Joint Forces (Wingmen Warriors #7)
Page 10J.T. held tighter to the wooden railing until splinters cut into his fingers with grounding reminders that he existed in the present. In the States. At home.
Easier said than done.
God, he needed to get his head out of the desert. He told himself Shakespeare had it right again in Othello by asking, "What wound did ever heal but by degrees?"
But he wanted this hell over now. Instead, his brain and his soul were still stuck in that time. Which left him less than half here when more than ever he needed his head on straight to fix his life. Salvage whatever was left of his marriage.
Bo's Jeep, his cast, if not the memories, disappeared around the corner. They'd maintained life throughout their capture. They'd maintained honor until their rescue.
Who'd have thought the toughest part would be figuring out how to return?
Chapter 5
Rena propped her foot on an extra dining-room chair and peered across the sturdy oak table at her family. Everyone was together for the first time since the weekend of J.T.'s return from Rubistan. Even if J.T. was in major brood-mode since he'd come in from seeing Bo off, her heart hungered to hold on to the moment more than her pregnant body craved chicken wings.
And that was mighty damned much.
She'd been so grateful to have him home and alive that nothing else seemed to matter. Not even their split.
She'd met him at the base with their children, never discussing where he would go afterward. Both knew and accepted he would come home instead of returning to the studio apartment he'd leased after she tossed him out.
All through that family dinner months ago, they'd sat together amid balloons and banners and favorite foods. And once the dishes were scraped clean of lamb chops, again there'd been no question but that he would follow her into her room. Their room.
Their bed. Two minutes later, they'd been naked.
Now her eyes met his over the Crock-Pot of chili, the platter of chicken wings and—oh yeah—her husband remembered, too, the night they'd made this baby nestled inside her.
J.T. shot to his feet, grabbed his empty plate and glass before hotfooting it to the kitchen, leaving her at the mercy of more memories.
Then when there'd been another night after his first night home, she'd thought maybe, just maybe they had enough to keep them together after all. She'd married him because of his strength, his honor, the reassurance that never would J.T. Price expose his family to men with concealed guns and shifty eyes. The "Price" last name would never show up in the news with reports about questionable acquittals and hung juries.
Once she'd entered J.T.'s world, people stopped whispering behind her back. Good, honest people no longer kept their families away from her.
Growing up, the promise of security had been everything to her, and she'd found security for herself and for her children. For years she'd thought it greedy to expect more. Finally, she'd learned to respect herself enough to demand everything.
But the cost was so much higher than she'd expected.
Chris scraped his chair back from the table, gathering his plate. "Gotta run. My shift starts in an hour. I'm closing up tonight, so I'll be late."
As Nikki rounded to her mother, Rena took her daughter's hand and squeezed. "Thanks for coming down, hon."
Crouching down beside the chair, Nikki leaned in with a wide-open hug as exuberant as those childhood embraces, even though she now topped her mother by at least six inches. Rena let herself enjoy just holding on to her daughter and savoring those baby-shampoo and gummy-smile memories of her firstborn.
Finally, Nikki pulled away, rocking back on her haunches. "Boundaries are all well and good, Mom. But it doesn't hurt to push them sometimes."
Her free-spirited daughter would think so. And Rena was proud to have brought her daughter up in an environment where she could feel free to explore life, secure in knowing her parents loved her. That even if her father might be overprotective at times, he would always keep her safe.
Nikki would make a great teacher, with her love of children—an open, honest woman. Rena just hoped no one would take advantage of that.
"Well, hon, I want you to enjoy your time at college and exploring all those boundaries. Don't worry about me. I'm fine."
"I'm glad Dad's here, but I'm still going to drop in when I can." She held up her hand. "And no playing martyr-mom. My teammates are already asking when the next squadron picnic is."
"So they can check out the flyboys."
"Do ya' think?" Nikki almost kept a straight face.
Chris loped out of the kitchen, baggy clothes rippling with every step. "Which dude did you pick out for yourself? Used to be you begged off every picnic that you could. Hmm, I wonder who—"
Nikki smacked him on the back of the head. "Enough, motormouth. I'm just enjoying the scenery there."
"Ow, love you, too, bonehead."
While J.T. lumbered out to see their children off, Rena sagged back in her chair, affectionate sibling insults a welcome ritual in the middle of an upside-down day. J.T. stood in the open doorway until the last car faded, then turned to her.
Who would have thought silence could be so loud?
They were alone. Completely alone for the first time in months. No kids. No guests.
No interruptions.
Kicking the door closed, he ambled toward the table, hands in pockets, slow, deliberate, sexy. "Does she really have a thing for one of the guys in the squadron?"
Rena's brain stuttered as she tried to follow his conversational shift. Then it hit her. They always talked about their children to disperse tension and avoid deeper discussions.
A wise course of action tonight with plenty of tension snapping along the air between them.
"Nikki has been coming home more often since we roped her into helping out with the games at the squadron children's Christmas party. And of course she spent as much time as possible home right after…" Rena swallowed, forced herself not to sidestep the hard topics. "After you were released from Rubistan. But she's never mentioned any particular man to me."
"Why so?" Had she soured his thoughts on marriage that much? "Don't you want to see your daughter settled? Have grandkids someday?"
"Someday. Not now." He jerked a spindle chair around, straddled it backward. "And not with a crewdog."
J.T.'s words shocked her silly. What an odd statement from him, a man so devoted to the Air Force. "No question, this isn't always an easy way of life. But I would think the load would be lighter for a couple meant to be together, in sync with each other."
She watched for a reaction from him, some sign that maybe this new perception of his might bode well for them on some level in dealing with their future, even if that future didn't involve them as a couple. A thought that still stung.
But she found no softening from him, just his regular closed expression, dark eyes with full-strength defenses in place. It was almost as if the man wasn't even with her. His body was at her table going through the motions, doing what was right, but his mind was somewhere else.
Definitely not with her.
Major sting.
She speared another buffalo wing off the platter, twisted the bones apart. Crack. Crack.
J.T. shot up from his chair.
Rena lowered her hands back to her plate. "Something wrong?"
He stared at the broken chicken bones in her fingers. "Are you ready to go upstairs?"
Did he have to sound so ready to get rid of her? "I'm still eating, but if you want to go up, I can maneuver a few steps. You don't have to stay."
He dropped onto the vacant chair beside her. "I'll wait." His heels were dug in deep. She sighed her surrender, tossed aside the last wing and wiped her fingers. "Okay, fine. I'm ready. Thank you."
He stood, slid his arms under her, lifted her in a smooth sweep. Their faces were inches apart, and this time no one would open a door or interrupt.
J.T. cradled her against his chest and started down the hall. He turned sideways to angle up the stair, his gym shoes padding quietly on the wooden steps. Framed school photos and family portraits lined the walls, up, faces growing younger and happier with every step.
He cleared the top stair. "Do you, uh, need help getting into the shower or anything?"
"I took a shower at the hospital. I'm okay for now. And I really can use the crutches with no problem most of the time."
"No shower then."
Was he disappointed? She couldn't tell by the rigid set of his square jaw. More frightening, was she disappointed?
Their bed sprawled big and inviting and lonely ahead of her with four large oak posts, wedding ring quilt, fluffy pillows in matching shams.
He lowered her to the giving softness as he'd done often before, except this time easing away. "Shout if you need anything. I'll be right back with your crutches, and then right across the hall."
In Nikki's old room, no parking his boots under their bed. "J.T.?" she called, not sure what she would say, just certain she wasn't ready to see those broad shoulders leave through her doorway yet.
For a reckless moment she wanted to blame on tumultuous hormones, she wondered what it would be like to loosen those boundaries, be sex buddies with J.T. for a few days and take the edge off so much tension.
But she was weak when it came to this man. Even if he agreed, she wasn't sure she could punt him out of her bed a second time.
"Rena? Do you need something?"
A kiss. His solid body on his side of the bed again. A way to erase the image of him walking out the door the last time she'd swallowed her pride and invited him home. "Thank you for staying here with me. I know this has to be uncomfortable for you, too. But in two weeks, we'll have everything settled out, and you'll be able to return to your place. I'm a fast healer."
Liar. But she was learning.
"Wounds need to heal by degrees. Just take care of yourself and rest up. The new kid will have you running soon enough." He backed into the hall. "'Night, Rena."
Once his footsteps faded, she flopped into the fluff of pillows.
The baby. The reason he'd returned.
Funny, but apparently her heart didn't heal as fast as the rest of her.
Chris's stomach clenched as tight as the rag twisted in his grip while he washed dishes over the restaurant's industrial-size sink. An ocean breeze rolled in through the open back door. Not that it did much good sweeping out the fish stink. Heat popped salty sweat down his face, into his shirt.
Great for the acne. Not.
If zits were his only worry.
Chris glanced over his shoulder, checked, found the kitchen empty. He resumed dragging dishes under the spraying water to rinse away fried seafood and hush puppies before stacking each plate in the dishwasher.
Hell no, he wasn't a wuss. He could work out his problems. Face them like a man. He might not look like his dad, but he would be like him when it counted. He would finish up his shift at the restaurant. No big deal. And under no circumstances would he make any more deliveries.
He just wished he'd never answered the ad in the base paper about this job. But his mom and dad were always fighting about money. He'd taken the job to help out as much as to get away from the arguing.
The double doors from the dining area swished open. Sweat iced, then itched along his back. He snapped around to find … the busboy who'd recommended he take this lame job. The fellow military brat dropped off his tub of plates and left.
At least it wasn't her. But the swinging door still offered sporadic glimpses of her anyway. The hostess, Miranda Casale, smiling her million-dollar smile for the final departing customers. Miranda sure knew how to flash that smile along with a view down her silk shirts to get guys to do anything she wanted.