Call of Duty [Class of '93 Trilogy Book 3]

by Felicia Forella

  She opened her mouth to speak but abruptly shut it, preferring not to make a scene. Her best friend and Jackson's “unofficial mother” stepped up to the porch. She knew better than to say anything in front of Jan that could serve as ammunition later. The woman was too astute for her own good.

  "Aunt Jan.” Jackson catapulted himself into the woman's arms with another squeal.

  She squatted slightly at the knees to prepare for the assault. “Hi, sweetie. Are you ready to go?” She jostled him with ease to one hip.

  "I just need my bear.” With that, he scrambled out of her embrace and bolted back down the hall.

  She watched in stunned silence as Chad turned his charm on her friend. Of course he would. From her experience, fighter pilots loved the chase. The game. The women.

  Never mind that she had been the object of his attention not seconds before. Unwanted attention, she forcefully reminded herself. It was not jealousy gnawing away in the pit of her stomach.

  "Allow me to introduce myself. The name's Chad.” He extended his hand to clasp the smaller one in his.

  "Hiya, handsome. The name's Jan."

  He closed his hand around hers. “Sounds like you have a hot date with Jackson tonight?"

  "I sure do. He's my favorite fella. But it's not a real ‘hot date,’ if you know what I mean. So that leaves me in need of a first runner-up. In case the winner, or Jackson in this case, is unable to fulfill his duties, you understand.” She stepped closer. “I'm always interested..."

  When Chad's deep chuckle resounded in the entranceway, Casey's body leapt to full attention despite her best efforts to stomp the feelings back into place. His uniform accentuated his broad shoulders and chest while showing off his narrow waist and hips. Flight suits had a nasty habit of making a good-looking man look even better. This particular man did not need any help.

  "Runner up to a...” He paused to watch Jackson pad back toward them. “How old is he anyway?” Her heart stopped when his gaze swung back to her in anticipation of the answer.

  The child in question decided to answer for himself. “I'm four.” Furrows gathered between Jackson's eyes as he stared at his fingers. Finally, he held up the appropriate number of chubby digits.

  The air went from hotly charged to completely chilled and then bone-jarring-cold in a heartbeat. She watched as Chad stepped back from the door.

  "Well, since it looks like you have things to do and places to go with the little guy, I'll excuse myself. It was a pleasure meeting you, Jan.” He nodded to her friend before turning his attention to her. “Casey, I'm glad Jackson is all right. We can make arrangements for that ride later.” With that, he backed out the door and turned on his heel, his movements military precision sharp.

  Confusion overrode other emotions as she watched the fine male form retreat down the sidewalk. What the heck had just happened? Would she ever understand men?

  * * * *

  Leaden feet carried Chad back to his car, his heavy thoughts swamping him. His own son would have been about four if it hadn't been for the accident. What would he look like? How different would life be if he'd survived? Visions of a nondescript little boy raced through his mind, laughing and playing on a backyard swing set.

  The black leather seat, warmed by the setting sun, molded to his frame as he settled into the convertible. His heart clenched painfully as he spied on the trio in the open doorway. Casey hugged her son close, rocking him side to side. He pushed away from his mother, slipping his hand inside Jan's. The little boy turned his head for one more look at his mother before focusing his attention on the woman beside him.

  A teddy bear clutched by a little hand waggled in the air when Jackson spotted Chad sitting in his car. He saluted the preschooler and cranked the key in the ignition. The Corvette purred to life, four hundred plus horses primed and ready to run. Not nearly as desperate for release as its owner.

  Knowing that Casey's very much alive son and his never-got-a-chance-to-live son would have been contemporaries walloped him with the force of a missile blow. It had been like that since the very beginning. The loss of his son lingered on the fringes of conscious thought until something or someone forced the issue to the fore. Not that it took much to push the memories to his consciousness. Then grief would crash over him again, reminding him of everything he lost that one fateful evening.

  He wondered, as he had countless times before, if he would ever recover.

  He longed to turn the ‘Vette lose on the open road, to clear his mind, but unfortunately he couldn't. In addition to his completed mission checking on Jackson, a rental agent waited around the corner to show him an available apartment.

  Oh sure, he would love nothing more than remaining in the hotel for the duration of his assignment at Nellis. No cleaning, no responsibilities. He could eat at the Officers’ Club. No muss, no fuss. But it got a little expensive and a lot stale after a while. He could live in the bachelor officer quarters, or unaccompanied personnel housing as it was known at Nellis, on base, but those amounted to glorified dorms. They weren't very conducive to a successful love life no matter how nice.

  A modest one-bedroom apartment just made more sense. The trouble revolved around finding a decent furnished apartment. They were fairly easy to come by in military communities, but the quality was not always there. Being on the outskirts of Las Vegas increased his odds for once.

  He preferred to live light since the tragic end of his marriage. Brenda had spent an obscene amount of money furnishing their house. He'd donated it all to charity in the aftermath of the crash. All he owned—all he needed—fit in a standard issue trunk and duffel bag and he liked it that way. No more matching decor or coordinating colors for him.

  Following the signs, he slid the car into a parking space in front of the single-story rental office. He pushed to his feet from the low-slung seat, meandering toward the door.

  He watched the young woman at the desk perk up as he strolled into the room. For the space of a minute, she went mute. He knew women found him attractive, and was not adverse to using his looks to suit his purposes.

  "Hi. I'm here to see the furnished apartment that was advertised in yesterday's paper. I called this afternoon to make an appointment.” He hoped to jog her memory if the thick layer of hairspray hadn't choked the life out of her brain cells. The odor threatened to do the same to him.

  Mentally chastising himself, he struggled to think more kindly of the woman. Especially since she was exactly the sort of woman he'd be interested in if he weren't in such a foul mood. He struggled with a strong urge to ask for a dictionary. He would bet his pay increase that the woman in front of him would turn up as the featured illustration for the word “tacky."

  He mustn't have scolded himself quite hard enough or his mood had a stronger hold than he thought.

  She flushed as she rose to her feet. “Yes, Captain Monroe. Forgive me. You caught me by surprise."

  "It's Major Monroe.” He extended his hand. His mother always emphasized the importance of good manners. His lecture must have finally gotten through to himself.

  "My apologies. It was written as captain on the sheet.” A delicate hand pressed against his, squeezing softly. Her eyes flashed with interest.

  "Not to worry. If we can see the apartment in question?"

  The woman's head bobbed up and down as if she were one of those little dolls handed out to fans at football games. She shuffled a stack of papers on her desk before clasping them to her heaving chest. She crossed to the door, the heels of her stiletto pumps sinking in the carpet. With a gesture for him to follow, she strutted through the door.

  Despite his best efforts, everything about the woman grated on his nerves, from her obvious attempt to accentuate her cleavage to the overdone wiggle in her walk. The twittering giggle made him long for the ear guards he wore on the flight line. She wore the air of an aspiring showgirl and had the figure for it, too. Still, he felt like shredded taco cheese by the time they reached the building containi
ng the available apartment.

  The woman hovered next to him as he inspected the kitchen and living room. She cast a questioning eye at the king-size bed as they toured the bedroom of the spacious rental unit. On any other evening, her overtures would have garnered her a date. He chalked up his lack of interest to thoughts of Jackson and his son.

  Amazingly enough, the apartment suited his needs. He generally had to scour the area before finding acceptable accommodations and had never lucked out with the first place he inspected. Tasteful furnishings filled the airy rooms. He wouldn't need to buy much in order to make the place completely livable. He knew he'd hit pay dirt and found his home for the duration. What little he'd see of it anyway.

  Wishing to avoid any more time in the woman's company than absolutely necessary, he demurred when pressed for a decision. It was, without a doubt, one of the nicest furnished apartments he'd ever rented. Not that he was ready to tell that to the rental agent. If he informed her of his interest, he'd be stuck with her while they filled out the necessary papers. His patience wouldn't hold out that long. And the last thing he wanted was to offend the woman. His mother would never forgive him if he forgot the manners she drilled into all her children. Besides, he had no desire to hurt her feelings or upset her just because of his crappy-ass mood.

  Giving the excuse that he needed to sleep on the decision and get in contact with the housing management office on base, he asked the woman when she would be available. He quickly took note that lunchtime tomorrow would be the perfect time to sign a lease. Since she didn't come in to work until later in the afternoon, if he came over during his lunch break, he'd be able to avoid further contact. At least until his attitude improved. And then, well, she was most definitely his type.

  Back in the sanctuary of the ‘Vette, he dropped his head to the headrest to ponder the encounter. Normally, he would've turned on the charm for a woman so obviously interested. Little Chad hadn't so much as whispered a peep. Setting up a date hadn't even registered on the radar screen. Even the worst of moods rarely interfered with his pursuit of women.

  Mental note to self. Filling out the paperwork with her in the office wasn't such a bad idea after all. Maybe all he needed was another opportunity to be in her company.

  His thoughts immediately shifted gears. Hopeful that Casey was on her way to work since Jackson had been shuffled off to a babysitter, he now ranked The Cockpit as the place to be, a definite winner over the Officers’ Club. A few drinks, some testosterone-laden fun, and a few passes at the elusive Casey were his tickets to shaking this sudden morose mood.

  Never a strong believer in the power of denial, he nonetheless refused to think about why his mood depended on any woman, but especially one still married. He knew with a certainty that she would lift the funk settling over him and that was all that mattered for the moment.

  His main objective of the moment involved seeing one tall, well-rounded woman tending bar. That involved rounding up the guys waiting at the O Club and convincing them to move the party to The Cockpit.

  * * * *

  The drive to work was a study in self-torture for Casey. No matter how loud she cranked the stereo, thoughts of Chad insisted on intruding on her peace of mind. Her pesky hormones made sure to hype him every chance they got. What was it about the man that picked the lock to the secure place where she had stashed away all the bruised feelings and unfulfilled desires when Brian left? Especially when she knew damn well what he was. A no-good womanizing fighter pilot.

  She could still smell him from the short time they'd been together. A robust, manly combination of sandalwood and outdoors. A scent that teased at her nostrils and forced her to remember sitting so close to him, of standing near him. Her nipples tingled at the mere thought of his touch against her breasts. If a look spurred her to a state of heightened arousal, a touch would probably kill her. But—oh—what a way to go.

  Grinding her teeth together, her jaw ached in protest. She clung to the steering wheel so tenaciously her knuckles whitened. Why on earth had he materialized at her door as if she conjured him up or something? His visit to the bar on Saturday night had been to confirm Jackson's health. Did he really need to do it again?

  At this rate, she'd have a migraine long before she ever crossed the threshold of the bar. She forced her attention to a long list of errands waiting for her in the morning. She had to find a way to avoid him—even thoughts of him—until she regained control of her lost senses.

  When her mind mercifully shifted gears off its one-way track to Chadville, Jan's voice nagged at the base of her brain. Jan or her hormones; she didn't know who was worse.

  "Do you want to tell me who that was?"

  "Umm, no one in particular."

  "No one? Are you sh—kidding me? That wasn't a “no one.” That was a Grade A, prime cut, oh-my-gosh-pinch-me-'cause-he-can't-be-real somebody. That was a he's-so-delicious-I-could-eat-him-raw-without-steak-sauce..."

  "I get the picture. But it's also somebody I don't care to discuss with you or anyone else, thank you very much."

  Jan shot her down with an I-don't-believe-a-word reproaching glare. Since she couldn't sell that “disinterested” story to the National Enquirer, let alone Jan, she strove to remain nonchalant as she recounted her two previous meetings with Chad. Judging by the look on Jan's face, she'd failed miserably. Jan nagged even worse than her moral-lacking hormones, urging her to go for it.

  Why did he have to come around feigning concern about her son? Again. The gesture made him less like a creep and even more like an actual human being. There was no finer specimen of the male form, her hormones reminded her. So be it, she conceded, even if the admission did cost her some of her sanity. Unfortunately, she knew from experience that fighter pilots ranked somewhere below trolls on the evolutionary scale.

  The warm air shimmered off the pavement until it melded with the darkening horizon as she headed toward The Cockpit. A hint of some dead animal invaded the air-conditioned interior, bringing with it a brief respite from thoughts of the attractive jet jockey. The flashing neon sign rising above her place of employment jolted her into psyching herself up for the night ahead of her.

  The evening desert air still held enough heat to blast her as she swung open the door on her late model minivan. The crowded parking lot promised enough business to prevent thoughts of drop-dead gorgeous pilots. Specifically, one good-freaking-God handsome one.

  She tucked her hair behind her ears as she yanked open the heavy wooden door, clutching her white apron in her fist. Jostling her way through the throng, she waved in response as her name wafted over the noisy revelry. She jolted away from the hands grasping at her bottom. Why did men think a slap on the butt to be an acceptable form of greeting? Finally, the relative security of the bar loomed in front of her. She wrapped the ties of her apron around her waist and stepped behind the wooden sanctuary.

  The job was most definitely not her life's ambition. But it paid the bills and enabled her to spend precious time with her son. It left her mornings free to volunteer at the hospital. Still, most nights challenged her with drunken airmen hitting on her and women looking down their noses at her. She continually reminded herself that the benefits truly did outweigh the drawbacks. She strove to convince herself this job was not some sort of cosmic punishment, sticking her in the exact same type of place where Brian probably met the little tramp.

  She slowly took in her surroundings, gauging the crowd and chatting with the departing bartender. “How's it going tonight, Tiny?” she greeted the lumbering Lurch-like man sharing space with her behind the bar.

  "Not too bad, considering.” He was a man of few words.

  "Considering what?” Best to be prepared for trouble than to have it zoom in from off the radar screen.

  "Not much, just a group of fighter jocks celebrating."

  Great. Just fine flipping wonderful.

  The odds stacked up dead even when a group of partying pilots overran the lowly establishment. It co
uld be a quiet night or trouble in the making. Only time would tell.

  Her alert eyes scanned the bar one more time to find the table in question. It worked best to keep potential troublemakers within arm's reach. Groups of men surrounded several tables, but no obvious sight of a celebration. The mix of men to women on this Monday evening was about even, a sign that the crowd would probably be quiet.

  Her heart took up residence in her throat as a familiar voice rose above the din. She begged her ears to focus in on the voice, willing it to be anyone other than God's Gift. The voice came from the table closest to the bar. Too close to mistake the lust-inducing timbre.

  "Barkeep. Another round to celebrate the arrival of Marilyn Monroe."

  Oh, yes, it was definitely him.

  One rip-roaring migraine, coming up.

  * * * *

  "Hey, Marilyn. I'm glad you talked us into coming here instead of hanging at the O Club. This place is rocking tonight!” Zeus yelled in order to be heard over the roar created by the jukebox and the chatter. The ranking pilot in the wing, he was a legend in his own mind.

  The Cockpit thrummed with activity, the usual for a Monday night the hulking bartender had informed them. A group of women and several couples occupied the dance floor, swaying to music that battled the voices for dominance. A smoky haze lingered in the air, compliments of numerous cigarettes. A much less dignified atmosphere for partying than the O Club. None of the men complained when he'd suggested the venue change.

  The ten men able to join the celebration with him stationed themselves at an empty table near the bar. So they wouldn't have so far to stumble for more beer, one of them drolly intoned. With two empty pitchers already gracing the table and two more half empty, the statement was quickly verified.

  Quickly staking a claim on the chair facing the bar, he waited. Casey's presence was missing from behind the bar upon his arrival, even though he'd assumed she'd be at work already thanks to the time he'd wasted getting there. She could be on a later shift, since it was still early yet. Just because she looked ready to leave for work when he launched his impromptu assault on her didn't mean that she was on her way to the bar that very minute. He didn't intend to second-guess himself about his decision to move his party.