CHAPTER

1

First Lieutenant Bradley Costa tossed his pack on the bed and sank to the mattress beside it. Fucking hell, what had he walked himself into?

The best—and most terrifying—opportunity of his life, that’s what. He stood and shook his hands, a habit he’d yet to break, to release the nerves. He couldn’t let it get to him, or else he’d be screwed before he hit the gym on the first day of training camp.

A knock at his open door jarred him from his self-induced pity party. He turned and saw a guy holding his own ruck, wearing a civilian “uniform” of khakis and a button-down polo shirt that was similar to what he’d worn on his own trip to Camp Lejeune.

“Hey, you Costa?”

“Yeah.” Brad strode over to shake the outstretched hand. “You Higgs?”

“One and the same.” The other man grinned, then squeezed a little in friendly warning before letting go. He was an inch or two shorter than Brad, with a more wiry build. But there was strength in the grip, and Brad didn’t doubt the man could likely run circles around an opponent. Pushing past Brad, Higgs walked in and observed the tiny room, nodding in acceptance. “Seems we’re lucky roomies while we’re here.”

“Seems like.” Brad watched him warily. “I’ve claimed this one. Yours is that way.” What the hell was this guy doing? The small single bedrooms of the Bachelor Officer Quarters were connected by a tiny sitting room and shared bathroom. Obviously, this was his room.

Making himself at home, Higgs tossed his pack next to Brad’s on the bed and sat in the chair. “I like company.”

Oh, good. He got the Chatty Cathy for a roommate. He could wait it out. He went to his own ruck and started unpacking.

“So you think you’ll be here awhile, huh?”

God, he hoped so. He glanced up as he organized the top drawer with his workout gear. “Wouldn’t have made the trip otherwise.”

“I’m not big on unpacking, myself.” Higgs stretched and laced his fingers over his stomach. “I figure I’ll just leave things the way they are for now. See if I like the setup. If not, easier to ditch and go if my shit isn’t spread out from here to kingdom come.”

Brad snorted. “What, like you’re just going to walk away from this if you don’t like how it’s playing out?”

“Why not? Life’s too short to do shit you don’t like.”

Brad’s hands tightened into fists around the top drawer. He’d tried for years, nearly a decade, to get the chance to come to training camp for the Marine Corps boxing team. Had been working for the goal—even just indirectly—since watching his father compete at age six. For the next twenty-three years, the goal had been at the top of his bucket list. And this moron was willing to just walk away from the opportunity?

Fucker.

And yet, if he did, it would be one less fucker Brad had to step over to make it onto the team. He shut the drawer and shrugged. “Probably right.”

Higgs watched him for a minute, then snorted and stood. Most likely disappointed Brad didn’t invite him to stay to paint their toenails and gossip about boys. As Higgs grabbed his bag, he said, “A bunch of the guys who arrived today are heading down to Back Gate.”

Back Gate, as anyone who had been stationed at Lejeune knew, was a well-known bar frequented by Marines in their off time. Ironically enough, it was accessed the easiest from the main gate. “Okay then.”

“You coming?”

Training day one started at oh-seven hundred tomorrow morning. And these jokers were heading out to get wasted the night before?

“Oh, yeah, I’ll come. I’ll even drive.”

He wouldn’t miss this train wreck for the world.

*   *   *

MARIANNE Cook slid into one of the remaining booths at the Back Gate, and wondered why, God, why, had she agreed to meet here for drinks with her mother again?

That’s right, because her mother was boy-crazy. The woman—half her namesake—was nearly sixty, and still got giggly around hot men young enough to be her sons, if she’d had sons. So meeting in a bar where Marines hung out after hours was, quite frankly, Mary Cook’s idea of a perfect night out.

Fortunately, her father was not only aware of Mary’s boy-craziness but found it amusing. And since her mother would never even consider cheating on her father, Marianne found the entire thing amusing as well.

Until she was an unwilling accomplice.

The server stopped by, a little harried and definitely short on patience, and took Marianne’s simple order of a bottle of light beer and an ice water and left. Knowing her mother, she’d be zooming in about twenty minutes late. The water would make the beer last longer. Only one, since she would be driving home.

A shout, a few jeers and a male insult erupted from the bar area. She glanced over for a moment. Nothing much to see. A group of Marines doing that weird man thing where harassment passes off as bonding time. Add in a few beers and it just cranks the volume up. Nothing she hadn’t seen before. Though she’d missed the sight since she moved down to Wilmington for college, then stayed there for her first post-grad job.

And, she realized with a smug smile as the server wordlessly delivered her beer and water, nothing she wouldn’t be seeing up close and personal, for a few months, at least. She was about to pick up the glass of water when her mother breezed in.

“Sorry, I’m late, I know.” Mary slid in the booth in front of her. Before Marianne could lift the water, her mother snatched it from her hand and took a gulp. “Better.”

“I’m glad,” Marianne said dryly, taking the water from her mother and having a sip for herself. “What held you up this time?”

“Myself, of course. Then I was late leaving, and Western was a parking lot.” Mary patted her hair, a mix of silver and blonde much like Marianne’s just plain blonde. Where her mother kept her hair longer—eschewing the tradition of cutting it shorter as she got older—Marianne had chopped hers off to a short bob in college. They shared the same icy blue eyes, though. “Had to spruce up a bit, didn’t I?”

“So you could turn all the men’s heads.” Marianne smiled and shook her head while her mother gave her order—a glass of wine—to the server when she buzzed by. “Daddy’s a tolerant man.”

“My favorite kind. As long as I come home to him at the end of the night, he’s never considered it a big deal to flirt. There’s never harm in flirting with a cute young man.” Mary’s light eyes laughed as she took another sip of water from her daughter’s glass. “I thought I taught you that.”

“Among other things.” Marianne waited for the server to plop her mother’s subpar wine down and scoot away before saying, “I got all settled into the apartment. Still have a few more boxes to get to, but I should be done with those tonight.”

“I’m so glad you’re back in town.” Her mother took a sip and grimaced. “This is awful.”

“You picked the location,” she reminded her mother, taking a sip of the much safer selection of bottled beer. “And you remember I’m only here for a while, right? I’m not moving back to Jacksonville permanently. When the All Military games are done, my job’s over.”

“But you’re here for now. And that makes both of us happy.” Mary laid a hand on her daughter’s arm, and Marianne couldn’t help but smile back. She loved her parents; adored them. She knew she was fortunate to have been raised by people who taught her a love of independence tempered by a healthy dose of respect for those who reared you.

“I know. But if this job leads to bigger and better things . . .” She shrugged. No big deal.

Except it was. That was the entire reason she’d left her old job, taken the chance and moved back to Jacksonville. It was the opening to making her dreams come true.

“I think if you—oh!” Mary grabbed for her wineglass as something jarred their table. But her flushed, slightly annoyed look smoothed into sweet cream and dimples when she looked up and found a handsome young Marine standing before their table. And there was no doubt he was a Marine. They were impossible to miss. His dark, almost black hair was in a razor-sharp high and tight, his face was baby-smooth and he was wearing the unofficial off-duty uniform of a clean polo shirt and nice jeans.

“Sorry, ladies.” He grinned lopsidedly, dark eyes lighting up, and Marianne instantly knew he was, if not drunk, well on his way to becoming so. “Didn’t mean to bump the table.”

“It’s fine.” Marianne smiled briefly, then turned to her mother, who was smiling not-so-briefly.

“Totally understandable. It’s just so crowded in here, isn’t it?” Mary played with the thin gold band necklace she wore every day—her own patented flirtatious gesture. Marianne rolled her eyes into her water glass.

“Maybe it was just the sight of two such beautiful sisters,” the younger man said with a cheeky grin.

Marianne tried not to laugh, she really did. But a snort worked its way up. Seriously. The guy was twelve. Okay, fine, twenty-one, max. But boy, did he have some good, classic lines. Her mother glared.

“Ignore my sister,” Mary said firmly.

“Oh, please,” Marianne muttered.

“Can I buy you ladies another round to apologize?” He motioned a hand toward the sliver of bench left by Marianne, silently asking if he could also have a seat. She ignored the gesture and looked straight ahead, past her mother’s shoulder.

Seriously. Hot Marines. Been there, done that. Okay, not done that, done that. That sounded wrong. But you couldn’t grow up in Jacksonville and not have had a teenage fantasy or two about the constant influx of good-looking, uniform-wearing hotties driving through the front gate every morning. Naturally, if she’d actually dated any of them during her teenage years, her father would have killed her.

She was older now. More mature. Immune to the hype. Could easily see through that cocky you-want-me grin the infant wore.

And yet her mother ate it up with a spoon. “You don’t have to do that.” But she scooted over a few inches.

“I insist. I . . . need to . . .” A hand clamped down on his shoulder. His speech slowed down—way down—and watching the young man’s face change was almost like watching a gear physically click into place when he turned to see who had stepped up behind him.

“Ladies.” Another man—only this time, he was a man—stepped up beside the infant lady-killer. “I hope my friend here isn’t bothering you.” He slung an arm around the other Marine’s shoulder in a grip that even Marianne could see was designed to restrain.

“We’re fine,” Marianne said easily. The infant was a little obnoxious, but she didn’t want him in trouble. “Really, no harm done at all.”

“This just makes things perfect, doesn’t it?” Mary said cheerfully, missing the undertones. “A Marine for each of us.”

“Marine? What gave it away?” The taller, older one smiled easily, but his grip on the young man never loosened. Like his younger friend, he wore the same distinctive military markers—medium brown hair in a high and tight, polo tucked into jeans without any designer rips or holes—but it wasn’t so much a definition of who he was as it was just something he wore comfortably. He was probably in his late twenties, early thirties tops, she’d guess. Not old. But old enough to flip a switch from thinking What a silly little infant over to Oh, boy, that’s good to look at.

And God. Hadn’t she just told herself Marines did nothing for her? Bad, Marianne. Bad.

“The high and tights, of course. And the impressive . . . physiques. Impossible to miss!” Mary ran a hand through her hair, smoothing it behind one ear. “Will you join us?”

“I think we’re quitting for the night. We’ve got an early day tomorrow. Don’t we, Tressler?” He said it so mildly, Marianne wouldn’t have picked up on the not-an-order order if she hadn’t been watching their body language.

A little sullen now, like a child being told playtime is over, Tressler gave them a weak smile. “Thanks for the conversation, ladies. Sorry to interrupt your evening.”

The other one waved and led his now-subdued friend off.

She couldn’t help watching him as he approached the bar to pass off the man-child to another Marine while he settled his tab. Damn, now that was an ass made for jeans. The dark blue denim stretched comfortably over a butt she could easily guess would be tight enough to bounce a quarter off of.

“You’re staring,” her mother murmured.

Marianne snapped her gaze back. “Am not.”

With a small smile, her mother traced the rim of her wineglass with a fingertip. “You know the reason I find it fun to flirt with men? Men I have no intentions of being with, and whom I know have no intentions of being with me? When I’m happily married to your father, and have been for almost thirty years?”

“I’m not sure I want to,” she muttered, and killed the bottle with one last gulp.

“It’s because it makes me feel feminine and pretty. A little alive. Your father pays compliments, but it’s nice to be . . . seen by other people. It’s fun, and harmless. And it makes me happy. What makes you happy?”

“Work.” The answer was easy enough, on the tip of her tongue before she could even think. “I love my job.”

“Of course you do. But I don’t see you looking at athletic tape and Icy Hot the way you just looked at that young man’s ass just now.”

“Things you never want to hear your mother say,” Marianne said to the ceiling.

Her mother raised a light brow. “Am I wrong?”

She was saved from having to answer when the server sat down another light beer and glass of wine. Marianne waved her hand to catch the woman’s attention before she made herself scarce again. “We didn’t order these.”

“Sent over from the bar. Guy says he’s sorry for the trouble and hopes you weren’t offended by his friend’s intrusion.”

“Oh, that sweet boy.” Mary gulped the last of her first wine and pushed the empty glass to the server before reaching for the fresh one. “He shouldn’t have.”

“No, he shouldn’t have. We don’t need drinks,” Marianne said quickly, stalling her mother’s arm. “Can you tell him we appreciate the gesture but—”

“Nope. He’s already gone. And that was definitely no boy. They’re paid for, so enjoy.” The server winked and headed back to the bar.

So the other one—the one not using horrible pickup lines—had sent them. As an apology for his friend? Or more? She found herself searching the thinning crowd around the bar, just in case. But the server was right, both he and his younger companion—along with most of the crowd they’d come with—were gone.

“Looking for our mystery Marine, are we?”

She threw a crumpled up cocktail napkin at her mother. “Don’t start. And I can’t drink this. I’m driving home. My boxes aren’t going to unpack themselves. I’ve got a to-do list a mile long, and I want to have some pamphlets ready to print for—”

“Oh, relax.” Mary leaned back in the booth. “Sip slowly, drink water, and slow down for five minutes. You’re having a drink with your mother; it can’t be that sinful.”

She debated for a good twenty seconds before grabbing the bottle and having a fresh sip of cool, refreshing beer. Fine. Five minutes, then back to real life.

Mystery Marine, thanks for the drinks, but no thank you.

*   *   *

TRESSLER eyed Brad with childish mutiny from a corner of the wrestling mat. “You didn’t have to fuck up my night, man.”

Not even minute one of training camp, and already Brad was making lifelong friends. He closed his eyes and stretched his back on the mat. Tuck right knee to chest, rotate back until crossing body, and feel the stretch. Stare up at ceiling and not at idiot.

They were in some semblance of a semicircle, waiting for the coaches to begin day one. There were several sleepy eyes in the crowd, and a few who looked like they’d been pushed out of bed with a bulldozer. And of course Tressler, who would have been worse off if Brad hadn’t stepped in and “encouraged” him to make an early night of it.

But did he get thanks for being the mature, levelheaded one and keeping him from making an ass of himself? No. Of course not. Maybe he should have let the kid keep talking to the mother-daughter combo. He would have gotten a healthy slap eventually.

Brad had almost done just that. Walked on by, hit the head, and gone home alone to get a solid night’s rest. But something in the way Tressler’s younger blonde-haired prey had looked—an interesting mixture of boredom and concern—had stopped him in his tracks. And though she probably hadn’t meant it, the gratitude and relief when he’d taken Tressler in hand had shone in her eyes, making him feel eight feet tall.

“You’re not my commanding officer here.”

“Nope,” he agreed easily. And thank God for that. He stared at the exposed beams that criss-crossed over the high ceiling of the arena. Dropping the leg, he let it fall a bit more, allowing the pull to stretch his muscles.

“I don’t have to do what you say.”

“Okay then.” Switch sides, stretch away, ignore moron.

“I could have had her,” Tressler continued, almost to himself.

Brad snorted. And he wasn’t the only one.

“Knock it off, you two.” Higgs, who looked a little rough himself, slapped a palm on the mat. The smack of flesh echoed off the high rafters of the gym. “I’m not listening to a bunch of whiny pussies for months.”

Brad took the insult the way it was intended, with equal parts camaraderie and respect, and a little warning tossed in for good measure.

Sadly, Tressler didn’t seem to have the maturity to do the same. “Who are you calling a pussy, pussy?”

“Jesus,” Brad muttered, closing his eyes again when Higgs stood. “Knock it off, both of you.”

“I agree.”

The low growl took them all by surprise. Every Marine was on his feet, at attention where he stood, as the coach approached. He was a mountain of a man, solidly built but still huge. His dark skin only made the contrast of his white teeth, bared in a grimace, and his shocking white hair stand out that much more.

“Bunch of ladies, bickering and moaning. ‘She stole my boyfriend. She wore my favorite shirt. I saw her texting Tommy and I like Tommy so she can’t do that,’” he mocked in a high-pitched faux teen girl voice.

A few chuckled before coughing.

“Yeah, it’s humorous.” He let his clipboard fall to the mat with a rattle. “Funny, when men can’t be five seconds in each others’ presence without acting like a bunch of middle school girls who got snubbed for the big dance.”

Brad bit the side of his cheek to keep from smiling.

The man walked between the Marines, through them, weaving in and out on silent feet. Brad kept his eyes forward, the only warning of the coach’s presence the change in atmosphere when he passed by. For a man who must have weighed two-fifty, he moved like a ghost. “I’m sent the few, the proud, the—what? What was that delicate term you used?” He paused by Tressler and Higgs, who both stared straight ahead. “‘Pussies,’ was it?”

Tressler said nothing. Kid had caught on, finally.

“Well, if that’s true, then we’ve got our work ahead of us, don’t we?” He made his way back to the front of the mat, where they could all see him. “At ease, boys. This isn’t formation; this is practice. I don’t expect you to salute and stand at attention around me. I’m your coach, not your commanding officer. And I’ll tell you what—I want you to all check your rank at the door. I make the leaders in this gym, not some brass on your collar when you’re back with your units.”

He rubbed his hands together. They were the size of dinner plates. “I’m Coach Ace, and these are my assistants.” He pointed a thumb over his left shoulder, toward a tall, lanky man with almost no hair and glasses. “Coach Cartwright.” Thumb jerked to the right, to the short man with a shocking orange-red moustache that would make the Lorax proud. “Coach Willis.”

He spread his arms out wide. “Coaches, this is what we have to work with. Let’s see what we’ve been given. Men? Are you pussies, or are you Marines?”

As one, for the first time, the entire squad gave a loud “Oo-rah!”