Anything, Anywhere, Anytime (Wingmen Warriors #6)

Anything, Anywhere, Anytime (Wingmen Warriors #6) Page 6

Except life had taught her differently. Life was tough. Keeping it on track was even tougher. She'd been working her tail off since she was nine years old when her mama walked out the door, leaving her behind with two-year-old Sydney.

Daddy's union-wage-purchased, three-bedroom tract house hadn't stood a chance against a big black Mercedes cruising into town. The guy in the back seat was foreign, which was enough for Mama. She'd always been certain overseas meant better, even tried to hook her kids' names on those dreams.

Monica thanked God seven times a day for the fact that Daddy hadn't listened to Mama when it came time to fill out birth certificates. He'd vowed he must have been so excited over his first baby he just goofed. He'd meant to write Monaco, he would add with a wink to Monica.

Next pregnancy, Mama wised up and chose a more conventional name to house her dream. Sydney—for fantasies of Outback rogues.

Fantasies? Reality scraped against Monica in grainy gusts that filled her mouth until she wanted to spit.

A beige hangar with rusted rivets gaped open with the advance team and security forces waiting to escort troops, some to barracks, some to receive additional vaccinations. Her cue to hightail it forward. Troops divided, most pouring toward the airport entrances, a hundred others toward the hangar. Bringing up the rear, a private shuffled forward, CD player in hand, headphones sealed to his ears and two butterfly bandages on his fingers.

Monica tapped his shoulder. "Hey, Private Santuci?"

The private slid his earphones down around his neck, heavy-metal music pulsing through. "Hello, Major." He saluted with his bandaged hand.

"Glad you kept your fingers in place. Make sure you stop by and see me after the rest of your immunizations before you head off to your quarters so I can make sure you don't need stitches."

"Yes, ma'am, but mess hall first—" the dark-haired soldier rubbed his belly "—then quarters. I'm a growing boy." All six feet four inches of Army soldier grinned.

"I promise not to take long."

"Thanks, ma'am." He saluted with his bandaged hand again before replacing his earphones to pass time in line. His gaze strayed longingly toward the entrance to the mess hall like a kid ready for McDonald's.

Apparently he'd never eaten here before.

Except for the uniform, he actually looked more like a kid on his way to the golden arches to super size his meal, maybe twenty-one at the most. Hell, he even had acne on his chin. And yet he was a trained warrior, ready to put his life on the line for her sister.

The notion humbled her.

"Is he okay?"

Monica jumped, turned, found Jack, not that she needed to look. Of course she did, anyway, finding the sun showcased the hint of curl in his dark hair after hours under a headset.

She folded her arms over her chest. "Minor cut, nothing that should keep him off duty."

"Good."

Jack's face filled her eyes, so very mature with the hardened angles of years and strength. She tore her gaze down and away to the open hangar with tables manned by medic personnel. "I really need to get to work."

"Okay, then." He adjusted his M-9 in the holster on his survival vest. "Don't let me stop you."

"I'll catch up with you later." She charged past.

A long shadow slanted in front of her. Following. Swallowing her. "Jack! Why don't you go ahead to the mess hall and I'll find you later?"

He smiled. Shrugged. "Remember our deal back at Nellis? I'm gonna be stuck to you like a flight suit at high noon."

The smile didn't fool her or dilute the set of his stubborn jaw. "Okay. Fine. Keep up."

She walked faster. Her extra shadow kept pace into the hangar, looming while she talked to the doctor in charge and set up her station at a table with a folding chair for patients. God, she needed him gone before he sliced through her weary resistance like that metal through Santuci's fingers.

She pivoted, sighed. "Please, Jack, I'm here. I'm safe. You can step back at least a couple of feet. I need to tend to my patients, which I can't do with you hovering over me. So unless you need another anthrax shot?"

He paled. "Nope. All set," he asserted quickly. "Already had my first two in the series and won't need the third for another three months."

"Big baby." Stifling a grin, she turned away, reorganizing her medicine bottles in alphabetical order. "Go help someone else. You'll still be able to see me and keep track of my personal safety."

"Mon, you should know I'm not the kind to leave the little woman to fend for herself."

"Little woman?" Anger whipped her around to face him.

He grinned. Just grinned that sexy, unrepentant smile. And damn it, she couldn't help but smile in return. He always could charm her out of a mood, all the more reason to keep her distance. "You are so bad."

"I know. I'm in need of reform. Wanna spank me?"

And then other times he wasn't so charming. "Oh, yes," she said through gritted teeth. "I definitely want to."

Reaching over her tray of bottles and syringes, she whipped a pair of latex gloves from a box. Bumped elbows with her hardheaded hubby. She looked up to snap again.

But couldn't push more angry words free.

Deep brown eyes met hers. So close. The din around her faded from a roar to a dull hum. He raised his hand, took his time, as always, which gave her plenty of time to pull away. She didn't.

Jack tucked a straggling strand of hair behind her ear. "How did it go so wrong?"

Heavy silence settled between them while voices swelled again. Humvees revved outside. An intercom system barked sporadic tinny announcements.

A cleared throat snipped the tension, if not the longing.

Monica peered beyond Jack to find Colonel Drew Cullen waiting with folder in hand. A welcome distraction.

In-processing showed no favors to rank. The colonel in charge dropped into the folding chair. Colonel Cullen, who'd probably once worn earphones around his neck but now wore lines of life, worries, work. Lines like the ones recently added to Jack's face.

Had she put them there? How many more would she add before their divorce was final?

Divorce. The thought of cutting him out of her life stung like a needle in her chest. Not that Jack showed signs of leaving her side anytime soon.

Monica turned her back on him so she could concentrate on prepping the next injection. "Roll up your sleeve, Colonel. This one's going to burn a bit."

If only life gave warnings before owies.

"Just get to it, Major." Cullen grinned, a few years falling away until he looked a little less foreboding. He crooked his arm until his bicep bulged.

"Relax, Colonel—" she snapped her glove then tapped his flexed muscle "—and it will hurt less."

Jack growled, low and soft and totally predatory. Good God. Thank heaven either the Colonel didn't notice or pretended well. Sheesh, she hadn't even noticed that Colonel Cullen actually was rather hunky until Jack started with the Cro-Magnon growl.

She swabbed, jabbed.

"Well, what do ya know?" The Colonel smiled as she pulled the needle free and swabbed again.

"The third shot in the series doesn't hurt as much as the— Son of a bitch!"

Colonel Cullen winced when the burn apparently kicked in, popped a LifeSaver in his mouth.

She stretched a Band-Aid across his skin. "Sorry about that, Colonel."

Jack dipped into her sight line. "You didn't call him a baby."

Monica peeled off her gloves. "He outranks me."

"Wise move, Major." Hand extending, the Colonel offered his roll of LifeSavers. "Here, Korba. Candy for your boo-boo."

Jack snorted—but took the candy. "Thanks, sir."

Boys.

Cullen unrolled his DCU sleeve. "Korba, meet me in the chow hall after you unload your gear and we can talk more about the satellite images of the drop zone."

Thank God for senior officers and their orders. Now Jack would have to leave.

"Yes, sir." Jack called over his shoulder to Monica, "See you in the mess hall?"

"If you're still there when I'm finished."

"I'll be there." His words echoed clear, the rafters throwing them back at her a couple more times for good measure.

Watching Jack's long legs swallow distance with lazy strides, she didn't doubt him for a minute. She knew the guy well enough to expect his persistence, but she didn't understand why. He couldn't envision how they would mend their differences any more than she could. He just expected great sex— okay, awesome sex—to smooth the way during his wait-and-see mode of solving their problems. Not enough of a reassurance for her, especially when Jack had blinders about her narrowing his field of vision more effectively than NVGs.

She restacked the foil squares of alcohol swabs, prepping for the next patient.

Did she love him? Well, if she ascribed to the Jack Korba theory that love was a good cheeseburger and an Elvis tune, then sure. She loved him. But the part of her that was so damned scared of being like her mama thought there should be more to love than that.

Except who the hell was she to judge when she didn't even know what love was? Certainly not her mother's dreams that hurt innocent children. Or her father's obsession with a lost woman that drained his spirit and broke other women along the way. She'd even spent four years dating, then engaged to a man she'd thought she loved, only to lose him in the end when they broke up.

She didn't want to be hurt again, and God, she didn't want to hurt Jack any more than she already had. She was right to walk away.

So why could she swear she heard Santuci's headphones pulsing with "Heartbreak Hotel"?

Damn.

Chapter 4

Damnation!" Colonel Drew Cullen gulped down half a bottle of lukewarm water to wash away the crappy beef stew. Twenty years of Army mess halls and seventeen years of bachelorhood since his divorce should have made any food palatable. Apparently not. "What the hell did they put in this? Goat guts?"

Across the table, Jack Korba paused midbite. "Goat? Probably." He spooned the stringy meat to his mouth, winced, shrugged. "Could be horse, though. Seems like that's what we ate during Afghanistan."

"Probably the same damned batch from then." Drew jammed a LifeSaver in his mouth, sucked,

subduing the curse he really wanted to spit out faster than the vile stew. He was getting too old for this shit.

The orange LifeSaver melted. Drew smiled. Victory.

Another day won in his personal cussing-cutback campaign. He was a grandfather now, after all, goddamn it. He may have done a piss-poor job being much of a role model for his daughter, but he'd do better by his granddaughter.

Starting with less crass language.

Of course twenty rough-talking years in the Army trenches couldn't be undone in a day. Hell, no. He figured he'd take it a step at a time. Address one letter of the alphabet a month.

April: eliminate "F" words.

Since he'd been reading up on all those child psychology books he never made time for twenty-one years ago, he knew modified behavior deserved a reward—like a LifeSaver for every time he swallowed back any curse starting with "F."

Drew stared into the bowl of mushy potatoes bobbing in grease. He sucked harder on the taste of orange while the clatter of dishes and conversation swelled from soldiers, aircrew and a lone table of SEALs filling the dining area. Not surprising the food blew monkey chunks in a place with dust and drab the decor of choice.

Spartan, but serviceable. Like his life and place back at Ft. Benning.

A month ago the stew wouldn't have bothered him. But a month ago he hadn't been a grandfather suddenly realizing he'd never been much of a father, too married to the military. Was he going soft?

Scanning the packed tables, he watched the hungry troops, more his kids than his own blood. Kids who kept an M-16 close by even at lunch.

His troops shoveled the stew so fast he prayed they wouldn't be doubled over with stomach cramps later. At least they were all drinking plenty of water, which may have had something to do with the young local woman passing out refills and snagging their lonely eyes with her hip swishing.

Trouble.

He assessed her as a potential problem. Attractive kid, probably about his daughter's age. A tomato-red scarf with bursts of white flowers in the print covered most of her dark hair in a surprise splash of color, but left her pretty little face free to smile at all the men sniffing after her. Not much to her, but more than enough to wreak serious mayhem among his men.

Damn. Just what he needed, his captains and lieutenants restraining troops from a girl angling for a green card. As if this place didn't have enough uproar brewing. Hell, the locals were already clamoring at the gates for food rations and medical aid— part of the deal with the Rubistans in exchange for free rein to use this shithole airport.

With crappy stew.

Age might be softening his language, but nothing else. If she stirred trouble, out she went. He could still eat the goat slop and do his job. Hell, he'd already logged through a discussion on the drop zone pictures before even finishing a bowl of...that.

Drew glanced over at Korba, a top-notch operational planner, even if he was a little rough around the edges. "While you were in a cushy mess hall during Afghanistan, flyboy, I was in a canvas tent eating MREs." He took refuge in the comfortable camaraderie of good-natured rivalry between the services. Shoveling another spoonful of the questionable substance into his mouth, he yearned for one of those tiny Tabasco sauce bottles packed with the Meals Ready to Eat. "Although gotta admit, an MRE tastes better than this."

Korba swiped coarse bread around the bowl to scoop up the last bite. "Wouldn't doubt it, sir."

"Of course once we cracked open those MREs, the wind started blowing and filled the damn things with sand." He gulped the last swig of water, scouted for a refill, found the woman trying to capture the attention of a young Private First Class. "After how much time we've spent over here, I feel like I've got an extra five pounds of grit embedded in this old body."

"Old?" Korba tipped back his chair. "No doubt you'll be running circles around most of us during the rest of your ten years in the service."

Drew stayed silent. Hauled another bite up to his mouth.

Korba's chair legs thudded to a landing. "You're getting out at twenty?"

"Who the hell knows? It's possible." At forty-two, he'd still have time to start another career. Doing... what?