Chapter One
“So they’ve got us surrounded, good! Now we can fire in any direction, those bastards won’t get away this time!” - CHESTY PULLER, USMC
Brody checked the suit jacket’s fit against his button down. He’d skipped the tie altogether. Dress blues were more comfortable than business slacks and a tie. Damon Sinclair leaned against the bedroom’s doorframe. “If that doesn’t fit, I can jog over to the Captain’s or Logan’s.”
“Nah, it’ll do.” Brody stretched his arms. The jacket was snug, but not uncomfortable. “You’re losing bulk.”
Damon shrugged a shoulder. “I can still kick your ass. Sir.” He tacked the last on as an afterthought.
Brody grinned. “You don’t have to sir me.”
“Old habits die after the Marine, not before him.” Damon tossed him a set of keys. “I’m staying with Helena tonight, so the place is all yours.”
“Thanks.” Brody shoved the keys in his pocket. “Hey, Damon…is Matt okay?”
“He’s fine. He has good days and he has bad days. Fortunately the good days are starting to beat the bad. Today’s just not a good day. You stepping in for his date is a huge favor, one he’ll appreciate. I think Doc and his lady are taking him out to dinner.” Dinner with the Doc instead of his one-night stand might seem like a strange trade-off, but Brody didn’t mind filling in or even being asked to fill in. A Marine needed his help, and that was all he required.
“Yeah, okay. It’s not like getting laid is a hardship.” Brody understood the younger Marine, Matt. The kid had found a home in the Corps. Brody never thought that having a family could make recovery worse, but then all he’d ever had to live up to was the Corps, and his brothers in the Marines.
“Tick tock, Lieutenant. You’re gonna be late.” Damon threw him a wave and was gone. The chef was in his element. Most of the guys were, with few exceptions. Even Logan seemed downright cheery when they went out for beers. The Captain was completely in love with his fiancée, the Doc was tight with an actress, and Logan couldn’t shut up about a Gunnery Sergeant.
A Gunny.
Snorting, Brody inspected his appearance for neatness in the mirror and followed Damon out. The cook—sorry, chef—was already long gone. Apparently he’d met his match in an attorney, but it took a lot of patience on his part to keep her coming back for more. She must be worth it. He was damn near as cheery as Logan. The whole team seemed to be settling into civilian life.
Sliding into the driver’s seat of the black hulk the guys loaned him for his leave, Brody couldn’t begrudge any of them. He was one of the last of his unit still on active duty. The new guys were a decent crew, and he got along with them well enough, but it was still damn good to see the rest. Years of working together made the conversation easy, the jokes ribald, and the acceptance smooth. They didn’t ask stupid questions, didn’t mention things better left unsaid, and didn’t give a good goddamn when they pissed him off.
The GPS turned on with the engine and Brody plugged in the club’s address. Thirty-six hours earlier, he’d thrown his gear into the belly of a C-130 and left Germany for the long haul back to the States. Ten days of leave before he had to report in to the Navy Yard in D.C. Ten days to grab some pick up games with the guys, play poker, drink beer, and give the Captain shit about his new, old lady.
Laughter rumbled in his chest. He checked the directions once before pulling out of the parking lot and leaving Mike’s Place in the rearview mirror. Brody had known about Rebecca for years, he’d seen her name on the return address of many an envelope. It had been his job to isolate the notes and put them away for the Captain on more than one occasion. He was glad the two worked it out even if they’d met through some crazy sex service.
1Night Stand might be some exclusive outfit, but as far as he was concerned, they still hooked people up for sex. Not that he was complaining, it’d been more than a few months for him and the opportunity to spend the evening with some good-looking, willing woman didn’t turn him off. Still, what kind of a woman signed up for something like that?
Apparently most of the women his friends were crazy for went for a one night stand, so maybe the service was on to something.
The drive from Allen to downtown Dallas took the better part of an hour with the thick traffic streaming into the city’s nightclub scene. Brody checked his watch twice. The date was set for seven and the last thing he needed to be was late.
Shannon. Here’s hoping she’s not too pissed about being traded off to a different guy. But then, if she wants sex, well I got that covered.
He’d been a little suspicious initially about the call, until the Doc explained that Matt was just having a bad day and they’d already cleared it with the service.
Signing up for a date with the 1Night Stand service was a pact most of his boys made after they returned stateside. Some of the unit struggled with being back in the world. Matt was definitely one of them. To support their brothers in arms, most joined, even those who thought they couldn’t possibly need it like Zach or Doc, or even the Captain. The success rate didn’t ease his skepticism and while he was still in Iraq, he’d shrugged off joining. But he also gave his word that he’d do it when he stood down. Since he had no intentions of going off active until they carried his body off the field, he was set.
Traffic thinned as he swung the truck into the valet slip at the Sybarite Club. The sexy valet was a surprise, and he couldn’t stop the grin when her perfectly rounded white globes threatened to burst out of the square corset. She palmed his keys and gave him a ticket, and a wink. Maybe if it didn’t work out with Shannon, he could look this tall drink of water up.
The doorman was tall and evenly built, but his eyes were careful and assessing, his gaze scanning him quickly and efficiently. Brody liked him immediately. The doorman may be dressed for pomp and circumstance, but he served as protector and gatekeeper. Sliding the valet slip into his back pocket, he grabbed his wallet and flipped it to the black card with its silver lettering. Damon had dropped the private invite by with the dinner jacket.
“Welcome to the Sybarite Club, Lieutenant Essex.” The topcoat and tails handed the card back and opened one of the dark cherry gothic style doors. The woodcuts might have startled him, but Doc had given him a heads up about the Sybarite’s eclectic predilections. The door featured detailed cuts of a man and woman engaged in cunnilingus and fellatio. As the doors parted, each figure was left alone and crying out for the other.
Damn. Brody stared at the images for a heartbeat or three. The blatant sexuality both titillated and repulsed him. Sex should be hot, wet, primal, and not on public display. Head shaking, he skated a hand over his hair. He missed his cover and it felt odd to be without it.
On leave. The stern reminder didn’t relax his shoulders or the tingle of anticipation shivering through his gut. Not quite marching inside, he followed the carpeted entryway down four steps into a dark lounge sparkling with a stage show of three women in lacy clothing and impossible positions, while a pulsing musical beat summoned images of tribal music through the blues with a hint of rock and roll.
Low lighting by way of paper lanterns sat on every table, twisting long shadows from the dancers’ performance. The women bumped, ground, and shimmied their hips in perfect synchronization. As his foot hit the last step, the three women froze, the lights dropped and a spotlight shone on a leggy redhead striding out from behind the curtains. If Jessica Rabbit was a real woman, she’d look like the singer who lifted the microphone to her lips and welcomed her audience with the low, husky whisper of an Italian Kathleen Turner.
That was sexier than the club doors.
The woman’s voice perfumed the foreign lyrics with forbidden promises. Servers in unrelieved black slipped in and around the tables, delivering drinks and food without disturbing the spell woven on the stage. He didn’t understand the woman’s sultry Italian, but his lack didn’t detract from the emotion.
Captivated, Brody stared as she massaged emotion from the music. His heart thudded a quiet counterpoint to the beat. Everything in the room hushed, from the whispers at the tables to the movement of the wait staff. When a man strolled out to meet the woman, she turned and caught his hand. He took up the song and it transformed from something provocative to a note that squeezed around his heart.
An echo of movement next to him tugged his gaze from the stage. A gorgeous woman stood next to him, her short black curls pinned carefully to frame her porcelain skin.
“They are singing about goodbye,” she murmured, her voice almost too low to be heard over the voices twining together, lovers dancing around the notes of the man’s baritone and the woman’s husky alto.
“I don’t know the words.” He followed her lead, loathe to break the spell spinning between the two singers. Somewhere on the stage, dancers moved, but they were so understated, he doubted the crowd was quite aware of them.
“When I’m alone, I dream of the horizon and words fail me. There is no light in a room where there is no sun.” The woman’s words translated the underlying score of the singing. “And there is no sun if you’re not here with me. From every window unfurls my heart, the heart you have won. Into me you’ve poured the light, this light you found by the side of the road.”
Oddly, tears pricked the back of his eyes at the sweet little catch in the siren woman’s voice. Pulling his gaze from the performers, he canted his head. Moisture glittered around the woman’s impossibly long eyelashes, but while she watched the singers, one hand toyed with a coin hanging by a silver chain around her neck.
“She tells him it’s time to say goodbye, places that I’ve never seen or experienced with you, now I shall. ‘I’ll sail with you upon ships across the seas, seas that will exist no more. It’s time to say goodbye.’”
The music rose as the woman’s voice faded. His siren’s face arrested with emotion, her fingers white-knuckled around the coin.
On the stage, the man’s voice rolled in, a gentle thunder promising a storm across the waves as the water whispered to the shore.
“He tells her, when she’s far away, he dreams of the horizon and words fail him. He knows that she is with him, always with him. She is his moon, the sun, and no matter where he goes, she is with him, always and forever.”
Brody didn’t imagine the hint of tears sweeping through her words. He swallowed back the catch in his own throat. He’d witnessed too many goodbyes in the last decade, husbands, wives, or children wishing safety to their Marine as they headed overseas. He’d never envied those goodbyes, the poignant longing, the whispered promises, the quiet terror, or the brave faces. He never missed the letters carrying word of love and need, or the scratchy Skype calls with their glimpses of home.
Until now.
The siren paused as the music rose in crescendo and the man’s baritone soared. “He tells her, it’s time to say goodbye.” She half swallowed the emotion around the last word. “Places that he has never seen or experienced with her, he will sail too, and carry her with him, across the seas, seas that will exist no more.” A single tear slipped down her cheek, glistening in the flickering light as though illuminated by a morning sun.
“They are promising to revive them together, that they will be together on the seas, even though they are apart, that the sea will exist no more. She is with him and he with her, always.” The final descant faded and the music ended, leaving only their haunting promise echoing in the air. The silence swelled and applause rippled across the room.
Brody applauded. His companion clapped as heartily, pausing only a moment to swipe away her tears. She grinned at him as the house lights came up, lightening the mood.
“Thank you.” He meant the words.
“You’re welcome.”
He stared at her, the pert nose, high cheekbones, and the warm amber sea that made up her eyes, their color like a blend of soft tan and gold, an impossible shade. She was lean, tall, and willowy in a way that hinted at fragility. But her eyes were warm, strong, and nearly as haunting as the music she’d just translated. Even more impossible was the odd longing twisting his insides at the smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
“Brody Essex, ma’am.” He found his manners somewhere and extended his hand. Her eyes widened a fraction as though in recognition and the smile dimmed a note.
“Shannon Fabray.” His hand nearly engulfed hers. The chill in her fingers argued with the sultry heat of her eyes and he closed his fingers around hers, accepting the introduction, and wished he could warm them at the same time.
Shannon. My date?
“It’s nice to meet you.” He dragged the words out of the dusty confines of his social skills. “It’s really damn nice to meet you.”
Oh. Hell yes.