Authors: Katie Porter
Screw it. He shoved his dark thoughts away. Sunny was on his arm as they walked past a hall of fame of astonishing vehicles. Tin Tin’s DBS. Mike and Leah’s rockin’ bikes. Eric’s amazing refurbished Camaro. Hell, even the major’s F-150 twin cab was an homage to all things badass.
Adrenaline junkies.
Maybe.
Now, Sunny was about the only thing that fired his jets.
Oh, great. And his dad’s rental car. He’d apparently paid for the fancy upgrade, since it was a Thunderbird. Dash wasn’t surprised. Appearances must be maintained.
“Thank fuck the gang’s already here,” he said under his breath. “At least we’ll have familiar faces to talk to.”
“You can say that again. But say the other for me instead.”
“Which one? That I hate this as much as you do?”
“That’s the one.” She grinned at him.
Then it was plastic smiles for both of them. Game on.
Introductions. Jokes. Catered barbeque that made Dash nauseous.
Mike clapped him on the back. “Glad you survived last night. Leah and I had a bet going whether you’d make it.”
“Who won?”
“She did. The girl always has to have it her way.” He kissed Sunny on the cheek. “Good to see you. Like, really good. You look amazing.”
“Thanks. Where is Leah, by the way?”
“Last I saw, she was hanging out with Haverty. The ‘we’re awesome cuz we’re both majors’ club. Although they’re probably snickering at folks and making dirty jokes.”
“You seen my dad?” Dash managed to ask. His lips were frustratingly numb.
“What am I, your tour guide? Get a beer and chill the fuck out. You made it here, but unlike your lovely lady, you look like shit.”
“Thanks, dickweed.”
Although he and Sunny found the beers, Dash went for a very strong margarita instead. Sunny glanced at him. She held the same in her hand.
She raised it in toast. “Here’s to liquid courage.”
“When all else fails.” He liked the lime, but the sting of alcohol reminded him of the night before. Too late. His wandering gaze found his dad in the crowd and made the margarita a necessity as vital as air.
Turns out, Dash should’ve known. His dad was with the Holy Shit Money crowd—Colonel Bandry and her husband, a few other high-end bigwigs from Nellis and beyond, and Tin Tin with his fiancée, an accounting partner named Heather Morris.
Sunny took his arm. “And here we go.”
His head was going to burst with the rapid introductions. Rather than finding the ready jokes he was known for, he was pushed back against the gathering of aggression only Sunny could help him release. He was pulled tight like a slingshot, ready to fire. It wasn’t about sex. He sure as hell didn’t feel turned on. It was that she was the antidote to…
Shit, to his life.
“Hey, Dad. Or should I call you Colonel Christiansen while we’re among polite company?”
As tall, as hawkish as Dash himself, his father was like looking into a mirror that told the future.
They shook hands. “No need.”
Two words, said without levity. The possibility that Dash might be expected to address his dad by rank actually existed. But no.
Take it as a gift, son. No need for formality today.
Christ. Did any other father and son exchange greetings that way? Everything soft inside of Dash was solidifying like concrete.
Then it was straight into the competition he’d always hated.
His father finished his martini. “I was trading stories with Bandry here about that first night over Baghdad in ’91.”
Dash could practically list what was coming next. Three tours during Desert Storm. Ten years at the Department of Defense. Joint Chiefs advisory committees to the Senate. It only took ten minutes to rattle through the list, with his lifer friends adding their own Five-Star moments.
“Can’t get much better than that,” his father concluded with a pointed glance at Dash.
A silent dare.
The trump card at the heart of it all was that Colonel Gene was still his dad. Sons had a lot to prove, especially those born to war-hero fathers. Double that pressure when raised by a man who prized performance over genuine emotion. In years past, Dash would’ve waded in with the rest of them, attempting to prove himself worthy of the Christiansen legacy. Not that afternoon. He was all out of give-a-shit.
Through it all, Heather wore an expression of sympathy. Tin Tin, thank the high heavens, hid his sardonic expression behind a tumbler of scotch.
But Sunny…
Between his father’s cold greeting and that moment, she had surely, silently, transformed into the Ice Queen of Bangalore.
Chapter Twenty
Oh, she was going to go too far.
Something deeply buried had cracked open, releasing her from the eight-year burden of tiptoe silences and swallowed words. She was done with this military shit, done with Gene Christiansen, done with letting his slights against Liam go unanswered.
“Was that like Dash’s time over Afghanistan?” Sunny glanced up at Liam, on the pretense of bringing him into a debate she was ready to handle all on her own. “Baby, I think you did four tours, yes? And there’s always your assignment with the Aggressors.” She hit Colonel Christiansen with the cold blankness that laid waste to even more intimidating opponents. “Not bad, if you’re of a mind to quantify accomplishments.”
For the first time, she was defending Liam’s record against the rest of the muckety-mucks. It felt
good
. The colonel refused to hear his son; he had no choice but to hear her.
“Oh, and graduating top of your class at the Academy. That was pretty impressive. I was so proud that day.” She looped her arm through his, gratified that despite her anger, she was speaking from the heart. Gene and Liam towered over her, but she wasn’t backing down—a terrier who stood unimpressed by the barking Doberman. “What university did you attend, Colonel?”
The red that appeared across the tops of Gene’s sharp cheekbones was eerily similar to how Liam blushed. “Portland State,” he said. “I suppose from the perspective of a girl who went to Berkeley, there’s something wrong with that?”
The dark expression narrowing her father-in-law’s eyes made Sunny second-guess her answer—for only a heartbeat. She’d always been a dependable Air Force wife, which meant even she was subject to a flicker of second thoughts. In front of very important people and the colonel’s close friends, she should be able to deftly escape this little family fracas and make nice.
She didn’t feel like making nice.
“There’s absolutely nothing wrong with Portland State. My sister Aashna is an alum. She met her husband there.” Spine straight, she looked the tall man in the eyes but didn’t feel diminished in the least. “Only, I wonder at your need to retread the same ground every time we meet. It upsets me that you remain so embarrassed by where you went to school, when an education is something to be celebrated. And if it makes you feel good to tell war stories with old friends, that’s your prerogative.” She lifted her chin. “But don’t make the mistake of assuming you can do so at the expense of my husband. I can think of few things more alienating than being forced to play a game one has no hope of winning.”
Her father-in-law actually grinned.
It held no mirth. It was not the sort of grin a man should toss like confetti when seeing his son for the first time in over a year.
No, it was the exact expression she’d come to hate seeing on Liam’s face. A
smirk
. A jester’s pasted-on charm.
“Careful, sweetheart. Get too cranky and you’ll push people away.”
“Kind of like your wife?”
The colonel’s head snapped back. His eyes flared. “Excuse me?”
Sunny dared a glance up toward Liam’s face. She had no idea what to expect. Would he be humiliated that she’d spoken such blunt truths? Would he try to smooth it over with a joke?
Please don’t. Please, Liam.
He was smiling too, but his was a gorgeous reward for her ballsy tirade—a genuine, slow-burning smile that she hadn’t seen in public in…
ever
.
Sunny took a deep breath. “That isn’t a surprise, is it? You’ve never been a loving father. I can’t imagine that you did any better as a husband.”
“Young lady, if you weren’t my daughter-in-law—”
With a low growl, Liam stepped between them. “Then you’d say something even worse than you want to say right now.”
The colonel gave his best military glower. “We’ll deal with this over dinner tomorrow. As scheduled.”
“No.
Not
as scheduled.”
It was father against son, and Liam had the upper hand. Later that week, back on base, he might get called on the carpet eighteen ways from Sunday. That didn’t seem to matter. Sunny relaxed against his side and tightened her hold on his arm.
“I think we’ve said enough for this visit,” he continued. “I hope you have a safe flight home.” Liam turned to the woman of the hour, who stood as stunned as everyone else. “I’m sorry, Colonel Bandry. I hope this family matter doesn’t detract from your party. Congratulations on your retirement.”
Heather gave them a discreet wink as he led Sunny away, and Tin Tin flashed one of his trademark salacious grins.
“I’m sorry about Colonel Bandry too,” Sunny said when they were out of earshot. “But damn, that felt good.”
“Yes. It did.”
The open bar was about five feet wide, covered by a white tablecloth and manned by an anonymous attendant in a polo shirt and slacks. “What can I get you?” he asked with a regulation smile.
Sunny rubbed the tips of her fingers across her forehead. “Just a glass of white wine. Obviously I don’t need anything more.”
“Screw that,” Liam said. “We need shots of tequila.
Patrón
. This calls for a celebration. Sunny, I don’t think I’ve
ever
seen someone so neatly taken down. And I work with certified hardasses. Well done, Mrs. Christiansen.”
“You’re not upset?”
“Would you have cared if I was?”
“I…” Not at the time, but now the warmth of his appreciation glowed behind her breastbone. “I don’t know how to answer that.”
“Good enough.” He retrieved two small plastic shot glasses from the bartender. “To being honest.”
Their gazes locked. They didn’t look away as they slammed the burning tequila. It tasted rough and daring, like when they’d been young lovers in college.
The old days.
They either needed to forget them, or to find a way back to that innocence. Neither seemed likely. Christ, it felt as if Liam were trying to tell her something with his eyes, with this unfamiliar version of himself, but she couldn’t speak his language. She wanted to, because this stranger was a man she could love.
However, not even Liam could change the present. The retirement event was more uncomfortable than she knew how to handle—worse than usual, perhaps because she’d practically slapped Colonel Gene in the face. The tequila went down like a welcome flash to shoot the rest of the bullshit into space.
Her brain was a ball of knotted yarn. Or maybe that was her heart—a jumbled, messed-up tangle she couldn’t begin to sort. She wanted to drop her face into her hands and cry or scream or beg. Anything to make it stop.
Mostly she wanted to go home.
As if their bungalow was any more comforting…
She hadn’t expected Liam to notice her desire to leave. Once upon a time, he’d seemed able to read her mind. He found that magic again when he slipped soft but assured fingers up her neck, toward the twisted weight of her hair. He stroked and softly dug the tension out of her tight muscles.
“I hate these things,” she said quietly, as if his touch had even greater power. She could tell him things as real as what she craved from him. “I really do. I respect the women who show up, and I like their company. Just not here. It’s a liquor-fueled codification of the male superiority complex.”
“I hate them too. If I never came to another, it would be too soon. Even if it meant leaving the Aggressors.” Liam’s eyes went wide, as if he’d surprised himself.
Made sense, because suddenly Sunny was a trembling shaft of shock. Her heartbeat roared in her ears, and the tips of her fingers tingled. “What the hell?”
The question was a fierce whisper. She glanced around the crowd, feeling helpless and adrift. There were too many people around. No way out. No way to drag more truth from his buttoned-down soul.
Liam hooked his fingers through hers and pulled her toward French patio doors. Stepping outside was a welcome change from the noise and interpersonal overload, but it was still August in Nevada. The heat was oppressive. A slight breeze offered no relief. It felt more like standing in the middle of a giant hairdryer.
“Come on, Liam. Out with it.”
“Now I can’t think aloud without getting the third degree?” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Sorry. That came out rough.”
Through the glass, people were milling and talking and chatting. She leaned toward Dash, wanting his touch—wanting a renewal of the soothing contact and promising connection from that morning. “But it’s what you meant. I ought to recognize when you offer up what I’ve been asking for.”