Maggie has been the only woman in my life—the only dependable one—for a while. We’ve spent some serious time together, but she barely even registers in my mind as my thoughts drift back to Chloe and her pinup curves. I don’t care what branch of service decorates a man’s uniform; pinups and nose art from old World War II planes are where it’s at.
By the time I walk through the door of my apartment, I have a ridiculously clear image in my head of Chloe perched on Maggie’s hood, looking all kinds of sexy. I should shove the objectifying thoughts away. I really should.
Instead, I shed my sweaty, sandy clothes and climb under the hot spray of the shower. In my mind, her cardigan is busting at the buttons with a flash of red lace peeking through. I picture the way her fitted skirt skimmed every glorious curve, especially the pop of her ass from the lift of her shoes. I squeeze my eyes shut and grip my dick, giving it a firm tug as I imagine sexy-as-fuck seams up the backs of her stockings. I stroke two, three, four more times and then grunt out my release, almost embarrassed with how fast I blew my load. Before I even mentally got her undressed.
With steam swirling around me and hot water sluicing down my body, I finish my shower. I dry off and pull on some athletic shorts.
I grab a water from the kitchen and scoop some ice cream into a coffee cup.SportsCenteris already queued up on the TV when I hit the remote. Basketball stats scroll across the bottom of the screen as teams and players are analyzed to death. I pick at my ice cream, trying to make it last but failing miserably. By the time the announcers are done with their predictions on the next handful of basketball games, my cup is empty.
NHL standings lead to baseball chatter, and then I’m done. I shut things down, draining my water bottle at the same time. My dishes clatter as I load them into the dishwasher.
When I finally crawl between the sheets and close my eyes, my brain whirs, picking up speed instead of allowing me to drift off. I’m stuck in this weird place, not entirely single like Chance, not living the family life like I had planned. My ties to my past are holding me captive, not letting me move on. I loved Aly with all my heart, but there’s no way I could have stayed with her. Not after what she did.
The next hour is spent trying to shut down my thoughts, but it’s useless. I lift my head from the pillow and stare at the drawer next to my bed. The prescription is in there, every single pill accounted for, except one.
My doctor prescribed them for nights like this, where my body is tired but my mind doesn’t seem to want to stop. It worked the one time I took it, but I’d rather not do that again. Not now. Not when things have been going so well.
Instead, I turn over onto my back and take that first cleansing breath. I blow it out, completely emptying my lungs, and then slide into the rhythm of box breathing, controlling my emotions. Clearing my mind.
FIVE
Chloe
Anticipation should be reserved for only good things. Vacations. Holidays. Birthdays and peeling back the last little bit of tape when opening presents. It should actually be illegal to feel it for anything other than the good stuff, but more and more, I’ve been hovering on the edge, waiting for the next battle in this never-ending war.
“It’s not a war, Chloe. It’s a mission, in-country. A day in the sandbox. A walk downrange. That’s all. I’ll be back before you know it.”
Dallas’s words trickle through my mind as I wonder what he would have to say about the elevated tension propelling my car down the road. If he were still alive, none of this would even be an issue. We’d be home on our little farm, surrounded by a couple more kids.
Instead, every muscle in my body is coiled tight. Waiting. Dreading. Preparing for the imminent battle ahead.
“You have your cleats? Water bottle?” I ask Jake as casually as I can, not wanting to poke the beast.
I happen to know for a fact that both items are in the duffel behind my seat. Because I put them there.
Whoever said that boys were easier to raise than girls hasn’t met my son.
Jake rolls his eyes, slumps low in his seat, and pouts loudly as he stares at the back of the passenger headrest.
I had no idea eleven-year-old boys could be such nightmares. I miss the days of barely contained excitement, of Jake bouncing on the balls of his feet, of puppy-dog eyes. He had the best puppy-dog eyes.
“This is dumb,” he grumbles. “Nobody even watches this stupid sport.”
I glance at the dashboard clock as I pull into the first spot at the edge of the field. “Give it a minute, buddy. You might actually enjoy rugby if you just give it a chance. Learn the rules and try. It’s good to do something different,” I say, infusing enthusiasm into my statement but not too much because, you know, prepubescent attitudes are unpredictable at best.
The click of the cooling engine is the only sound in the car, and what I wouldn’t give to have some other noise to distract me or some other person to share this delightful moment with. Notsomeother person. Dallas.
“No.”
One, two, three, four…
My jaw works back and forth over my molars.
I count.
I breathe.
I pray for patience and wisdom and just a tiny bit of a reprieve.
