Have Yourself a Marine Christmas (Always a Marine)

by Long, Heather

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Have Yourself a Marine Christmas

  Copyright © 2013 by Heather Long

  ISBN: 978-1-61333-628-1

  Cover art by Mina Carter

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Decadent Publishing Company, LLC

  Look for us online at:

  www.decadentpublishing.com

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  Also by Heather Long

  Always a Marine Books

  Once Her Man, Always her Man

  Retreat Hell! She Just Got Here

  Tell it to the Marine

  Proud to Serve Her

  Her Marine

  No Regrets, No Surrender

  The Marine Cowboy

  The Two and the Proud

  A Marine and A Gentleman

  Whiskey Tango Foxtrot

  Combat Barbie

  What Part of Marine Don’t You Understand

  A Marine Affair

  Marine Ever After

  Marine in the Wind

  Marine with Benefits

  A Marine of Plenty

  A Candle for a Marine

  Marine Under the Mistletoe

  Welcome Letter

  I never planned to write “military romance.” I didn’t wake up one morning and think, huh, I should write military heroes and the men and women who love them. In fact, it was the last thing on my mind until I wrote about Luke Dexter, a retired Marine, in Once Her Man, Always Her Man. He left the woman he loved when he enlisted because at eighteen he didn’t figure on surviving. He was a young man going to war to defend his country—and he grew up to become a man, a Marine, and an officer.

  The level of honor I discovered in this one hero, drove me to explore others. We’re a country that has been at war for over a decade. We’ve an entire generation who has known nothing but this activity and who have seen their fathers, brothers, sons, sisters, daughters, and wives serve overseas in hot zones.

  Keeping It Real

  As romantic as military heroes are, I like to keep it real. Most of the heroes I wrote at first were retired or no longer on active duty. But for those still on active duty—they don’t have control over everything they do because they have to be on call 24/7 even when they’re on leave.

  They can’t always commit to a lifetime because their lives aren’t their own. At the end of Her Marine, Brody had to go because his leave was only for a couple of weeks. He enjoyed his time with Shannon and you know that he and Shannon are in touch, but he can’t just “quit” and stay with her for a happily ever after.

  They Don’t Get To Pick

  Applying for jobs or assignments in the military can take time and dedication and clearance. So when you get an assignment you’ve wanted, you can’t just change things overnight because you met someone. The same is true for the potential military spouse—they have to be ready to pick up and move when their spouse gets orders.

  The best part of this series is putting a human face on these people who are dedicated to our country and give up what so many of us expect as essential freedoms. I respect and admire those who love them for the sacrifices they have to make as well. At the end of the day, our military and their families are heroes because they go to the places no one wants to be and they do it, knowing they might not return.

  The friendships forged, the class walls that collapse, the fact that in the military you aren’t a race, or an economic status or a region—you’re Marines—battle buddies, comrades, companions, and their relationships are forged through your shared experiences.

  They are the few and the proud…

  Every hero or heroine I write inspires me. The Always a Marine series fills me with an inexplicable hope—because it’s these men and women who protect my way of life.

  Semper Fi

  Heather

  A Note from the Author

  The mission of the U. S. Marine Corps Reserve Toys for Tots Program is to collect new, unwrapped toys during October, November, and December each year and distribute those toys as Christmas gifts to less fortunate children in the community in which the campaign is conducted. The primary goal of Toys for Tots is to deliver, through a new toy at Christmas, a message of hope to these youngsters that will assist them in becoming responsible, productive, patriotic citizens.

  This holiday collection of the Always a Marine series is dedicated to Toys for Tots and the men and women of the United States Marine Corps Reserve who dedicate their time, their efforts, and their funds to delivering this message of hope. A portion of the proceeds from each of these books will be donated to Toys for Tots to continue that mission. Semper Fi.

  http://www.toysfortots.org

  Have Yourself a Marine Christmas

  Always a Marine Book 20

  By

  Heather Long

  Chapter One

  Jingle Bell Rock blasted through the speakers and more than one voice jammed out to the familiar tune, echoing the song up and down the hall. The music still invaded his room, even after one of the nurses closed the door for him. Rebel thumbed the volume louder on the television, hoping to mute the insidious little ditty before it wormed further into his brain.

  A cramp fisted in his thigh and Rebel dropped the remote, digging his fingers into the recalcitrant muscle. He gritted his teeth and a hiss of air escaped—his only concession to the pain radiating up from his calf to pinch his quadriceps. It’s all in your head, Marine. Suck it up. He had no calf muscle to cramp.

  Because he had no damn calves.

  Staring steadily at the news report offered him a grim distraction. Trouble in the Baltics and civil war raging in an African nation earned top news bites. Somewhere, someone always hurt worse than he did. Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he tried to distract himself, but the thunk of the faux foot on wood didn’t have the same effect.

  The door opened, adding fresh punch to his misery as Frosty the Snowman followed the luscious, caramel-skinned torturer who looked after Rebel.

  “
Close the damn door.” He regretted the snarl the moment it passed his lips. The aggravating pain in his quad wouldn’t let go and had begun to radiate up his back. Flattening his prosthetic foot had zero effect and the socket friction on his skin was compounded by the song replicating like a virus across the walls of his mind.

  “Good afternoon to you, too.” Noel Torres pushed the door closed with a thump. “Cramps?” She didn’t wait for his answer before crossing the room and adding her nimble fingers to the job. Seizing his thigh in both hands, she dug her thumbs right into the center of the knot, brutalizing him with a fresh wave of agony. “You know the drill, Rebel.” Snappy and crisp, her tone demanded he listen and her gaze clashed with his. “Breathe.”

  He could no more ignore the order than he could the heady scent of her perfume—not that he was expert in such matters. Noel’s was an exotic, distinctly feminine scent he associated only with her, and for the last year, it had been his salvation. Deep breaths calmed his racing heart as her thumbs continued to apply pressure to the violent spasm seizing his muscle until bit-by-bit, it eased.

  “Breathe,” she ordered him. “In for four. Hold. Out for four.”

  Struggling to follow the command, he kept his attention on her. Dressed in a deep-yellow polo shirt that truly brought out her skin tone and her long black hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, she looked all of twelve years old.

  Yeah, if twelve looked hot and edible…. He scowled at the new direction his mind wandered and Noel squeezed his thigh. A burning lance of sensation stabbed him and then the muscle let go entirely and he wanted to weep.

  “You’re holding your breath again.” She frowned but shifted her grip on his thigh and begun to massage it.

  Reminded, he exhaled a hard sigh. “Hurts like a bitch.”

  “Of course it does, you’re tense and getting worked up. You know your mood has as much of an effect on your recovery as your exercise regimen.” Disapproval hung off the last two words and Rebel huffed. “And don’t you take that impatient note with me. Did you really think they wouldn’t tell me you skipped physio three days this week?”

  “I was tired.” He tried to look around her, but she only adjusted her firm touch to knead the taut muscles of his other thigh.

  “Bullshit. Your physio is not an option. Get a grip on your panties, Marine. You don’t get to play the I’m-too-tired card. We put a pin in that one month ago.”

  Three months before, he’d been in the midst of a black depression and slept day in and day out. He refused to go to therapy, refused to engage with his psych evaluation, and damn near ended up on forced medication. Noel hadn’t allowed him the luxury of mind-numbing drugs. Instead, she’d all but dragged him out of bed, helped him into a wheelchair, and took him for a walk in the park—pushing him around like a baby in a pram. Humiliating—but effective. He returned to therapy the next day—and she’d smiled at him.

  The soothing stroke of her fingers unlocked the tension in his gut. “How was your trip?” he asked. Maybe distraction would work. Noel had gone to her brother’s wedding, and spent a long weekend in Laredo with her sprawling family.

  “Nice try, but because I love my brother, I’ll tell you it was a beautiful wedding. But we are not talking about me, Reb.” She pinched him and he grimaced. “Why no physio?”

  “Did your parents try to fix you up?” He applauded the levelheadedness of the question. She’d joked that family weddings meant matchmaking to her mother who always paired the singles up in hopes that someone would catch a spark. It irritated him.

  Pausing, Noel grabbed a pair of sterile gloves and slid them on. The brush of her fingers on his thigh turned featherlight as she transferred her attention to the socket, and hooked her thumbs into the sleeve to pull it down. “You want to know about the table full of sexy men I had to sit at, tell me why you didn’t go to physio.”

  Table full? Irritation soured in his gut. “You’re a bully.”

  “And talking to me sweet is just the way to get what you want.” She winked and tugged the sleeve away from his stump. Her humor faded. “Dammit, Rebel. It’s irritated as hell in here. Why didn’t you take these off?”

  “Didn’t notice,” he lied, and then had to clamp his teeth as she explored the raw skin with her fingers.

  “Bullshit. And that’s two.” Turning away from him, she stripped her gloves, disposed of them, and went to the cabinet and began to pull out supplies. “You know what happens at three.”

  “I’d like to see you put me in that damn wheelchair.” His system revved at the idea of grappling with her—not that she wouldn’t win. No way in hell would he hurt her.

  “Keep it up and you will.” Returning with a washcloth, water, soap, and salve, she dragged her chair over. Donning a fresh pair of gloves, she nodded to him. “Brace your hands.”

  Palms down on the bed, he endured her removing the sockets and prosthetics so she could clean and inspect the raw, torn skin marring the stumps that remained of his legs. He’d lost both knees and everything beneath. Fixing his gaze on the television, he tried to ignore the bleakness sliming across his soul.

  “These are a bad fit. I thought we’d gotten it closer, but we’re going to have to do some modifications. I’ll call down as soon as we’re done.” Cool ointment soothed the inflamed skin. Despite her attitude and sass, she touched him with absolute gentleness.

  “It doesn’t matter, just bandage them up and put the sockets on.” Grabbing the remote, he changed the station away from the commercials about all the great things Santa could find at the local retail chains. Silence met his request and he sighed. “Yeah, I know. Bullshit number three.”

  “Good man. I’ll finish doctoring these and get the wheelchair.” She gave his thigh an affectionate squeeze. Odd how he didn’t mind when she touched him, or treated him, or cleaned up the mess he’d made of his stumps. He hadn’t quite mastered the timing on the new prosthetics and when he’d realized the damage, he hadn’t allowed any of the other nurses to give him a hand.

  “So—” He made a face. “Table full of sexy men?”

  “You want to hear, you know the price.” She spread more salve over the torn skin. The contact warmed him even as the medication cooled the soreness.

  “I don’t want to tell you.” And if that didn’t come out like a whine, nothing would.

  Pausing, she pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Well, at least you’re being honest about it. So do you not want to tell me because it’s a guy thing, a pride thing, or a Marine thing?”

  Humor spiked, and an involuntary twitch in his cheek had him curving his lips. Noel rated stubbornness on an odd scale: guy, pride, or Marine. If he pulled the Marine card, she would retreat to rethink her approach. He’d learned it had a trumping effect—and he didn’t like it when she withdrew. So he made sure to use the card sparingly. “None of those, actually.”

  Surprise flickered in her eyes. “Really? Now I am intrigued. Okay, these could look worse. We’ll take your prosthetics with us and stop by Ortho to see if they can refit the socket for more comfort.”

  It took her less than a minute to return with a wheelchair—she had to have stashed it right outside the door. That also meant she’d known about his refusal to go to physio before she arrived for her shift. A thrill skated up his spine easing his bad mood—Noel had checked on him.

  Angling the chair next to the bed, she slid her arm around his waist and Reb grasped her shoulder. He loved the way she fit right against him, and the firmness of her touch. A lot of people got tentative, as though he might break, but not Noel. “Ready?” she murmured, the faint hints of peppermint and coffee on her breath teasing him.

  “Ready.” He followed her motion and swung from the bed into the chair like an expert. Settling into place, he adjusted his thighs so they stretched comfortably. Noel picked up his prosthetics and wrapped them. He never had to ask her, she knew he didn’t like advertising it.

  Setting the faux limbs across his lap, she rubbed his should
er—a half pat, half caress. “Here we go.”

  Riding the high of her nearness, he’d nearly forgotten the hellish, tinsel-decorated gauntlet they had to pass through to exit their wing of Mike’s Place. The vibrant music of Mariah Carey rocking out to what she wanted for Christmas slapped him. Flexing his fingers around the prosthetics, he fixed his gaze on the distant double doors he and Noel had to pass through on their way outside. Wreaths decorated every door and nearly every room boasted garland, and—

  Noel stopped abruptly and Reb swung a glance over his shoulder in time to see Craig Salter kiss her while holding mistletoe over her head. It wasn’t more than a few seconds, but they dragged by abominably as the Marine lingered.

  “I’m putting these up everywhere.” Craig winked before including Reb in the joke with a friendly laugh. “Oh, here….”

  Before he could stop him, Craig thrust the mistletoe over Reb’s head. Still laughing, Noel leaned down and brushed her lips over his. Electricity sizzled through him, flaying a layer of flesh off his bad mood.

  “Now, shoo.” Still chuckling, Noel straightened and gave Craig a little shove. “You have work to do.”

  “I’m planning an ambush—all the pretty ladies will have to give me a kiss!” He declared his intentions with a jaunty wave and took off down the hall. A woman’s squeal and more laughter echoed after them.

  “Crazy man. He’s going to get himself killed.” Noel got them moving again.

  It took until they were outside where the cool December air made a mockery of the sunshine before he fumbled a response. “How’s that?”

  “Mrs. Dexter and Lauren Kincaid are scheduling an event in our wing later today, which means Craig’s going to be trying to steal kisses from them.” Her humor should have triggered his, but he only shrugged.