Bare Knuckle: Vegas Top Guns, Book 5 (19 page)

He’d need to shake the memories of ejecting through his half-stuck canopy. Screaming air. Screaming lungs. Screaming pain.

He pushed the flashes away.

Data streamed in through the digitized panels covering each knee. Tin Tin’s plane pushed up on Eric’s port side, flying toward an Israeli opponent. Fast and hard. Eric did too, once he gave his head a shake. He nudged the throttle and snatched more air. He could own any moment, even if he had to catch it by the balls. His plane swooped along the terrain, up a ridge, then down the other side to take a Japanese F-15 by surprise. Score. Eric was on his game.

By the time he landed, he was feeling pretty damn good. He’d been Tin Tin’s wingman, which meant parking their Vipers side by side.

“Nice kill,” he said, voice sounding as if he were being strangled. “That Israeli.”

Tin Tin slid him a wary look before marking it with his trademark sly smile. “Thanks. You played second fiddle on that one. Appreciate it.”

“He was yours.” Eric shrugged. “I had your back if you missed.”

“Hell, Kisser, when was the last time I missed? For that matter, when was the last time
you
missed?” He affected a faraway look. “But one day, years from now, I’ll appreciate your support. Until then…unclench, man. You’re getting there.”

“Bite me, Tin Tin.”

“I’m rubber. You’re glue.” The punk grinned again, dimples and all, then jogged to join Leah as they strode off the tarmac.

Eric bit his molars together. Twelve-step program on how to stop being an asshole. That was the goal. Nothing was impossible after spending the weekend with Trish. It was Tuesday, and he still couldn’t escape the memories. Didn’t want to.

The ugly thoughts he harbored about Tin Tin turned a little…less ugly.

Once the squadron finished post-flight checks, the hardcore determination Eric had poured into his flight left him pretty damn drained. Thank Christ he had a week before his next flight.

In the hangar, he flipped through his maintenance logs one last time. Failure to dot every I and cross every T would come back to bite him in the ass. Major Haverty, the infamous Fang, would do the biting.

As if having summoned the man, Eric turned a corner to find the major standing in the middle of the hallway. “Fang, Sir.”

Haverty’s tall head blotted out part of the fluorescent lights. “Kisser,” he said gravely.

A chill skittered down Eric’s spine. “Sir?”

“I’ve been watching your flights.”

“I get it done.” Crossing his arms over his chest was practically instinctive. “Blocks checked.”

“That’s the thing.” Haverty scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “Flying shouldn’t be checking off a list. You’re stiff.”

“Is this a formal complaint?”

“No. But if you need someone to talk it over with…”

“I’d rather not. Am I still cleared for the Red Flag?”

“Just over two weeks. Get it in gear, bandit. We need Kisser up there.”

Eric understood the unspoken message—the fighter pilot named Kisser, not a recovering headcase. “I understand, Sir.”

Then he bailed. Fast. He didn’t want to spend any more time getting the third degree from Fang. Making nearly nice with Tin Tin had been draining enough.

Stiff flying? Probably. There was no telling the cause. Too many to list these days, although the big one lingered. The fucking crash. He hated how it remained a brick in his gut, pulling him down. The possibilities dogged him on the drive home.

Quiet. A little peace. It didn’t seem like too much to ask.

His phone rang as he walked in the front door. He ditched his armful of paperwork on the kitchen island then fished the phone out of his pocket. Detroit area code.

“Donaghue.”

“I should hope I’d know your last name. It’s mine too.”

“Carey.” Eric dropped to the couch. “Man, how you been?”

“Rough.” His voice was softer than Eric had heard in a long time. “Real rough. But supposedly that’s a good thing. Means we’re on the right track.”

“Cuz the easy way’s the pills?”

“Yeah.” The line crackled a minute with silence—silence with a heavy dose of sick anticipation.

Eric had been down this road so many times. He couldn’t help the hope that swelled in his chest. Optimism was probably a disease too. In the quiet, he was suddenly back in their tiny apartment in Detroit. They’d shared a couple beers and a pack of tacos while Carey sketched the design for Eric’s skyline tattoo. The music had blared because they were alone, with Mom out working third shift.

A solid moment. The kind of moment Eric held on to in these painful times.

He scratched down his thigh, hoping for a bit of sensation—something to pull him safely back to earth. Clouds fell. Dissolved. He couldn’t stay in the sky forever. Flying had gotten him as close as possible, but eventually the sky had spit him out.

He didn’t want to put so many hopes on Carey. Though his brother was only three years younger, Eric had always thought of him as a kid. “You making it work?” he asked.

A dry laugh was the only answer at first. When Eric let the line stay quiet until Carey made a muted noise of agreement. “I’m trying. This place…I like it. There’s good people here. Really good. One girl, she’s… Whatever. They make sense. I’ve got one counselor, Pete, who makes these awesome twenty-foot-high sculptures. He’s a complete savant. Nearly autistic. Can’t talk to people for shit unless he’s got a list of questions in front of him, then you can’t shut him up.”

“But what about…?” He stopped himself.

“He’s a great drug counselor, bro. He gets through to me. Maybe. I don’t know. There’s no judgment from him. He calls it gravity. Can’t fight gravity.” A pause. “Shit, Eric, I didn’t mean that.”

“Forget it,” Eric said, his words sincere. “I know damn well that’s the truth.”

“Okay. Cool.” Another pause. “But like Pete said, some things you
can
fight. That’s my job now. I tell you, man, it’s as shitty as cleaning out toilets with a toothbrush.” Carey was laughing some, which was good and bad. Good because it meant he could be on his way back. Bad because, holy fuck, was Eric the only one worried? The only one who remembered how many times this had failed?

He was sure as hell the only one writing the checks.

Fist tight on his thigh, he asked, “You talked to Mom or Dad?”

“Nah. You?”

Eric had the day after Carey’s temper tantrum, but he hadn’t mentioned the outburst. Until events swung one way or the other, he didn’t want to give himself a headache by involving his parents. They’d abdicated that responsibility a long time ago. Instead he’d tried to get their mom to visit Carey. Hadn’t worked. “Mom’s stressed. Her hours got cut.”

“Of course. She’s always stressed.” Carey’s voice had turned harder. “And Dad’s never home. Nothing changes.”

“I should have taken you with me.” The words flew out of his mouth without thinking.

“What would you have done? Stuck me in your locker in the wrestling gym?”

He and Carey had always had each other. Mom worked a million and one hours, aiming for a solid retirement. One day. Dad had worked before the auto plant shut down, then spent his time hanging out at the bowling alley. Why bother coming home to their shithole apartment on the dingy side of town when his buddies were waiting? It hadn’t mattered at first. Eric and Carey had spent their time together. Worked out. Wrestled. Made plans.

Eric had been the first one out. Carey had hit the skids. Abandoned.

“I could have gotten an off-campus apartment. Enough room for both of us.”

“And paid for it how?” Carey blew out a long, shaky breath. “Look, this is why I called. I don’t need this. Your guilt. Pete wanted me to talk to you.”

“I’m not feeling guilty.”

“Bullshit,” Carey said with a laugh. “Give it up. I’ve made my own choices, like how I busted up my room last week. I’m sorry for that. You must’ve taken it hard, and I know what this is setting you back. But none of this is your fault. You were a hundred miles away when I popped Oxy the first time.”

That was the problem. If Eric had stuck around, none of this would have happened. Worse, he’d
stayed
gone. He’d joined the Air Force, then enlisted not once but twice. His guilt wasn’t going anywhere as long as he was in Vegas and Carey was stuck in a facility.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You think it’s going well now though?”

“I…I think it is.”

They kept chatting a few minutes more, but the air fizzled out of their conversation. Anxiety dogged Eric after they hung up. Energy burned up the backs of his legs and down his spine as he stripped out of his flight suit. The tingling pressure made him want to strip his skin just as easily. But there was no escaping himself.

The idea of calling Trish hovered in his mind, but she was on an audition, trying to find a new job to cover the bills once her show shut down. The absolute last thing she needed was his crazy shit and worry for his brother.

They didn’t have that kind of relationship.

They were a good time. He gave her everything he could manage, but that wasn’t much more than a fantastic weekend. If anything, Trish was too compassionate. Those blue eyes would well up with sympathetic tears, and he’d drown there. Trading the pain in one big guilt circle didn’t sound fun for anyone.

Still, he could use a hit of her. A hit of that freedom they had together. Something to take the bite out of a shit day.

He powered up his laptop as if his hands had free will. Trish’s folder was open. Although he’d pored over the pictures, he hadn’t looked at the video yet. Downloaded it of course, but something had made him hold off. Maybe he’d known he’d face a moment like this and need the fresh thrill.

He clicked the video file. The screen filled with Trish, on her back. Watching was like being back in that hotel room, when she’d been fucked and smudged and trashy. Only for him to see.

With the sound off so he didn’t hear his own voice, he watched her get up. Walk over to the bed. Stare straight at the lens.

Shoving his boxer briefs to the floor, Eric gave his waking cock a stroke. Then another when the on-screen Trish put her hands between her legs.

The bottom swell of her breasts was perfect, made to be held but not overly lush. She was gorgeous everywhere. With a hard cock came a clean mind. Everything else rushed away in the link between Trish and his greedy eyes. A private show. She slipped to her knees and came closer to the camera. He’d zoomed out, making sure not to miss a second.

Eric gripped his prick and fondled the sensitive head, holding back the pressurized pleasure that wanted to boil out of his body. A little more. Her face on-screen and the smudged eyeliner. Hollowed cheeks and lips swelled with cock.

Each stroke went fiercer. Faster. Meaner. He wanted her. Watching her.

Fucking her hard.

The version of him on camera came, but Eric held off—resisting the kiss she blew at the lens. He had a goal. A mission. Each clutching stroke took him closer to her explosion. He saw the moment it happened, even with the sound off. Her sexy body bowed up from the bed in a lovely arch. She’d tasted like honey as her juices washed over his tongue.

Standing now, Eric pumped his prick as she exploded on camera. He came. Holy
fuck
, he came. He slapped his palm on the desk. His thighs shook against his release. The sensation was sharp and blinding.

He stood at his desk until his breathing got under control, until he was able to gather his head. As good as that had been, it wasn’t enough. It was a substitute for having Trish there with him. Her special spark had been missing. Joy, maybe? Not the innocent joy of someone who didn’t know better, but that of a woman who’d been privy to life’s dark alleys and knew a first-class thing when she saw it.

He was starting to like her joy too much—to like
her
way too much.

He was so damn screwed.

Chapter Nineteen

Trish had packed her bag for afternoon and evening. Three bags, actually. Class, an audition and the Wednesday-night show. It was only noon and she was exhausted. The last thing she needed was her mama’s version of a pep talk, but that’s what she got while fixing turkey on whole wheat in their kitchenette.

“I got a call from Hank Yardley last night,” Mama said.

Trish’s heart stuttered. The sandwich would be necessary to get her through the rest of the day, but suddenly it resembled fresh roadkill.

“What about?” she managed.

“An audition. Since you’ve been having trouble getting them on your own.”

“I have one today!”

“Anyway, I told him sure,” Mama said, ignoring the comment completely.

“You told him yes without asking me? That’s not fair. Besides, I’ve got calls into everyone I know, and Dan Flowers says there’s a possibility at the Paris. He still remembers how well I did on that Osmond show a few years ago.”

“You need the work, Patty.”

“Not from Hank. Not his kind of work.”

Her mother, once a beauty to rival Trish, hadn’t put on a single ounce since following Trish to Vegas. That didn’t mean she was pretty. Her skin had the consistency of leather drawn taut over wires. If she wasn’t careful, Trish would end up the same way.