A Marine Affair (3 page)

Their baby brother—eleven months younger than Christina—nearly three years younger than Eli. He hadn’t lived to see his nineteenth birthday.

“Hello, Mitchell.” He looked down at the baby, memorizing his features. He didn’t always get to hold them this young—the last had been Emily. He’d only met Lucy and Kate after they were nine and eighteen months respectively. “He’s tiny.”

“Hmm, he didn’t feel that tiny when I pushed him out.” His sister leaned back against the pillows. “You okay with the name?”

“Of course.” He frowned at her. Traces of exhaustion lined her eyes, dark smudges of tiredness—but also worry and anxiety. “Mitch would have loved it.”

“We don’t talk about him that often. Mom cried.” Of course she did. Mitch had been the golden child—the baby—the one everyone looked after. He showered the world in sunshine and disguised all the cracks underneath until it was too late.

“Yeah, but Mom cries when they show baby birds on television.” He fixed his sister with a stern look. “Kind of like you.”

Christina laughed. “Yeah, so I’m a sap.”

“You could have told me over the phone, you know. I wouldn’t have minded.”

“Yeah, but you always get a little funny when we talk about him. I didn’t want to distract you on your assignment. Speaking of which, are you going to be home longer than five minutes this time?”

“Haven’t gotten my orders yet, but I report to the Marine Barracks in a few days so we’ll see.” He studied the baby in his arms. “And, sweetie, you can talk to me about Mitch anytime you want. I miss our baby brother, too.” Ignoring the fist around his heart proved more difficult, but he maintained his steadiness. She needed him to be strong. It seemed coming home tested his strength. Like stubborn ex-lovers showing up at the airport. Rick had slept on the couch the night before and Eli drove him back to the airport to get his car before heading to his sister’s house.

He hadn’t expected the man to stay, but he liked that he had. Clearing his throat, he found Christina staring at him. “What?”

“Nothing. It just blows me away sometimes how sweet you are.”

He frowned. “Shh, I’m not sweet. I’m a badass. We’ve had this discussion.”

“Of course you are—and you look adorable with a baby in your arms. What do you think about coming to dinner this Friday and meeting Cindy, she’s….”

Eli sighed. They’d made it a whole quarter of an hour. “The only girls I plan to see this leave are downstairs enjoying their presents. You keep it up and I’ll dump you for them, too. I don’t want to be fixed up, hooked up, introduced, or otherwise pimped out.” If he didn’t cut her off now, he’d be inundated with
potential
girlfriends.

“Eli, you’re thirty-five. You have what? Another ten? Maybe fifteen years and they’ll make you retire. You should have a wife and kids and someone waiting for you at home. Someone to come home to.”

“I have plenty of someones to come home to. Don’t I, Mitchell?” He glanced at his nephew again. “Someone to teach real ball toss to. No offense to your dad Mitch—but Phil can’t throw worth a damn. I’ll make sure you know what you need to make the teams.”

His sister made a rude noise and he ignored her. She blustered on, but he tuned it out. They went through the same argument on every trip and if he let her carry on, she’d get over it. He had plenty of people to come home to and only one man he really ever needed.

He’d had a year to learn how
not
to need him.

Pity that it hadn’t taken.

“Commander?” A corpsman stood in the doorway and Rick glanced up from the chart he updated.

“Yes?”

“General Stanley is coming in for one of his post-op checkups and he asked if you would….”

“Of course.” Rick flipped the chart shut and rose. They’d removed a section of the retired general’s lungs several weeks before and it was his third post-op check up. “Finish up the pre-op on Lieutenant Jamison and meet in OR three in an hour.” Jamison had survived a detonated IED with all his limbs intact, but shrapnel shifting inside his body needed to be removed and they were finally ready to take out a piece that continued to travel too close to his liver.

“Yes, sir.”

Rick had received an assignment to Walter Reed four years earlier and moved with the merger to the Naval Hospital at Bethesda two years later. His position as a Navy surgeon meant most of his patients were retired, but he also had his fair share of active duty transferred from Ramstein in Germany—like the lieutenant.

Smothering a yawn. Rick shook off the fog of exhaustion. He needed to work. Eli’s sofa didn’t make for a comfortable bed and the semi-erection Rick sported most of the night made rest damn near impossible, but seeing Eli sleep-rumpled first thing in the morning over coffee made it worth it. He’d slept in worse places—from field tents to on call rooms.

The general waited in the exam room, and Rick saluted him as a matter of course. “Good morning, General.”

“Commander.” The man returned the salute. After forty years of impeccable service in several different theaters of combat, the general deserved acknowledgement, retired or not. “Sorry to bother you, son.”

“Not a bother at all, General. How are you feeling?” The man’s color had definitely improved. Checking the chart, Rick reviewed his vitals. Pulse, oxygenation, and blood pressure were all in the excellent range.

“Steady. The diet I could live without. The wife is denying me red meat all the time now. You need to let her know I’m cleared to eat it.” The general may intimidate, but his wife was a force to be reckoned with.

“I think that’s a matter best left between you and your wife, but why don’t I order some blood work. We can double check your cholesterol and see if we can get you clearance for once or twice a month.” Setting the chart aside, he nodded to the general’s chest. “May I take a look at the surgical scars?”

“Of course.” He unbuttoned his shirt and Rick checked the incision points. Fresh pink skin appeared healthy, without signs of inflammation.

“How are the grandkids?”

“Zane was accepted at Annapolis.” The general beamed. Rick listened to the detailed report on the others, including the granddaughter who pierced her eyebrow. While the surgery limited the general’s lung function, he seemed to be bouncing back fully.

Wrapping his stethoscope around his neck, Rick reclaimed the chart and added some notations. “All right, I’m going to have a corpsman take some blood and we’ll do the CBC. Here’s a note for your wife.” He added orders about the blood work results. “And I’ll see you in six months.”

“Thank you, Commander.” His patient’s near gleeful cackle at the permission slip for a steak once the blood test results were in made it worth it.

“General.”

“Dismissed son.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He checked his surgery schedule. Two minor procedures were back-to-back after the lieutenant’s, but if all went well, he could be on the road by seven. He sent a text message to Eli about dinner reservations and his surgery schedule then shut off his phone.

It was a gamble. But if the man couldn’t deliver the no, he might just show up to tell him no in person.

And then he would be there and they could argue over dinner.

Rick whistled all the way to the OR.

Eli’s second shower of the day was considerably cooler than his first. He’d spent most of the day at his sister’s house, spoiling the nieces and helping Phil get the tree house built. The presents he brought were huge hits—particularly the video game system. Christina scolded him for spending so much on the girls, but hell—who else would he spend it on? That it would also provide a reward system for the girls while his sister bounced back from giving birth and baby Mitchell taking up so much time, mollified her some—until she caught sight of Phil playing on the system.

Chuckling, Eli made his escape quick. Back at his apartment, he couldn’t ignore the text message from Rick any longer. The lukewarm shower cooled him down and he soaped off the sweat then changed into a fresh pair of jeans and a clean T-shirt. In his kitchen, he thumbed to the text message and read it—for the third time.

Dinner at Kobe’s? Made reservations for eight. In surgery till seven. Will probably be a few minutes late. Phone off. See you there
.

What a shit.

Opening a beer, he couldn’t help the grudging smile curving his lips. Rick didn’t like the word no and he didn’t like to have his plans changed. So the invitation left Eli boxed in—he could send back a message that the surgeon wouldn’t get and leave him hanging at the restaurant, or he could just suck it up and meet him.

Turning the television on, he let the sports report fill the silence. The apartment seemed far too empty without Rick in it. Which made no damn sense since they had never lived together. They vacationed together, they had overnights—but their lives were separate.

Their spaces were separate.

Except the previous day, Rick invaded Eli’s space. He took the perimeter, slid inside, and set up camp. He made sandwiches and coffee. He’d ordered pizza for dinner. They watched the game together.

It had been…
nice
. No, that was too tame a word for what it had been. The familiarity comforted. Rick didn’t push—a first for him—he’d hung out, taken a couple of calls from the hospital and when Eli wanted to crash, he’d sprawled on the sofa and gone to sleep.

The sports news switched to videos from fans and Eli sighed. The clock showed nearly six-thirty. If he planned to meet Rick, he needed to put on his damn shoes and get on the road.

He stared at the television, weighing his desire to see Rick against the fact that if he didn’t want to encourage him, he shouldn’t go.

“Son of a bitch.” Disposing the half-empty bottle in the kitchen trash, he went in search of his shoes. Five minutes later, he headed out into latter half of rush hour traffic. The Japanese steakhouse was a personal favorite and it had been months since he had real steak or shrimp. It had nothing to do with the fact that he wouldn’t let Rick sit there waiting for him even if Eli hadn’t agreed to his plan.

And less to do with wanting to see the man—especially if all they did was fight.

He repeated it like a mantra until sick of his own thoughts, cranked up the stereo and drove.

Chapter Three

Thirty minutes late for dinner, Rick glared at the car in front of him, and the one to his left going ten miles below the speed limit—cruising along as if they had all the time in the world. Exhaling a hard breath between his teeth, he focused on calm. He needed his wits and cool about him if Eli waited at the other end of the dark and twisty yellow brick road he drove down.

If only it were a simple matter of clicking his heels together and turning back the clock. He didn’t regret bringing up or pursuing the subject but did regret Eli’s need for absolute privacy. He respected the man’s right until it took twelve months, three weeks, two days, and some fourteen hours before he even had a chance to hear his voice again.

He regretted the year of silence. No emails. No phone calls. No sweet seconds of knowing he was still alive out there somewhere. Some people might say estranged was better than dead and they had a point. But estranged hurt. The day’s steady decline grew worse the longer it took him to get to the restaurant.

He’d arranged for an intern to cover his patients for the night. Half-expecting Eli to blow him off, he refused to turn on his phone. Grateful to see the restaurant ahead, he turned right into the parking lot. Eli’s truck sat one row back from the doors. Rick grinned, relief flooding through his system.

He came. Okay. He’s here. Game on
. Blowing out a breath, he parked and focused on keeping his cool. His gambit gave him what he wanted, the opportunity for dinner, drinks, and a chance to talk. The key would be to survive without pushing or demanding the answers he desired. Inside, the waiter led him to the private room he’d reserved, where Eli waited.

“You’re late.” Eli greeted him with a dry smile. The man looked better than the day before, if that were possible.

“Sorry, surgery ran longer than I expected.” He took the chair next to him rather than the one opposite. “A beer, please.” The waiter took his order and left them alone. The best part of the restaurant was the availability of private party rooms where diners could enjoy a meal and not have to share their table with a family of strangers.

“I figured.” Eli gestured to the sushi. “They just delivered it. Your favorites.”

The gesture struck him with its kindness and compassion. Eli didn’t have a favorite kind of sushi, he didn’t particularly care for it. He only ate it when they were together because Rick enjoyed it. “Thanks.”

Unwrapping his chopsticks, he tucked into the Philadelphia rolls with salmon, cucumber and cream cheese. He’d spent nearly ten hours in the operating room. A light day by his usual standards, but he hadn’t had time to eat since breakfast that morning.

“What happened?” The quiet question drew him back to the moment.

“Just a long day.”

The waiter brought his beer and they both ordered. Steak and shrimp for Eli. Chicken and fish for Rick. Fried rice for Eli, while Rick chose white. They both wanted extra veggies and Eli added an order of shrimp tempura for himself.

So many little differences, from food choices to the teams they liked. Rick loved the Mets while Eli was a dyed-in-the-wool Yankees fan. He exhaled a humorless laugh and looked sideways at the Marine. “Red meat, fried rice, and fried food—you going for the early heart attack?”

“My first real red meat in a year and the last time I ate fried food, it came from McDonald’s drive-thru on the way to the airport. I think I’ll survive. Besides, I lived on rations more often than I care to count—if that doesn’t kill me, this sure as hell won’t.” Eli saluted him with the beer. “What happened in surgery?”

The man possessed homing radar, always knowing what bothered him. Weird how he seemed an open book while Eli remained a mystery unless he chose to share. “Lost a patient. Complications.” Acid churned in his stomach. “Kid didn’t report some medication he’d been on. Too many bleeders, not enough blood. It happens.”