But when Chloe came back fifteen minutes later, he was gone.
Wow.
That meant she was too dull for even the desperate, cabin-fever guy to hang out with. Guess even hot purple lip gloss had its limits. Chloe did, however, pencil in some time before bed to more fully flesh out that fantasy of Griffin, the half-naked tiki bar proprietor. Which made the morning not a complete loss.
Chapter 3
D.C. locals knew how to survive in the District. Don’t parade your politics, but be darn sure you know the names and faces of the major players, or people will think you’re an idiot. It might be technically “the South,” due to its latitude beneath the Mason-Dixon Line, but buy a freaking winter coat. It snows. And ride the Metro whenever you can, although, if possible, going the opposite direction of sightseeing hordes.
Griff blinked as the escalator carried him out of the Smithsonian Metro station into the late-afternoon April sunlight. This time of day all the exhausted tourists were headed the other direction, away from the museum campus. He checked his phone. Still early. Griff jogged right on Independence to grab a bottle of water before meeting the guys.
D.C. was gorgeous, historic, and downright cool. Every so often, Griff made himself pull a Ferris Bueller and take the time to look around at it. The redbrick turrets of the Smithsonian Castle and the watercolor blur of the blooming cherry trees poking up from the Haupt Garden. Old-style frosted lamps topped the traffic signal, while in a typical D.C. contrast, across the street stood the concrete and glass bunker of the Department of Energy.
“Hello, Griffin.”
Damn. All that looking around meant he hadn’t been looking out for anyone. Fate rewarded his stupidity by dropping a couture-clad, diamond-decked cougar in his path. “Hello, Mom.”
“I’ve asked you to call me Mother. It sounds less common.”
And he’d asked her to stop marrying on a whim after husband number five. Clearly neither of them took requests. “You answered to Mom for twenty-seven years. Why fix what’s not broken?”
Sabrina Montgomery Ekholm Patterson Stamatopoulos Hughes Vandamme pushed a strand of blond hair behind her ear. It was a surefire tell of her annoyance. “Self-improvement is a constant battle, dear. One that we should all keep at.”
“What are you doing here?” Griff bit his tongue to keep from tacking another mom at the end of the question. Or bothering to reach out for a hug. If she was in a clingy mood, he’d find out soon enough.
She blinked at him. Stroked a hand along the length of pearls double-wrapped around her neck. “It’s Wednesday.”
“Pretty sure that’s the answer to a different question.”
Raising a finger, Sabrina twirled it in a circle to point toward the turrets behind her. “I have the Smithsonian Women’s Committee meetings on Wednesdays. You know that.”
Right. Of course. As if they synced their calendars nightly.
Until a month ago, Griff hadn’t even been sure his mom was in the country. She’d spent the fall and winter zipping around Asia with the latest man in a long string of wealthy world travelers. He learned that from the single postcard from Angkor Wat and a Christmas card from a teahouse in Kyoto. That had been the sum total of their correspondence.
Correction—that had been the total of Sabrina’s correspondence. Griff dutifully/habitually sent her an email every other week. Whether she even opened them was something he’d never know for sure.
“You’re on so many different boards and committees that I’d have to quit my job to find the time to keep them all straight.”
“Idle hands and whatnot.” She flexed her fingers, as if playing an imaginary piano. It made him notice that the paler skin where a wedding ring often sat was on display. “Being a woman of leisure simply wouldn’t suit me.”
At least Griff’s aviator shades hid his eyes rolling in their sockets like loose ball bearings. Because Sabrina was nothing but a woman of leisure. The committee meetings were excuses to show off designer clothes. The only thing his mother had ever worked at in her life was collecting wealthy men. Although she worked harder at that than anyone else he’d ever met.
“Well, if you’ve got a meeting, you’d better hustle. I don’t want to be the reason you’re late.”
“I need to have words with you first.”
Great. “Do I get to choose the words we’re sharing? ’Cause I’m partial to bacon double cheeseburger.”
“Don’t be glib. I’m furious with you.”
“Mom, I’ve seen you exactly twice since you got back from the other side of the world.” Although he had dodged about six of her calls. His mom had a long-established pattern: when she was in a relationship, like with Asia-touring guy, Griffin might as well not exist. She threw herself into being the best wife/girlfriend/arm candy possible. Which meant zero time checking in with her only flesh and blood. Which, yeah, bugged the shit out of him. Bad enough his dad had walked out on them both before Griff finished first grade. Nowadays it was his mom walking out—repeatedly—and ignoring him for months at a time.
But then, once alone again, she came back to Griff. No, she glommed on to Griff. Calling, shoveling guilt onto him for not being at her beck and call. Basically expecting him to step in as understudy of the adoration-of-Sabrina role until she found someone more age appropriate. In the past few weeks, he’d gotten the message loud and clear that it was his turn again.
“What could I have possibly done to upset you, Mom?”
“You risked your life saving those people on the boat. I saw it on the news.”
There you go. Other moms talked to their sons. Maybe read their emails with updates on their lives. His mom kept tabs on him through CNN. “I didn’t risk anything. I did my job.”
“Don’t hand me that. You’re not a firefighter, rushing into burning buildings. Not a beat cop getting into shoot-outs with gangbangers. You’re in the Coast Guard.”
Wow. The derision coating her words was thicker than crab dip. Griff had heard it all before. Numerous times. Didn’t make it any easier. Next she’d probably rehash her great disappointment that he hadn’t legacied his way into the Ivy League instead of going to the Coast Guard Academy. The pattern of the conversation was so predictable that Griff didn’t need to stick around for it.
“Look, I’m sorry you were caught off guard, but trust me, my commanding officer is even less happy than you that the story aired.”
“I’m not upset that you were on the news. I’m upset at the chance you took. Don’t you know that it would kill me if anything happened to you? Is a stranger’s life really more important than your own mother’s?”
“Mom, if the worst ever happened—and it won’t, because I’m damn good at what I do—you would not die. Whereas that family I rescued would not have survived even a handful more hours in the open ocean.”
She reached out to curl a hand along his cheek. “I’m just asking that you be less selfish next time. Think of me before you put your life at risk.” A flick of her eyes down to her wrist, and Sabrina snatched back her hand. “Must run. The ladies will be waiting. I’ll expect to see you at our craft show at the end of the month.”
Hefting the duffel bag full of cleats, a towel, and a soccer ball a little higher on his shoulder, Griff said, “Do I look like the kind of person who appreciates crafts?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Griffin. It’s our largest fund-raiser. I need you there to mingle and charm money out of people. Look for an invite in your mailbox.” Without anything so mundane as a hug or kiss goodbye for her only child, Sabrina hurried away.
Griff wondered if he’d be able to convince the ACSs to play a pickup game of football instead of soccer. He had the sudden, strong urge to tackle something.
—
“You’re a pain in the ass, Montgomery,” yelled Josh as Griffin approached his friends. He sat on the newly green grass, shoving on black cleats. Behind him, the Washington Monument sparkled in the afternoon sun.
Griff added extra oo
mph to the toss of his duffel so it barely missed landing on the guy who many mistook for his brother. Griff didn’t see it. Sure, they were both tall and blond. But Josh had a whole smarmy, toothpaste-ad look going for him. “Hello to you, too.”
“I’m serious. I’m pissed at you.”
“Too late. A bunch of other people beat you to it. My commander, my mother. There’s no time left to slot in a pissy best friend.”
Josh pulled off his black shell and dropped it on top of his bag. “I outrank them. Maybe not your commander, but definitely your mother.”
The ACSs did outrank everyone else in his life. They were his highest priority, and vice versa. So he’d suck it up and let Josh bitch at him while he changed shoes. “What’s your gripe, asswipe?”
Riley unzipped his black windbreaker with NTSB in enormous yellow letters across the back. They all made fun of him for wearing it off duty. Riley, however, wore it when they headed to a sightseeing favorite like the National Mall. He said that tourists came not just to see the monuments, but to be able to brag about seeing the people who make Washington tick. Hard to recognize a politician unless you binge watched C-SPAN. “Do I get a guess?”
“You want to pretend you can read that tangled mind of his, be my guest.” Griff laced his shoes loose at the top, tight up front. A trick his dad taught him long ago that probably didn’t make a bit of difference. But it was a habit he couldn’t kick.
“I don’t have to be psychic. Couldn’t be, anyway, since all that woo-woo stuff is just a con that preys on the weak.”
“Think you’re getting off track, bud.” Riley hated anything the least bit New Agey. His life was consumed with researching, delineating, and proving facts. He had a deep distrust of anything not based in science. Hell, he didn’t even believe the Wrigley Field curse was the reason for the Chicago Cubs’ inability to win the World Series for over a hundred years. When everyone knew it was statistically impossible to suck that long, for that hard, without something messed up and mystical behind it.
Riley jogged in place to warm up. “I’m pretty damn sure Josh is mad at you for the same reason I am.”
“Hey.” Unzipping his bright orange Under Armour outer layer, Knox tugged it over his head to reveal an orange tee with the same logo. Griff swallowed a snicker. Only Knox used a stylist to shop for workout gear. The guy was obsessed with labels—the more expensive, the better. Of course, when you were richer than everyone else in the room combined, it must be tough to figure out ways to spend all that money. “I’m pissed at Griff, too. Count me in for the ass-kicking.”
Griff slowly stood. He was one hundred and ten percent not in the mood for this shit. The commander had kept him on base all weekend. Loaded him down with scut work. As the start of his punishment. It sucked. Not because he’d done chores he hadn’t done since leaving the Academy with his ensign bars. Not because he missed a weekend with the ACSs. But because he’d done nothing wrong. And if time turned backward and put him in the sky under the same conditions? Griff wouldn’t do a single damn thing differently.
He’d been forced to bank the red-hot coals of resentment for days. Forced to do interviews with the public relations team from HQ at his elbow, monitoring his every word, even though they’d spent an hour coaching him on what little he was allowed to say. All that anger and bitterness had built to a bonfire in his gut. Who knew his best friends in the world would be the ones to toss a match onto it?
“I thought this was a pickup soccer game, not a frigging ambush.”
Knox bounced the ball on the top of one foot while swigging from his water bottle. “I’m an excellent multitasker.”
“I prefer to do one thing at a time. So spill whatever’s on your mind so we can get the hell past it before the other team shows up.”
“Fine.” Josh stood. Whipped off his sunglasses to glare straight at Griff. “That rescue you performed the other day.”
For fuck’s sake. “You mean the one where I saved the lives of three people in imminent danger, without any damage to personnel or equipment?”
“That’s the one. Did you think how it would affect us?”
Unbelievable. Griff shoved his own glasses to the top of his head. He wanted Josh to see the licks of fire he could just about feel stabbing out from his eyes right now. “When I was trying to control a bucking bronco of a helicopter in an updraft? Or when Howell was sucking down sea water while trying to get the victims into the basket to be hauled up on a tiny cable?”
“Anytime.”
“Gotta say, not so much.”
“We could tell.” Riley came to stand shoulder to shoulder with Josh. “Since you didn’t bother to give us a heads-up that the media would knock down our doors.”
“What? Why?” Shit. Even as he said the words, realization hit. About two seconds too late—or five days, depending on how you looked at it—Griffin put the pieces together. Unlike his mom or his commander, they weren’t mad about the risk he took. They were pissed about the aftermath. Or at least, how he’d handled it. And they had every right.
Knox threw an arm around Griff’s neck that landed more on the side of a choke hold than a hug. Tight enough that a cluster of tourists walking by paused to watch. “First they knocked on the door. At midnight, by the way. Then they tried to scale the back fence. For three damn days.”
“I got one of the fuckers with the garden hose,” Riley said with a satisfied grin.
“Pointless to be mad at the press.” Josh reached over to roughly noogie the top of Griff’s head. “We should focus our anger on Griffin.”
He’d been a self-centered bonehead. They’d all…well, they never forgot what happened in Italy, but they pushed it to the back of their minds. And then, out of the blue, they’d get blindsided when a news crew decided they were topical again. It had happened when Griff graduated the CG Academy. When Logan scaled Everest. The first time Riley took the lead at a crash site briefing.
“You’re right.”
Knox unwound his arm from Griff’s neck. “I usually am,” he said in his usual, cocksure tone. It didn’t hold any of the steely anger of a minute ago.
Letting his head drop, Griff looked down at the grass. Their black soccer cleats formed a loose circle. Same view as when they’d gathered last week to play, and six years ago on Nitchman Field in Connecticut when they all came up for his Academy commencement. And back at Roosevelt Prep, when they first became a group with no idea they’d remain such an integral part of one another’s lives. Being thoughtless didn’t cut it as an excuse, only as an explanation.
He looked up, squinting against the gleam off the Washington Monument. Cleared his throat. “Look, I’m sorry. Really.”
“S’okay,” mumbled Riley. “Guess we’ll never get used to all this.”
“I didn’t know the kid filmed me. Once I did find out, shit hit the fan. Commander Lewis had me running around like an ensign for three days straight. I sure as hell didn’t turn on the television. When I finally got home, nobody was around.”
When Griff wasn’t on base, he lived with Riley. Along with Knox, Josh, and Logan, whenever he came to town long enough to need a bed. Thanks to Knox’s limitless bank account, they weren’t crammed into a condo. No, Knox had bought an old rectory on a whim. Or as a solid business investment. Depended on who was the audience for the story.
So it was easy to rattle around in the enormous house for two days without running into his friends. Knox zipped up and down the East Coast, using his private plane the way other people thought nothing of driving over the Potomac to Alexandria. Ry was in and out on NTSB cases.
“We’re glad you made the save.” Riley clapped him on the arm. “Mostly because it means a trip to District ChopHouse tonight. Montgomery, you’re picking up the check. Think I’m going for the PorterHouse.”
“Fair enough. But only if Knox isn’t allowed to get into a pissing match with the sommelier and order a bottle of red that costs more than my car payment.”
“You
enjoyed that Opus One.” Knox dropped into a deep lunge to stretch his hips. They all kept telling him that particular stretch should never be done in public, but it never stopped him. “The tannins had your taste buds feeling freshly mowed for days afterward.”
Riley held up one hand. “Don’t start. We’ve still got to hand out Griff’s punishment.”
Griff didn’t like where this was going. “Thought that was the hit to my credit card when I pay for your buffalo shrimp and steak orgy.”
“This one’s gotta hurt a little more.” With an evil grin, Josh said, “We’re assigning you an extra Naked Men post. Logan’s off the grid again. Someone’s gotta take his week.”
Griff got a kick out of writing their group blog. Most of the time. What started as a way to keep in touch during college had evolved into a weekly blog with a huge following. They more or less talked about what was on their minds. Stripped back all the bullshit and posturing and wrote what it felt like to be a guy. They’d covered everything from the injustice of having to shave twice in a day if they had a date, to being respectful to a prick of a boss, to helping a family member through cancer treatment.
“This idea well is dry.”
“That’s your fucking problem, Montgomery. Penance isn’t supposed to be easy.”
“I just posted yesterday. A damn good one, if you haven’t read it yet, on how ordering a cinnamon latte’s as embarrassing as buying tampons for your girlfriend.”
Riley whistled through his teeth. “Did you actually watch your balls shrivel up and land on the floor when you did that?”
“They’d damn well better still be attached. Hoping to need them in action for her.” Chloe had pushed all of Griff’s buttons. She fascinated him with the whole letter-writing gig. Intrigued him that she’d stuck to her guns and pushed about his rescue. She had sass. Sweetly sexy sass. And those clingy yoga pants had shown off one hell of an ass when she left to take her phone call.
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