The McClane Apocalypse: Book One (37 page)

“I’m at your service, boss,” he says and scratches his chest. It’s a disconcerting move. It forces Reagan’s eyes to follow that hand and linger on his naked chest. The same scars from his back are mirrored here but just not as numerously. It is a wide, thickly muscled chest with a small tuft of dark hair in the center. It dawns on her how different John is from the other men she’s known, especially the ones from her college. He’s lived a much different, harder life and his body with all of its muscle and scars reflects it. Reagan clears her voice. It sounds incredibly loud in the tomb-like quiet of the room. With a bunch of kids and adults in the house, nowhere is quiet anymore.

“Just... don’t move. I want to get your pulse,” she orders more firmly this time.

“I’d like to get your pulse right now, too,” he insinuates sensually. “I’d bet it’s a little... erratic.” Reagan sucks in a deep breath and blinks at him. Where did he learn to talk like that? He raises an eyebrow at her pause. Then he slowly reaches forward and twines one of Reagan’s loose spiral curls around his index finger. She just blinks at him again.

“Don’t,” she croaks weakly. Her voice sounds pathetic even to her. It pisses her off, so she slaps his straying hand down. “Don’t.” This time it actually sounds like she means it, and she furrows her brow at him. Much better. Unfortunately, John just grins at her.

She’s done being silly and distracted and presses her stethoscope to his chest which makes him jump because it’s cold. Good. That’s how she should’ve awakened him in the first damned place!

“Whoa, hey now. I just woke up, boss. Be nice!” he hisses through his teeth at her. That ought to cool his heels. “What time is it?”

Reagan doesn’t answer right away while she is still listening to his lung function and heart rhythm, but when she finishes she does reply: “It’s 9:30. You haven’t slept that long. But I wanted to check in on you and get you to eat something, too.”

“Aw, you were concerned for me?” he asks hopeful.

“I was also concerned last year when Grandpa’s heifer, Bernadette, gave birth. So don’t get cocky,” Reagan admonishes.

“When you put it that way, it isn’t quite so romantic.”

“Whatever gave you the impression that I was a romantic?” Reagan asks him. “Hold still. I want to check your bandages, too.”

He generously leans forward so that she can look under the bandage, and she carefully presses two fingers against his shoulder, against his warm skin. It’s as if an electric charge sizzles between their skin causing her to jump. Was it just static from the blankets or carpeting? Probably. Reagan avoids eye contact with him and presses again. This time it is slightly fainter, the weird electricity.

“Am I still alive, little Doc?”

“Shh. I need to concentrate,” Reagan corrects him so he’ll leave her alone. Ascertaining that’s he’s not bleeding, though, she confirms that yes, he is still alive. “I think you’ll live... for whatever that’s worth.”

“What do you think it’s worth? That’s what I want to know, boss,” he asks solemnly. His annoying grin is still on his dumb face, however.

“You’re a good farm hand. That’s what I think,” Reagan insults him. “Sit up.”

“That’s all? A farm hand? Hmm...” John sulks and pushes to an upright position.

“Here, eat,” she orders and sets the tray on his lap. She slings her stethoscope back around her neck and notices that he hasn’t moved. When she makes eye contact with him, he is quietly staring at her with his head cocked to one side as if he can look straight through to her soul. John has a strong brow and deep, high cheekbones. There is a scar slicing through his left eyebrow. She’d not noticed it before. Of course, she’d not noticed much about him before.

“What?” Reagan asks him point blank. She is still sitting on the edge of his bed.

“A farm hand? Seriously?”

She blurts uncomfortably, “Well you’re a good shot, too, I guess,”

“That’s a little better... I guess,” he mimics her. It’s not funny. He’s just irritating.

“Whatever, just eat,” Reagan orders, and he finally picks up the fork and begins digging into his pile of food. He starts with the meat first. Typical man.

“What did I miss?” John asks.

“Not much, just planning crap like hunting season and stuff,” Reagan informs him. She hasn’t risen from the bed yet. She tells herself it’s so that she can make sure he eats.

“Oh yeah? Sounds like fun,” John admits and stuffs a giant piece of bread in his mouth.

“I’ve never hunted before, so I wouldn’t know,” Reagan tells him.

“No? How the heck did you learn to shoot like that then?”

“Me and Grandpa liked to target shoot together. We’d move the targets farther and farther out. Sue would shoot sometimes, too. Grandpa even taught Hannie to shoot. In case she was ever here by herself and someone broke in. You know, so that she could protect herself? But, hell, Hannah doesn’t have it in her to shoot anyone. It’s not in her nature. She’d probably just make them dinner and serve them dessert and send them on their way, and they’d love her like everyone does,” Reagan explains without judgment.

“Yeah, I think you’re right about that. She’s not like
you
. Heck, I think you’d shoot me if you had to,” he quips and attacks his vegetables last.

“No duh,” she tells him directly. He throws his head back and shouts with laughter. Obnoxious.

“You darn near shot me before. But you were holding your own last night, shorty. I don’t know how many of those douches you took out, but things could’ve gone a lot worse had you not been there,” he tells her as he sops up his spaghetti sauce with the last of his crusty bread.

“Does Derek always take the lead in a battle like he did last night?” she asks with genuine curiosity.

“Normally, I do because I have highest rank, but when Derek is with us, which is not often, then he outranks me,” he explains. “It’s cool, though. He’s a good squad leader. And I noticed you also shot a few of those losers, boss.”

“Six,” Reagan says and fiddles with the thermometer.

“Six?” John asks with confusion.

“Six douchebags. I got six of them,” Reagan says again.

“Wow, holy cow, Reagan. I knew I counted quite a few, but I didn’t think it was that many. Wait till I tell Kelly and Derek. They’ll get a kick out of that,” John says dumbfounded and laughs. He’s moved on to his peach cobbler. He actually closes his eyes and smiles as the first sweet tang hits his tongue. Guess they didn’t get much for dessert in the Army. Perhaps they had powdered MRE peach cobbler. She wrinkles her nose at the idea.

“Yeah, I go to med school to save people, and my newfound specialty is killing people. Awesome!” she says sarcastically and shakes her head.

“How many other people have you killed, boss?” he pries, serious again. Reagan swallows a thick lump of nerves in her throat and looks away. She shakes her head and feels her armpits start to clam up. It’s always like this when those memories come back on her.

“You don’t have to tell me today. I’m patient. Obviously,” he adds snidely with a snort.

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Reagan asks angrily.

“It means I’m patient is all. Trust me,” he says and grunts. Since she doesn’t speak grunt, Reagan ignores him while he finishes his cobbler. He washes it all down with the cold milk. Trust him? Get real.

“Do you feel ok? Want any more pain meds?” she asks, changing the subject.

“Nah, I’m made of steel. Didn’t you see all my scars? Turks couldn’t kill me, Commies tried a few times, too. Muslim sniper made his mark. See?” he asks and points to a scar on his lower stomach. His fingernails are still dirty from the day just like hers. Reagan tears her eyes away from his stomach as quick as she looks there. It’s an obvious bullet wound scar, and it’s very low on his stomach below his belly button where she doesn’t want to look.

“And here?” John lifts his right arm and points to a thick pad of scar tissue about an inch long and three inches wide over his top rib on his side. His bicep hangs thick and wide as he points, and Reagan has trouble focusing on what he’s actually pointing at. “This one just whizzed right on through the skin tissue. And let me tell you, the Army medics aren’t nearly as cute as you, either. Had some old grizzly dude sew this up. And the other ones and the other ones before that. Nope, never had a doc that looked anything like you. Heck, they could’ve sent you in to patch guys up, and they would’ve thought they’d already died and were in heaven.”

“Oh my, that doesn’t really work does it?” she asks snidely and rolls her eyes but her cheeks give her away by staining.

“Well, just tellin’ the truth, boss,” John informs her.

“You need to sleep, Romeo,” Reagan tells him.

“Hey, I want to show you some self-defense moves, ok?” he says serious again.

“What do you mean?”

“That guy, that guy last night?” John stammers and frowns hard. “I didn’t like that.”

“Gee, really? I wasn’t too crazy about it, either,” Reagan jokes but doesn’t laugh. He runs a hand through his sun-kissed blonde hair which leaves it half standing on end.

“I can show you how to get away from creeps like that. We can practice until you have it down pat. And I know you can outrun someone. So the way I see it, you just need to learn how to get them off you in the first place, then you can take off and run,” John explains.

“I don’t know,” Reagan hesitates. The idea of having to touch and be up close and personal with John is not something she feels even remotely comfortable with. And thinking about it is giving her gooseflesh, which is strangely not the reaction she normally has to the whole touching issue. Weird.

“I do. I’m going to teach you whether you want to learn it or not. And yes, I’m going to have to... handle you, but you’ll live,” he states emphatically. Normally having someone tell her what she is going to do pisses Reagan off, but the tone with which he’d said it was so final. But she does purse her lips at him.

“I don’t wanna’ hear it, boss. That crap last night? That is
never
gonna happen again, not on my watch. And if I can’t be with you every second of the day, then you’re gonna have to get better at defending yourself. So just deal with it however you need to and know that when my flipper heals up then me and you have a training date. How’s that for romantic?” he finishes with his normal lopsided grin. Reagan doesn’t say anything, but she squints her eyes at him.

“Fine!” she blows out on an exasperated exhale. She returns his food tray to the nightstand, and for whatever reason- because it’s not necessary- she listens to his chest again with her cold stethoscope. His heartbeat is slightly elevated.

“And when we go to the city together, if I can find what I need, I’ll show you how to make small explosives. And then we’ll blow them up so you can practice,” John says.

“Really?” Reagan asks with childlike delight and genuine enthusiasm. She smiles broadly at him. It’s the first time in a while, she realizes. He is visibly stunned, but quickly returns her smile, picking up on her excitement.

“Oh yeah, boss. We’ll try out some demos, and I’ll show you how to rig and ignite them. And then we’ll make some big enough to blow down a bridge,” he says.

“Cool,” Reagan whispers on a smile. She’s ready to go to the city right now. Nobody’s ever offered to teach her how to do anything like that before. Between that and the hand to hand combat training, she doesn’t know which one she wants to learn first.

“What else have I missed?” John asks again, changing the subject.

“Nothing, all the guys went to bed. Grams and Hannah put the kids to bed. Grandpa is calling for a family meeting tomorrow after the Reynolds memorial service,” she tells him.

“Good, there’s a matter I need to bring up,” John says superiorly. It incenses her.

“What? What’s so important?” She wonders at the secrecy.

“You’ll see. If I tell you, then you’ll already have your argument ready and I’ve decided that I’m not gonna back down on this one. We’ll see what your grandfather and Derek and Kelly have to say about it first. Then you can start ranting,” he tells her and yawns, stretches and flinches.

“Don’t stretch so hard; you’re gonna rip my perfect stitches,” she complains and continues with their conversation. “So this affects me but you aren’t going to tell me?”

“Nope,” he answers with righteous attitude.

“Yes, tell me!” Reagan argues. What the hell?

“No, half pint. You aren’t in charge of me and if you get mean, I’ll tell your Gramps on you. And if you start swearing, I’ll tell Grams. I’m an injured, sick man here you know. Don’t give me a hard time. So how do you like that?” he teases. Reagan glares at him viciously.

“You’re ridiculous. You are just like a little kid!” she scolds.

“You wanna punish me, ma’am? I can scoot over,” he drawls sexily and pats the bed.

“Ugh, grow up! Don’t be so stupid all the time,” Reagan admonishes. He doesn’t answer, and Reagan stops fiddling with her stethoscope to look directly at him again. His grin has softened, and his eyes are glazed over with... something. “What?” she asks impatiently.

“Nothin’. I just like lookin’ at you is all,” he answers her stoically.

His ridiculous words make Reagan blush full-on scarlet and that makes her embarrassed as hell.

“Well, stop it,” she orders him, but the words sound weak again. Why does this happen around him?

“I can’t. Tried a couple of times. Didn’t work,” he admits, shrugs and winces again.

“Try harder,” Reagan says through her teeth.

“I’ll try,” he says sarcastically. His grin has turned to full blown smart-ass.

“Hey, can I get a shower before I go back to sleep? I’m feeling pretty filthy after working on... stuff all day,” he asks. The “stuff” part was burying dead bodies. “Is it ok with these bandages?”

“Yes, that would be fine. You won’t hurt the bandaging. Just don’t super soak them. Let me just get...” Reagan is about to suggest Kelly so that he can help John in case he feels groggy from the drugs, but she remembers that he’s gone to bed. “Um, I guess I’ll help.”

As she stands, John simultaneously flings back his sheet and springs up right beside her, coming to his full height. He is in boxer briefs. And nothing else.