The Farther I Fall (22 page)

“Please,” he panted against her neck, writhing against her hand. The bite mark he'd left on her neck stung, right where the collar of her usual T-shirts would rest against it. Thinking of that, of feeling the slight irritation of cotton against his mark for days to come, woke something in her brain. She growled and rolled them both over.

“Gwen, your shoulder—” he started to protest, but she wrapped her fingers around him and he broke off with a gasp and arched against her. She winced and shifted the weight off her injured shoulder, trying to keep the sensation of nearly full-body contact.

“You were going to take me right there on that hospital bed, weren't you?” she teased.

He laughed, breathless. “Well, I was willing to wait and let someone else stop us, at least.” He met her eyes; she could see he was fighting the urge to flutter his eyelids closed as she stroked him, slow and steady—almost too slow. They stayed there, breathing together, the only movement the rising and falling of their chests and the slow slide of Gwen's fingers.

“Wait,” he said, and stretched over toward the bedside table. She took advantage of the change in position to drop her mouth to his side, nipping at the long muscles pulled taut by the stretch before licking over to one nipple. He squirmed underneath her and laughed, the sound perilously close to a giggle. He dropped the condom packet next to them before fending off her mouth. “What are you doing? That tickles.”

She grinned and kept trying to kiss his side until he pulled her up and kissed her mouth fiercely enough to leave them both breathless. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” he asked.

In response, she tightened her fingers in a slow, firm squeeze. “What do you think?”

He dropped his head back against the pillow in a low groan that Gwen felt more than heard. Then he nudged her to the side and dragged the tips of his fingers up the inside of her thigh. She bent one knee to open to him, and they kissed slow and heated. She shivered when the tips of his fingers parted her lips.

It was difficult to keep teasing him as his long fingers swirled and stroked against her clit, one finger easing down to brush against her, not entering, then dipping in, as if he were testing the waters. God, she wanted so much more. But she also wanted this: the sight of him sprawled lazily beneath her, relaxed but for the pace of his breathing and the fire in his eyes. She wanted to see every thought that went through his head and know that each one was about her. She wanted to see how long they could tease each other before one or both of them lost their composure.

She wanted to see how long she could keep either of them from thinking about anything but this moment, in this bed.

“I love you, Gwen.” The simple, heated honesty in his eyes made her vision blur briefly. She kissed him in answer, and he ran his hands up her back. “Come here.” She couldn't refuse him, and let him pull her down to his chest. She let go of his cock and let her hips take up the slow, teasing rhythm, stroking him instead with the skin of her belly and thighs. The full-body contact had been thrilling before; now it was nearly overwhelming. With his arms around her, it was as if her entire self were surrounded. Her hips picked up speed without a conscious decision on her part, and his quiet moan made it impossible to stop.

He made her stop, though, long enough to unroll the condom onto himself, no longer content with rutting against her skin. She lay against him, keeping her weight off her arms, raising her hips enough so that he could slip into her. His arms wrapped around her again and she whimpered, focusing on his now-fluttering eyelids. When she felt his fingers bite into the tight muscles of her back, she nearly lost control, nearly lost herself to frantic writhing. Instead, she growled and nipped at his jawline, focusing on making
him
lose control.

It didn't take long, not when she started biting and sucking at his neck. She gave over and let him set the pace, intent on drawing out every groan, every shudder she could. She could feel the heat coiling in her own belly, slow and heavy and held back. It didn't matter; what mattered was that he was arching beneath her, begging with each breath for her to ride him faster. She fastened her mouth to the tender rope of muscle at the base of his neck and bit down as he gasped and trembled and cried out.

She was close, but not close enough. She paused to kiss her way back to his open, gasping mouth, and they breathed endearments into each other. Something dirty and hot flashed in Lucas's eyes after a few minutes of recovery, the only warning Gwen had. This time it was him who rolled them over and began sliding his way down her body in a trail of licks and kisses. He paused at her belly, tongue moving in light, ticklish strokes around her belly button. She tilted her head back and bit her lip, but he didn't tease her any further. He knelt between her legs and nuzzled at her while she fought to keep from squirming. Then she could feel that tongue—that clever, wicked tongue—swirling and stroking her inside and out, and suddenly the heat in her belly surged higher, swamping her brain.

All she knew in those moments was hot wetness seeming to engulf her, his tongue and lips, soon joined by his fingers below, working together to break her to pieces. She could barely hear the sounds she was making, her head ringing with nonexistent sound. Her eyes were squeezed shut. All she could do was
feel
and
smell
, and the deprivation of the three other senses turned each stroke, each breath of musky scent into suffocating bliss.

She was reaching a point of frustration, hindered by the drugs in her system, a point of “Oh God, just let me come,” when the short, sharp shock of pleasure fired across her nerve endings, down her legs and up her chest. She let each wave take her under, feeling more than hearing Lucas's low, delighted moans with each spasm. She collapsed back against the bed, reaching down to pull him to her. He kissed her instead and retreated to the bathroom to clean up. When he came back, he flopped against her, lazily curling against her chest.

“I need to know, Lucas—are you really all right?” she asked after they'd been quiet for several minutes. Her head was clearer now; her eyelids no longer felt weighted down.

“It seems like it wasn't real,” he said, resting his hand between her breasts. “She knew me for over two years and thought we were in love. I still don't even know exactly how we met.”

She combed her fingers through his hair. “It wasn't anything you did.”

“I slept with her. Before, I mean.”

She tightened her arms around him. “Even so, this wasn't your fault.” They were quiet again, and he relaxed against her. “We should . . . probably talk about some things. From before.”

“About what?”

“Well, about you . . . I get that you like men too,” she said, then stopped, feeling awkward. “Is this—are we—going to be enough?”

Lucas lifted his head to look at her, then started laughing. He was still laughing when he put his head back down. “I don't know. You like men too. Will I be enough?”

“Of course you will,” she said. “But that's . . . different. Isn't it?”

“Is it?” He tilted his head so his chin rested on his hand and he looked up at her. “Just because I like both doesn't mean I have to have both to be happy. Gwen, I love
you
. Other people—men, women, or none of the above—are out of luck.” He grinned.

She laughed and nudged him. “I'm sure people across the globe will be in mourning.”

Lucas curled against her. He opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by the ringing of a phone. “Yours,” he said, and rolled away to grab it and hand it over.

Gwen sat up. “Yes, this is Gwen.”

“Gwen, Alesha Harrison. I have some good news for you.”

She nodded at Lucas, mouthing, “Lawyer.” “What is it?”

“Morris hasn't confessed yet, but the police were able to get a search warrant. They found upward of four thousand dollars in cash hidden in a safe-deposit box in her aunt's name, along with a copy of a receipt from the theater with your signature on it. We've requested handwriting analysis.” She paused, and Gwen could hear the smile. “You're almost off the hook. Even without a confession from her, it's clear you couldn't have been involved with the theft. I expect to hear from the prosecutor's office at any moment dropping the charges.”

Gwen slumped back against the headboard, closing her eyes. “Thank you,” she said. “Just . . . thank you.”

“I wanted to let you know. You'll hear from me again as soon as the charges are dismissed.”

When Gwen hung up the phone, she opened her eyes and smiled at him. “They found the money. She thinks they'll be dropping the charges soon.”

Lucas jumped up and grabbed her off the bed, giving her just enough time to squeak, “Careful! Shoulder!” before he was swinging her around by the waist. He set her down gently and kissed her, his face glowing.

“So what will you do now that you're a free woman?” he murmured, pressing kisses over her forehead and cheeks while she laughed.

“I . . . well, I have to go back home. There's the shoulder surgery, and I have to—” She paused, realizing something she hadn't considered before.

“Gwen, what is it?”

“I don't know what to do next.” She leaned against him. “Before, I couldn't imagine any other life but the RAMC or the TA. But now . . .”

His arms tightened around her and he hugged her close. “We'll figure it out.” He pulled back and kissed her. “I'll go with you. The tour's on hold, so we'll make a vacation of it.” He smiled. “I want to see where you grew up.” When she didn't return his smile he gave her a little shake. “We'll figure it out. I love you. You're worth waiting for.”

Gwen couldn't stop savoring the air. After months of wandering around the United States, and before that, months in the desert, the cool damp of home soothed something in her soul.

She and Lucas had been in London for two days, planning to use that as their base while they explored the countryside. That had been the plan. In truth, the luxurious room at their hotel was too tempting, as was all of that empty time ready to be filled together. Tonight was the first time they'd come up for air since arriving. There were a few determined paparazzi outside the hotel waiting for them. Normally, Lucas had told her, he wasn't well-known enough in the UK for many people to stop him. News coverage of the kidnapping had changed that; they'd initially been mobbed. But the news cycle had moved on, and there were much juicier scandals waiting.

The pub was a good old-fashioned local, and Gwen felt at home the minute they walked in the door. The crowd was working-class, and Lucas drew a few curious glances in his leather jacket and sunglasses.

“Sergeant Tennison! Gwen!”

Gwen looked over the heads of the people milling about and spotted a familiar copper head of hair and a waving hand. She grabbed Lucas's hand. “Over here.” They weaved through the crowd until they got to MacEwan's table.

He stood as they approached. At the table was another man that Gwen recognized, but she couldn't remember his name.

“Oi, you didn't mention you were bringing a date,” complained MacEwan, but his eyes were twinkling. “Who's this, then?” Lucas pulled off his sunglasses and MacEwan's eyes widened slightly.

“George MacEwan, this is Lucas Wheeler. Lucas, this is MacEwan. He was the biggest troublemaker in 16 Air Assault,” Gwen grinned, grabbing him in a one-armed hug.

“Gwennie here saved my life,” MacEwan said, speaking over her head to Lucas before letting her go.

“Stop,” Gwen said, as the two men shook hands. “That wasn't me.”

“Was,” MacEwan said. “I remember it very clearly. Lucas Wheeler, I know that name. Musician? You were in the news over here . . . glad to see you're all right.”

Gwen and Lucas exchanged a glance, but MacEwan went on. “Gwen, you remember Tom?” His friend was standing beside him.

Gwen shook his hand. “Tom . . . wait. Tom Heath, I remember you! You were there the night this one decided to try and arm wrestle that entire section of Yank Marines.” She laughed and looked up at Lucas. “He came to me the next morning with a sprained wrist. Again.”

Lucas smiled. “Sounds like you had your hands full.”

They sat down and Heath went to get a round. “So, Sergeant,” MacEwan said, “you get your marching orders yet?”

Gwen shook her head, feeling tension drain from her body as Lucas put his hand in the small of her back. “I go in on Tuesday. You?”

“Pensioned out,” he said lightly. “It's just as well. I think I pissed off one of the locals back in Helmand.”

“I'll bet you pissed off a few of them,” Gwen teased. Lucas was moving his hand in small, soothing circles on her back.

“So, Lucas,” MacEwan said, “you had yourself a spot of trouble, did you?”

Lucas leaned back in his chair and grinned. “You could say that.” He sounded relaxed, as if it had been nothing huge. “But you know how it is—Gwen was around to bail me out.”

“She's got a habit of that.”

Both men grinned at her as Heath came back with their round.

MacEwan raised his pint. “To the lads who get us in trouble and the lasses who get us out.”

“I'll drink to that,” Lucas said, and they did.

Later, as Gwen and Lucas walked back to the hotel, hand in hand, he said, “They're totally sleeping together.”

“Who? MacEwan and Heath? They never are.” Gwen had drunk enough to feel warm and fuzzy around the edges. That, combined with an evening of laughter, had her feeling that everything might be all right with the world after all.

“They are,” Lucas insisted. “More than that, I'll bet they've been a couple for a while now. You can tell by how they work together.”

“But . . . I was deployed with them for months. I would know. I mean, they didn't have to keep it secret,” Gwen said.

Lucas laughed and wrapped his arm around her, pulling her in to his side. “Uh-oh, was somebody working on a crush?”

“Well, no,” Gwen said, still trying to work it out. “I mean, I thought he had a crush on
me
.”

Lucas pushed open the door to the hotel lobby and grinned down at her. “You sound disappointed.” He waited until they were in the elevator, then pulled her to him, leaning down to murmur in her ear, “Maybe he's bi. I hear they're
everywhere
.”

Gwen giggled breathily as his hands skimmed down over her arse and pulled her close. “Well, their hands are certainly
everywhere
.”

“My hands.” He nipped at her neck as the floors dinged by. “Only ever mine.”

***

Gwen fretted about how to dress the next day. Everything she pulled out of her suitcase looked either too formal or too informal. She finally threw a blouse across the hotel room in frustration.

“Hey.” Lucas, freshly showered, came up behind her and ran his hands up her arms to her shoulders. “You don't have to do this.”

“Yes, I do.” She blinked against frustrated tears. “It's the very least I can do.”

She couldn't bring herself to contact Mark. She still had the letter he'd sent her months ago, never opened. She should read it, and at least call him. She
should
really offer to meet with him. Janet had been her commanding officer. It was the right thing for her to do, surely, to offer her condolences, but the thought of looking that man in the eye was too much for her to bear. Today's plan was only second-best, and not even a very close second.

Finally she settled on a blouse and a pair of slacks that weren't too wrinkled from transatlantic travel. Lucas had followed her lead and was wearing a sports jacket, his hair pulled back at the nape of his neck. “It's eerie,” she said, “how much that makes you look like your brother.” Before she could say another word, he reached up and pulled out the band holding it back, letting it spill over his shoulders again. She smiled. “Much better.”

“You said that on purpose,” he said.

“I did. It was true though.” Something loosened in her chest, making it easier to breathe. She grabbed the letter from her suitcase. “Come on, let's go.”

She refused to let Lucas drive the hired car, partly because she didn't trust him not to drive on the wrong side of the road, but partly because it kept her from having too much time to think on the nearly three-hour drive outside of London. As they traveled up the M1, the weak winter sun came out. Lucas had taken her hand as soon as they'd left London, and only let it go when she had to shift gears. As they got closer to Birmingham, her chest tightened up again.

“What can I do?” Lucas asked. It was the first time he'd spoken during the whole drive.

“Just stay with me,” she said, and squeezed his hand.

They were quiet again as she pulled into the car park, and quiet still as they walked toward the Visitor Centre of the National Memorial Arboretum. She had been here before, but it had been years, back before she'd joined the RAMC. Still, the Armed Forces Memorial wasn't difficult to find at all. The curved white walls gleamed in the late-morning winter sun. Gwen let go of Lucas's hand as they climbed the steps, her heart thudding in her chest.

As they crested the small hill, the breeze picked up, blowing damp and cold through Gwen's light coat. She shivered and kept walking. Lucas caught up to her as she reached the first wall. The list of names was overwhelming. Name after name, men and women, all dead. When Lucas took her hand again, she let him. In a few moments of walking, they got to the current year's listing, the carving less weathered than the earlier ones. Gwen scanned the list, but it was Lucas who said, “Gwen, here.”

She stopped in front of it and looked.

TURNER, JANET L. CAPT.

She stared at it until her eyes burned. There were other names there that she recognized, men and women that she'd worked with, that she'd treated. A few that she'd failed to save. Gwen didn't realize she was crying until Lucas put a handkerchief in her hand.

“I'm so sorry,” she said to them all, letting her vision blur and waver. She reached for Lucas, and he was there, putting a warm hand at the small of her back. She leaned against his shoulder as she stared at the names, letting the sobs shake her as they would, no longer trying to hold them in. Lucas put his arm around her, but didn't try to say anything, and she loved him for that, for letting her cry in silence.

Janet had been her boss, but also her friend and her colleague, and, most important, a girlfriend, in a place where girlfriends were hard to come by. Oh, the nights they'd spent in her tent, talking about what they missed from home. Gwen had heard all about Mark and the girls, sometimes to the point where she'd throw a pillow at Turner to get her to shut up already. They'd endured the usual privations of war: lack of privacy, lack of supplies—both personal and professional—the whole mad, rotten business of putting deliberately wounded bodies back together and of keeping their friends alive.

It felt like there was a bottomless well of tears in her, and if she let go for too long she would never stop crying over it all. When Lucas put his other arm around her and pulled her into a hug, she let him, resting her head on his shoulder, still looking at the wall, at Janet's name. She was aware of him murmuring to her, stroking her back.

Finally, the worst was over and her tears slowed, then stopped. She took a deep breath and straightened up. Lucas caught her face between his palms and carefully wiped away the tears on her cheeks with his thumbs. Gwen turned her head to kiss his palm, then drew away, finishing the job with his handkerchief. She should have known better than to wear makeup coming here. She put her shoulders back and lifted her head, taking another deep breath.

“Better?” asked Lucas.

She nodded, and even managed a small smile. “Better.” She pressed a finger to her lips, then touched Janet's name on the memorial wall. “Okay, I'm ready.” She pulled the envelope from her pocket and looked at it for several minutes before opening it.

Inside there was a photo of her and Janet, taken sometime early in Gwen's deployment, of the two of them with their arms around each other's shoulders, squinting into the sun and smiling. The handwritten note was short:

Gwen,

I wanted to send you this photo—it was one of Janet's favorites. I heard what you did, risking your life to try and save her. Thank you. I want our girls to know about the amazing friend their mother had, the brave woman she worked with. I wish you the best in your recovery. God bless you for what you did.

Mark

Tears stung Gwen's eyes a second time, but didn't fall. She looked at the photo in her hand and smiled reflexively at Janet's smile. There were photos and flowers around in other places on the wall, and Gwen thought about leaving the photo, letting other people know who had been behind the name. Gwen had to leave Janet behind once, though, and couldn't bring herself to do it again.

She tucked the note and the photo back into the envelope. Lucas took her hand, and they walked away.

***

Gwen sat outside her CO's office trying to pull herself together. She was in uniform for the last time, and with the combat fatigues came the uniform face, hiding everything. Lucas was waiting for her back at the hotel, and she needed to go back. But first she needed to breathe.

The medical officer has recommended you for a full discharge. You've done great work, Tennison, but you're not fit for duty anymore. I'm sorry.

She knew it was coming. Even without the bloody shoulder, she knew. The dislocation had been the final straw. She'd barely listened to her now-former CO after that initial opening, but had made all the correct “Yes, sirs” and “No, sirs” and “Thank you, sirs” despite that. He'd thanked her for her service, and then dismissed her with the paperwork she needed to fill out, the paperwork she still had clutched in her hand. He reminded her that there was still the TA, still students she could teach, but the thought left her empty.

Everything she'd worked for for nearly ten years was gone. For all that she thought it might happen, now that it had, it didn't feel real.

She couldn't sit here any longer, or she'd go mad. Gwen stood up and stiffened her spine, and walked out of the building for the last time.

***

“So, essentially, I'm on the dole,” Gwen said to Lucas. He was sitting on the edge of their bed and she was pacing the room while pulling off her uniform. It felt wrong to be wearing it. It wasn't hers anymore.

“Gwen, I'm so sorry,” he said.

“Are you? Because you had to have thought of it. With me out of the RAMC, there's no danger of me shipping off to somewhere else, is there?” The words came out before she could think about it.

“That's not fair,” he said. It wasn't. She felt too prickly to care about fair. “Yes, I worried about not having you around, and I worried about you being somewhere dangerous, but I want you to be happy, more than anything else.”

“Well, now you've got me,” she said. She was down to her underwear and a tank top, and she couldn't stop pacing. “Wherever you decide to go, Lucas, you can bet I'll be following right after you, because really, what else am I going to do?” The bitterness of her own voice surprised her. “Who wouldn't want their own groupie following wherever they go, like . . . like some bloody camp follower? Maybe Sam will pay me to do your laundry or something. That would be nice, wouldn't it?”

“Gwen, stop.” Lucas stood up and put his hands on her shoulders. “I want you with me,” he said. “Of course I do. But I don't expect you to drop everything and follow me around.” He tilted her chin to force her to meet his eyes. “Do I seem like that type of man?” Reluctantly, she shook her head. “If you need to start over again here in England, I understand. There's nothing that says I have to stay in LA. I could”—he paused, one hand moving to fidget at the back of his head—“I could relocate here, if you wanted me to.” He gave her a quick glance and went on, “I mean, I'll still have to tour, obviously, but we could work around that—couldn't we?”