by Snow, Nicole
There’s an eruption brewing, no doubt about it. I just hope she ain’t gonna pop a vessel. Getting her to a hospital in San Francisco traffic would be a bitch and a half.
Skylar makes a strangled noise, looking helplessly between us. It ain’t hard to tell her family thinks something’s going on between us – or something should be – but it was either that or telling them the truth. She’s been pretty obvious about wanting to avoid it.
And I can see the nano-second it clicks in her eyes that she’s gotta play along with this. She flashes a grit-toothed smile and catches my wrist, tugging me away from them.
“Fine, friend,” she bites off. “Let’s go.”
Damn, she’s strong.
I almost trip over my boots staggering after her, but I gotta mind my manners. I twist backward for a second to wave to Eva and Monika. “Pleasure to meet you both!” I call back.
Monika waves with a sort of tired, wry amusement while Eva hollers, “Do have fun, darlings!”
Fun.
Right.
A few seconds later, I've never been slammed into my own truck so hard and fast. I land behind the steering wheel with an oof! followed by the passenger side door smashing shut as Skylar climbs in.
“Drive, grunt,” she growls. “Take me home. Home. I'm not taking you out for a night on the town.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Holding back a grin, I jack the truck into gear and back out under the watchful eye of the Szabo clan. “So, I’m a grunt now, huh?”
“You rather it was ground pounder or bullet sponge?”
“I’m good with grunt.” I wait till we’re pulling out of the parking lot before I add almost under my breath, “easier for a squid to remember, anyway.”
She punches my arm, and I chuckle.
Fair enough. I earned it.
“You’re supposed to be a squid, remember? Navy buddies?” She throws back the lies I told her grandma, slumping down in the seat and going loose in a tired sprawl. “Jesus. You're real lucky my grandmother was never in the service, or she’d see right through it. Do you know a damned thing about the Navy?”
“I know the Marines say you’re just the ride while they do all the real work.”
She snorts. “Every last one of those jarheads can suck my squidly tentacles.”
“Damn straight,” I answer, and she actually laughs.
Then her eyes go a little distant, too dark, and she curls her slim fingers against her mouth, pretty lips quirking a bit with a touch of fond memory as she looks out the window.
“I remember,” she says, “on joint operations, the only way you could get the Army and Navy boys and girls to stop pissing on each other was to give them a common enemy. It was always the Marines.”
I keep my eyes on the road, but it’s hard. She’s laughing, actually talking to me, turning human before my eyes.
It’s weird to feel that military camaraderie plus something more, too. That sense of sameness that makes me want to find out just how we fit together, and where our rough edges meet.
“I had a few buddies who were Marines,” I say. “But for the most part, I got on better with Army fellas. I’d trust a Marine in a firefight and they’re damned good soldiers, but when we’re out of uniform, it’s my Army guys who’ll have my back.”
Skylar eyes me dryly. “So, you were in a lot of situations where you needed someone to have your back?”
“I was young, drunk, horny, and on leave, thank you very much,” I fire back. “You’re damn right, though. I got more scars from bar fights than from combat. Not while I was active duty, anyway...”
I don't say a damn thing about what happened after, the mercenary work I did, when things got really fucking rough. I just blink a second longer than I should, and shut those demons out.
“That just means you’re not very good at fighting,” Sky muses.
I bark a laugh. “Good enough to pin you, Sunbeam.”
That kills the easy air in the truck right then and there.
I know it, she knows it.
We’re both suddenly silent, and there’s a bristling thing between us.
And I remember how she felt under me, on the sand. This small, tight, beautifully compact bundle of grace and curves. Anger and tension. Her eyes real bright and wide and wild while she shifted against my cock.
Everything in me fucking burned for her in that one moment when I almost goddamned lost my head for a woman I just met.
We don’t say a word all the way back to her house. I keep my eyes on the road instead of looking at her, ‘cause if I let myself get distracted looking at the way that tank top clings to her or the curves of her slender thighs bouncing as she jitters her foot restlessly, I’m gonna crash the frigging truck.
As I’m pulling up to her little winding drive, though, she shoots me a resentful look.
“You know they don’t believe we’re just friends,” she mutters. “And they'll be driving me crazy every second they know you're around.”
“It was either ‘friend home on leave,’ or tell them I’m your boyfriend, Sky. And frankly, I like keeping my balls attached.”
She snorts, a smile she's fighting digging at her lip.
“Same outcome. If I tell them I’m not into you, they’re just going to ask why, and then keep reminding me how hot you are.”
I arch a brow. Something warm bolts through me. “Shitfire. So, first you think I’m cute, and now you think I’m hot? I'll take the upgrade.”
“Oh my God, shut up.” She glares at me, spluttering. “That’s not what I meant!”
I park the truck and shift to face her with a sigh. “Sky, look. It did the trick. Now your family won’t be wondering why I’m hanging around. And teasing you about me seems to make your sister happy, so ain’t it worth it?”
Her jaw sets mutinously. I’m right and I know it, but getting her to admit that might be tricky.
Nah, screw tricky. Think I’d rather face down a charging bull.
This wildcat's got armor thicker than an armadillo, and every time I think I might get a glimpse of something softer, she just curls up tighter in a defensive little ball with all her iron plating out.
And she’s all prickles and hard edges now as she climbs out of my truck, slamming the door shut.
I watch her hips moving as she walks away without a word, disappearing into her little house.
I'm not sure what's got me strung up worse: that lush little ass I'm aching to have, or the spitfire it's attached to.
* * *
Her house is blue.
Blue as the night sky.
Her eyes are the blue of a clear winter morning. Incandescent fire. Spine-chilling ice.
Blue like heaven. Blue like the oceans. Blue like every beautiful thing God created in all six days before he needed a rest, and I think scheduling Skylar Szabo to come to planet Earth is the real reason the Big Guy needed a breather.
Blue.
That’s why her name's Sky.
That's why I'm stuck as all hell on her, right down to my soul.
* * *
I toss my notebook down on my lap and look up.
It’s late, and she’s awake again. She’s sat in her house all day, and I’ve been trying to be good about not staring at her the whole time, catching her soft silhouette through the window.
I’ve watched her while she cleaned, watched her while she worked at her laptop, watched her while she disappeared into her bedroom where all I could catch were hints of movement and shedding clothes before the sound of old, creaky pipes, loud even at this distance, told me she was in the shower.
Hell.
I tried like mad not to think about her, naked and slim and all-flowing sweetness while the water pours over her like it’s glazing her in sugar, but goddamn was it hard.
No pun intended.
I thought I was past this. Getting hot off anything with a pulse, sniffing after pretty women and gorgeous legs and those round, full tits that'd fit just right in my palm.
<
br /> That was a different me. A me I ain’t proud of, a man I don’t much like now.
But it seems like all it took was Skyler Szabo panting underneath me, sweaty and disheveled and scattered with sand, to wake that man-beast again.
It's long after sunset and I feel my stomach growling like a bear, demanding dinner. The guy from the nearby sub shop I find on GrubHub looks at me kind of funny, delivering to me outside this lady’s house.
I probably look like a stalker to him, but I tip him well, smile, and wave him off, then sink my teeth into my thick meaty sub, stuffed with extra shrimp on toasted French bread.
Back home we call these po’boys. It's not quite Louisiana style, but it'll do. Here in California “toasted sub” is about as good as I'll get.
I snort to myself around a heavy mouthful. Wonder what they’d do with a muffuletta stacked high on Sicilian bread. Probably call it something like charcuterie on a bun or something.
While I shovel my sandwich in with one hand, I text her with another.
Picked up an extra sub. You like turkey and avocado?
I’d be lying to myself if I said I wasn’t hoping she’d come out and eat with me, or invite me in, let me see that little shanty from the inside instead of glimpses and silhouettes through the blinds.
Inside the house the movement stops. I catch brief glimpses of her slipping her phone from her pocket. I can’t see her face, but her jerky movements tell me all I need to know about her expression.
Not hungry, her message says.
Please don’t forget to eat, darlin’, I send back.
No response. Not even a damn emoji.
But even in slits of motion through the blinds, it’s not hard to tell she’s glaring right at me and flipping me off.
I grin as she turns and stomps into the kitchen.
Hey, mission accomplished. One way or the other.
So that’s how it goes, catching those little glimpses of her – never seen anyone eat a bowl of stew that furiously, and I half-think she’s imagining biting down on my jugular – and now and then scribbling in my book.
It's all blue again spilling on the page.
The blue of her house. The blue of her eyes. The blue balls that make it feel like I just took a kick from a mule.
I chase down more of those strange associations to take away the memories, because I need blue skies to make me think of her and not the endless desert expanse of Fallujah.
Anything but the smell of a man slowly dying in a med tent when we’re out of antibiotics, too deep in enemy territory for a supply convoy or an airlift, and a man I’ve known since basic training is in there with his legs blown off by an IED.
Fuck.
Sometimes, I wonder if I got the opposite of my old man's Alzheimer’s. If I see shit too vividly.
What’s it called, an eidetic memory? I remember too many things with photo-perfect clarity. It hurts.
I hadn’t known what I was in for, when I first shipped off with the Army. Couldn't imagine how hard I'd double down later as a private soldier, either.
I was just full of myself, all bravado and bluster. Always used to being the big man, the rock, the human wall nobody could knock down. Had it engrained in me that I was gonna join up and be a hero and save the world.
The truth snuck up on me real quick: there’s no heroes in the trenches.
Just scared people trying to survive and get out with the last of their humanity intact.
I look up from staring blankly at the ink drying on my pages and find my gaze gravitating to Skylar, who's burning the midnight oil again.
The lamplight streams out all soft and gold with red undertones where the blinds filter it.
She’s just a dream in silhouette right now, intently focused on the cold, white glow of the laptop screen, but I wonder if she’s got memories like that.
Memories of distant battlefields and all that pain, loss, and hopelessness, of time turning into this endless slippage of sand that’s running through your fingers but never running out.
I don’t want her to have that kind of hurt inside her, but right now...
I wouldn’t mind not being alone with these thoughts and feelings, either.
Wouldn't mind it one bit.
She looks up as though she can feel me watching. Cautiously, she drifts to the window. Through the blinds there’s a glimpse of blue, and we look at each other for a long, heavy minute.
I’m aching. Fucking aching inside and I can’t quite read her, but that anger she wears like a shield ain’t there. Not anymore.
I’m not sure what’s there, but it’s soft and vulnerable and lost and broken, and it’s breaking me.
I don’t think she’d let me see that crack in her armor, if she knew how well I could see her through the blinds. I don’t think she’d let me see the woman looking out at me, instead of the soldier constantly fighting me. That woman, though...
That woman pulls on my heart like nothing else.
That woman grounds me.
That woman's worth fighting for, even if I get scratched up and gnawed to pieces in the process.
I sit there like a stone, holding her eyes as long as she’ll let me, till she finally bows her head, turns away, and disappears into her bedroom.
5
Don't Run Away (Skylar)
I feel like I’m under house arrest.
And I like this house, but right now I’m ready to burn it down. I don't even care if it often feels like the last thing I have of my father.
It was a thing, with me and Dad. Just us.
Monika never liked ocean fishing, and Mom was this bright and animated thing who was always doing things and not very good at sitting still. Still was for me and Dad, sitting on the front porch of this house and watching the waves for hours, waiting for the tidal turns that would make net fishing in the shallows an adventure of flopping tails and sun-bright scales and just the two of us wrestling the waves, the nets, and each other to bring our haul in.
Just the memory of it makes my throat close with the ache of loss, of nostalgia.
Before it opens again in an exasperated sigh, I stomp through the weathered cabin to find my running shoes.
Jesus.
The last time I felt this trapped was when I got tossed in the brig after punching a commanding officer for groping my ass. But I don’t want to think about groping right now, when I’ll start thinking about how large Gabe’s hands are and how he could easily span just about any part of my body, sinking his fingers in with just enough strength to make me feel –
Down, girl.
Fuck, I need to let off some steam.
That’s why I’m gearing up for a Sunday morning jog.
I need to get out alone, work off some energy, clear my head, escape my dangerously sexy and infuriating jailor. He should be off getting breakfast right now.
Last night, after I ditched him, he parked outside my house and hung around, then texted me his schedule for his nightly patrols.
I don’t know when this man sleeps, considering every time I looked up from my laptop he was either cruising by or parked outside in his truck, sipping from a travel mug and scribbling in that weird little black book of his.
But I’ve got an open window now, so I finish lacing up my shoes and head out at a brisk pace.
The last thing I need is him seeing me bouncing around in tiny gym shorts and a sports bra. Not after he was damn well on top of me with his cock grinding in, painfully close, reminding me just how long it’s been since I had time to find a new friend with benefits.
Damn it all.
Even on my 'escape' I’m thinking about him. My blood runs too hot to trump it up to exertion from the jog. I don’t want to think about him, but I can’t seem to stop.
He’s somehow politely, courteously, gently stomped all over my boundaries.
Now, I’ve got to figure out exactly how to push him back to the other side where he belongs.
Especially since he’s taking up
way too much of my time. I haven’t even had a chance to get my car fixed, let alone follow up on my leads about Harmon. That rat has to be squatting somewhere in town, and I’ll turn every rent-by-the-week hotel inside out until I find him and chase him, crawling, out into the light like the cockroach he is.
That is, if I haven’t missed my chance, no thanks to Goliath, and he’s left the Bay Area already.
* * *
Most of my contacts work by night, so once I finish my jog I shower off, eat, and settle in to spend the day doing a little more digital legwork.
It’s not that different from the logistics work I did setting up the Duke’s protection strategy, only now I’m scoping out likely places a rat would go to feed. By nightfall I’ve got a good list of places to check out, and I’m just printing a route and a little extra info when the sweep of headlights crosses my windows.
I know, this time, when I look out through the blinds that I’m not looking for the shadow men.
I’m looking for Gabe, and he doesn’t disappoint.
The grumble of his Dodge quiets as he pulls in to park. I expect him to lurk there with his book and his coffee again, but instead he’s looking right at me.
God. He’s got that tortured hangdog look on his face again, like he wants to ask me something but can’t.
You’d think, when I scowl at him, he’d look away. I haven't met many men who can hold my worst evil eye.
But he just keeps right on watching, with a familiarity and intimacy and pleading I can’t stand.
Just like he did last night, when I stood at the window and watched him. I saw the night dwelled in hazel eyes that seemed to know just how desolate and alone I felt.
I let the slats of the blinds slip closed just to block his line of sight, and snatch up my phone, stabbing at the touchscreen.
You can stop fucking staring, I text. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.
My fingertips hurt. Pulling back, I rub them gently, waiting for whatever darlin' Sunbeam crap he's about to send back.
I can’t help peeking out again.