She felt his chest rumble against hers as they both snickered.
John continued, pressing his lips to her temple, making the hair curl. “Was your dad an alien? Because there’s nothing else like you on this planet!”
Vicki shivered and tilted her head so her gaze met his. “Have any of these lines actually worked?”
“I can say with God’s honest truth that these lines have worked for some of my buddies. I swear it. There was a dude in my unit named Jameson. He’d do this look, too. Like Joey from Friends. A ‘how you doing?’ type thing. It worked every single time. It was eerie . . .” His smile faded as he gazed off into the distance. “He was a good guy.”
“Was?”
John cleared his throat. “Yeah, was. He got killed by a car bomb, an IED in Iraq about a year ago.”
Her breath slipped out. “I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, me, too.” His gaze locked with hers.
Her cheeks flushed. “Was that the look you were trying for earlier?”
“The ‘how you doing?’ look? Yes. Did you like it?” His voice was deeper, more intimate. He tightened his hands on her hips, pressing her lower body against his. She felt the hard ridge of something pressing against her belly. The air thickened. Her pulse jumped. John reached out and tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear.
Vicki’s heart thudded once, and her lips went dry. Her morning went from shit to this—whatever this was. She wet her lips and watched John’s eyes follow the movement. “Yeah, I liked it.”
John’s breath shuddered out. “So, um, do you have any raisins? No? Well, can I at least have a date?”
Vicki’s gaze drifted upward.
John shifted her even closer, if that were possible. “I meant that last one. Want to try for those drinks tonight, or maybe a real date? After your afternoon with your grandmother, I mean? I know where you live now. Name a time and a place, and I will be there. That is, if you want to go.”
Vicki nodded, hands curling on his chest. “I would enjoy that.”
“Good.” His arms tightened around her back, pulling her up onto her tiptoes. His nose brushed hers. Only a whisper separated their lips.
His eyelashes were down. She couldn’t see his expression. What was he thinking? Was he going to kiss her here in the parking lot? Her muscles grew soft and pliant as she melted into his arms.
Five
John groaned. This was really going to happen, here in the parking lot. John’s hand tightened on Vicki’s waist. He smelled honeysuckle and strawberries. He’d always loved strawberries, sweet but not too overwhelming, subtle but potent. And damn, Vicki’s eyes drifted closed, and she stood on tiptoe, waiting.
He flashed back to their first kiss after homecoming. Then she’d had a swollen lip from a too eager date that he’d gotten rid of, and the kiss had been a quick peck. He’d been too afraid to take it deeper. That kiss had rocked his world, setting his dreams on fire. Now those same lips were soft, parted slightly, and covered in a shimmery gloss, his for the taking. Hell yeah.
His mouth caressed hers, once, twice. She moaned, causing his cock to pulse and grow even harder. God, she tasted good. He licked his lips. She must wear some flavored gel or something. That accounted for the strawberry smell, his new favorite. Hell, anything she wore was his favorite. He angled his head to take a bigger taste; his hands slid to her ass.
He heard the distinct snick of a Zippo before his old friend Flick’s voice rained over both of them like a cold shower. “Jesus Christ, get a room already, would you?”
Vicki stiffened in his arms and pulled back. “Oh, sorry.” She looked at Flick and started to nibble on her lower lip, making John groan.
Motherfucker. John turned and eviscerated Flick with his gaze and then did a double take. Flick was no longer the scrawny dude John remembered. He’d bulked out. His broad shoulders stretched the fabric of his vintage rock T-shirt, his dirty-blond hair still long and shaggy. Though they’d both always been a bit over six feet, Flick now looked like he could, if not outright take him, then at least put up a hell of a fight.
And holy shit, was that a tattoo on his bicep? All that snark through the years about Brae’s tats, and look at him sporting some ink. Brae would bust a gut. The four of them—him, Flick, Brae, Sara—had been best friends since the womb, according to their parents. Just like with Sara, John marveled at the changes in his friends from the last time he’d been home.
Flick gave his signature shrug. “Sorry, dude, didn’t mean to cock block you there.”
Vicki let out a squeak of dismay and buried her face in his shoulder.
John ground his teeth and glared at Flick. “Some consideration, you dumb ass.”
“Sorry, sorry.” Flick stepped away from his car toward them. They hadn’t even heard him drive up. Flick shoved his hands into his jean pockets. With his cigarettes rolled up in his sleeve, he looked like a shaggy James Dean. “My mom sent me to find out how you were doing. She wants you to come to Saturday brunch. Family time. I’ll tell her you’re, uh, busy.” Flick walked back toward his vehicle.
“Oh no!” Vicki exclaimed, head rising. She attempted to step out of the circle of John’s arms. “I’m going to lunch with my grandmother anyway. John, you should go.”
John kept his hands on her hips, rooting her in place. She wasn’t going to squirm out of a date this time. “Um, Vicki. What about the other thing I asked you?”
Vicki’s eyes flashed to Flick and then to John again.
Flick drifted closer with a smirk. “Yeah, Vicki, what about that other thing?”
John raised his hand and pointed it at Flick. “Dude, don’t make me kick your ass. Some privacy for a few seconds.”
Flick laughed and threw his arms out. “Sorry, sorry, none my business. I am going to go stand over there and hold this wall up.” He stood nearby and stroked the red bricks. “Hi, wall. How are you? You are looking particularly rough today. Bad night, sweetheart? Maybe I could help with that?”
Vicki giggled. John turned her around so she faced him; her hand covered her mouth, and a blush stained her cheeks.
Damn. The sight of her punched through him. Her brown eyes were almost coppery in the early morning light between the buildings. Sweat started to bead on the back of his neck, and he hadn’t even gone running. “So did you want to go on a date tonight?”
John watched Vicki’s shoulders rise in a deep breath, causing her breasts to strain against her demure white blouse. “I would love to go on a date tonight.”
“Really?” John felt a grin crease his face.
Vicki smiled back, the air heating, her eyes locked on his. “Yes, really.”
John bumped his hips against hers lightly. “What time?”
“How does eight o’clock sound?”
She bit her lip, pulling his mind back to their kiss and her taste. The smell of her. He groaned. “Eight sounds perfect.” He inclined his head to her door. “I’ll come pick you up?”
“That sounds great.”
John leaned in a bit, testing the waters. “It does sound great.” He heard her give a little gasp before Flick’s voice interrupted the moment again.
“The lion is moving in for the kill. Will the lioness accept his advances, or will the poor sap be rejected? We wait with bated breath.”
John’s face lifted, and he shot Flick the evil eye. Flick had given up all pretense of not watching them and stood with his arms folded, leaning against the wall and monitoring them. Flick gave a little finger wave.
John’s jaw tensed. He and Flick needed to have a serious talk after this.
Vicki’s eyes crinkled at the corner. “Flick is not going to let us have a moment alone.”
“No, it appears not.”
“So tonight then?”
“Tonight,” John confirmed.
Vicki smiled and broke free of his embrace. Despite the interruptions, she hadn’t moved out of his hold the whole time Flick was there. John took that as a good sign. He waved w
hen she got into her car and drove off.
As soon as she was out of view, John rounded on his friend with a snarled, “What the fuck, man?”
Flick stayed out of fighting distance. “Dude, you just got back in town. Don’t you think you were moving a bit fast? And with Vicki Masterson no less? God, your torch for her lit the heavens in the day.”
“Well, don’t do me any favors, all right?” He adjusted himself in his sweats.
Flick crossed his heart. “My mom does want you to come to brunch.”
John’s voice came out in a snarl. “What are we having?”
“Meatballs. You can stab them and pretend they’re my head.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Flick threw his arm over John’s shoulder, smiling. “It’s good to have you back, man.”
John sighed. “You’re still an asshole.”
“Yes, I am.”
“So what have you been up to?”
“Well, I’ve been getting an education and taking care of myself. I’m going to be working for Mangor as a chemical engineer this August. I got my master’s in chemistry and finished my internship there.” Flick shrugged and walked in front of him toward his Subaru.
John’s gut twanged. Look at that, little Flick all grown up and with a career. John needed to get his ass moving. “Sorry I couldn’t make it to your graduation.”
Flick shrugged again and lit up a cigarette, cradling the flame. Another change. The lighter had been a prop before, a sort of “fuck you” to the world for their expectations. “You and Brae, off defending our country. It’s all good. Um . . .” Flick’s words trailed off. He inclined his chin at John’s leg and blew out a plume of smoke. “How are you doing?”
John’s smile froze a little. “Well, you know. Same old, same old.” He pointed to the cigarette. “And that shit is going to kill you, you know.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
The silence stretched.
John shifted. “Anyway, your mom sent you?”
Flick laughed and opened his car door. “She suggested. I wanted to see you. It’s been what? Three years now since we last got together? Brae and Sara had that big blowout and broke up. Never been the same since. Brae doesn’t come home anymore, and your visits have always been short and your deployments long. I’ve missed you, dude. You back to stay this time?”
Sara had asked the same thing. John indicated his left foot as he climbed into the passenger side. “Yeah, don’t have much choice now.”
Flick’s gaze followed John’s motion. “Um, what’s that like?”
“It’s fine. Getting used to it.”
“Yeah, you seem to be moving pretty well. Does it hurt?”
“Not more than anything else does. Let’s not talk about that. So you got a job and are moving back as well? What about you and Catherine?” John braced himself as Flick started the car.
Flick snorted. “Long over. She wanted to change me. As you know, the Flick doesn’t change for no chick.” Flick’s tone grated. Last John knew, Flick and Catherine had been hot and heavy, planning on settling down, kids, white picket fence, the whole nine yards. Before John said anything, Flick asked. “What about you?”
“Nah, too busy with war games.”
Flick grinned. “What are your plans now?”
John clenched the handle above the door. No use getting tense. If they crashed, his injuries would be worse. And praying wouldn’t help. He’d tried that before. It didn’t make anything better. “Pretty sure I have an internship lined up with a local landscaping company.”
“That’s great. You got your MBA while you were in, right?”
“Not quite. I got my GED first, then my bachelor’s, and now I’m working on my master’s. I have to get an internship, and then I’m done.”
Flick ran his hand along wheel, took a corner fast, and then zoomed into a nearby space. “Look at us sounding all adult.”
John uncurled his fingers and shook them as he stepped out of the car. He resisted the urge to kiss the ground. A little more dramatic than he would like. “I know. It’s crazy.”
John never thought Flick would survive his teenage years. Not with his proclivities and daring. John’s mind flashed back to the last time they’d hung out during high school. “I remember the time you set your ass on fire.”
Flick was bent over, his pants around his ankles, his ass a perfect moon. He held his trusty lighter an inch from his—that dumb shit.
A laugh escaped John when Flick threw himself onto the ground, screaming. “Fuck head. You can set your ass on fire lighting your farts, you know.”
Next to John, Sara laughed so hard that she couldn’t talk, and that was saying something. On her other side, Brae lived up to his name and snorted like a donkey.
“No fucking shit. I’m in pain here, you assholes.” Flick dragged his butt along the dirt like a dog with mange.
John held out his hand and helped him up. “It’s out already. Why the hell would you do it anyway?”
“Sara dared me!” Flick pointed at her accusingly and then continued to smack at his hindquarters.
Sara glanced away with a half-smile. Her overlong black bangs obscured the rest of her face.
Brae’s hand settled on her shoulder. “That didn’t mean you had to do it, dumb ass.”
“Yeah, if I did everything you idiots dared me to, I’d never have survived to the ripe old age of seventeen.” John grinned.
“Damn straight,” stated Brae.
Flick jabbed John in the shoulder. “You had to bring that up, didn’t you?”
The punch threw John off balance, and he staggered back, his left leg twisting a bit. He fell against the car with a thump.
Flick reached out to grab him. “Oh Jesus, man, sorry.”
“No!” John waved off his helping hands, staggering sideways. “No. It’s all good. Don’t apologize. I am not a cripple.” No matter what everyone thought, he was not a cripple. And maybe if he said it enough, he would start to believe it.
One would think losing a leg would be the traumatic part, but no, not for John. The traumatic part was explaining it to everyone afterward, then dealing with the reactions—shock, condolence, and pity. He did not need, nor want, nor deserve pity. He was the same goddamn man, just a little less limber.
John muscled open the car door again and thumped down. With a grimace, he tugged up his pant leg. Flick wandered in behind him and watched in fascination while John removed his prosthesis. He twisted the artificial limb with its attached shoe and tugged it off. His left leg ended in a stump with a peg that rooted the prosthesis down. He pulled off the liner and examined his skin. The surface was intact. It was a little red but otherwise unbroken. John sighed in relief and rubbed at his leg.
“Does it hurt?” Flick asked again, moving closer.
“Nah, it aches sometimes, but I forget I have it most days, and then I twist and know it only too well. I’m pretty used to it. The worst things for me are the blisters. Makes it hard to walk.”
Flick snicked open his lighter against his thigh. “Damn, man. I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for. You’re not the one who shot me.” John’s mind whirled and traveled back to last year.
The insurgent’s dark gaze bore into his while they wrestled over the gun between them. Then the kid’s finger was on the trigger. John shoved his own pinkie behind the guard, but it wasn’t enough. The first shot hit the ground, the second John’s lower leg, and the third blasted through the chest of his opponent while they struggled. The insurgent blinked, long dark eyelashes drifting down. Once, twice, and the light drained from his eyes.
The kid had been all of fourteen, if that. Who sent children to fight? John’s chest twisted with regret when he stumbled backward, barely noting the pain, fighting to get his pulse under control, breath wheezing out. Jesus.
Flick’s hand dropped onto his shoulder, making him jump and returning him to the present day. “You okay, John? You kind of drifted off t
here.”
“Yeah, sorry.” John replaced the liner, reattached the leg, and shrugged off Flick’s hand. “Anyway, let’s go inside. I’m famished.”
“All righty.”
Six
John hung out on one of the lounge chairs in Flick’s backyard. The pool was covered up, but some of the flowers in the beds were still in full bloom, scenting the air. There was enough sunlight that the enclosed garden grew warm. John took a deep breath and relaxed. This was home. He’d spent more Saturdays here than anywhere else in his life doing this exact same thing.
Flick and his father were shooting hoops behind the garage nearby. Flick feinted to the left, then tried to go right around the old guy. But his dad wasn’t buying. He picked up on Flick’s signals and smacked the ball right out of Flick’s hands. Mr. J’s victory dance afterward would have fit in well at any mosh pit. Flick looked over at John and raised his eyes heavenward while he wiped the sweat of his brow. Laughter spilled from John as he watched.
Mrs. Johnson, ever tidy in her housedress and immaculate blonde curls, sat next to him carrying a pitcher of sweet tea. She poured them both a glass and settled back. In the hush of the afternoon, the light danced through the trees around them. He heard china rattling inside. His own mom was doing the dishes. She couldn’t stand to leave any mess after a meal. And the meatballs were good. John patted his stomach contentedly.
“Who’s winning?” Mrs. J asked.
John tossed his chin at her hubby. “Pretty sure your husband is. Flick is off his game.”
Mrs. J beamed. “That’s my honeypot. And since we are speaking of honeypots.” Which John was pretty sure they were not. “I hear you have a date.”
“And who told you that?” John looked over the court at Flick where he was still getting trounced by his father who’d just zipped around him for a dunk.
Mrs. J laughed. “I beat it out of Flick.”
From the kitchen, his mother’s voice rang out. “What is that I hear? A date? My boy has a date?” Bethany Lawrence came out of the back door drying her hands on a dish towel, her pantsuit threadbare but tidy and pressed, her dark brown hair held neatly back in a ponytail. Her matching chocolate eyes danced in her face. His heart panged at seeing her look so healthy.
Whole Again (Hometown Hero's Book 1) Page 4