CHAPTER

19

Later that night, with Marianne curled up against his shoulder, Brad tried to imagine returning to California without her.

It hurt. The thought of it alone sucked his breath away. The thought that it could start tomorrow made him want to punch a wall. He wasn’t ready to lose her—lose them—yet.

As if sensing his inner thoughts, Marianne slid her body more firmly over his. She’d slipped on a shirt and underwear—“I can’t sleep naked!”—but there was enough skin-to-skin contact that his body hummed in response. It seemed like a never-ending condition, this constant state of desire around her.

“Why’d you join the boxing team?”

Her voice surprised him. He’d thought she was asleep. “Hmm?”

“Why boxing instead of, say, wrestling or baseball?”

He fidgeted with her hair a minute, letting the nearly colorless strands flow through his fingers. “I started with karate early, like a lot of kids. But that became less cool the older you got. So I dropped out for a while. Played typical team sports, but wasn’t great at them.”

“The lone wolf and his need for solo sports,” she said with a grin. She eased the joke with a kiss. “You could have tried golf, or tennis, or even bowling. Why boxing, specifically?”

“I’m getting there.” He tugged gently on a lock of her hair in mock reproof. “I tried other team sports, but failed miserably at them. My hand-eye coordination when it comes to flying balls, or even stationary ones, is subpar at best.” When she laughed, he squeezed the area between her neck and shoulder, making her squeal and squirm. “Thanks a lot for the boost to my manhood.”

Her knee rubbed suggestively where his half-erect cock lay against his thigh. “I think your manhood’s doing just fine, with or without my laughing.”

“Not wrong. So, my mom asked if I wanted to try karate again when I hit high school. I was burned out of trying other sports, but I wanted to be active. I said no to karate. Been there, done that. Needed something new. So she took me to boxing instead.”

“You said your mom, she took you to boxing. Did your dad not agree?”

“He was gone by then. My biological dad, I mean.” His hand stilled in her hair, but he forced himself to continue, clogged throat and all. “He was in the Marine Corps, too. Did the cross-country team thing. Was all set to compete in the All Military games, when . . .” His lips felt a little numb, like they had the day the CACO guys showed up. “He and the cross country team had been out on a run. Sideswiped by a car going too fast. Several other guys were hurt, mostly minor stuff. Dad was the only one who died.”

Her head dropped to his chest, and he felt her lips press a long kiss to his skin, just above his heart. “I’m sorry. That sounds so inadequate, but—”

“It’s not.” He smoothed a hand over her hair. He didn’t want her thinking it haunted him day after day. “It was awful, and I’ll never forget the sounds my mom made when they told her. The way she just sort of . . . crumbled, and those two Marines in their dress blues kept her from hitting the ground. You can’t forget stuff like that, even if you’re only eight.”

“Eight,” she breathed, and hugged him a little tighter.

“Almost eight,” he qualified. “God, my brother was a baby. He doesn’t even remember Dad. I still think about that day on the few times I’ve had to put my dress blues on. It hurts. I actually cried when I tried them on to make sure they fit for the first time.”

“Oh, baby.” She held him tight, rocked a little, and pressed her face to the crook of his neck.

“They don’t wear the blues anymore for notifying family. It’s service alphas.” He lifted a hand to rub at the hollow of his breastbone. “The ache eases each time I put them on, though.”

She just linked her fingers with his over his chest. That silent connection encouraged him more than she could know.

“So, I guess, knowing I wasn’t going to be a runner—because that was my dad’s thing, and I wasn’t touching that—I went with something that I was good at. I inherited his endurance, apparently, but not his speed. So I went with boxing, because hitting things felt good by the time I was a teen. I was a bit of an angry shit.”

“I can’t imagine why,” she said dryly.

“I think most people assumed I was fine. I got through the initial pain of losing Dad without too many problems. Life went on. Mom married Bob—my stepdad, Sarah’s dad—and he was great. No transition problems there. I think if my dad could have handpicked a husband for my mom, he wouldn’t have done a better job.”

“That’s good. Lucky.”

“Very,” he agreed. “But as hormones kicked in, so did the anger. Despite having a really good guy for a father figure, I guess residual pain started showing up. So I channeled it in boxing. I was able to wear my opponent down, thanks to that endurance. I rarely get a knockout, but I’m usually the last one standing anyway. It’s just they get taken out by their own lack of energy.”

“Did you go into the Marines because of him?”

“Not really. The military is a decent fit for me, though eventually I’ll get out and do other things. I wouldn’t have chosen an entire career path based on making my dad proud.” He hesitated continuing from there.

“But the boxing team is different.”

“It is,” he admitted. “It feels like, by getting to the All Military games, I’m somehow fulfilling his dream for him. It’s my dream, too. I want it. I need it. But for him, I might just want it a little more than someone else. Maybe that sounds creepy—”

“I understand.” She rubbed her hand up and down his arm, from shoulder to wrist. “I think it’s nice, not creepy. I feel like I understand your dedication more now.”

“I’m not just some crazy guy who loves boxing?”

“Oh, you’re that, too.” She laughed when he poked her ribs, then they subsided until their breathing evened out, mellowed, and eventually aligned so that when he breathed in, she was breathing out. The pattern was so relaxing, his eyes drifted closed without him even realizing it. And he was close to drifting under, his hand sliding from her back down to his side, when she whispered, “I love you.”

It was all he had in him to not react, and to keep his breathing even. Because what was he going to say—I’m lying to you?

He could be honest and say he loved her, because he did. But an admission of love might only hurt her more if she found out about his going behind her back later.

Oh, what a tangled web you’ve woven, Costa.

*   *   *

BRAD sat on the floor of his room, working on the thigh strengthening exercises the physical therapist had shown him during his lunch break. It had been touch and go on being able to get out to the therapist’s office, put in a good forty-five minutes and make it back for the second practice, but he’d done it. And now he was freaking exhausted. He’d even told Marianne he wasn’t coming over tonight.

And that, if nothing else, said volumes about how fatigued he was.

His phone rang, and he checked the readout. His mother. He silenced it and set the screen facedown. Just what he didn’t need when he was feeling his lowest . . . his mother’s worrying nature kicking in and beating him into a guilty pulp.

Right after another fifteen-second leg lift, he let his right leg fall to the carpeted floor with a soft bounce. He could bench nearly two hundred pounds, squat close to four hundred . . . but lifting his own leg six inches off the ground while sitting straight up was killing him.

Hello, Pussy Police? I’d like to make a report . . .

After a quick knock, his roommate stuck his head in. “Decent?”

“If I wasn’t, would you be staying to watch?” Brad rested his back against the side of the bed, resigned to company, but mentally rejoicing at the break. He’d finish his exercises later. Right now, Higgs was the perfect distraction. “What’s up?”

“Just curious why you weren’t with the hot AT, and seeing if you wanted company or to be left alone.” Settling in a chair, Higgs scanned the room. “So, are you sticking it out?”

“I’m still here, aren’t I?” He thought back to their first conversation. “How about you? Thinking of bailing?”

Higgs shrugged, looking unconcerned. “More fun than hanging out back at my own battalion. Here, I get to punch things.” He grinned, then his grin faded as his eyes caught on something sitting to the side of the bed. “Wanna talk about that?”

Brad knew what it was before he even looked. It was the knee brace the physical therapist had badgered him into getting, which he knew he’d never use but got just to get the therapist to shut up about it. He had a childish second of debate over whether to shove the brace under the bed, then realized how stupid that was. He rolled his eyes, making light of it. “That’s nothing. Overcautious docs.”

“Overcautious doc, or idiotic Marine?” Higgs scowled. “Dude, what’s going on? And don’t give me shit about it not being my business,” he said, cutting Brad off before he could speak. “I’m part of this team, and we’re both group leaders. Just tell me straight.”

Half his career had been about making last-second judgment calls. It had served him well up to now. He’d just have to keep going. “Just a small knee thing. Nothing big.” He looked at his phone as it rang again. His mother . . . again. He silenced it and put it aside.

“So what, Cook prescribed the brace? Why aren’t you using it?”

“Just got it today.” Truth. “And no, she didn’t. A PT did. Don’t worry about it, Mommy,” he mocked. “I’m fine.”

Higgs stared at him for a moment, then shook his head in disbelief. “Cook doesn’t know, does she? She’d be all over your ass for it if she did. She’d be shoving pamphlets down your throat about knee exercises and proper brace etiquette. You’re keeping it from her.”

“There’s nothing to keep from anyone. It’s no big deal.” Jesus H., would everyone just drop it? “I’m taking care of it, so don’t freak out.”

Higgs stood, still shaking his head. “Man, you need to get your shit sorted out. Is boxing worth busting your knee up? Is it seriously?”

“You don’t know anything about what this means to me, so don’t throw that pile of shit my way.” Angry now, he worked on standing as effortlessly as he could. His knee clicked viciously, but held him up. “You want to play the judgment card, then go right ahead. But I’m making the goddamn team. That’s the end of it.”

“Maybe it will be the end of it.” Looking disgusted, Higgs closed the door behind him.

What, so now you’re a comedian? Pride dented, Brad walked over and kicked the knee brace. It flew into the wall with a dull thump and landed, no worse for the wear.

“No, you know what?” Higgs reentered the room as if he’d never left. “You need to tell Cook. Tonight.”

“Or what, you’ll do it for me?” Brad picked up the brace, dusted it off—the thing had cost him a freaking car payment out of pocket—and set it on the chair. “I thought making the team wasn’t that important to you.”

“You jackass.” Giving him a pitying glance, Higgs sat on the corner of the bed. “Push me away all you want, but I live here, so I’m just gonna keep coming back. You can’t get rid of me. I’m your personal circle of hell.”

“Goody.” Brad picked up his phone and set it on the nightstand by the alarm clock.

Higgs studied him a minute. “Tell her.”

“I will.” Eventually.

“Tell her now. She’ll be pissed, but Cook doesn’t strike me as the kind of woman to hold a grudge.”

“Lot you know.” All women held grudges. It was coded in their DNA. Having a younger sister had taught him that one fast enough. “And pissing her off isn’t what I’m worried about.”

“What is?”

Making her give up on me.

He scoffed, tried to play it off. “I’ve got an easy thing with her. Don’t wanna blow it, right?”

His roommate blinked once, twice, then laughed. Laughed until his sides apparently hurt, as he doubled over and grabbed his stomach. “Oh . . . oh my God . . . Oh, that was a good one.” Higgs knuckled a tear away. “Do it again. Do the I’m Benny Badass Womanizer again. Wait, let me get my phone first so I can record it. I wanna show Sweeney.”

“Kiss off.”

“I’m going, I’m going.” He shook his head, chuckling as he walked to the door. “You’ve got an easy thing with her, that’s for sure. But it’s not about the sex. Or not just about the sex,” he corrected as he closed the door.

“Guy thinks he’s a fortune-teller,” Brad muttered as he studied the brace. He grabbed his phone from the nightstand, unsure whether he should call Marianne or his mother first. Mom, probably, to get that over with. Then Marianne.

But the thought of hearing her voice put a little jump in his throat. He set the phone back down. No need to call her tonight; he’d just talk to her tomorrow.

When it rang a few minutes later, he jumped, thinking he’d conjured Marianne’s phone call. When he saw Tressler’s name, he nearly ignored it. But something told him not to.

“What?” he groaned into the phone. Then he sat up. “Son of a . . . yeah. Gimme ten minutes. I’ll be there.”

*   *   *

MARIANNE’S to-do list resembled a forest of hearts and stars. She’d been sitting on her couch, in her favorite Family Guy pajama bottoms and threadbare cotton T-shirt, doodling around the edge instead of actually writing her dang list for tomorrow.

And why? There was no question about that. She was in love, and had no clue if the guy felt the same thing. Of course her mind was in another territory.

She’d said it. In that weak moment, after the heat of passion had cooled and left them comfortably snuggled together under the blankets, with his arm a dead weight over her and his skin so warm against her cheek, she’d let her defenses slip and had whispered those three secret words she’d been planning to save.

He hadn’t heard her, though. Or he had, and hadn’t reacted.

No, better to think he’d already been asleep. If he heard, and didn’t respond, it meant he wasn’t traveling down the same path. And that would be . . . hard. So hard.

She looked down at her doodles and scratches. The last heart looked a little . . . well, a little squashed.

Screw you, symbolism.

At the heavy knock on her door, she sighed and turned the pad of paper upside down on the table, then placed a book over it. Odds were, at this late an hour, it was Brad. No need to see her scribbling in her notepad like a seventh grader bored in geography class and writing “I heart One Direction” all over the margins of her folders.

A quick look through the peephole had her swallowing a curse instead of a greeting and wrenching the door open. She cursed out loud this time as the chain at the top halted the progression and nearly swung it closed again.

“What the hell happened?” With shaking hands, she got the chain undone and swung the door wide, letting in Brad—his shirt, neck and jaw covered in blood—with a large black man draped over his and Tressler’s shoulders. The man in the middle’s head was down, his neck swinging with each step. They half walked, half dragged the man to her kitchen, then unceremoniously dumped him on the ground with a loud oof.

“Are you hurt?” Hurrying to Brad, she ignored all protocol and grabbed his face between her hands to examine him closer. Turning his chin in a firm grip, she looked for a wound, dilated pupils, a dented skull . . . and found nothing. “Where’s the injury?”

Brad pointed down to the prone man. She looked at him, then Tressler, who held up his own hands—also covered in blood—and said nothing.

Since the man was groaning pathetically, and moving a little, she knew he wasn’t dead. Maybe halfway there, but he’d wait two damn minutes while she caught her bearings. Hands on her hips, she backed out of the tiny apartment kitchen. Time to triage the idiocy. “What the heck is going on?”

Brad glared at Tressler, who shook his head and pursed his lips together as if zipping them shut. Mature.

With a heavy sigh, Brad nudged the prone man over onto his back. He rolled, ungracefully, until she could see it was one of the boxers. One of Brad’s group members, as it turned out. Tibbs, the Marine who was always running laps, building up his speed and endurance. But what the hell happened to him? Had they decided to hold a late-night practice without calling her?

“Tibbs, here,” Brad said, answering her unvoiced questions, “decided to play crash test dummy with a friend’s crotch rocket. The moron wasn’t wearing a helmet, went flying ass over elbows and caught himself with his face.”

Hence the blood. Head and face wounds, even the nonfatal kind, bled like stuck pigs. She looked to Tressler, who only nodded and kept silent. She had a feeling there was a reason for his uncommon quietness, but wasn’t in the mood to figure it out.

Stepping around Brad, she knelt down and gave Tibbs’ face a cursory exam. Broken nose, no doubt about it. Concussion was probable. She worked her way down his shoulders, his arms and his legs, feeling no fractures. Nothing that made him hiss in pain. Just the same dull groan when she found tender spots and road rash. “You brought him here. Why here? Weren’t the police involved if there was a crash?”

“No cops. It was in an apartment complex parking lot. No other cars. Just an idiot who had no right playing on a machine he wasn’t familiar with.” Brad said the word “idiot” a little louder than necessary, leaving no doubt as to his feelings on the situation. “Can you help?”

Did she have a choice? She couldn’t just let the man bleed on her kitchen floor while she went to take a bubble bath. With a sigh and a nod, she ran to gather her supplies.