Officer Breaks the Rules (Semper Fidelis. Always Faithful.)

by Murray, Jeanette

  Bingo.

  As if watching someone else’s hand, she reached up and snagged Jeremy’s key from the ring and slipped it in her pocket.

  Chapter 11

  Jeremy walked into his office and shut the door, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. The sight of the unfinished paperwork still piled up on his desk made him close his eyes the rest of the way in defeat. He had to stop beating himself up, writing so late into the night. It was killing him. For one moment, he leaned his back against the closed office door and sighed, just savoring the quiet.

  “Son.”

  His head snapped back and cracked against the door frame. “Jesus Christ!” He rubbed a hand over the already-tender place that would likely have a goose egg tomorrow. “Dad. What the he—I mean, what are you doing here?” His father lived on the east coast now. Not quite the same thing as having your parents walk across the street for dinner three nights a week.

  Stan Phillips stood from his chair in the corner to his full, imposing six-foot-three inches. “Saving your ass, that’s what.” When Jeremy just stared at him, his father shook his head. “Not even going to say hello?”

  He straightened and held out a hand. “Good to see you, sir.” His father gave a firm shake back, then motioned for Jeremy to grab a seat behind his own desk.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” he muttered as he sat down in his own chair. His father had a way of making Jeremy feel about seven years old again. “What’s going on, Dad?”

  His father sat as well, ramrod straight in the chair, like he had a steel rod instead of a spine. In some sort of ridiculous moment of defiance, Jeremy found himself slouching just a little, crossing one boot over his other knee, totally relaxed.

  It was his damn office, anyway. He had the right to slouch if he wanted to.

  And if that made him childish, he was going to pretend it didn’t.

  “This place is still as pathetic as it was last time I was here.” As if to make an example, Stan took a long glance around the office, its bare walls, the lack of anything moto in the entire office.

  Yeah, so he kept the walls a little sparse. Tim’s office had his Academy diploma and commissioning papers hung up, along with a few pictures of him and Skye now. Dwayne’s walls consisted of pics of battle buddies and moto-style quotes that he claimed help push him through the tough shit. Both had framed awards they’d won over the years. They both loved that stuff.

  Jeremy preferred to just keep the place clean. Sterile. This wasn’t his home, he didn’t need to decorate it to get work done.

  “Anyway, I had a trip to Twenty-Nine Palms set up already. Flew out from JFK yesterday morning, got some work done. Since Palms is only three hours from here, figured now was a good time to come over and kick your ass for motivation.” He raised one silver brow. “You should be coming up in the boards for Major soon, right?”

  Leave it to his father to not warn him about a visit. No, not a visit. Surprise inspection was more like it. “Tim is,” Jeremy said instead. “Should see the promotion in the next two to six months, I think. At least from word around here.”

  “And you?”

  He sighed again and let his head drop back, the chair swiveling from side to side. Mostly because he knew it annoyed the hell out of his father. “No, Dad. I would have mentioned it.” Something he wouldn’t have mentioned… not pushing for the promotion. And not being disappointed that his name was left off this round of the Major boards.

  There was always next round… which he also hoped to avoid like guys avoided the draft. Ironic, given he was already in the military.

  “They’re going to phase you out if you keep getting passed up,” his father warned.

  Jeremy scoffed. “Hardly. It was the first possible round.” I couldn’t be so lucky. Having the decision taken out of his hands completely? Heaven.

  His father nodded and steepled his fingers by his chin. “That’s true. So, plans on how to approach things so you are definitely in on the next round?”

  Jeremy made a big show of shuffling papers together on his desk. Papers he’d just have to reorganize later because he screwed them all up shuffling what didn’t need it. “Hey, why don’t we go grab some dinner?”

  His father checked his watch and frowned. “It’s not even seventeen hundred yet. You always bug out this early in the day? No wonder—”

  “It’s a slow week. And I’ve done everything I can for today.” Jeremy stood, waiting for his father to stand as well. “We can go grab some Mexican.”

  At that, his father smiled a little. “Is the best place to eat still that hole in the wall—”

  “Off of Seventh Street.”

  “That made the whole block smell like nacho cheese and tequila?” His dad slapped him on the shoulder. “Sounds good. Let’s go.”

  ***

  Twenty minutes later, Jeremy realized dinner had been the worst idea of his life. Sure, he had something to do with his hands now, and the change of scenery was nice. Not to mention the homemade guac and salsa went a long way to filling the hole in his gut skipping lunch had provided.

  But now he was trapped, waiting for his meal, with nowhere to run, no excuse to leave, and no way to quit the conversation if he didn’t like how things were heading. There was no “end call” button when you were face to face.

  “Tell me about this girl you were thinking of seeing.” His father frowned as he picked up a chip. “You’re not still thinking of that one. Right? The Navy nurse?”

  Thinking of seeing. Right. Exactly how he’d put it. “Dad. My dating life—or lack thereof—is really not on the table for discussion. Can we talk about something else?” To prove his point, he shoved a chip piled with guac in his mouth, eyes burning just a little as the spices filled his tongue.

  Stan shook his head. “No can do, son. I’m worried about you. Think you might be hitting the ten-year slump.”

  “The ten-year slump. Is that anything like the seven-year itch?”

  “Smart-ass.” But his father’s lip twitched. “You know exactly what I mean. Marines come up on that ten years in, and doubt starts creeping in. It’s piss or get off the pot time. Where it makes no sense to go another three years if you won’t go the full twenty. So they start asking themselves… ‘Am I tired of all this shit?’”

  Yes.

  “‘Is this the career for me?’”

  No.

  “‘Will I get out?’”

  Fuck if I know.

  Stan pointed at him with a chip. “Don’t get sucked into it. Keep your eye on the ball. Your head in the game.”

  “Your nose to the grindstone?”

  Stan scowled.

  “Sorry, were we not listing as many clichés as we could think of?”

  His father sighed, the sort of sound that signaled disappointment more than anger and made any child wary of their parents. “Insolent. You always were insolent. Do you know how many nannies I went through over the years thanks to your ability to run them off?”

  Jeremy sat a little straighter. This was the first time his father initiated any sort of comment in regards to his childhood. Most of the time, their tone was not up for discussion. Ever. “No. How many?”

  His father barked a laugh, eyes glazing a little with memories, a chip dangling from his fingers, forgotten. “Dozens. Too many to count. I swear, I couldn’t keep a good nanny for you more than a month when you were younger. You’d hatch some scheme to scare them to death, and they’d take off screaming. Smart-ass that you were.” He said it with pride though, removing any sting the insult might have carried.

  Jeremy remembered that much. He’d scared them all off because, in his young, innocent mind, if there wasn’t a nanny around, his father would have to spend more time with him.

  Never worked. There was always a new nanny.

 
“Why did you stay in then after Mom died and your current commitment was up? Why stay in?”

  His father sighed and stared out the window to the street. His eyes stared at something, but Jeremy knew that something wasn’t out the window. It was in the past. “The Corps was my life.”

  Why not me? Why couldn’t I be your life? But he couldn’t bring himself to ask. Not now, not twenty years ago.

  “It’s all I knew. I had a plan. We had plans together, Samantha and I. Twenty years in, retire, start working as a contractor. Good life, solid plan. Your mother, God love her, was with me for the long haul.”

  A heavy silence hung between them. He didn’t need to say it.

  And then she died.

  Jeremy wasn’t sure what to say to that. So he figured, given they’d already strayed to depressing waters, keep going. “Why didn’t you remarry?”

  “Hmm.” His father thought that through a little while, taking the time to scoop some salsa and chew thoroughly. “You were young at first, and it was all I could do to figure out how to survive with a child and a demanding career. Then I was gone more than I was here. And I think, in the end, I just…” He shrugged. “I’m not sure. I couldn’t wrap my mind around taking the plan I’d created with your mother and putting another woman in there. Details changed. But the plan remained the same.” The distant look evaporated and the hardened hazel gaze swept back to Jeremy. “And I did the best I could with you. You had a good childhood. Right?”

  “Right.” Because it would break his father’s heart to hear otherwise.

  As if reading his mind, Stan shook his head. “I know I wasn’t there as much as I should have been. But you had your grandma and grandpa—my parents—when I was gone on training trips.” Which was often. “And it was hard. You should have had your mom there with you, every time I deployed.”

  Agreed. But life wasn’t fair. Jeremy took a swig of his warming beer to wash the unfortunate taste of regret away. His childhood, in retrospect, had mostly sucked. Being bounced around from house to house based on his father’s training plans or deployment schedules. Having to switch schools even more than the average military brat because his grandparents lived somewhere else.

  And yet, his father had done his best, provided with what he had, what he knew. And though he was heavy-handed and a stubborn pusher about it, Stan had wanted what he thought was best for his own son.

  Stan leaned back and relaxed a bit. “That’s the problem with this woman you mentioned. This active duty nurse.”

  Ah, shit. So this was where it was leading. “Dad, I told you—”

  “No, no. Hear me out now. You’re both in the military. Might seem convenient. Even appropriate. You know what the other one is going through. You can commiserate about the shitty hours, the time away from home, the training. The works.”

  All true, so far. And even something Jeremy hadn’t thought of yet. There really were benefits to Madison’s career. Huh.

  “But then you start having a family. She gets put on shore duty while she’s pregnant, and for a while after that. It’s nice, yeah? She’s home a lot, got the tight little family unit. Then bam!” Stan’s slapped a hand on the table, rattling the salsa dish, tipping over the chip basket. “She’s back on regular duty and you’re split up. She gets sent somewhere else entirely. You’re stationed in opposite ends of the country. Or hell, different countries entirely. One of you deploys. The other’s out on a mission somewhere. And what happens to the kids?”

  Jeremy sat, frozen. It was like another fucked-up version of his life all over again. Getting shuttled around to whatever relative had time to care for him when his dad’s number was up to head out somewhere again. No stability, even within the already-unstable military lifestyle.

  Even if he got out, there was uncertainty in that. Would he find a job soon enough? Would he be any happier getting out than having stayed in?

  Would his father still respect him?

  One thing was true. Though the military had its own sense of uncertainty, there was a certain sort of peace knowing you would be paid every month, that you had health care. And it was only for another ten years…

  Shit. When did he start agreeing with his father? “Dad—”

  “I care about you. I want the best for you.”

  That stopped Jeremy in his tracks. Raw, true emotion, without all of the military BS to tone it down.

  Stan stared at the table for a moment, then coughed and straightened. “So. Where do you think your monitor will send you next?”

  Jeremy sighed and grabbed his beer and signaled with his hand for another. Yup. Dinner was a mistake.

  ***

  Now or never. Now or never.

  Matthew’s words echoed through Madison’s head as she sat on the couch, then stood, then paced, and finally sat down again.

  Where the hell was he? She’d entered Jeremy’s apartment—if you could call it that; she preferred to refer to it as the Gateway to Hell—more than an hour ago. Sure, she’d given herself some time to beat him home and was relieved when his bike wasn’t out front. But now it was starting to feel like this wasn’t her best laid plan. In fact, not a great idea at all.

  Was she the crazy lady who broke into a man’s home to seduce him? Would this end up on the ten o’clock news? Desperate female arrested, suspected mental disorder.

  Oh, Jesus. She was spinning. It wasn’t as if she was digging through his underwear drawer or spraying her perfume over his pillow or anything. She was a friend who happened to have a key—whether through ill-gotten gains or not—and was coming over for a friendly visit.

  Nothing creepy about that, right?

  Looking for a way to distract herself, Madison took the three steps over to his desk chair and sat down, determined to separate all the loose papers into piles. Or at least wipe away the five decades of dust covering his monitor. Lord. She sneezed just looking at it. Grabbing a tissue, she wiped until the screen was no longer covered with some sort of filmy gray. She took a second tissue and started carefully wiping down the keyboard. She even flipped it upside down, trying to shake out the crumbs from who knew how many meals eaten while he sat in front of the computer. Since he didn’t have a kitchen table… probably all of them. The man seriously made Skye look like a neat freak.

  Her elbow bumped the mouse and the screen popped to life, startling her when the bright white of a document flashed instead of the generic landscape screensaver. It was none of her business, and her main focus was on bending a paperclip to the right size so she could scrape the—oh Lord, was that a piece of lettuce?—out from between the W and E key. But the top of the page caught her eye, and before Madison even realized, she was reading on.

  Chapter Nine? What the hell? She started to read a few sentences, then pulled her eyes away. This was so not okay. Breaking and entering was one thing. But going through his private stuff? That was too far.

  Wow, that sounded crazy… even to her.

  The roar of a motorcycle pulling into the parking lot jerked her from worries about what the color orange would do to her figure and she raced back to the couch, as if she hadn’t been doing anything but minding her own business on someone else’s couch.

  Still sounded crazy. She’d have to work on that.

  At the last moment, she looked back at the computer and realized the obvious white of the document was highly noticeable, versus the black of the screensaver. Please come back on soon. Please.

  She heard Jeremy’s key in the lock, and the deadbolt scraped over before the door swung open. He didn’t even glance at the couch as he tossed his helmet and backpack over her direction. On instinct, she caught the helmet before it hit her in the face, letting the backpack slap her in the side. She might as well have been a throw pillow, for all the notice he gave her. Walking straight to the kitchen area, he grabbed a bottle of water
from the fridge and a couple of pills—ibuprofen or something similar, she could guess from the shape of the container—and tossed them back with a gulp. Then, almost as if some invisible shift of atmosphere alerted him to a difference in the room, his head slowly turned in her direction.

  His eyes widened, and the hand holding the bottle slipped down until it knocked against the handle of the fridge. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  She placed the helmet on the couch next to her and smiled, like nothing was out of the ordinary. “I came over to see you. How are things?”

  He shook his head slowly, like he wanted to clear a fog from his mind. “You came over—how did you get in here?”

  She held up a hand, key between her fingers. “Dwayne asked me to run by his place sometime to make sure that everything was okay, nothing being bothered. And while I was there, I realized he had a set of your keys.”

  “Which you stole.”

  “Reconned,” she clarified with a grin. “Just borrowing. I’ll replace them later. Which leads me to ask, why did you never give me a spare key to your place? I have Dwayne’s and Tim’s.”

  He just lifted a brow, his expression saying maybe because of something like this?

  “Okay, forget I asked.” She took a moment to evaluate him from head to toe. His eyes were slightly unfocused, his mouth pulled into a grim line. His shoulders were close to around his ears, like he couldn’t relax them even if he tried. And his stance was battle-ready… though that might be her fault as much as anything else. “What’s wrong?”

  He laughed, but it was harsh and she winced at the sound. After one more swig of water, he recapped the bottle. “What isn’t wrong?” He plopped down on the office chair and glanced idly at his computer. Then, realizing the screen was activated, he pushed a button to turn the monitor off.