Joint Forces (Wingmen Warriors #7)

Joint Forces (Wingmen Warriors #7) Page 27

"Don't look for a fight." He lifted her hand from his chest and pressed a kiss against her wrist, playing havoc with her heartbeat. "Let's both take time off from work, spend it with the kids and each other like you wanted before. I'd already decided during my flight tonight to take leave."

His concession surprised her, big-time, since it would involve dipping into her paycheck to finance the trip, a definite step forward for them. Enough to relent? Hoping that she could soften him up later on the counseling issue?

If only he weren't nipping at the sensitive inside of her wrist in an obvious, calculated effort to distract her. "And we would go somewhere. We would use our money to pay for it."

"Yeah, sure." He dropped her hand and made a big freaking production out of brushing away a few dead leaves from around the base of a begonia plant in the window. "Let's rent that cabin like you wanted to for Christmas. We can have that family time together once Nikki and Chris finish up exams."

He'd agreed, even if the prospect left him looking itchier than one of her kids after a roll in poison ivy. Why couldn't she stop reading something into the fact that his restless movements straightening things in the room took him closer and closer to the hall?

The vent by the door captured his attention and he stretched up to adjust the open/shut lever. "Or if the cabin thing doesn't appeal for summer, make whatever arrangements you want. Anything's fine by me."

His left foot landed in the hall.

"Since you're walking out the door, does that mean I get to throw something?"

That stopped him. He looked back over his shoulder. Turned. "Real funny, Rena. I'm trying to be accommodating."

"Accommodating? Sounds to me like you're trying to placate me so you can get the hell out of the room." Deeper breaths. "This is exactly what I'm talking about when I mention marriage counseling. We could probably use some family counseling, too, with Chris's situation."

"Well, hell," he snapped. "Didn't we get anything right?" Old habits slid into place too easily and she refused to let them take over. "I'll ignore that comment since I'm trying here. But it's obvious you're only agreeing to the vacation to placate me."

"You won." He crossed his arms over his chest. "Be happy."

Bad-body-language alert. And her temper was sparking, ripe and ready for anything to fuel it to life. Two weeks of holding her tongue, walking on eggshells, terrified to hope and terrified not to, all sliced at her paper-thin control. "I won? Good God, do you hear yourself? It's not about winning. It's about both of us being happy."

"I'm happy if you're not pitching plates."

"You deserve more than that and so do I. I want us to go to marriage counseling."

His arms unfolded and he gripped the top of the door frame, the hall sealed from sight. "Oh, I see how it is. I agree to what you ask by talking—like how I'm finally agreeing to the vacation you wanted so damn bad last year. So you up the request until I say no. Then it's my fault things fell apart."

Was there truth in that? Maybe. But if so, then it only solidified her surety that they needed help. "How could you think I would wish for this hell? Don't you realize how much our split hurt me? More so the second time, even, coming so close on the heels of what happened overseas. Do you have any clue what it was like thinking you'd died? Imagining what was happening to you if you hadn't?"

His hands fisted against the frame.

"We were both a mess when you came home. And as much as I want to hope nothing bad ever happens to us again, that's unrealistic." The fear of a repeat swamped her until she used the excuse of her sore ankle to sit on the edge of their bed. "We need to be rock solid to face the future. We need to be open with each other, not just winning and losing. Do you realize you still haven't even told me what happened over there yet?"

"We already covered that in the truck."

"Do you actually believe that constitutes a real conversation on the subject?"

"You already said imagining it hurt you. Why would I want to make that worse?"

She flattened her hands to the giving softness of the quilt as if pressing the wedding ring patch pattern could somehow imprint the premise and promise into her. Talk about a Freudian slip in buying the thing in the first place. "Because being married means sharing burdens. And if you won't share yours with me, then I can't share mine with you. I need someone to lean on, too."

"More upping the ante to make me walk?" Hands falling from the door frame, he reentered their room, one step, two. "You want to hear all about it? Fine. We were in Rubistan on a mission that looks like one thing but really is about something else. We were stressed. Ready to get the hell out and back to our families."

He paced the room, back to the ultrasound photo. "We figured we were almost home free once we crossed out over the water. Instead, we took a missile hit that would have sent us into the gulf if anyone other than Scorch had been flying the plane."

The reality slammed into her as if she'd been hit, too, but she forced herself not to sway, an outward sign that would make him stop.

God, she still couldn't quite believe he was actually talking after all this time. She wasn't sure whether to be relieved or more scared than ever.

"But we made it, landed. Got picked up by some tribal warlords who beat the crap out of us, broke Bo's hands." He glanced sideways at her. "Bo's great act of resistance? Looking up."

She blinked down the tears clogging her eyes and throat, air heavy. Heart heavier for the young pilot not much older than her own children. For her husband.

"Lucky for us, the Rubistanians arrived within a couple of hours and shot the hell out of our caravan so we could have the marginally better option of being interrogated by them instead."

She flinched, couldn't hold it in anymore, but stayed silent, her hands digging deeper into the quilt.

"You want more from me?" He stalked, toward her, toe to toe. "A pound of flesh like in that Shakespearean play? Well, I'll just cut myself wide open for you, babe."

Scrubbing a hand over his face, he spun away on his boot heel, stalked, glanced back over his shoulder. "Scared? Hell yeah, we were scared. Scared of dying." His feet took him clear across the room to the window shrouded with lace curtains. "But most of all, I was scared of what you and the kids would go through when you got that front-door visit."

His fist met the wall.

Tears burned acid paths from her eyes and down her face. As a counselor, she knew this outpouring was the right thing for him, pain concealed being far more lethal than pain released. But as a wife, God, she hurt for him.

Familiar features assumed a stranger's cast with harsh angles. "Is this sharing deal working for you? Are we closer now? Do you feel better about us? I hope someone's happier, because I sure as hell am not feeling at all better."

A thousand words jumbled through her head, a thousand different ways to try and make this better for him, except what if she chose wrong and hurt him worse? Objectivity wasn't even an option at the moment, but the pain in his eyes was killing her. She had to do something.

Rising, she reached to hold him.

His hands shot up. Backing, he shook his head. "You want me to make this easy for you? No problem. I can do that just like I did a few months ago."

Pivoting away, he walked out the door.

Her eyes flooded, and she wanted to run after him and hold him. Not that he would let her.

Which frustrated her all the more and left her itching to throw something. No dishes though. She'd grown beyond that. Her hand settled on the pillow sham made to match her spread and she allowed herself the outlet of a hefty pitch.

Whoomp.

The pillow thudded against the door frame, slid, plopped, quilted linking rings mocking her from the floor.

Damn it.

J.T. descended the steps two at a time, boots pounding hardwood and releasing none of the roaring tension kinking every muscle in his body. He shouldn't have lost it.

Duh.

But somehow that woman always knew how to crawl under his skin and peel everything away until his emotions lay out all raw and exposed for the sunlight to burn. He should have just agreed to her counseling suggestion and made nice with the shrink of her choice.

So why hadn't he?

Hand on the end of the banister, he stopped, truth delivering a helluva gut punch. He'd shut her down because he was half-certain a shrink would tell them they didn't have a chance. At least this way, he kept control over the situation.

Control?

Then how had he ended up out in the cold again like after his return from Rubistan? His fingers closed around the wooden knob at the end of the banister, light slanting through the hall window like the open load ramp of his plane.

J.T. clanked down the belly of the C-17, the Charleston sunlight blinding through the open hatch. Almost bright enough to wipe away the darkness of days spent in a hellhole cell before diplomatic channels cleared for him to come home.

Home.

An efficiency apartment not much bigger than his cell, except he had no one to blame but himself for landing there. He'd let his stupid-ass pride propel him when Rena tossed his crap on the lawn. How could he be so proud of her and so freaking pissed at the same time over the fact that she didn't need him?

J.T. slowed his steps, not in much of a rush to get out of the plane now, after all. He paused alongside Bo's litter. The flight surgeon, nurse and techs worked the transfer while the kid groused about not being allowed to walk out under his own steam—as if he could anyhow, all drugged up and casted during their layover and assessment in Germany.

As J.T. waited and watched through the open load ramp, Scorch cleared the load ramp first. Steps steady, the five stitches along his jaw the only visible sign of their ordeal. His sister, brother-in-law and baby niece met him with hugs and crying and a quick hustle off to leave all this behind for a family reunion.

Spike, in civilian clothes now that he was back on base and not in his overseas undercover role anymore, strutted straight into his waiting fiancée's arms. 1st Lieutenant Darcy Renshaw kissed him hard, unmoving and eyes shut tight while tears streaked free and fast down her face.

Happily ever after around this place still came with heartaches along the way. Only the strongest relationships survived.

Damn, but he'd hoped his and Rena's could be one.

He looked down at Bo, the lieutenant pale but outwardly cocky on the stretcher. "Do you need somebody to hang with you until you're settled at the hospital?"

"Are you kidding? Have you seen the hot new flight nurse over there? I'm figuring I'll need a bed bath before supper." He winked up at the flight surgeon keeping pace alongside. "Right, Doc?"

Bo laughed, a hoarse croak but damn clear about the need to keep things light, superficial, something J.T. totally understood. Too much emotion, adrenaline, anger rumbled around to be processed yet.

Spike and his fiancée broke apart. Arms around each other's waists, they strode away. Clearing sight lines to reveal something J.T. hadn't even dared let himself hope to see.

His family.

He'd been fairly certain Rena's big heart would bring her here, as well. But on the off chance it wouldn't happen, he hadn't let himself think about it. He didn't have room in his head to process even one more emotion—especially not disappointment.

He left Bo to the tender ministrations of the flight nurse and walked forward, his boots landing on the tarmac. American concrete. Relief tingled over him like the start of a sunburn. He was pretty sure his feet kept moving, because his family drew closer.

Then they were all in a group huddle of hugs and words he couldn't hear because the buzzing in his head was so damn loud.

One thing about that afternoon stayed clear. How Rena trembled, those emotions churning through them all, multiplying until it even rattled his teeth. If he hadn't been holding on, Rena probably would have fallen off her high heels.