by Sybil Bartel
“What can I say?” I winked at her because I liked the hell out of her reaction the first time I did it. “I’m hungry.”
Her cheeks flushed as she took a sip of her soda. “You must be.”
I watched her lips around the straw and my dick twitched. “Play your cards right and I might share the desserts.”
She laughed. It was barely a chuckle, but it was feminine and reserved and sexy as fuck. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“You do that.”
She shifted on her stool and studied her drink, but she didn’t reply.
“It was a joke.” I wanted to use her name, but I couldn’t reconcile the woman next to me right now with a name associated with a New York City borough. The woman who’d scanned the entire parking lot as I opened her door, sure. But this woman, shy and reserved, staring at her soda, she wasn’t the same. “I got the desserts to share,” I confessed.
“I figured.” She used my response from earlier on me. “No offense taken.”
“Ah, you did hear me.” She was so damn quiet, half the time I wasn’t sure if she was listening to me or stuck in her own head.
“I listen to everything you say.” She stirred her Coke again.
I liked that more than I should, but I was gonna be gone in hours. I didn’t need to be thinking about her after I left. Which was already a joke because for some fucking reason, I wanted to know everything about this girl. Not just her name or what the fuck was going on with her, but personal shit. Like why was she so still? No nervous gestures, minus scanning the parking lot at both the motel and the restaurant, she didn’t fidget, she didn’t play with her hair, she didn’t laugh at stupid shit I said. She was just… still. I didn’t know still. Not since I’d enlisted almost twelve years ago.
I changed the subject. “You don’t drink?”
She shook her head.
I took a sip of my beer. “Can I ask you a personal question?”
“You don’t think the questions you’ve already asked are personal?”
Her question, her response—that right there was why she was throwing me. A woman on the run who used a fake identity, hid behind baggy clothes and hated being touched wasn’t a woman who threw it back on a man she just met. She was intriguing the hell out of me, but no, my questions hadn’t been that personal.
“No, actually,” I admitted. “We have a name in the military for the type of questions I’ve already asked you.” I looked pointedly at her.
She didn’t shy away. “Which is?”
“Recon.”
She pulled her lips into her mouth and slowly nodded as her eyes drifted away from mine, but she didn’t say anything.
“Short for reconnaissance,” I explained.
She studied her Coke. “I figured.”
“How about I make you a deal?”
She took the bait. “What kind of deal?”
“You tell me your real name, and I’ll tell you something I’ve never told anyone before.”
“That something could be the most benign thing you’ve ever said, like your favorite color is yellow. And Brookelyn is my real name.”
“I think you’re lying.”
She didn’t even shrug. “I can’t control what you think.”
Damn. “Touché.” This chick was throwing me. “Your conversational evasiveness skills are intimidating.”
She glanced at me without moving her head. “I highly doubt anything about me intimidates you.”
That’s where she was wrong. “Would you be impressed if I said you were wrong?”
“You’re trying to impress me?”
“Would it matter if I was?”
“No.” She hesitated only a fraction of a second. “But you’re not.”
“Maybe I am.” Fuck, I was.
“Then maybe you need to try harder.”
I smiled. Wide. “Are you encouraging me to flirt with you?”
“Definitely not.”
I dropped the smile and threw a question out that I was perfectly aware gave me no game, but this woman wasn’t about the chase. “Would it make you uncomfortable if I did?”
She was silent for five seconds before she turned in her seat and gave me the full attention of her haunted stare. “I don’t have any personal experience with knowing someone in the service, but I’m not ignorant. I gathered from your conversation with Dax and the few hints you’ve dropped in our conversation that you’re only home for a short period of time. I’m also assuming that this short period of time is bracketed on either end with long months of deployment that I’m guessing are not only extremely dangerous but stressful. I don’t know how many women you’re around during that time, but I can’t imagine there are a whole lot in combat.” She inhaled. “So please, don’t insult me by flirting with me.”
Damn. Damn. My respect for her hit a new plateau. “I would never intentionally insult you.”
“Thank you.” She nodded once and turned back to her soda.
I missed not having her full attention. “It’s not as stressful or as dangerous as you think,” I lied.
“Is that your interpretation or something you’re conditioned to say?”
It was my pathetic attempt at reassurance, like this woman gave two fucks about me or what would happen once I stepped off transport and my boots hit Afghani dirt. Pissed at myself, and maybe at her, I threw down some defensive bullshit. “I’m not conditioned, I’m a Marine.”
“So you’ve said,” she countered, with zero inflection in her tone.
“You got a boyfriend?” I asked abruptly, itching to throw her off guard.
She didn’t hesitate. “Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Not since high school. It lasted through me enlisting and getting my first deployment. Then the uncertainty of being with a Marine hit her, and she was history.”
“I’m sorry.” Even though her tone didn’t change, she somehow managed to sound sincere.
“I’m not.” And I wasn’t.
A frown marring her pretty face, she looked up at me. “Why not?”
“Are you the same person you were in high school?” I wasn’t. The Marines turned me into a man. “Do you want to spend your life with the person your sixteen-year-old self chose?”
If I wasn’t watching her so intently, if I hadn’t been watching her since I first laid eyes on her, soaking in every little nuance of her body language because of her lack of physical tells, I would have missed it.
But I didn’t.
On an inhale, probably so she could hide it, her shoulders stiffened. Then her lips barely parted and she exhaled through her mouth as her shoulders dropped back down the mere fraction of an inch they’d risen.
Her features schooled, she kept her voice perfectly even. “I suppose not.”
I instantly knew whoever had been in the black Mustang was someone she’d known a long time. Probably since high school. “How old are you?”
“Is that the personal question?” She didn’t miss a beat.
“No.”
She threw it back on me. “How old are you?”
“Thirty.” And feeling every single one of those fucking years like it was a decade.
“Twenty-four.” She sipped her soda.
I took a long swig of my beer, but it wasn’t ice-cold anymore and the bitterness wasn’t sitting well. I pushed the bottle away. “Would you be offended if I said I thought you were older?”
“Would you be offended if I said I have no idea why you followed me?”
“Subtle,” I joked dryly.
She almost shrugged. “I wasn’t trying to be.”
No shit. “I already told you why I followed you.”
“No, you told me you could help me if I was running scared. Not that I ever told you I was running from anything, or said I needed help. Regardless, that doesn’t explain why you followed me.” She turned in her seat to look at me. “And you’re not hitting on me.”
Damn. Schooled again. I smiled. “So you do want me to
hit on you.”
She didn’t return the smile. “No, I don’t.” Her gaze went back to her drink. “I know what I look like.”
Taken aback, I frowned. “Which is?”
More brazen than any female in the Corps I’d ever met, she looked me square in the eye.
Then she shocked the hell out of me.
“Not fuckable.”
THE CHEERFUL, PRETTY BLONDE BARTENDER practically bounced as she popped back up and smiled at Garrett. “Can I get you another drink?”
“No,” Garrett snapped, his eyes locked on me. “Give us a minute.”
“Oh, okay.” The bartender’s smiled dropped like her feelings were hurt. “Your food’s almost up.”
“Copy that.” He gave her a dismissive nod and pivoted on his seat to face me.
I watched her walk away. “That was rude.”
“Look at me,” he demanded, low and almost threatening.
I barely managed to suppress the shiver that went up my spine as I ignored his order.
He jerked my stool toward his massive body.
My seat hit his and the heat of his straddled thighs enclosed me, trapping me in a warmth I wasn’t prepared for. I glanced at his overly muscled thighs, and my hair fell in my face.
“What are you doing?” My voice came out too quiet.
Without hesitation, two thick fingers came up and he brushed my hair behind my ear.
Goose bumps raced across my skin as he grazed the very edge of my ear.
“You don’t get to tell me what I find attractive.” Deep and rough and nothing like the way he’d been speaking to me, his voice dropped to a sexual cadence that simultaneously put me on alert and made heat rush between my legs.
A heat I hadn’t known I still possessed. “I’m not telling you that.”
Those same two fingers pressed under my chin. Dominant and controlling, but more gentle than I ever could have imagined, he turned my face toward his, and his deep, stormy gaze locked on to mine. “You don’t get to tell me who I want.”
My mouth went dry, my heart dropped to my stomach, and my thighs pressed together of their own free will. Desire slammed into fear as the heat of his fingers burned my flesh. “I—” My voice broke, and I cleared my throat. “I wasn’t.”
The pressure of his touch increased as he reached in his pocket with his free hand and tossed his cell on the bar. His voice dropped even lower. “The exit’s behind you. There’re half a dozen bystanders within a twenty foot radius, and there’s a phone in front of you.”
My heart hammering to be freed, rational thought left me. I tried to swallow. “I don’t need—”
His thumb stroked my bottom lip. “You’re safe,” he whispered, a fraction of a second before his mouth crashed over mine.
Sheer panic robbed me of all reason, and every muscle in my body went stock-still except my mouth.
I gasped.
As if he had a right to kiss me, his tongue slid expertly in.
And maybe he did have that right, because with one single stroke, I was lost, and I was found.
The heat that’d flushed my cheeks spread like a wildfire, and desire engulfed me.
The restaurant, Nathan, my shitty life, the fake name, it all disappeared. Man and musk and warm brown eyes and strong muscles swirled into my head and I was flying. Nerve endings sang with desire as a large, rough hand wrapped around my nape and a Marine kissed me.
Angling my head into his dominance, a low vibration started in his throat and spilled into my mouth. One second he was kissing me, the next he was all over me. A warm palm landed on my thigh as strong fingers gripped at the flesh through my jeans. Stroking my tongue, demanding and getting a response, he teased, he dominated, he took control. Thick fingers grasped a handful of my curly hair, and he bit my bottom lip. Another groan vibrated his chest under my hands as he sucked the assaulted flesh between his teeth.
Leaning into him, stealing the moment, I didn’t think about the end game.
But I should have.
His mouth ripped from mine and shocking emptiness hit me faster than the desire he’d unleashed in me.
His lips wet, his chest heaving, his eyes darkened. “You,” he ground out, “do not get to tell me who I want.”
His hand still gripping my hair tight, I couldn’t have nodded if I’d wanted to.
But it didn’t matter because I didn’t have words to acknowledge him. I didn’t have anything except tingling lips and a pulsing core aching with need.
The bartender unceremoniously dumped two bags in front of us. “You’re all set. Need anything else?” Her demeanor a one-eighty from what it was before, she put her hand on her hip.
“No,” Garrett answered without looking at her.
I was screwed. Completely and utterly screwed. I wanted him. I wanted this man like I’d never wanted anything in my life, and not for just one night. But he was going back to the Marines, and I was who I was, and it was a mistake to leave my backpack in his truck. If I had it with me, I could’ve gotten up and walked out. Run out… if my knees weren’t feeling like tendons without bones.
Garrett leaned close and whispered, “Don’t.”
My heart ricocheting around in my chest, I managed to form two breathless words. “Don’t what?”
His hand tightened in my hair, and he held my stare for a weighted moment before he let go of me. “No regrets.” He palmed his phone and stood as he grabbed the takeout bag and pizza box in one hand. “Come on.” He pulled my stool out.
The man who’d kissed me without reservation, who’d melded my fears with his desires, he threw me a second time. Gentle like falling water, his large, rough hand, which held a weapon in the name of freedom, eased me off my stool and guided my body toward his in a way that aligned more than our hips.
As effortlessly as breathing, his step a lead for my body to follow, the man who’d kissed me like a conquering warrior led me to his truck. Opening my door like the gentleman he wasn’t in the restaurant, he helped me up on the running boards and into the passenger seat. Without a word, without making eye contact, he settled the food at my feet and shut the door.
As casual as if he’d never kissed me, he rounded the front of the vehicle, got behind the wheel and started the engine. Then finally, finally, his nonchalant demeanor cracked and the haunted look to his eyes came back.
One hand on the steering wheel, the engine running, he looked at me. “You want to talk about that?”
“No.” Definitely not.
“You want to hear what I’m thinking?”
Definitely, definitely not. “No.”
“You’re putting off vibes,” he said anyway.
I’m sure I was.
He exhaled. “I’m not gonna apologize.”
I didn’t care what he did, as long as he didn’t kiss me again. Not like that. I couldn’t know another kiss like that. It would ruin me.
“You got anything to say?”
So much, I didn’t know where to put it all.
He nodded to himself. “You’re pissed.”
This time, a response did come out. “Mm-hmm.” And getting more so by the second. At him, at me—mostly at me. Which, if I’d stopped for half a second to think about it, I would’ve realized the enormity of what was fueling my anger. But I didn’t. I didn’t want to acknowledge that he’d just given me the best kiss of my life. I didn’t want to think about how much I desperately wanted to tell him the truth about everything. I didn’t want to admit to myself that every offer he extended, I wanted to take. I wanted to take it so bad that I wanted to drown in his certainty that he could protect me. But I couldn’t afford to do that. I couldn’t even afford to acknowledge the fucked-up karma of life throwing me a bone, only for it to be a Marine who was going back to war in days, or even hours.
His intense gaze focused on me like he knew so much more than I was telling him. “You kissed me back.”
More than a statement, less than an accusation, he threw the comment out t
here like I had to respond to it. Like I had to deal with any of this. He’d kissed me, not the other way around. I wasn’t going to acknowledge his comment. I knew I was unfairly making all of this his fault, but I didn’t care. He never should’ve come after me.
“Fine.” His tone turned to shades of masculine pride, and he threw out more words like a fisherman casting an unbaited hook. “You know what I think? I think you’re scared. Of me, of whoever the fuck was in that black Mustang, of Dax. But you’re too stubborn to recognize what’s right in front of you.”
The silent for self-preservation person I’d become cracked, and the woman I used to be ripped through my protective shields and lashed out. “What’s right in front of me?” I threw my misplaced anger all over him. “Would that be an egotistical Marine making up damsel-in-distress scenarios so he can feed his hero complex? Or are you referring to the domineering jerk who thought he had a right to take advantage of a woman in public simply because there were witnesses?”
His nostrils flared as his hand tightened on the steering wheel, but his voice came out lethally quiet. “Do not, for one second, confuse me with the person who tried to crush you with a five-hundred-pound shelf full of glass bottles. I did not take advantage of you. I kissed you. And for the record, you kissed me back.”
Angry that everything about him in my life was temporary, I completely lost it. “No one tried to crush me!” I yelled, throwing out more lies.
“Then what the fuck happened?” he yelled back.
My chest heaving, my muscles coiled tight, everything inside burned. The urge to flee was so overwhelming that I wanted to throw the door open and run from everything he represented. The only thing preventing me was that I didn’t think I could grab my backpack and bike before he stopped me. Worse, I wanted him to stop me. I wanted him to get me off this merry-go-round of horrible choices I’d made, but he couldn’t do that. No one could. And pretending for even a second that I was a girl who could have this real-life hero would only bring me more trouble.
And I couldn’t afford any more trouble.
Survival was a series of calculated steps, so I took one. “Take me home.”