Authors: Katie Porter
He spotted her through the window. She didn’t catch whatever he said to the kids, but it caused an uproarious wave of high-pitched laughter. He patted the air with his hands. They calmed slowly and resumed their attempts at the stance.
Liam stepped into the hallway and caught her wrist before she could even blink. He was alive and burning with high-powered energy. He snagged the bag of food. “Hey, you. Thanks so much for this.”
“Yeah.” Iron weights had taken up residence in her chest. “You’re teaching little kids.”
“It’s crazy, right?” He glanced over his shoulder. “But it’s kind of awesome too.”
“Little kids.”
Someone had cracked her skull open, given her brain a good shake and stuffed it back in. She couldn’t make this work—couldn’t break free of the numb tingle that shook up from her feet.
“Yup.” He was smiling. Of course he was. That was a Dash thing. But this was electric, like Liam crossed with Christmas-tree lights. “They’re pretty cool, actually. I know I just met them tonight, but I’m having a blast.”
“Teaching martial arts isn’t fun and games.” At least that had been her parents’ view on the subject. On most subjects.
“Trust me, I already know. Mikey puked during the Little Tigers class. I didn’t have to clean it up, but you should’ve seen how shaken up he was.” He rocked back on his heels. “I had to talk him down while we waited for his mom. Poor kid was a mess. Embarrassed, you know?”
Her jaw slipped open as she stared at him. He was chattering away, fully wrapped up in this new experience—exactly what she’d hoped when suggesting a tournament. Now she was gobsmacked. “Is this some sort of joke? Or manipulation?”
“Manipulation for what?”
“For the kid thing. You’ve been mentioning them lately.”
“I don’t— That is—” He cut himself off with a huffing sigh. “I didn’t know Kawashima was going to toss me in with kids, if that’s what you mean.”
“But you’d be a liar if you said it hadn’t occurred to you.” She narrowed her eyes. “That I’d see you with a pack of cute little children and my hormones would go into overdrive. Then everything would be fixed, right? Have a kid and save our marriage. Simple.”
“Nothing is that simple.” He sounded disappointed, but she was too pissed to care.
“I know that, but I’m sure as hell you don’t get it.” She pushed away from him and stalked down the hallway, heedless of the attention they must’ve been garnering. “Enjoy your dinner alone, Dash. Maybe you can share with the little tykes.”
“They’d be better company!”
She tossed him the bird over her shoulder.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Between the allure of vacationing in Las Vegas and the proximity to Nellis, the southeast corner of Nevada hosted a disproportionate number of air shows. They had various names and purposes, featuring vintage planes or fast planes or experimental planes. Most had a little of each. The organizers loved trotting out airmen, particularly those from the Aggressors and the rest of the 57
th
Adversary Tactics Group. Showing off—and a lot of recruitment opportunities.
At that stage in Dash’s life, on that particular day, convincing fresh-faced young men and women that what they really, really wanted was to fly planes was like walking across a field of nails. Combat sorties. Let’s play war. Sure, that was as exciting as it sounded, but no one talked honestly about the potential for 24-7 nausea, the mad fits of boredom between hours of mind-splitting danger, or how difficult it was to turn away from a loved one and leave them, possibly forever.
Or how hard it was to come home.
Dash had done that four times. Looking back, he didn’t understand how he’d managed. Leave Sunny? Walk away from her tear-streaked face when he knew how much she hated crying?
Well, then, she shouldn’t have married a man with aims for a career in the military. And if he hated it so much, he shouldn’t have had those aims in the first place.
Eric, however…
The man was a true believer.
“Dash, pick it up, man. I can’t talk forever.”
“You’re barely qualified to form sentences beyond grunting. Why would anyone consider that talk?”
“Because I’m making my point. People nod. Some take brochures. Better communication than you’ve done.” Eric rubbed the back of his neck, where sweat gathered at the hairline. He held himself with the authority and professional bearing of a model airman—not quite Fang levels of All-American cool, but as authoritative as Dash had ever seen him. The man excelled at these public events. Perhaps being as gruff as a caveman portrayed a certain machismo.
“That’s right.” Eric was grinning at a young man with unfortunately large ears. “You could be in the air in a few years.”
“Like in
Top Gun
?”
“Sure.”
An Aggressor was in full-fledged recruiting mode if he let that comparison slide. The usual response from Eric would’ve been something as eloquent as,
Fuck those fucking Navy fucks.
Instead he maintained the smile he generally reserved for strippers and superior officers’ jokes.
The kid’s enthusiasm hadn’t flagged, and the woman who appeared to be his mother was listening with more obvious interest. She’d even picked up a brochure. F-16s and the drama of pilots striding away from their completed mission, looking for all the world like the baddest badasses in history. Flight suits, gear, helmets, manly satisfaction.
Dash had felt that once upon a time. He’d been fooling himself in thinking this was all some light switch flipped off. He
had
been one of those airmen.
He wasn’t anymore.
“How many times have you flown?”
Eric raised his eyebrows. “Ever? Or last week?”
Dash wouldn’t have thought it possible, but the young man’s expression became even more animated. “Last week.”
“What would you say, Dash?”
Even with all that was going on with Sunny, he knew the answer. He remembered every takeoff and landing, every mission, every kill and anger-spewing time he’d been taken down. He remembered it from combat too. Perhaps that same way his brain accepted G-force as easily as walking was determined to keep those stupid details. Had he any choice, Dash would’ve ditched them as quickly as dropping flaming horseshit. Instead, his brain clung to awful memories like a live wire fused to his hands.
“My count was eighteen, Monday through Friday. Red and Maple Flag prep weeks keep us busy.”
Bat Ears noticed Dash as if for the first time. “And how many did you beat?”
“A half dozen by direct hit, four because they called ‘no joy’, and two that dropped below the hard deck. Kisser here was one of them.”
Eric smiled at Dash, but this one said
eat shit and die
. “Could tell my stats, but I don’t like to brag. Besides, that equals twelve. Leave his other six to your imagination, kid. They weren’t pretty.”
Dash rubbed his eye with his middle finger, flipping his friend off. “I’m sure these good folks have more to see today, and a lot to talk over. It was good of you to stop by, ma’am.”
“Thanks, man. This was awesome.”
If the kid ever made it into flight school and actually took to the air, his call sign would be Bats or Dumbo. Or he’d manage something incredibly awesome or incredibly stupid during training and be stuck with that as a defining trait for the rest of his life.
Dumb as shit. Dash was feeling that one, hardcore.
More and more, he was realizing that he didn’t belong with the Aggressors, he didn’t belong in the air, and hell, he most likely didn’t belong in the Air Force.
When the probably-mom and her probably-son were gone, Eric wheeled on Dash. “If PMS has your lace panties in a twist, get out.”
“Get off my back.”
“Hell no.”
A few passing people stopped by the booth, which meant Dash and Kisser shut up for a half second and smiled. Then it was right back into it. Christ, arguing this way was too reminiscent of fighting with Sunny. He
should
want to be there. He’d worked to be there his entire life. Instead, he couldn’t get his head out of that
dojo
. He’d enjoyed wearing a
gi
for something other than sparring. Optimism had unwound a burning, tight place in his chest. But Sunny had seemed to intentionally misinterpret the whole situation.
They’d been back on the planet of Silent Distance for three days.
With three to go.
“You’re acting like a world-class fuckup,” Eric said. “You want to
go find yourself
or some shit, do it when you can’t hurt the rest of us.”
“We’re not in the air. We’re selling a fantasy.”
“Fantasy? Man, this is a dream come true.” Something dark and vulnerable stole the anger from Eric’s features. “Shits like Tin Tin—I bet he fucking bought his way in. He doesn’t deserve to be here. Hell, not even Mike.”
Dash cocked his head. “
Mike
?”
“He lucked into flying. Admits it. He never set his sights on being here. Fang fought for it. Leah, hell—much as
her
PMS pisses me off—she fought for it too.”
“Does that matter to you so much? Really? It’s like you’ve put all of us in boxes. Those who came from nothing and wanted it bad enough to drag free. They’re cool. But those of us who also put in the time and flew through the worst of it—we’re on some shit list. Get off it. Have you ever left your wife in the middle of the night to fly off to Christ knows where? No. Not ever. For you it’s one big chick smorgasbord adventure.”
“Acknowledged. Chip on my shoulder.”
“At least you’re that smart.” Dash ignored what sounded very much like a growl. “So forgive me if I don’t treasure every goddamn minute.”
“
I
do.”
“What?”
“Every goddamn minute, Dash.”
Eric shut down that dark vulnerability damn quick. The bare facts of his background—a Detroit hard case who’d used his fists to climb and climb until that meant climbing into a cockpit—were just facts. Dash had never seen them written so plainly across Eric’s features, which he usually kept in lecherous-wiseass mode.
Had Dash mentioned how closely he resembled Tin Tin in that respect, Eric would’ve used the nearest blunt instrument to stab Dash in the heart. Didn’t make it less true. They played perv and lecher on the outside, but put them in front of Fang in a professional capacity and they transformed into officers who took their responsibilities seriously. It was awe-inspiring, actually. Dash would’ve included himself in that camp a year ago. The jester airman. Now he didn’t think he was either.
No wonder Sunny was so wary. And no wonder they were having such an impossible time connecting. All he knew was the closest he’d felt to his real self was when he forced himself on Sunny—owning her the way she’d apparently wanted to be owned for years—and when he’d stepped into that goddamn
dojo
.
What the hell did those two things have in common? What the hell kind of man was so schizophrenic?
“You’re wasting your time and mine,” Eric said, voice neutral again. “If you weren’t under orders…”
“Then yeah, I wouldn’t be here. Is that what you want me to admit?”
For the first time since laying into Dash, maybe for the first time in uniform, Eric let his shoulders slope. Had he been less of a tried-and-true, he might’ve slumped into one of the metal folding chairs. The air show always provided them. The airmen never used them.
“You’re my friend,” Eric said. “Or so I thought. A clue would be nice.”
“Sunny wants to leave me.”
“Yeah, Mike said.”
“Great. I’m gossip fodder.”
“When you act like a douche for the first time in years…” Eric shrugged. “I bet there’s an
and
.”
“And I don’t want to be here anymore.”
“Obviously.”
“So it probably pisses off you ‘I fought for it’ guys even more, right?” Dash scrubbed blunt nails over his hair, head dipping toward his lap. “Maybe that’s what’s been keeping me here so long. I
should
give a damn. Treasure every moment. I don’t.”
“Then think of it another way.”
He raised his head, ready to spit another angered comment at Eric. Instead he found something very close to the Zen-like calm Mike always wore.
“What do you mean?”
“No condemnation. No judgment. Yeah, maybe I put people on lists, like you said. Those lists though—imagine there’s some inner city kid out there who wants what you have. Why stay? You’re wearing his squadron patch. Or there’s some chick who’s taken shit for her entire career. She’d kill to climb into your Viper.” Eric shook his head. “You’ve got it all wrong, Liam.”
When had Eric
ever
called him Liam? Not ever. No one called him Liam except Sunny. He’d believed she was the only person who wanted more from him than dumb-as-shit Dash.
Maybe…
Eric’s snarky half-grin put them squarely back on business-as-usual terms. Good. Dash was having a rough time rebounding from so many changes in perspective. He’d withstood 16g for twenty seconds in a centrifuge, but he couldn’t wrap his brain around Eric talking so much sense—or talking so much at all.