“Disappointment, mostly.” She groaned, and he grinned up into the tree limbs above him. “Don’t be in such a hurry to cut loose. Mom and Bob are halfway decent parental units. You have no clue how much easier it is when someone else is doing your laundry.”
Laundry. Ugh. He had a wet pile of it sitting in his room, just waiting.
“Okay, okay, enough about my prison break. How’s the East Coast?”
“Just like the West Coast, only farther to the right.”
She groaned again. “Brothers are worthless.”
“We practice. It’s a fine art. I don’t know, Sarah.” He ran a hand down his face. “More humid, I guess. I’m here to box, not run around sightseeing. I’ve barely been off base.”
“Any cute guys?”
“I’m pretending you didn’t ask that. Because no. Also, no. And for dessert? No.”
“The Marines are good enough for my brother, but not good enough for me to date. I see how it is.”
“Is that Brad?”
Brad winced when he heard his mother’s voice. “I thought you were in your room.”
“Living room. Why? And here’s Mom . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“Bradley, I’m going gray over here worrying about you. Have you heard of this invention called a telephone lately?”
“No, tell me more.”
When his mother sighed in exasperation, he laughed. “Mom, come on. I’m exhausted. Cut a son some slack.”
“I heard more from you when you were deployed than I have since you checked in over there.”
Brad glanced down at his knee, currently stretched out on the bench. “Not much to tell. Just same old, same old.”
“Hmm. How about your roommate? Is he a decent guy?”
“Decent. Talkative. Okay, I guess.”
“Well, it sounds like you’ve made a friend.”
Brad winced at that. He wouldn’t go so far . . .
“Call more,” his mother admonished, then handed the phone back to Sarah.
“I’m hanging up now. I’m waiting on a text.”
“From who?”
“Uhhhh. Good-bye, Brad.” She hung up before he could pry any more information out of her. He set the phone back in his pack and stood. Sarah, going off to college. It had been a trip to watch her drive the last time he’d visited. Unnatural. His sister was supposed to stay little forever.
And that sentiment only made him feel that much older.
Time for bed, Grandpa.
* * *
THE second his back hit the bed, his door opened. Brad didn’t even bother sitting up, just held up a hand with his middle finger extended.
“I’m going to pass on the invitation.” Higgs jumped until he bounced on the mattress, sending Brad bouncing until his head hit the headboard. “Whoops!”
“Damn it, Higgs.” Rubbing at the bump on his head, he sat up. “What the hell do you want?”
“Can’t a guy want to chat with his roomie?” When Brad gave him a bland stare, Higgs sighed. “Fine, I’m here for intel. Give me some info.”
“Info on what?” Why am I not at Marianne’s right now?
“Marianne Cook.”
Was the man a mind reader?
“I know you and her are . . .” He held up a hand, tilting it back and forth.
Brad mimicked the gesture. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means I get it. You two are something together. You’ve got the ka-boom factor.”
“The ka-boom factor.” It was like talking to a hyper golden retriever. “Use regular words, please.”
“You’re the gas, she’s the flame. You get anywhere near each other and . . .” Higgs slapped his hands together. “Ka-boom.”
“That is the most stupid thing I’ve heard in a long time. And I got to listen to Tressler mouth off about scoring ass and how he mentally rated chicks on a ten-point scale before ‘letting them’ get with him.”
Higgs pulled the fourth-grade move of pretending to gag. Brad couldn’t blame him there.
“How are your guys?” his roommate asked, scooting down to the floor and stretching his legs out. He wore athletic shorts—clean, Brad prayed—a simple red USMC shirt and white ankle socks with no shoes. Clearly, he felt comfortable enough invading Brad’s room that he didn’t need to dress up for the occasion.
“They’re okay, minus Tressler.” Sadly, the kid was good, and he’d likely be making the cut. “What about yours?”
“Two are decent, three don’t stand a chance. Mixed bag.” He stared at his feet for a second as he gripped his heels and stretched. “Have you figured out the angle on this whole mini-platoon thing? Sweeney and I talked about it last night, and couldn’t get there.”
“Well, there are a few theories.” Warming up to it, and glad to be talking about something that really mattered—boxing—he rolled his shoulder and let his right leg stretch out, then let the knee bend ever so slightly. It always felt better bent. “Theory number one: the coaches are testing us older guys on our leadership abilities, and want to see if any of us would make decent captains.”
“We thought about that,” Higgs agreed, bending one leg to stretch deeper with the other.
“Theory number two: it’s a test to see how far we’ll go to follow Coach Ace’s lead. Do as ordered, no questions asked.”
Higgs nodded and switched legs.
“Or, in a more Machiavellian plot twist, the unlikely theory number three is they could be testing us to see which one of us is willing to forsake all distractions and focus solely on our own performance to make the team.”
“That’s cold.”
“Boxing isn’t a team sport.”
“The hell it isn’t.” Higgs sat up straight, glaring. “I know we go into that ring one at a time, but damn, man. We go to matches together, we wear matching uniforms, and we’re all one branch. Marines stand by Marines. Don’t act like you’re suddenly in the Army.”
Brad smiled a little at that. “For what it’s worth, my instinct says it’s theory number one. He’s seeing who will step up to lead.” Which frustrated him. He didn’t come to lead; he came to box.
Spend some time making a difference in something you volunteered for, huh?
God, would the woman leave him alone, even in his own subconscious?
“You gonna go see her tonight?”
“Nope.” No point even pretending he was clueless about who Higgs meant. “Don’t need the distraction.”
Her ass pressed against his cock, her thighs digging into the desk, her breath panting out in time with his heartbeat . . .
“Cold” was Higgs’ final statement as he stood and walked to the door. “I’m pretty sure she could thaw that shoulder of yours.”
“Lame” was Brad’s comment as Higgs walked out the door. But it didn’t stop him from picking up his cell phone and debating long and hard before putting it back down.
Two minutes later, when he reached back out, he was grabbing his keys.
* * *
OF all the places she’d been asked to meet a man, an empty gym late at night had to top the list of WTF moments.
Marianne pulled into a spot two away from the lone SUV idling in the gym parking lot. Her headlights passed over Brad, leaning against the side of the building by the doors to the gym. His arms were crossed over his chest, one foot overlapping the other in a relaxed pose.
But if he was there, then who was in the SUV?
She climbed out and headed toward him, swinging her keys as she walked. “This is weird. You know that, right?”
“What, you don’t always meet guys in dark parking lots at ten o’clock at night? What’s wrong with you?” He grinned as she reached him, but he didn’t wrap his arms around her like she thought he would. “You’ve got keys to the gym, right?”
“I do, but first I’d like to know why.”
“We could do without it, but it’s just easier with access to the equipment.” When she hesitated, he waved a hand over
her shoulder. The doors to the SUV popped open, and she watched as Tressler climbed out of the driver side, with the rest of Brad’s assigned Marines piling out of the backseat. It looked sort of like a roll of biscuits pouring out of a popped can. They just . . . tumbled out in a heap.
“Have you named your group yet?” she asked mildly as Tressler yelled at them for sweating on his interior and Chalfant complained that Tibbs was crushing his ribs.
“No.”
“The Bad News Bears come to mind.” Patting his chest, she went to unlock the door. Whatever this group was up to, it was harmless.
Brad led them upstairs to the catwalk, where most of the cardio equipment had been moved that week, and immediately got to work. He used tape to mark off a hundred yards, then explained the sprinting drills he wanted Tibbs to run, with Chalfant as his timer. In another corner, he worked with Armstrong on the block, having Tressler throw combinations in random order.
After a few minutes, Marianne set her large tote bag on the ground and walked over to where Brad was observing the guys, hands on his hips. “And I’m here . . . why, again?”
“Well, first off, I needed the keys.”
She laughed at that. “You could have done this in the parking lot, and you know it. You didn’t need me and my keys.”
“True. Which leads me to my second point.” He smiled down at her. “I wanted the company.”
That made up for having to put on real pants—as opposed to her Family Guy pajama pants—and leave her comfortable apartment late at night. “Since they don’t have practice tomorrow, I assume that’s why you’re here so late?”
“Yup. They’ve got all day to recuperate. And so do I.” He watched her for a moment, then turned his head sharply and bit out a command to Armstrong.
“What changed your mind?”
“Mmm?” His eyes stayed on his teammates. “What?”
“Never mind. You do your thing. I’ll be over here if you want more ‘company’ or someone gets hurt.” She strolled back to her stuff, slid down the wall, picked her phone out of her bag and started surfing Facebook.
An hour later, something wet dropped on her phone.
“Sorry, Cook.”
She glanced up to see Tibbs, his chest heaving, his shirt as soaked as if he’d showered in it, his dark face a cascade of sweat, standing over her.
“No prob.” She wiped the screen on the knee of her jeans. “What’s up? You doing okay? Hydrating?”
“I’m good.” He sucked in a breath. “Just catching my . . . my breath.” His face was starting to pale a little, and she popped up.
“Walk with me.” He gave her an odd look at the request, but she gestured for him to follow her around the catwalk, away from the others. “I need some company, and Br—Costa’s too busy.”
“Not for you, he’s not.” Though he was still puffing, he managed a grin in his wide face. “I didn’t say that.”
“Say what?” She forced her own breathing to be a little louder, and noticed he unconsciously matched hers in rhythm. She focused for a few minutes on walking at a decent three-and-a-half-mile-an-hour pace and breathing with him. “So how are things with boxing?”
“I’m getting faster, and that’s good. The coaches are damn good—sorry, darn.”
“Damn right,” she said with a smile.
His eyes crinkled in return. “And now we’re paired with Costa, I’m feeling extra strong. He’s smart, ya now? Knows a lot about the sport.”
“And which one of you asked him for this workout tonight?”
“None of us. He just rounded us up and brought us out here. Made Tressler give up a date to come out.” That made him laugh, and when he finished, she was satisfied to hear his breathing sound normal. They rounded the last curve of the catwalk. “So he piled us in Tressler’s car, since he’s got the biggest one, and made him drive us out here.”
“That was . . . surprising,” she said, going for honesty. That he took the initiative shocked her.
“I think the group leaders are all fighting it out to see how many of their guys they’ve got left standing. Nobody likes to lose, especially a Marine.”
As they approached the first area of the catwalk, Armstrong looked up from the water bottle he was chugging from. “Marines don’t lose. We just give everyone else a chance for glory so they’ll stop whining about the odds.”
“Clever.” She left Tibbs to hydrate again and wandered over toward Brad. “Interesting evening. You know, most guys would ask a lady out to a movie, or maybe for a drive, if they wanted to spend time in their company.”
Brad brushed that off. “Old-school. I like to impress the ladies with my mad socialization skills. Look at me, volunteering my time with my fellow boxers.”
She smiled and patted his arm. “You’re my hero,” she said in a high pitched, cartoon-female voice.
“Damn right. Another half hour, and we’ll be done. You okay with that?”
He was speaking to her, but she saw his mind was already focused elsewhere. The “elsewhere” was with Tibbs, and his attempt at a footwork ladder taped to the floor.
“Go. Help. Do. Wake me when you’re done.” She returned to her sentry spot on the floor with her phone. But for the next thirty minutes, she couldn’t help but occasionally catch a glance at his cute butt while he worked with the guys.
Bad Marianne.
* * *
IT was the second time he was standing outside Marianne’s apartment in as many nights. He’d left his car at Tressler’s when the younger Marine had driven them all to the gym, but he was back to his own devices now. And instead of heading home for some much-needed R & R, he found himself driving toward where he wanted to be the most.
Marianne’s apartment.
He knocked, waited then knocked again.
Maybe she was asleep. She didn’t strike him as the type to turn in before the late shows started airing, but what the hell did he know? He gave it one more shot and nearly rapped her in the forehead when she yanked open the door.
“I started thinking you wouldn’t be coming by,” she said.
He blinked. “Were you expecting me?”
“Uh . . . yeah.” She gave him a “duh” face. Opening the door wide, she let him in before shutting it behind her. She’d changed, this time into an oversized shirt with some high school name on it. If she was wearing shorts, they were tiny enough that they didn’t show under the thigh-skimming hem of the shirt. The sight of it made his mouth water.
At least try to focus on something else for a few minutes before you jump her, Lieutenant Suave.
“Sorry. If I knew you were expecting me, I’d have texted.”
“No big.”
“Chalfant wanted one more pep talk. I’m not sure why he doesn’t just listen to motivational CDs or something. I’ve got nothing good to say. But he keeps asking, so whatever.” It made his neck burn to think of the way the kid had stared up at him with big eyes as Brad had explained resilience. Like a kid watching a superhero. Scared the piss out of him.
“It’s cute. He’s enamored with you.” She pointed to the couch. “Sit. Do you want something to drink?”
It mimicked their evening from the night before so much, he grinned. “Yeah. A beer this time. My own,” he clarified when she glanced back in surprise. “It’s my one night off where I’m not going to get up at the ass-crack of dawn for a run. I can live a little.”
“Two beers, coming up.”
She disappeared into the kitchen, and he sat and picked up her notepad. Again, the day’s date was written at the top, and her list of to-dos were all crossed off. It was a pretty simple list, including work and the post office, and a reminder to call some guy about supplies.
He picked up her pen and added one last item to her list just as she was coming out of the kitchen. Two bottles clanked between her fingers, and she handed one to him and sat at the opposite end of the couch.
Disappointment that she wouldn’t pull the feminine snuggle trick w
as short-lived as she poked at him with her toe. “You dragged me out of the apartment at ten at night. You can pay me back now.”
“How’s that?”
She plopped that foot in his lap and grinned. “Get to it.”
Her feet were small and cute, with frosty pink painted toenails. It was no hardship to take a sip of beer, set it on the coffee table and pick up her foot. His thumb pressed into the arch and she moaned in a way that made his cock harden. Then her eyes popped open. “Did you use a coaster?”
He looked at the beer, then around desperately for a coaster. “Uh . . .”
She burst into laughter. “I don’t have coasters. Are you kidding me?”
“Tricky witch,” he muttered, but kept rubbing, and she kept making sex noises. Eventually, he switched from her right to her left. She slumped back and settled the beer on her stomach.
“I see you scored bonus points for doing your entire to-do list again today.”
She nodded, a wistful smile curving her lips. “I was a good girl. Normally, I write down three times as much as I can reasonably accomplish, but for some weird reason, I woke up with a lot of energy this morning.” Her smile turned a little sultry, but she kept her eyes closed. “Fancy that.”
“Fancy that,” he agreed, though he knew exactly what she meant. He’d woken up that morning, despite having an hour less sleep than usual, feeling like he could climb a mountain. “But you’ve still got one more thing you didn’t cross off yet.”
At that, she sat straight up. “That’s impossible.”
“Nope, it’s right there.” He pretended to look at the notepad. “Yeah. You’re still one task shy of a full day’s work.”
“No way. I just looked at that myself.” She pulled her foot from his lap, leaned over to grab the pad then froze when she saw his handwriting at the bottom. “Do Brad.” She raised one brow and gave him a sardonic look. “You can’t be serious.”
He held up his hands in a What can you do? gesture. “Well, if that’s what it says, I won’t stop you from completing your assigned duty. That would just be wrong.”
“You’re just wrong,” she countered, but she was laughing. She tossed herself at him, the pad flying from her hands as she landed against his chest and kissed him. She peppered his lips, jaw, cheekbones and nose with the innocent pecks, then returned to his mouth and made the kiss longer, hotter. When her tongue darted inside his mouth, he opened easily for her. Let her lead the way, set the pace.
Below the Belt Page 13