The McClane Apocalypse: Book Two (30 page)

What is she talking about? She’s refusing to make eye contact and squirms nervously, toe tapping.

“So you have been checkin’ me out. I understand. I mean, with these looks and the abs alone? I’m a pretty irresistible guy, babe,” John jests with her. It gets him a dirty tank top to the side of his head. He picks it up from the floor and smells it. Even though she’d worn this all day and even worked out in it, it still smells good just like she always does. Reagan is frowning at him.

“You’re starting to look like a grizzly bear again,” Reagan points out as she yanks her shirt away from him.

“Yeah, forgot my razor,” John teases. “Besides, I’m going for that mountain man look. Thought you might like it better.”

“No, you look like a homeless person,” she insults as she puts the rest of her gear into her bag.

“Hey, you might be into that kind of thing. I don’t know,” he gives it right back. Her only answer is a scowl and roll of the green eyes. “What kind of guy are you attracted to?”

“The silent kind,” she remarks with a smirk.

“Seriously,” he pushes. “Brainy? Yuppy types? Obviously not the homeless-looking ones.”

“Not yuppies, gross. I don’t know. I guess I’ve never really thought about it,” she sort of answers.

“Ok, so no yuppies or bums. What about a Ranger?” he teases with a lop-sided grin.

She doesn’t answer right away but stares at his shoulder before making eye contact. He can see her brain processing this and actually considering it.

“Rangers are looking a little better every day,” she confirms. John about hits the floor. “I mean you are keeping my ass alive, right?”

Not exactly the answer he’d been hoping for, but it was a good start. He’s about to continue this line of conversation when she jumps too quickly on to something else. Typical Reagan.

“Shit, where’s my other shirt?” she curses as she rummages through her sack. He still feels a little triumphant.

“Who could tell? You aren’t exactly organized, Reagan. Look, it’s easier if you lay out what you need for the morning. It’ll be pretty dark in here at four in the morning. Just something I’ve learned about being ready at a moment’s notice,” John tries to help. “If you set out what you’ll need when you wake, it makes it faster to get moving.”

“Gee thanks, Dad,” she chides and tosses her bag down just to be defiant.

Sometimes she is like dealing with Ari, although he’s never been tempted to spank Ari like he is when he’s around her bratty, mouthy aunt.

“Just trying to help, smart mouth,” he jabs as he puts the last of his own items neatly into his bag.

A toe tapping against the floor beside him catches his periphery, and when he looks up, Reagan has her hands on her slim hips. “What did you just call me?”

“A smart mouth, smart mouth,” John jabs again and comes to his full height, towering above her.

She doesn’t back down, though. She has spunk, but not enough body to do anything about it. It doesn’t stop her from trying to punch him in the stomach, though, which he deftly evades and grabs her small wrist instead.

“Don’t, Reagan! I don’t want to hurt you.”

John is concerned about her scraped inner wrist and her side which she wouldn’t show him earlier when he’d asked. He can only assume that it’s healing ok, or she would’ve wanted to treat it. They are set for tomorrow, the weapons oiled and checked, something she’d helped him with. That had been a first for him. Doing a weapons check with a hot chic is a new one for sure.

“Maybe you’re just scared I’ll hurt
you
,” she remarks as he still has ahold of her bony wrist.

“Uh, yeah, that’s it. You got me,” John says on a wry smirk.

“Teach me some more fighting techniques,” she suggests, looking up at him with her crooked, falling-over pile of hair and flushed cheeks.

“Not fighting techniques. Self-defense. Big difference,” he corrects her to which she just shrugs. John sighs and knows that he can’t tell her no. “You should just go to bed and get some sleep, boss.”

“No. I’m not tired anyways. Teach me,” she implores, the orange glow of the fire making her green eyes dance.

John releases her wrist. Reagan carelessly yanks her hair from the ponytail holder, allowing it to flow free. She’s obviously realized it’s a losing battle.

And because John can’t resist, “Did you even brush your hair today?”

“Yes, asshole! God, of course I brushed my hair. Don’t be such a dick. I can’t help it if I have fucked up hair,” she berates with obvious embarrassment and looks at her feet.

“I love your hair, Reagan. It’s not... screwed up. I was just teasing. It’s just always a wild mess,” he tries at soothing her wounded pride and hurt feelings. He also tries to reach for her hair, but gets his hand slapped down.

“I know, but I can’t help it. My dad had curly hair, too. So I have that jerk to thank for it,” she remarks sullenly and stares at his chest.

“Well, I like it. I’d like to sink my hands into it,” he murmurs, although he hadn’t actually meant to say that part out loud. John also doesn’t mean to step toward her and attempt it, either. Reagan jumps back and slaps both of his hands down this time. It’s enough to knock him back to reality. “Good. You remember that one, at least.”

Her wary regard of him tells John that she doesn’t quite buy it that this was a training move to endeavor to stick his hands in her hair.

“Tell ya’ what. I’ll teach you some new moves, but you have to answer questions about yourself while we do.”

“What... what kinds of questions?” She’s leery of this.

John shrugs, “I don’t know. Just questions so I can get to know you better. And I’ll do the same. You can ask questions about me, too.”

“Um, ok. I’ll do it. Now show me,” she orders, making John chuckle and Reagan frown with confusion.

“Fine. Say I’m coming at you. The best thing for you to do is not let someone come into your personal space to begin with,” John explains while stepping closer. “See? When I’m this close, I can grab you more easily which is going to make it difficult to get free.”

“Ok,” she says all knowledge hungry as usual.

“The knees and the inside of the knee, here,” he points to his own knee, but instead decides to take the opportunity since she’s offering it, to touch her. John squats in front of her on one knee and touches hers through her baggy, unattractive sweatpants. Then he slides his hand to the inside of her knee and along the lower part of her muscular thigh. This could prove as torturous as their first training session. “This is a very vulnerable spot. Either inside the knee area or the actual knee.”

“That makes sense,” she says.

Her voice sounds slightly higher in octave, and when John looks up, he can see that she’s biting her lower lip and her breathing has sped up. He hopes it’s because of his touch.

“So kick at him here or here,” he tells her as he touches both places again. “Wanna’ try?”

Her nod lets him know that she’s ready. John comes at her and Reagan gently kicks toward his knee areas. He helps her perfect the technique before stopping for a moment.

“Ok, question time,” he reminds her. This makes her furrow her brows together. “Why do you only wear black or white? Are you color blind?”

“What? No, I’m not color blind, idiot. Besides, color blindness is a male dominant trait.”

“So why the black and white then? Don’t like pink?” he jokes.

“I just don’t like having to worry about what I’m going to wear. My mom would make me go back to my room and change like three times before I left the house with her, and it would piss me off. She said she wasn’t going in public with me dressed in mismatched clothes, and I didn’t feel like taking time to match my clothing and create ensembles. So I asked her to just buy me black, but she said no. So then I told her to just buy me white clothes, and she said no. Then we compromised on black and white.”

“Well when you got older why didn’t you change that habit?”

“Because it’s not a habit. It’s a choice. I don’t have time to be a fashion diva. It’s a waste of time, and I just end up looking like a tool when I try anyways. Why do people worry so much about what they wear? If everyone put more time into other things like, I don’t know, world fucking peace, then maybe we wouldn’t be in this shit,” she says defensively.

“It’s cool. I was just curious. You’d look good in a burlap sack, Reagan. Or in nothing,” he mumbles the last sentence, earning a brightening in her cheeks which he likes. “Wanna’ ask me something?”

“No, just show me another move,” she answers. Her answer is a slight blow to his ego. He’d like to think she has some sort of interest in him.

John sighs with defeat but says, “Ok, if he comes at you, then you can always go for a nose strike. Take your hand like this.” John lifts her wrist, flattens her hand to an open, fingers closed tightly together, palm out position.

“Ok, flat hand, not fist,” she consents.

“Kind of lock your wrist for stability. Ram it straight upwards into his nose. Remember? We talked about the nose being sensitive and a good bleeder,” John explains further to which she nods readily.

“What if he knocks my hand away or grabs it first before I hit his nose?”

“Then take your other hand and swing it hard toward the side of his neck. The carotid is there...,”

“Yeah, duh. I know that one,” she says snidely.

“Right. Hit him there as hard as you can. Get your body weight behind it. Even though you’re only about a hundred pounds...,”

“One-sixteen,” she corrects, making John smile.

“Use your whole one hundred and sixteen pounds and smack to the side of his neck hard. Keep the flat hand, open palm move and stun him. Don’t make a fist; chop using the side of your hand,” he orders, and Reagan tries this a few times. He allows her to come at him from the front, nose-smashing position and then the side, neck-crushing move.

“Good, I’ve got it,” she says

“Ok, I get another question,” he orders as she still swings at him. She pauses, places her hands on her hips and regards him cautiously. “How come you didn’t go out with anyone in college, like have a boyfriend?”

“I didn’t want to,” she answers evasively.

“No, not good enough. Why not?” John pushes.

“I just didn’t,” she evades again.

“You had to have been asked out. Often, too, if I was to guess. So why didn’t you date in college? I know you were younger than some of them, but the last few years you would’ve caught up. So how come you don’t have a boyfriend? I’ve given this a lot of thought, and I can’t figure it out,” John admits honestly.

“I don’t know, John. I don’t have an answer, not one that you’ll like or believe. I just didn’t ever take time to do that kind of shit. I was busy. I was really busy. Plus... I don’t know,” she pauses.

“What?” he prods again. “Don’t make me water-board you.”

This gets a grin from her, an actual grin that exposes a big dimple. He even gets a glimpse of her white teeth.

“I didn’t like the college types. They were... I don’t know, not for me, I guess. They all seemed to like partying, drinking, bed hopping that sort of thing. And I don’t drink or party and I’ve never felt comfortable in that sort of environment,” she explains with a shake of her head.

“But you had to have been asked out by doctors at the hospital where you were working, too,” John inquires deeper into this mystery.

“A few,” she admits begrudgingly and picks at the hem of her shirt.

“Why didn’t you go out with one of them? They would’ve been older and more mature than college kids,” John assesses.

“I just didn’t want to. Plus most of them were in their forties. I’ve never been... good with people. In case you haven’t noticed?” Reagan says tightly.

“How many of them asked you out? Surely, there...,”

“How many women have you slept with? Huh? There’s a question!” she spits out accusatorily. She’s obviously grown tired of his line of questioning. But her question stuns him. He’d not been expecting that one.

“Uh...,” John stammers.

“What? No answer? You said I could ask you a question. Well, there’s my question. So what’s the answer, John? Huh? What- don’t like it when I turn the tables on you?” she comes at him viciously with accusations.

“That’s a little more personal than your black socks choice,” he tries to dissuade her. He can tell by the look in her eyes that she’s not giving in. He’s riled her up, and now she is going to get even.

“No way, answer!” she says, her voice rising in pitch. “How many?”

“You don’t want to know the number. You’re just mad,” he tries again. Her hands plunk onto her waist in tight little fists. Those fists would not help her in any self-defense moves he has to show her. The thought scares John. He’s not sure that even with teaching her these moves that she’d be able to get a man off of her. “Look, I’ve been around a little longer than you, boss. I’m twenty-nine, Reagan.”

“I know how old you are. And I’m twenty-two, almost twenty-three, so what? Tell me the number, John. I had to explain things to you. Now it’s your turn,” she says with a glare.

“Give me a minute. It’s not like I keep a running tally in my head!” he barks back and searches his mind. It’s not like he’d kept track of them. Most of the time they were just one night stands while on furlough. “Sixteen, no wait, maybe seventeen.”

“What? Holy shit! You really are a man-whore!” she screeches with a sick look on her face.

“Hey, I said you didn’t need to know. Don’t look at me like that. I told you that I didn’t have time for relationships, either. You were busy studying and working as a doctor, and I was busy fighting for our country. It wasn’t like I had time to go out and find a girlfriend. When we had leave time, we’d hit bars or hotspots in whatever city we were close to overseas.”

She frowns and grimaces at him. It makes John feel like the scum of the earth. He wishes that he would’ve lied to her, but it hadn’t occurred to him at the time. Plus, he’s already told her two lies in the last two days, and they don’t sit well on his tortured conscious. He wants to have honesty between them.

“How many men have you kissed?” he asks, trying to change the subject.