Against the Ropes (18 page)

But he wanted to.

Except that his body had already been pummeled once, and he wasn't sure it would be wise to give it a second beating. Damn common sense . . .

“How are you feeling?” Reagan rocked toward him, as if wanting to melt into his body, but held back instead.
Shoulda gone with your instincts, sweetheart.
Now he'd have to do the moving. He stepped in, gripped her hips and pulled her into him for a gentle hug. As if understanding he needed tenderness, she wrapped her arms around him and smoothed them gently over his back.

The fact that they were eye to eye, thanks to the heels, made the hug that much easier on his abused body. No bending and scooping. He liked that they were evenly matched.

“Let's sit. You've gotta be hurting.” She took his hand and led him to the bed. But when he sat on the edge, she took the chair at the table with her laptop. The screen glowed brightly with a white Word document. A few paragraphs had already been typed.

“Working with the lights off?”

“Keeps me focused.” She shrugged one shoulder, then clicked a few buttons. Maybe to save the document, though he wasn't watching closely enough. “But really, how are you feeling now?”

“Feeling like I got knocked around a little. It's nothing,” he said when she worried her bottom lip. “Seriously, it really wasn't. I've had way worse.”

The second he said it, he knew it was the wrong thing to say. Reagan's eyes widened, and she snapped her laptop shut. “I couldn't even watch it. I had to leave.”

That, he didn't like. “You didn't watch any of the matches?”

She glanced to the left for a second, hesitating. “I watched some.”

“Some?”

“Most,” she corrected.

“Most.”

“All of them but yours,” she said in a whisper, then covered her face in her hands. “I'm sorry. I just . . . couldn't. Not yours. I tried, and it freaked me out and rather than being that weirdo who rushed the ring yelling, ‘Stop hitting him!' I just ducked out for some air.” She peeked through her fingers. “But I was glad you won. Does that count?”

He growled, then—ignoring his protesting body—grabbed her wrist and pulled until she sprawled with him on the bed. They lay side by side, and he traced the lace of her top, dipping a finger in to brush against her breasts. Her breathing grew heavy, and her legs squirmed.

“I can't say that I'm pleased you didn't stay to watch. A guy likes to show off a little to the woman he's involved with.”

She scowled. “Showing off is a completely pointless exercise.”

“Says the female wearing sex for heels and walking around in this erotic little number.” He undid one of her jacket buttons.

“‘Erotic number.' It's a suit,” she muttered. “How dare I . . .”

“And the way you always keep all this hair pulled back.” He nuzzled against her neck, left completely open thanks to her basic ponytail. “It's just begging to be touched.”

“I'm full of ulterior motives. It's a wonder I can get dressed in the morning, with all my nefarious plots.” She sighed and angled her head so he had better access.

“But despite all your showing off and nefarious plots,”
he said, finishing the last button, “there's something I need you to do.”

“Hmm,” was all she could hum as he pushed the top sleeve off her arm.

“I need you to go over there, and strip all this professional armor off, one piece at a time,” he began, sucking gently on her throat.

“And then?” she breathed.

“And then, put on your pajamas and come to bed.”

She froze, then lifted her head. “What?”

He grinned at her confusion and kissed her nose. “Honey, I might have won that fight, and I might have been undermatched in the whole thing, but I still got handed a few knocks and I'm not up for tearing the sheets apart.”

She blinked. “Oh.” Then slithered off the bed and headed to her suitcase. She pulled her jacket off her other arm with economical motions he knew meant she was annoyed with him.

That was fine. She could be annoyed. But they both needed a night off from sexy times. Him, for the sheer purpose of recovery. Her, because her head was struggling to catch up. Even if she couldn't see it, he could.

In reality, he could have survived just fine having sex. Guys did it every day. The adrenaline of a good fight was a powerful drug to push past any pain or soreness. Hell, sometimes the adrenaline was more potent than a shot of Viagra for some. If they didn't find a willing woman twenty minutes after leaving the ropes, they were crawling up the wall.

Fighting had never been his aphrodisiac. It had been survival. Always survival. Foster homes with shitty bio kids or fellow fosters, the streets, even his earliest days in the Corps . . . his fists had been the one thing he could count on. Nothing sexual about survival.

As she slipped into her pajama bottoms, he grinned. “Penguins?”

She glanced down, then back up with an exasperated sigh. “I didn't bring these thinking you'd see them.” Then,
smoothing a hand down the short shorts with surfing birds all over them, she added in a defensive tone, “Penguins are cute.”

“That they are.” So was she, in her bare feet, cute penguin-themed shorts and practically see-through tank top. He held out a hand and, after a contrary moment of glaring at him, she relented and laid down with him.

“You suck,” she mumbled as she snuggled against him. Lying down, she fit against him perfectly. With her head nestled against his shoulder, she wrapped one arm around his chest, slid her leg between his, and sighed. “You're still dressed.”

“I've gotta keep the mystery alive, you know.” When she chuckled quietly, he said, “I've got bruises. I don't want to freak you out.”

There was a hesitation, but she said, “They won't.” She tugged at the band of his polo shirt and slid it up until it caught under his arms. She traced one bruise on his ribs. “Did you get checked out?”

“We all did. They're completely anal about it, thanks to concussions and all that. I'm fine.” He caught her hand and pressed it flat against his chest.

“Show me.”

When he cracked open an eye, she sat up and motioned for him to do the same. With a reluctant groan, he did. She pushed his shirt up and over his head.

Not too much damage, thankfully. His left jaw took the worst of it, but a good-sized bruise was forming on his left shoulder as well. Raising his arms up to pull the shirt off wasn't what he'd call a fun day at the park.

After letting her fingertips trail over the discoloration, he closed his eyes. It felt so good, just to be touched lightly. As if the simple brush of her hands could release any pain and suffering the injuries contained, leaving them nothing but colorful reminders.

“How about down here?” She stuck one finger in the waistband of his jeans and tugged.

“Ever heard of the term ‘below the belt'?” When she nodded, he winced. “It exists for a reason. Nothing's going on down there.” Except for an erection, which was a damn inconvenience when he'd sworn he wouldn't push tonight.

“Hmm.” She rotated him so his back faced her, then pressed so he laid down, face first. “Looks like you're okay back here, too.”

“You really didn't watch the fight, did you?” He meant it as a joke, but when her hands halted in their exploration of his flesh, he knew she'd taken it personally. Reaching around blindly, he grabbed one hand and pulled it down to press a kiss to her palm. “Sorry. I know it was hard for you. I'm not offended or upset about it.”

She let a heavy sigh go, but he wasn't sure what that meant. He almost asked, but then she started to massage his shoulders, and every good piece of conversation fled from his mind like a bird taking flight.

“Oh my God,” he muttered as she found a particularly tense knot of muscles just at his right shoulder. “If you could just keep doing that forever, that'd be great.”

She laughed. “No way. My hands will get too tired. But now that I think about it . . .” She went silent, and he could all but hear her making mental notes.

“Are you working?”

“No,” she said, but the guilt in her voice said,
Of course I am.

“Well, stop it. No work tonight.”

“But I have to—”

“Have to spend time with one of your Marines. That's work, right?”

She snorted. “I doubt my boss would condone considering this work. But now that you mention it . . .” Her voice trailed off again, and he bit back a sigh. The woman wouldn't quit.

So, while she rubbed him down, then raised his flesh
with fleeting, light touches over his spine and shoulders, he let it go.

And an hour later, as she lay beside him, with a bag of microwave popcorn on his stomach, watching some movie from the eighties, he realized even without sex, it was easily the best night he'd had with a woman, ever.

18

R
eagan's fuzzy brain fought to keep track of the plot. “But why is he so interested in that boat?”

Greg placed one finger over her lips. “Shh, don't analyze. Enjoy.”

“I know, but—”

“Shh.” He pushed a piece of popcorn into her open mouth, causing her to bite down. “Watch.”

She poked him in the ribs—the non-bruised ones, she wasn't a monster—and watched him squirm. “Jerk.”

“That's me. It's on my business card.” They were quiet another few moments, and she enjoyed the feeling of his hand smoothing over her hair, down her shoulder to her elbow. It was hypnotic, and made her eyelids feel heavy. Without thinking, she matched her breathing to his . . . slow and even, deep and relaxing. And felt herself start to drift.

“Tell me about your family.”

“Hmm,” she said, fighting the siren song of sleep. “Brothers. Lots of brothers.”

He massaged her scalp lightly, and she all but wept.
Yummy. So yummy. “You mentioned them before. Older or younger?”

“Mix. I'm in the middle.” Her fingertip traced through the hair that led down his chest and into the waistband of the jeans he still hadn't taken off. “You could get more comfortable, if you want.”

“Trying to seduce me out of my clothes?” He tugged gently on a strand of her hair in mocking reprimand, and it felt good. “Not gonna work tonight.”

“Darn.” She sighed. “Two older, two younger.”

“Smack in the middle. What was it like growing up like that?”

The term
hell
came to mind, but she swallowed that back. The growing up part, that wasn't true. “Loud, crazy, sometimes painful. They weren't always very nice and protective to their sweet princess of a sister.” She batted her eyelashes up at him. “Gonna beat them up for me?”

“Oh, yeah. Just point the way.” He paused. “Which way is that, exactly?”

She grinned. “Wisconsin. Just head toward nothing and keep on going, turn left at nada, and stop when you reach nowhere.”

“Population: Your family, huh?”

“Give or take eight hundred.” She could dance around it, but he seemed so intent on getting to know her. And she wanted to know him. Time to be a mature woman and step forward. “You know that term
dirt poor
?”

“Sure.” He sifted his fingers through her hair again, and she nearly went comatose with the pleasure. But then he tugged—still felt good—and made her look at him. “Don't stop now, or I'll stop, too.”

“No, don't.” When he resumed his scratching and tracing of her upper arms and shoulders, she wriggled with pleasure. “That was us, literally dirt poor. As in, the floorboards of our ancient farm house were warped and had so many splinters my mom and oldest brother decided to rip them up, only
to discover the ancient house we lived in didn't have a sub floor. Built straight on dirt. And since my mom didn't have the cash to fix it . . .” She shrugged. “It stayed, for about two years. Laid down tarps, some cardboard, switched that out every so often. For a few months, we had carpet . . . sort of.” She smiled. “Another family had done their house in carpet, had a lot of leftover remnants, gave them to us for free. They weren't even nailed down. But they were warmer than tarp.”

“That sounds rough.” He stared at the TV, which he'd muted. “But with the right family, you can get through it.”

“We got through it. What choice do you have?”

“Was it rough?”

Now he was starting to sound like a reporter. “What's with the third degree?” She playfully tugged at a few of his chest hairs, but he flattened her hand over his chest.

“I want to know you, all of you. It's not such an odd request, is it? Knowing the woman I'm involved with.”

When he put it like that . . . “No.”

“Was it hard, moving away from them?”

“No. Maybe that sounds bad, but it just wasn't. They were content with that life, all of them. Staying in that town was admitting to yourself you were fine being below the poverty line for the rest of your life. Nobody stayed there thinking they'd have anything more than government assistance, or barely above it.” That sounded ugly, but it was just the truth. “So I left. They didn't.”

“And you ended up here.”

“When it takes you as long as it took me to graduate from college . . . you take the first job offered.” She tried to smile, but it went a little sideways. “I was so scared about not making it, I leapt at the first job offer. I wasn't even really qualified for this. I lied through my teeth about liking sports and all that.” She blew a raspberry. “Sports. We didn't even have a football team at my high school. Too small. We could barely field a basketball team with guys on the bench. I was a cheerleader during basketball season, because it was better than 4H. So,
no, sports were not really my thing. But I feel almost no guilt, which probably sounds horrible now that I say it out loud.”

“You make the choices you have to make in order to survive.” His voice was so calm, so serious, she knew he wasn't talking about just her. But this was a man who had seen the ugly side of war. His idea of ‘choices' were likely very much a matter of survival. She wouldn't push on that front. Smoothing a hand down his torso, she brushed lightly over his bruising.

“‘Survive' is probably a little intense where I'm concerned. But I made choices I felt like I had to in order to make steps toward the life I wanted. So I took this job, moved here, live in the world's crappiest apartment so that I can actually afford to live without a roommate, and wonder every day how I got myself into this mess.”

“‘World's crappiest apartment,' huh?”

She bit back a groan. Apparently, the skeletons were just dancing out of the closet tonight. “Yeah, I, uh, don't live in a great place. Which is why . . .”

“Which is why you've yet to let me pick you up at your place.”

“Maybe,” she whispered, her cheeks heating from the embarrassment. She nuzzled into his shoulder, not wanting to look him in the eyes.

“Reagan, look at me.”

She shook her head. No, thank you.

“Reagan,” he said again, his voice commanding. “Look.” He guided her chin up with one finger. “I don't give a shit where you live. I don't care if you live in your car.” He thought about that for a second. “Well, I might care about that because it's not the safest thing in the world. But what I'm saying is, where you live doesn't matter to me. I respect that you're keeping your expenses down to keep your privacy. It's a personal choice, and one I can understand. Trust me, there are times I'm ready to crawl the walls having a roommate again, even though he's not there half the time.”

She closed her eyes, feeling the relief roll down her body in waves. “So, yeah. There it is, I guess. My life story.”

“Hardly that, but it's a nice outline. We can fill in more details later.” He kissed her once, twice, then a third time, deeper still, until she was gripping his shoulders.

Then she let go with a shriek. “Oh my God, I'm sorry!”

“Huh?” He pulled back, confused. “What?”

“Your shoulder! I squeezed and—”

He burst out laughing, kissing her nose when she wrinkled it in confusion. “Reagan, sweetheart, you're not gonna hurt me. I promise.” One more kiss to the forehead this time, which felt mildly patronizing and mocking. “But thanks for thinking of me.”

“Starting to regret that,” she muttered, pushing at him so he lay flat again.

“I have one question, though.”

“Maybe I have one answer.” She waited, but he twisted and got out of bed, stalking across the room and picking up one of her discarded heels. “Those won't fit you, you know. You'd probably need a wide.”

“Smart-ass.” He said it fondly, throwing her an arch look. “If you're broke as a joke—”

“Classy.”

“Thanks. If you're so broke you're living in a crap apartment . . . what's with all these?” He held up the shoe by the heel, waving it as if it were evidence in a court case.
Your Honor, I present Exhibit B to the jury.

“I really would rather live in my car than give up my shoes.” When he gaped at her, she laughed. “No, silly. I buy them on auction sites for pennies on the dollar or at thrift stores or swap sites. Everything I have, I searched for hard-core and bought at a fraction of the retail price.” She glanced at her now-wrinkled, discarded suit on the floor of her hotel room. “You wouldn't know it, but I usually take very good care of my things so they last.”

He surprised her by picking up her suit and folding it
neatly, laying it across her suitcase. Then he made his way back to the bed, stretched out beside her, and curled them up under the comforter.

“Thanks,” he said quietly after a moment, then turned the TV off. His hand drifted up and down her back, lifting her tank a little to scratch at her lower back. It felt heavenly.

Just as she drifted off, she realized she'd done all the talking, and he'd done all the listening.

*   *   *

GREG
awoke to a pounding at his door. He cracked one eye open, glanced at the clock, and groaned. It wasn't even six yet, and they weren't supposed to muster until half past seven. What dumbass would take his life into his own hands and knock so early?

He grumbled, pulled the pillow over his ear, and prayed the asshole away.

But the pounding persisted. With a grumble, he levered out of bed and headed for the door, suddenly aware he was still wearing jeans and his running shoes. A half-second before he opened it, he heard a hissed, “No, stop!”

He froze, hand on the doorknob, and looked behind him. Reagan stood, darting one leg into a pair of skin-tight black pants. Her ass was bare, but he couldn't even concentrate on that when she looked so comical, hopping around the room.

Her room. Right. He was still in her room. They'd fallen asleep and he'd never made it back to his place. Shit. He'd nearly broadcast their sleeping together—literally sleeping—to whoever was on the other side of the door. Not that he cared . . . but she would.

“Who the hell is coming to your room at this hour?” he asked quietly as he sat back on the edge of the bed.

“I don't know,” she whispered, then called out, “Who is it?” at the next set of knocks.

“It's Coach Willis, ma'am.”

She rolled her eyes, though he wasn't sure if it was at the
coach—unlikely—or the
ma'am
—more plausible. “Can I help you, Coach?”

“Just need to speak with you a moment, if you don't mind.”

She grabbed her black jacket from yesterday, buttoned it over her sleeping tank without putting on a bra, then wrapped her hair up with two quick flicks of her wrist and clipped it. “Just a moment.” She waved him back, and he understood she wanted him out of the line of sight from the door. He scooted back toward the headboard and listened as she opened the door.

“Yes, Coach, how can I help you?”

The coach answered, but it was so low, Greg couldn't make it out. Her own answer was equally quiet, despite his strain to hear. After another two minutes, she closed the door quietly with a click. Then she walked to her suitcase and started tearing through it. “You've got to head back to your room. Get packed and ready to roll. I'll see you at the bus. Or . . .” She chewed on her bottom lip for a moment. “I'll think of something.”

“Think of what?” He stood, caught her shoulders and forced her to look at him. Forced her to slow down a moment and breathe. “What's wrong with our own bus?”

She took a deep breath, then let it go again. Kara would have been proud of that. “I have to go check the damage for myself, but it appears as though someone has vandalized it.”

Greg waited for more. “So, what? Someone spray paint the sides? Did they draw a penis or something? What's the real problem?”

“The real problem is the driver says he can't drive it in its current condition, and has already reported the damage to his own supervisor. He can't drive passengers on it due to liabilities. Which means I have to figure out how to get all of you, plus all your equipment, plus the support staff home.” She stepped back, cleared her throat, and nodded toward the door. When she spoke, her voice had dropped into Professional Distance Reagan mode. “I think you should
take care of that while I get dressed. We both have a lot to get done this morning.”

“Yeah, sure.” He glanced around and found his polo, pulling it on. He wouldn't make it weird, because it wasn't. She had a job to do, and he wouldn't be in her way. That was the mature, rational way to handle it, and he wasn't going to get butt hurt over it.

But damn, he thought as he closed her door and quietly walked the hallway back to his own room. Would it kill her to bend just a little before she snapped?

*   *   *

REAGAN
sat in the driver's seat of the bus—ironically, the only seat not ripped to shreds—and did some quick Internet searching on her phone while she waited. The team was inside, having been woken up early to congregate and ask who had seen what. Marianne had her own little team and was doing the same.

She'd probably have to answer questions as well, to the base MPs as well as the MPs at Lejeune. There was no way this was coincidental. Not after so much else had happened to the team in such a short period of time.

But the scary part was . . . they were hours away from home. And unless you were a friend or family member of a teammate, most civilians wouldn't know the team had headed down for a simple scrimmage.

So the culprit had most likely traveled down with them on the very bus he then vandalized. Very comforting.

Another ten minutes later—including one short and not-so-sweet call to her supervisor—Reagan had secured travel for the team back home. She hopped down from the seat and walked through the broken front doors, and nearly screamed when she hit the pavement and saw a tall figure lurking to her right.