Thunder Running

by Rebecca Crowley

  “So?” He turned to find Trey’s eyes wide and full of irritation. “You’re married?”

  “Sure am.”

  “And what, you thought you’d just stroll on in here having mysteriously acquired a wife since I saw you last week without any details?”

  “Yeah, I guess I did.”

  “Come on, you’ve gotta give me something. Who is she? How’d you meet? Why on earth did you decide to marry her?”

  His shoulders stiffened. “Why wouldn’t I? She’s a beautiful girl.”

  “She surely is.” Trey held up a placatory palm. “And I know you like to do things spur of the moment, but—”

  “But you think this is like that time I got drunk and decided to collect up all the traffic cones I could find and hold them hostage until the city paid a ransom for their return.”

  “More like that time you bet Brian fifty dollars you could jump off the roof of Rock’s and land without breaking your leg.”

  “Which I did. Anyway, I was drunk then too.”

  “Are you telling me you walked down the aisle stone-cold sober?”

  “Not exactly,” Chance admitted. “But this is different. I’m serious about this. I’m serious about her.”

  Trey tugged the zipper on his jacket a little higher, then looked at the ground as he spoke. “Is this about Afghanistan? I didn’t want to say anything, but I couldn’t believe it when you said you were going back. After all that shit that happened last time, all those guys that didn’t come back—hell, we all read the obituaries in the paper, McKinley. Echo Company barely staggered back in one piece and then you put up your hand to return. I don’t want to offend you, bro, but it just seems—”

  “Crazy?”

  “Reckless,” Trey corrected.

  Over Trey’s shoulder Chance saw Tara move up to a group of people standing by the bonfire, their handshakes and introductory gestures silhouetted against the flames.

  Chance let his eyes defocus as he squinted into that roiling red heat, logs cracking and shifting at its core, unearthly wisps of smoke escaping from its tips and disappearing into the night air. He’d always loved fire, from the ace-of-spades-engraved lighter he’d stolen from one of his mother’s boyfriends to the throbbing glow of a city lit up by heavy artillery.

  The army’s psych geeks would probably have a field day if he ever mentioned that, writing phrases like latent pyromaniac and combat addiction in what he imagined was already a thick personnel file. But it wasn’t the destructive power of fire that attracted him, it was its wildness, its freedom, and the unquenchable thirst with which it consumed everything in its path until it burned itself out.

  “It’s hard to explain,” he said finally, returning his attention to Trey. “I’m a soldier, and I knew exactly what that meant when I signed my first contract. I’m not going back to Afghanistan because I’m suicidal, or I can’t function in civilian society, or any of that Hollywood crap. I’m going because it’s my job.”

  Trey frowned, shoved his hands in his pockets, studied the dry grass beneath his feet. Chance glanced back to the fire.

  How many times had he seen that look on someone’s face? That frustrated, searching attempt to make sense of choices that to him seemed perfectly reasonable. When he was late to pick up his prom date because he couldn’t resist gunning his car down the abandoned airfield near her house, when he eagerly rolled up his sleeve to show his sisters his new tattoo of the combat medic insignia beneath the words cry havoc, when he insisted to his commanding officer that he was ready to accompany the departing patrol unit despite having just returned from the heavy fighting that befell its predecessor. It seemed his only access to self-doubt was through the disapproving expressions of other people, by which point it was usually too late anyway.

  Tara was the exception. Sure, she rolled her eyes and arched her brows and scowled at him plenty, but that’s because she was a tough, shrewd woman who was making him re-earn her trust. He respected that, expected it. Sure, she hadn’t been thrilled at the news he was deploying again so soon, but she was still here—she hadn’t left him. He’d seen her annoyance and exasperation, but never felt her incredulity or concern about who he was and what he wanted to do.

  Then again, maybe she just hadn’t had the chance yet. Maybe it was only a matter of time until she was giving him that look too.

  “Well, if the local news channel calls me for comment on your heroic death, don’t expect me to lie. I’ll tell them straight up you were a psycho son of a bitch who never should’ve been given a gun.” Trey managed an unconvincing smile.

  “As long as you promise to turn up to my Viking funeral.” He slapped Trey on the shoulder, ready to move on from the solemn turn this conversation had taken. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve misplaced my wife.”

  “She’s over there, with Rob Terry.”

  Chance followed the direction of Trey’s pointed finger and stiffened as he found its target. Rob, the sexually prolific owner of Rock’s, had one arm propped against the wall of the barn. Tara lounged against the weathered boards, smiling up at him.

  Hot, irrational anger surged through him with ferocity identical to the bonfire reaching ever higher into the sky. Without so much as a parting word to Trey, he stalked across the hard ground toward his bride.

  Tara’s forced grin had just started to falter when she spotted Chance approaching on her right. She turned a grateful smile in his direction, then dropped it altogether as she read the thunder in his eyes.

  Rob pushed back from the barn, finally freeing her from the invisible cage of his generously applied cologne.

  “Hey, McKinley, I keep asking Tara what persuaded a gorgeous gal like her to marry a busted-up grunt like you. She insists it was love at first sight, but I’m sure you must’ve spiked her drink. Which is it, huh? And where can I get whatever you used?”

  Tara was thankful the darkness hid her blush as Rob repeated her words, but when Chance’s expression didn’t change she figured he hadn’t heard—or didn’t care.

  Ignoring Rob’s greeting, he nodded in the direction of the pasture fence. “Come on, we’re going home.”

  Searing fury reared up in her chest but she shoved it back down, all too aware of Rob’s keen attention. She pushed trembling lips into a broad grin and linked her arm around Chance’s.

  “Sure thing, honey. It was nice to meet you, Rob. Hopefully I’ll see you in town sometime.”

  “Definitely,” he affirmed, but Chance tugged her away before he could say anything else.

  Tara waited through several minutes’ terse silence and brisk walking until they were well out of earshot of the partygoers. Then she wrenched free of his grip and spun to face him with blood pounding in her ears.

  “Were you planning to explain our sudden departure or am I supposed to quietly follow you around like your subservient little wife?” she demanded, hands clenched at her sides.

  “I don’t know, were you planning to explain why you were flirting with Rob for who knows how long?” he shot back.

  She rolled her eyes. “He owns a bar, Chance. I want him to give me a job.”

  “Why do you need a job?”

  “For the money, of course. Why does anyone need a job?”

  “I mean, why do you need a job around here?”

  Anxiety spiked her pulse before she willed it back down. Was he expecting her to leave? “I guess we skipped the calm, rational, adult conversation about how your deployment is going to affect our marital status.”

  She could barely see his expression in the darkness, but his momentary silence seemed more stunned than angry. When he spoke again, some of the hostility had drained from his voice. “Probably shouldn’t be a surprise.”

  “That I figured I’d stick around while you’re away?”

  “That we haven’t had a grown-up discussion about it.”


  She pressed her back teeth together. “We’re talking now. What do you think?”

  He shrugged. “Up to you.”

  Disappointment thudded in the pit of her stomach, but she straightened her spine and raised her chin. “Don’t sound so thrilled.”

  “Don’t think I wouldn’t tell you if I wanted you to leave.”

  Guess that’s as good a declaration of undying devotion as I’m going to get. “Then it’s settled. I’ll hold down the fort and bring in a little money while you’re away.”

  He shook his head resolutely. “My pay will more than cover the rent on the house, gas, utilities, anything you’ll need while I’m deployed.”

  “I’m a third-generation bartender,” she insisted, poking her finger in his chest to emphasize the words. “I’m good at it and I’m proud of it and you’ve got no right to stop me.”

  He seized her scolding finger and pulled her against him, closing his hands on her upper arms. “My wife ain’t working in no bar, you hear me?”

  “Your wife’s gonna be bored out of her damn skull stuck out at that house while you’re dodging bullets in Afghanistan, how about that?”

  A crack ran through the steel in his expression, but he pushed her away and turned his back before she could trace its origin. Her heartbeat stuttered, her irritation wavered, but as terror accompanied the tenderness swelling in her ribcage she advanced on her husband, her voice growing louder and sharper with every word.

  “What the hell kind of marriage is this supposed to be, anyway? One minute you’re sleeping on the couch like I’m your long-lost cousin on a weekend visit, the next you’re bossing my job prospects and accusing me of flirting. I got news for you, buddy, a girl can’t step out on a husband that don’t act like no husband.”

  That got his attention. “What does that mean, I don’t act like your husband?”

  “I’ve been here for days and you haven’t even kissed me. That’s what I mean.”

  The line of his jaw hardened as he advanced on her. She took one stumbling step backward, then another, then another, until her back hit the cold bark of a leafless tree. Her palms found its coarse surface as Chance moved even closer, towering over her, the sheer size of him quickening her pulse with a mixture of fear and reckless attraction.

  “That’s what this is about, huh?” His voice was low and full of menace. Briefly she wondered if this was how he spoke to Afghan prisoners, whether he knew all kinds of brutal interrogation techniques, if that was ever part of his job or just a ridiculous image she’d plucked from a primetime drama.

  He seemed to be waiting for an answer. She glared at him instead.

  His hand moved in the dark, a shadow streaking up toward her face and she flinched involuntarily, angling her chin away from him and squeezing her eyes shut. When she reopened them he was staring down at her, his expression inscrutable.

  “Did you think I was about to hit you?” His tone was a fraction softer.

  “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “That ain’t me, sugar.” He raised his hand again, smoothing his thumb over her cheekbone. “I can’t swear to much, but I promise I’ll never hurt you. I promise you’re safe with me.”

  A bone-deep shudder ran from her toes to her skull, shaking her so hard she was surprised not to hear her skeleton clattering against the tree. She knew she should say something—toss back a self-defensively dismissive comment, offer a wry quip to move them away from this dangerously personal territory.

  But one look into Chance’s eyes, one glimpse of the intent she saw there made her throat dry, her brain cloud over. After a second she wasn’t sure she could spell her own name, let alone make a strategic move in this high-stakes duel. She swallowed hard, bracing herself for the defeat to come.

  He shifted where he stood, pressing almost imperceptibly closer. He pushed a lock of hair off her forehead; instantly it swung back into place.

  “Do you believe me?” He was so close she could feel the heat of his body, the rip-stop fabric of his jacket whispering against her fake-leather bomber.

  A highlights reel of former lovers scrolled through her mind as she considered his question. The University of Arkansas student she dated in high school who cheated on her with a fifteen-year-old freshman. The high-functioning alcoholic cop who was twelve years her senior and routinely whimpered his ex-wife’s name in his sleep. The shale driller with the gorgeous face and hideous personality who shoved her into a dresser so hard she wore a book-sized bruise on her hip for weeks.

  From the moment he smiled at her in the bar she’d sensed Chance’s difference, not only to the other men she’d dated but to everyone, everywhere. He had that slightly detached, outsider’s manner she knew defined her as well, and when their gazes locked for the first time it brought the certainty that they were the same, the odd ones out who’d finally given up on trying to wedge themselves into life’s grid.

  As she looked up at him now she remembered the unfamiliar contentment that drugged her as she’d dozed in his arms in that sterile hotel room, under that ugly beige blanket. She’d never felt so secure, so accepted. She’d never fit so well.

  The pain of his abandonment, her doubt about the decision to come here, the nagging uncertainty of the future still clawed at the edges of her happiness, but for one minute she chose to ignore them. Chance was waiting for her answer—did she believe she was safe with him?

  She nodded.

  He kissed her.

  It was everything she wanted, everything she remembered from those two whirlwind days together, everything she imagined on the long drive to Fort Preston. He smelled like honeysuckle and seawater, tasted like beer, and the hand gripping her waist did so with exactly the same barely restrained urgency she’d felt back in December. The warmth of his mouth, the callused pads of his fingers were so achingly familiar she had to choke back a lump in her throat and tighten her lids against the tears gathering behind them.

  She’d missed him so damn much.

  Her hands found his tight haunches, her palm snuck beneath the hem of his jacket and crept under his flannel shirt to trace the ridge of his spine, fingers nestled safe and cozy against his bare skin. At her touch he pushed his tongue between her lips, its fervent explorations reminding her so vividly of the way it had licked and thrust between her legs that she moaned out loud, tightening her fist in the denim over his hip.

  His own hand left her waist to explore her side, her ribs, his thumb following the wire semi-circle of her bra until she seriously considered tugging her top over her head and telling him to go for it there and then, partying witnesses be damned.

  As if he could sense her approaching loss of control—or maybe trying to prevent his own—Chance pulled back, briefly pressing his forehead against hers before straightening to look at her. His shoulders heaved, his erection strained his jeans, yet she could tell from the tension in his face that he was drawing the line, that she wouldn’t be able to push him any further that night. Like a stern bartender confiscating her half-full glass, he was cutting her off.

  And just like a drunk ready to grudgingly admit she’d had one too many, she couldn’t find it in her to be annoyed. They’d rushed things once and nearly lost each other forever. She still needed to understand why he’d left her in December, but she didn’t want to risk scaring him off again if their runaway-train courtship was the reason. This time she would be patient and calm, flexible. Because this time she wasn’t letting him go.

  She crossed her arms, fixing him with a smug smile. “That’s more like it.”

  “Good. Does that put an end to your career at Rock’s?”

  “I won’t agree not to take a bartending job, but I promise I won’t work for Rob. How about that?”

  “That’s fair.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and took a step back, freeing her from where she’d been pinned against the tree. “Sorry abou
t my caveman moment. Of course you should work if you want to. I guess it’s important to me that you know you don’t need to.”

  He started walking in the direction of the fence where they’d parked the car, and she fell into step beside him. “I appreciate that. Lord knows there’ve been enough days of obnoxious customers and power-tripping bosses that I’ve prayed for some billionaire oil tycoon to sweep me off my feet so I can spend the rest of my days drinking Lynchburg lemonades by the pool.”

  “You don’t drink whiskey cocktails by the pool.” He laughed, white-toothed grin visible in the darkness that thickened as they moved away from the bonfire.

  “No? What do you drink, then?”

  “I don’t know, pink fruity shit with little umbrellas.”

  “Sounds like an expert opinion to me,” she scoffed.

  He didn’t reply, and as the silence stretched between them she worried she’d said something offensive. She was halfway through her mental replay of what had just come out of her mouth when he spoke, his voice soft and serious.

  “Thing is, my family’s always hitting me up for money. My mom drives home drunk, dents her car on a light pole, doesn’t want to tell the insurance company so she calls me to ask if I’ll cover the repair. The next day it’ll be my oldest sister on the phone, crying about breaking up with her kid’s dad for the fifteenth time, spinning this whole story about how she moved all her stuff to his house and had to walk out without any of it and my nephew has nothing to wear to school and could I just spot her enough for new gym shoes, oh and can I wire it first thing in the morning?” He shrugged. “I guess I’m used to taking care of everyone, even if I resent it sometimes, so the idea of my wife having to go to work in some dive with a creep like Rob for a boss— What I’m trying to say is it’s been a long time since anyone told me they didn’t need my money, that they could earn their own.”

  “Which is a good thing, right?”