His gaze strayed back to the bar. The words hadn't been a lie. She truly was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Judging by her ponytail and the wisps framing her face, her hair gave golden honey a run for its money. Her doe-like amber-colored eyes expressed the gamut of emotions flashing through her during their brief exchange. She smelled like heaven on earth; a tangy, citrus sort of fragrance radiated off her. Her figure could only be described as Rubenesque, a far cry from the twigs he normally gravitated toward.
He didn't want to think about what it meant that he had even noticed the color of her hair and the hue of her eyes.
And she'd rejected him.
Well, if she thought he would be leaving after that put down, slinking back to some cave, she had another think coming. No one possessed the power to run Chad out of an old stomping ground. Especially not a woman. He would just have to show her exactly what she was missing. Next time, she would be begging for him.
Next time? He wasn't going there.
Right now, Little Chad had gone without attention for longer than he cared to admit. He was primed and ready for action. And since the bartender wasn't an immediate option, the time had come to take a new survey of the battlefield. He needed a mattress tango to help keep the encroaching memories at bay.
He fine-tuned his radar as he made another visual sweep of the room. Blocking the delectable Casey from the head's-up display was an absolute necessity. As long as she remained on screen, none of the other women in the room had a prayer.
The slow steady thrumming of a sultry love song teased at his ears. The two women who drooled over him like some sweet dessert remained perched at the bar. He shuddered. Nope. Poster girls for coyote ugly.
He ignored the continuing urge to survey the terrain behind the bar. He could still smell the spicy fruity scent of her perfume lingering from when he stood near her.
A short-haired brunette emerged from the bathroom tugging down a micro-miniskirt that barely covered the lower swells of her bottom, instantly snagging his libido. Her practically nonexistent breasts were showcased in a low-cut halter-top. As she undulated further into the room and he saw her “fuck me” pumps, his head spun, both of them. Bingo. We have a winner. Chad hopped to his feet, assumed his best come hither attitude, and marched toward the target, missile lock engaged.
And then he heard it over the pounding of his lust. A male voice addressing him by his call sign, a right of passage initiation bestowed on all new fighter pilots.
"Marilyn? Marilyn, old buddy. I knew I'd find you here."
Chad turned toward the friendly voice, struggling not to grit his teeth. Not-so-Little Chad prodded him to ignore everything but the call of lust. It was a damn good thing that part of his anatomy couldn't bet because it would have lost.
A genuine smile of recognition lit his face and immediately lightened his mood. “If it isn't Rebel Babcock as I live and breathe, you old dog. How the hell are you? How long has it been? Ten years?” Chad couldn't help but notice that Rebel had yet to lose the accent that earned him his call sign all those years ago at the United States Air Force Academy.
The men greeted each other with a handshake that quickly melded to a masculine hug. With hearty slaps on the backs, they finally parted.
"I heard rumors you reported today, so I figured I'd come after you."
"How'd you know where to find me?"
Rebel bust out laughing. “Are you kidding? Where the hell else would you be on a Friday night? Half the female population of the base is already on alert, ready and waiting for you."
"Only half?"
"Yeah, well, give it time."
"By Monday, the other half should be mine."
A snort-cum-cough prevented an immediate, polite, reply. “Oh, and turn your charm off before you meet my wife, will ya?"
A grimace pursed Chad's lips as he recalled the wedding he had been forced to miss. “I wish I could have been there when you slipped on the old ball and chain. If only to stop you.” He lifted a brow mockingly.
"You don't have to explain the military life to me, Marilyn. So, you're here to join us? That's just fucking awesome, man. You always were one of the best fighter pilots and instructors around."
Chad delved into the conversation with relish. He'd been thrilled when he'd learned that he'd be PCSing to Nellis to join the ranks of the training squadron and be a part of the best training team in the military. A permanent change of station to Sin City, USA. A chance to train rookie fighter pilots as part of the best, most realistic training exercises in the world. The possibility of finally taking down Antonio Ramos and his terrorist cell. What more could he ask for? Okay, maybe a new call sign so that he'd no longer be Chad “Marilyn” Monroe.
He had been thrilled to learn that one of his old Academy buddies was assigned to the same wing, just a different squadron. “Yep. It looks like we'll be flying together again. Do you enjoy being an instructor?"
"I love it. Wait till you experience the thrill of shooting down a rookie.” Rebel chuckled raucously. “Anyway, before you snare me in your web of debauchery and I forget, Kelli would like you to come to dinner tomorrow night. Sort of a welcoming thing.” Rebel's shrug clearly said, You know how wives are.
"Aww, man, domestic bliss? I don't know if I'd be able to keep my food down. I don't do domestic tranquility.” Not any more, anyway.
Rebel smacked Chad on the upper arm with his fist. “Come on, Marilyn, don't make me go home and tell Kelli you're not coming. She really gets some perverse pleasure out of meeting guys I went to the Blue Zoo with. Besides, I really don't want to sleep on the couch ... again."
Chad made a snapping sound as he pretended to crack a whip in Rebel's direction. “Wouldn't want to upset the little lady, then, would I? Promise me she's a good cook and I guess I'll be there."
Chad watched as the brunette object of his lust wiggled her way past his table, gracing him silently with an open invitation. He shrugged his shoulders in the direction of his companion. With a wink, he let her stroll by.
He didn't regret the decision. Easy women came along with the surety of a morning erection. Time spent with good buddies was priceless.
* * * *
Casey pulled a tray of glasses from the dishwasher at the end of the bar. The steam wafted in her face, drying out her contacts. Shoot. She hated when she got too close. Now her eyes would bother her for the rest of the night. And seeing as how the Budweiser frogs clock behind her had only ribbeted eleven times not too long ago, that meant at least three hours of misery.
All because she had been distracted by God's Gift.
Time to move to safer ground. The office beckoned her. Outta sight, outta mind.
Friday nights at The Cockpit meant tending bar for Casey. This particular evening ranked as very slow for a weekend night so the normal two bartenders constituted overkill. Not that she was complaining. With only one bartender necessary, she took full advantage of the opportunity to retreat to the office to tackle paperwork, leaving Tiny to satisfy the patrons’ thirsts.
Since becoming the assistant manager six months ago, she was forced to report to the bar earlier, and gave up a chunk of her late Saturday afternoon at home, to do paperwork and inventory at the bar. The extra money more than compensated for the headache. She thanked the powers that be for the unusual opportunity to complete the office drudgery this night instead.
The welcome break assured her extra time at home the following afternoon before heading in to tend bar for the evening. Something special was definitely in order—maybe a trip to her son's favorite pizza place, the one with the giant rat and the video games.
Shuffling to the office, her attention unwillingly wandered to the pilot now engaged in conversation with another man. Why on earth had he come on to her? Beautiful? Ha. His vision must be failing.
Even now, with time and distance separating them, her body reacted to him, humming with cognizance. A distraction she couldn't afford.
Every woman in th
e place looked ready to eat him alive. As he'd strutted up, the two at the bar all but spread their legs for him right then and there. So why me?
Men had hit on her before, it was one of the perils of working in a bar frequented by horny military men. What she couldn't understand was why.
I mean, really.
She cast a sideways glance in the mirrored wall behind the desk. Sure enough, the image flashing back at her didn't lie. Pregnancy fat had turned into baby fat. Except the baby was now four years old. She couldn't remember the last time she slid her hand down a flat stomach. And her breasts. She wished she could ignore them. They didn't allow her the luxury. Pregnancy and nursing had taken a toll on them as well. Over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders had replaced the dainty scraps of lace and satin. She now knew Victoria's secret. Woman shaped like her weren't meant to shop in those types of stores.
Sad eyes darted away from the painful image. She forced herself to admit that tucked inside the little spot where she hid the things she refused to admit, the man who'd hit on her tonight ranked right at the top of the most gorgeous men she'd ever laid eyes on.
But she'd never trust another man again as long as she lived. Not short-term, not long-term, not any term at all. No, she'd played that game and lost big time. Now she scrambled as a single mother determined to make the best for her son.
She'd resisted God's Gift's pathetic attempts to lock her in his sights. And, God willing, he'd learned his lesson and would stick with the easy marks from now on.
The ones with less to lose.
Chapter 2
What is the difference between a fighter pilot and a pig?
The pig doesn't turn into a fighter pilot when it's drunk.
Chad lay twisted on his bed, covered in sweat, his heart pounding out of his chest. His wide, unfocused eyes stared up at the ceiling. The heavy drapes at the sliding glass door blocked out all light. Nothing availed itself to distract his thoughts, to comfort old wounds, to silence the ghosts. A particularly vivid reoccurring nightmare held him in its grip, refusing to let him sleep.
The red neon glow of the bedside clock teased him. Had he only left the bar three hours earlier? It seemed more like an eternity.
Nights relentlessly, mercilessly tortured him. They gnawed at his soul ever since that fateful phone call in the wee hours of the morning. But the agony of a night back at Nellis didn't begin to compare to the searing guilt that ruled his nights for four long years. He still remembered every detail of the phone call that started the descent into hell.
"Captain Monroe?"
"Speaking."
"This is Colonel Hartman, with the MPs at Nellis. A flight crew is readying your jet, son. You need to return to the base."
"Is something wrong, sir?"
"I'm afraid so. Your wife was involved in an accident with a drunk driver, son. You need to return to the base as quickly as you safely can."
Chad sat up and scrubbed his hands through his just-long-enough-to-be-regulation-short hair. Maybe a nice warm shower would allow him to relax and get some sleep. It had been known to work in the past. But in the past, looking out a window or driving to work didn't revive memories of Brenda at the BX or the commissary or any number of other places. This tour of duty back at Nellis threatened to rob him of his hard won sanity. Death would be a welcome respite if this night were any indication of the future. When he'd thought this assignment would kill him, this wasn't what he'd meant.
Right now, he wished he could be anyplace else but Las Vegas, Nevada and Nellis AFB. Maybe he didn't want to be an adversary pilot after all.
Hell, who was he kidding? He wanted to be a part of this wing, this squadron. More than that, he wanted to bring down Antonio Ramos and his Latin American terrorist cell so that he could spend the remaining years of his Air Force career as a normal pilot.
If only it didn't entail returning to the one place he had avoided like hell for the past four years. Those damn demons were finally going to catch up to him. He glanced up to the ceiling, one bitter thought clogging his mind. Are you laughing your ass off yet, Brenda?
He untangled the sheet from his legs and padded to the bathroom, praying for relief in the form of very warm water. Without bothering to flick the light switch, his hand banged against the vinyl wall several times before finally locating the shower knob and twisting on the hot water. He clutched the vinyl shower curtain for support as he stepped into the tub and sank to the porcelain floor.
* * * *
After a mostly sleepless night, Chad spent a quiet Saturday afternoon perusing the documents given to him by his commanding officer before his arrival. He focused his attention on learning his duties as an adversary pilot, including enemy fighter maneuvers, until it was time to head over to Rebel's place for dinner.
Trotting down the steps, Chad burst into the warm sunshine filtering through the hotel lobby. He stuffed his cap on his head and jogged out to the parking lot. Flipping his wrist to check the time, he grunted a string of epithets. Where did the time go? He hopped into his ‘Vette, cranked the engine, and four hundred horses rose up, ready to be unleashed as he headed toward the base.
Chad checked the plaque by the door one last time before pulling into the driveway. Yep, “Maj. Robert Babcock.” The Babcocks lived in one of the newer sections of base housing, those wonderful streets upon streets of identical dwellings with immaculate lawns and the occupant's name plastered by the door. He hopped out of the car after reaching across the seat to grab the best bottle of champagne the base liquor store had to offer.
The door swung open as he raised his fist to knock. A stunning woman smiled at him from the other side of the screen door. One with a basketball shoved up inside her shirt.
"You must be Chad.” Her speech drawled with a southern twang even stronger than Rebel's.
"And you must be Kelli."
Great. Just fine fucking wonderful.
How like Rebel to fail to mention that his wife was expecting. He resisted the urge to run his finger around his shirt collar and prepared to be as charming as possible. She was an old buddy's wife even if she was a pregnant woman. He ordered the knots in his stomach to cease and desist.
The door opened to him and Kelli extended her hand in greeting. Chad grasped her fingers, not to shake them, but to place a chaste kiss on her knuckles. He graced her with a crooked smile as she giggled and blushed.
"I brought this.” He handed her the bottle of champagne. “But your husband neglected to tell me you can't drink alcohol.” His gaze took in the sight of her very round belly. “I'd have brought pickles and ice cream if I'd have known."
"Yes, well, Bobby likes to forget that he's about to be a daddy. Unfortunately, I don't have that option.” She draped her hand over the top of her stomach. “Between you and me,” she said as her voice dropped to a bad stage whisper, “I think he's more than a little bit afraid he's not up for the job."
"Who, me? Not up for a job? Ha.” The man in question slid a possessive hand to the small of his wife's back. “I see you've made another conquest. I knew I should have answered the door and let the damn steaks burn."
Chad found himself on the receiving end of a glance that clearly stated get-away-from-my-woman-you-hound-dog. Rebel needn't have worried. Pregnant women and women with kids ranked numbers one and two on his “do not mess with” list. Followed closely behind at number three by respectable women. Chad ruthlessly shoved aside an image of last night's bartender.
"Now, sweetie, you know I only have eyes for you.” Rebel puffed out his chest as his wife crooned.
Chad coughed into his fist. “Haven't you two outgrown that yet?"
Rebel shot him an I-don't-think-you-want-me-to-answer-that grin. “So, Marilyn, follow me. It's such a nice evening. I hope you don't mind if we eat picnic style."
"As long as it's home-cooked, I don't care where or how I eat it.” Chad complained about mess clubs and greasy spoon diners he'd eaten in on his cross-country trip as he helped Kelli carry the
dishes and condiments to a shaded picnic table.
His stomach grumbled in pleasure at the simple fare consisting of steak, baked potatoes, and salad. The husband and wife bantered playfully throughout the meal, including their guest in the teasing potshots. Chad and Rebel fell into an easy rhythm drawn from their past, with Kelli joining in frequently. Except for the tasty food, the pleasant atmosphere, and the pregnant woman, Chad could have deluded himself into thinking he and Rebel were back in the chow hall at the Academy.
"So your loving husband delighted in torturing me through flight training, since he was a year older than me and thought he knew more. It became his mission in life to make me miserable."
"That lasted about as long as it took you to learn the controls of the Tweet. I'm telling ya, hon, this man took to a cockpit like he was born in one. Made the rest of us look like rank amateurs.” Rebel stroked his wife's shoulders and back as he spoke.
Chad felt a longing burn deep inside him as he watched his old friend with his wife. At least happily ever after worked for some lucky fools.
He and Rebel delighted in regaling Kelli with tales of daring adventures and naughty escapades during their three years together at the Air Force Academy. One of Chad's fondest memories involved teasing the native Texan about his strong accent and his aversion to the cold Colorado Springs weather. Chad joked that Bobby's call sign almost became something much more risqué than a reference to his home state. The men volleyed the word “shrinkage” about the table with alarming frequency, oblivious to the blush on Kelli's cheeks.
"Humph. Not all of us are from Alaska and can take to snow like a cowboy to a horse."
Laughter roared past Chad's lips as he took in his friend's obviously faked offended grimace.
Kelli finally came to her husband's rescue once she stopped laughing as hard as Chad. She leaned into her husband's embrace as she spoke. “So tell me, Chad, I know how Bobby got his call sign. How did you get yours?"
A sneaking suspicion crawled over Chad as he observed his friend and his wife sitting next to each other. He feared that if he bent to pick something up from underneath the table that he would find them holding hands ... or worse. They couldn't seem to keep their fingers off each other.
Call of Duty [Class of '93 Trilogy Book 3] Page 2