from the gelatinous mass of man on the floor made Jackson look up.
“You know my wife?” Brad said.
“Haven’t had the pleasure.”
“Obviously, if you think it’d be a pleasure.”
Jackson took his attention back to the phone. “Catholic, Baptist, Lutheran, Jewish, or other?” If Brad were still in, it would be an easy call to his First Shirt. But since he wasn’t, Jackson was turning to the chaplains.
“Atheist, bitch.” Brad gingerly fingered his jaw. “Fuckin’ A, dude. You a Marine?”
“Haven’t had that pleasure either.”
“Fucking hit like one.”
Jackson scrolled through his options one more time, then closed his eyes and hit the screen.
Looked like he was dialing the number for the Catholic chaplain’s office.
The way Brad’s eyes were getting shiny again, Jackson figured the checkout guy at the BX would do for someone to talk to, but Anna said he needed help. Said his wife needed help too, but Jackson was more qualified right where he was.
Got the impression from Anna that helping Brad would help his wife anyway.
Real nice example of solid forever marriage here.
Jackson popped the phone to his ear and listened to it ring. “You ready to man-up and talk to someone about this, or do I have to hit you again?” Jackson asked.
“I don’t need to talk to some fucking—”
Jackson moved to slug him, and Brad shut up.
But only for a second.
“Can’t make me talk,” he said with a scowl.
“You owe it to Rodney to keep living, man.”
And thank sweet baby Jesus, Brad wasn’t a big enough man to argue with that one.
LATER THAT NIGHT, much, much later, flopped out on his own couch with Radish, Jackson had a pounding headache, an empty stomach, and a throbbing in his lower back.
Wasn’t as young as he used to be.
But Brad had thanked him for being a—well, something his momma hadn’t raised him to be, but something he occasionally had to be nonetheless, being male and all. And the chaplain—Father Bob, he said his name was—had thanked Jackson for making the call. Said all the right things about not leaving fellow airmen to suffer alone, insisted he’d stay until the wife got home, talk to both of them. Brad promised not to hit the chaplain, who insisted he could take it even if Brad tried. And Jackson had managed to get through the whole thing without dropping his name, so hopefully Anna wouldn’t get any flack for interfering.
Speaking of Anna—he glanced at the clock. Just 8:43. She’d still be in class.
If it didn’t hurt to move, he might’ve been a big old baby and asked her to come fry him up some chicken. Guaranteed to rile her up and get her into his house fast as nobody’s business, even if he didn’t get fried chicken.
Might play up the pity card to get an answer to that age-old question: Could she make biscuits or not? His supply was drying up since Mamie’d told the Misses he was seeing someone.
A timid knock pulled him out of his stupor. Now 8:44. Early for Anna, but maybe it was his lucky night. “It’s open,” he hollered.
The latch clicked. Anna peeked in. “Coffee and cookies?”
Never thought he was the loving type, but she was making it look damn easy.
That whole broken kidney thing notwithstanding. “You’re an angel, Anna Grace.”
She disappeared, then bumped her way through the door, coffee carrier in one hand, cookie bag in the other, a backpack, purse, and overnight bag all draped over her shoulders.
He should’ve gotten up to help her.
Those angel wing eyebrows scrunched together over her cute nose. “Are you okay?”
“Long as I don’t move.”
He wasn’t for certain, but she might’ve gone a shade pale. The coffee wobbled in her hands.
He might’ve let out a pathetic, unmanly whimper. But if it was pathetic, only Radish thought so, and that was only because she didn’t understand he probably saved a guy’s life today. Took one for the team.
Anna Grace kneeled by his side. “Where does it hurt?”
His stomach growled.
They both looked at it. “Yeah, there for one,” he said, and he sounded danged philosophical, if he did say so himself.
He’d never seen her doe eyes so big, though he didn’t mind the way they kept roaming up and down his body. She checked him out, smoothed her hands over his skin, poked him here and there. “Have a cookie. Where else does it hurt? Did you two fight? Please tell me you didn’t fight. I didn’t mean for you to fight. Can you walk? I’m so sorry.” She fell silent, her mouth a perfect little O. But then—“Oh, no. What does Brad look like? You were going to say it, weren’t you? Should’ve seen the other guy. Good Lord. Why do men always solve everything with their fists?”
“Anna Grace,” he said around a mouthful of oatmeal raisin cookie.
She stopped her inspection of his legs, which would’ve been enjoyable if she’d lingered more near the top and center instead of poking at his knees, which kinda tickled. Her head cocked and her eyes narrowed.
Yeah, she knew what he was talking about. “That’s my girl.”
If her eyes got any narrower, she’d be glaring at him through her eyelids. “How much pain medication are you on?”
“None.” He drew a hand through her hair—always so soft and silky—then brushed his thumb over her ear. Her pupils dilated. He caught a scent of intrigued woman.
His intrigued woman.
“Might could use a little vitamin I if you’re gonna get ideas though,” he said.
And wouldn’t you know she popped a little bottle of ibuprofen out of her purse. “Regular or flight-doc strength?”
God bless that idiot ex-husband of hers for teaching her the ins and outs of the Air Force medical system. “Flight doc.”
She shook four pills into his hand and then gave him his coffee. Mocha latte, double on the mocha.
She knew his favorite.
“I bribed the barista,” she said. “And I’ll poke harder if you don’t tell me what happened this afternoon.”
She looked like she would, too.
“We sorted it out like men,” he said, not all that wisely, since he couldn’t move to get out of the way of her jab to his shoulder.
Wasn’t quick enough to catch her hand either.
Maybe he should’ve thought about seeing a doctor himself. “Don’t suppose you’re up for baking biscuits tonight?”
“Are they going to be okay?” Anna asked, and he knew she wasn’t asking about biscuits.
Not any biscuits he wanted to know about, anyway.
He lifted his arm and beckoned her closer. Once he had his nose buried in her hair, felt her hand on his chest, he told her as much as he could without breaking the unspoken man code.
And because she was Anna, she didn’t press it.
And because she was Anna, she offered to thank him right proper for his service.
And because she was Anna, when he asked her to be careful around his kidneys, she did him one better.
She made his whole body feel better.
So better, he thought she might’ve found a missing piece of his soul.
Mamie was right. His collard greens were toast, and he was pretty sure Anna Grace had labeled his turnips.
And he didn’t mind a lick.<
br />
JULES WASN’T AT work Friday.
She wasn’t in Saturday either, which both surprised Anna and gave her some hope.
Jackson was out hunting. Anna was sad not to spend the weekend making sure he was okay, but relieved that they were still on the I-have-my-own-life end of the dating spectrum.
Not that working on a Saturday qualified her as having a life.
But with Jules out so much lately, Anna was catching up for Jules’s catching up. They both needed the job security, so Anna declined Kaci’s suggestion to practice Thanksgiving pies while Lance put in a Saturday at his squadron. Because Anna had work to do.
Her classes were dragging this semester, so she was glad to have an excuse to come in and double-check the color coordination on files from the last couple of weeks. She needed everything sorted for the October report, which had to go out Tuesday despite missing a few key points from Jules. Anna was comfortable running tests on her own, though the newness had worn off, taking the excitement with it. But she still enjoyed the filing.
Compared to school, it was fun.
But not as fun as spending Sunday organizing a kitchen for one of Lance’s new lieutenants. Anna couldn’t believe they paid her to sort and file their lives. She enjoyed the extra boost to her bank account, especially with Christmas coming, even if she felt guilty about the lost study time. It was hard to keep her heart in biochemistry when her label maker was humming.
Jules finally came back Tuesday morning. She brought a gush of chilly air more appropriate for a Minnesota January than a Georgia November, but she stopped in Anna’s cube to hop on the desk and screw with Anna’s organizer. “Why didn’t you and Neil do counseling?” she asked.
Anna blew out a breath she’d been holding since Thursday. “He was a prick.”
It was true.
Her ex-husband was a prick. She laughed, then shrugged. “I don’t think he ever loved me. I think he loved what I could do for his life.”
Jules chewed on the cap of Anna’s favorite orange highlighter. “Did you love him?”
“Yes.”
“Martyr.”
Anna shrugged. “I did. But I loved myself too, and I couldn’t love me for both of us. So when he decided enough was enough, I realized I could keep loving me for both of us, or I could love me for me.”
Southern Fried Blues (The Officers' Ex-Wives Club) Page 24