What Part of Marine Don't You Understand? (The Challenge Series) Page 4

  Her last name was Sparks, but he hadn’t drawn the connection to any political figures. “Maybe? I don’t really keep up on that stuff.”

  “Jazz mentioned her. She’s been doing some fact finding for her brother while she’s here. He’s one of our bigger supporters. Look—take her lunch. Eat food. Talk about the weather. It’s okay to enjoy yourself.”

  Really?

  Logan added, “I know it doesn’t seem like that and you’re probably feeling guilty for enjoying yourself. But you don’t have to. In fact—let’s make this an order. Go spend a couple of hours and forget everything but having a good time.”

  Oddly enough, that helped. “Yes, sir.”

  “You good now?”

  “I think so.” More than a little. His breathing relaxed and the shake in his hand eased. The thought of the sandwiches made his stomach growl. “Thanks, Logan.”

  “Like I said—I’m in the hole. We’ll go when you’re ready, it’s right this way….”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He hung up and looked at Jethro. “Let’s do this.”

  The dog bounded up and raced for the door. This time, Matt didn’t slow. He clipped the leash on his collar and grabbed the basket. Hopefully she would be hungry.

  He sure as hell was.

  ***

  Naomi worked through another series of bridges and chords. The blank sheet music and pencil sat ignored next to her. She couldn’t really focus on composition when she looked at the trail every other minute. Every day she sat there and Matt showed up with his dog. They chatted for a few minutes and then he threw the stick while she played.

  And today he’s not here…and I’m not writing. Music and the arts were not a career path her father encouraged. In her particular situation, Naomi agreed with him. Whether by accident or design, over half the songs she scored and wrote focused on life in the service—or the family life of someone in the service.

  As if with a will of their own, her fingers switched chords to Toby Keith’s, “Made in America.” She loved the song, and the meaning behind it. Closing her eyes, she played the music and hummed along until she got to the red, white, and blue and the Semper Fi on his arm—raising her voice, she sang about King James and Uncle Sam.

  Throwing her arm up after the last chord, she clenched her fist and exulted in the feeling of the song’s message. Quiet applause brought her back down to Earth. Matt stood there, in T-shirt and jeans rather than his usual running gear. He held a basket in his right hand and Jethro’s leash in the other.

  Her face warmed. “Hey.”

  “Hey. Don’t suppose you know ‘Courtesy of the Red, White, and Blue’?”

  Grinning, she adjusted the guitar and started playing the fitting tribute to soldiers. Matt closed the distance and sat down to listen. His head bobbed in time to the rhythm and he joined her in the bridge.

  “Brought to you, courtesy of the red, white, and blue.”

  She loved the guitar movements, slowing the chords as she warned of what happened when you rattled the big dog’s cage, because they would put boot to ass for messing with the U.S. of A. Matt’s grin grew, but deeper shadows clouded his beautiful blue eyes. He sang with her, but he wasn’t in the moment until Jethro rubbed his head against his shoulder. His gaze cleared and he exhaled a strangled laugh on the last note.

  “Damn. You’re good.”

  The vehemence of the compliment floored her. “Thank you.” She bit her tongue before she asked if he was okay. She’d seen that distant look in Brent’s eyes—in Charlie’s, in Toby’s and in the eyes of every man who served. For the briefest of moments, Matt had been back on those front lines. It answered her unasked question of what he did at Mike’s Place, though she’d had her suspicions.

  Pushing past the cloak of concern, she nodded to the basket. “What’s that?”

  He glanced down as though he’d forgotten. “Lunch.” The corners of his mouth curved. “I figured I always got the better end of the deal listening to you play so…I brought lunch to say thank you….” The words trailed off and he looked vaguely uncomfortable. “You know, if you’re hungry.”

  “Starving.” She set the guitar into its case. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Shaking off his distraction, he unclipped Jethro from his leash. The well-trained dog didn’t take off. Instead, he stretched out between them within easy reach of the Marine.

  Is he a PTSD dog? She wished she could see his tags or dared ask, but she didn’t want to make Matt any more uncomfortable. She’d heard such amazing things about the program. It was actually on her list to learn about as soon as she finished recording the album. Maybe she could donate a portion of her proceeds to the funding. Too many veteran recovery programs needed money to stay operational.

  “Naomi?” He said her name as though repeating it and she blinked.

  “Sorry, composing in my head.” She said the first thing that came to mind rather than point out her internal speculation. “What do you have for lunch?”

  “Salads—looks like pasta salad, some hot roast beef sandwiches and iced tea.”

  Her stomach let out a vociferous growl and her face heated. “Sounds tasty.”

  They divvied up the food and conversation lagged as they dug in. She couldn’t help but watch him as he ate. The lack of a healthy appetite was a lingering symptom of PTSD, along with nightmares, jitters, and a pathological avoidance of things that might remind them of what they desperately wanted to forget.

  She read all the brochures.

  “This is excellent.” She mangled the gratitude around a mouthful. “Thank you so much for bringing this.”

  “You’re welcome.” The words garbled in his mouth too, and they both laughed.

  “Can he have some?” She gestured to the dog and Matt shrugged, pulling apart his sandwich and feeding some of the roast beef to the Labrador. Jethro didn’t question the etiquette and gobbled it down. The smart animal swung his gaze to her and she obediently handed him some as well.

  “Okay, now I feel like it’s a picnic. Doesn’t seem right to eat in front of the dog and ignore him.”

  “No, ma’am,” he agreed. “Though he’s pretty good about not begging.”

  “He’s a good dog.” Wiping her hands on a napkin, she studied Matt. “Thanks for coming out here every day—seriously. You inspire me.”

  He hesitated, one hand on his Styrofoam cup. “I do?”

  “Yeah, composing can be kind of lonely, but you show up and give me someone to play for—an audience is always inspiring.” Dodging the more obvious answer proved the right choice when the tight lines around his eyes eased.

  “Well, I’m sure you’ve performed in front of people before.” Matt packed away the trash, stacking it neatly in the basket then stretched out to lie on his side. Jethro crawled forward until he could sprawl against Matt’s chest. Jealousy admired a dog who took what he wanted and tried not to envy him.

  “Yes and no.” She cleared her throat. “I’ve sung for my friends, played on the quad at college—played for my family. Stuff like that. But not for people I don’t know and definitely not my own material.”

  “You’re recording an album, I thought.” Puzzlement wrinkled his brow.

  “Yeah, that’s ’cause I made this recording with my computer—played some songs, recorded myself, and sent the MP3s to a producer. He liked what he heard. Had me record a few more things and then offered me an opportunity to play for him.” She grimaced. “He’s giving me the chance to record something for Regina Records and you know—go with it from there.”

  “So you’re a performer.”

  “Yeah, one who gets flop sweats when she stands in front of large crowds. I prefer a more intimate setting.” She debated how far to push it, but Matt’s interest felt genuine and showing her own vulnerability might make him more comfortable about his own. “Honestly, I wanted to be a songwriter—not a performer.”

  “So why are you recording something then?” To his credit, he di
dn’t give her the look her brothers did—the one that said, So, stupid, why are you doing it?

  Owing him a reward for the bemused question that didn’t insult her intelligence, she lifted her shoulders. “Honestly? Because if I record it, then I get a say in how the songs are used and maybe—just maybe, I can help. My dad always told us, ‘he who gives the order should lead the charge.’ I want my music to matter, I want my songs to help. I can’t—I can’t dodge bullets or wear a uniform. I grew up Marine, but that isn’t for me. I’m too much of a chicken when the big guns are out. I’d rather run and hide than run and face them. And that’s okay because I have four brothers who run into those fires for me. So I want to do something for them.”

  Had she rushed it? Had she said too much?

  “You do do something for them.” The soft drawl of Matt’s voice pulled her forward. “You give them something to fight for and defend.”

  Tears pricked her eyes, but she was too long accomplished at burying that emotion. Her brothers earned her respect, and her tears, and deserved to be shielded from them. “Thank you. I want to do the same for them here at home—protect them, defend them, champion the causes that help.”

  “What happened?”

  She glanced away, studying the trees. The day’s warmth was about perfect. Pleasant without being hot and a breeze to keep them cool despite sitting right in the sun. “To who?”

  “Who got hurt?”

  “My oldest brother.” She pulled out a blade of grass and twirled it around. “Stupid accident. He was in a ’copter, it took fire, went down. He banged his leg up bad, but…took too long to get medical care and it got infected.”

  “He lost the leg?” Quiet, soft and steady. Naomi hadn’t imagined the shakiness in him earlier, but he stared at her quietly, one hand on Jethro’s back. The intensity in his gaze sent a shiver of awareness through her.

  Comforting you, not trying to turn you on. Down girl. “Yeah, he lost his right leg from just above the knee. He wears a prosthetic and never complained or got upset. His only focus getting well and returning to duty in the field.” She shook her head. “Poster boy for the Marines. We have this deal—he plays tough, strong, and wise older brother, and I’m the oohing and ahhing, impressed baby sister—who occasionally tweaks him for being so all-knowing and wise.”

  Matt laughed. “My sister does that. Only she’s a brat.”

  “Oh, I can do that, too.” She enjoyed studying him. He was a really handsome guy. His square jaw said tough, but the dimple in his right cheek told her sweet. And the blue eyes didn’t quit—they were pure sexy. And I have it bad…stop!

  “I bet. Okay, so I brought you lunch. Time for you to pay for the meal.” He raised his brows and heat flushed through her. He couldn’t possibly mean with sex.

  Dammit.

  He nodded to her guitar and heat scalded her face. Yeah, he definitely didn’t mean sex.

  “Absolutely—what do you want to hear?” She fought for composure and retrieved her guitar.

  “I want to hear one of your songs.”

  Oh, hell….

  Chapter Five

  They walked back together, Matt insisted on carrying her guitar and she allowed him the privilege as long as she got to hold Jethro’s leash. The Labrador trotted happily between them. Matt chose the longer route to the apartment complex, delaying the goodbye. Lunch turned into an afternoon together and it neared dinner.

  He considered asking her if she wanted pizza, but the right thing meant taking her out for dinner. Out meant crowds and people and noise. Out meant leaving himself open to a nutty and that wasn’t fair to her. She had an apartment in the C complex, about a quarter of a mile from his own and one of the furthest from the medical center. Made sense, she wasn’t there for medical treatment.

  “You hungry?” She took the lead, following the sidewalk around to the far side. Her apartment faced the greenbelt with its sparse woods rather than the running paths or the parking lot.

  “We just had lunch.” Jethro sat when they reached her door, but she pushed it open without reaching for her keys. It wasn’t locked. Matt frowned and blocked her sailing through the door with the guitar case. “Why is it open?”

  “Because I didn’t want to carry the keys with me, so I left it unlocked. Have you seen the security around here?”

  Her easy smile and offhanded attitude bugged him. Staying in the apartment alone, she shouldn’t be leaving it unlocked. Mike’s Place may seem like base—but it wasn’t.

  “Stay.” He went through the door first, tension ratcheting up his spine.

  Like so many of the pre-furnished apartments on the property, done in earth tones, with the standard sofa, television, coffee and dining room tables. A jacket lay folded over the back of a chair, a laptop occupied the center of the coffee table, and the remote sat next to the television on the stand.

  Open window blinds admitted the late afternoon sunlight, dappling the room in homey comfort. A single coffee cup sat next to the sink. He set the guitar case and basket down and completed the walk-through, including a glance in the bedroom. The double bed was made, the sheets and blanket tucked tightly.

  Pleasure curled through him. Only one toothbrush in the bathroom and a hint of apples clung to the air—likely her shampoo or conditioner. Returning to the living room, he found her leaning against the doorframe, Jethro wagging his tail beside her. They wore similar expressions of patient waiting.

  “It’s clear.”

  “Thank you.” Her easy acceptance surprised him. She didn’t comment on the search or the fact that he took the lead. Jethro trotted in ahead of her and she closed the door. “So, dinner? It’s almost six.”

  He hesitated.

  And then she sweetened the deal. “We could order pizza.”

  He could do pizza. “Okay. I’d like that.”

  She grinned and waved him over to the sofa. “Make yourself comfortable. I usually do a meatlovers. That work for you?”

  He started to sit and Jethro leaped up onto the sofa next to him. “No, sir. We’re guests—”

  “It’s okay. I like dogs, he’s more than welcome to sit up there.”

  Matt didn’t share her graciousness. He’d rather she sat next to him, but he could nudge Jethro down when the food got there. She grabbed the phone and the information card staged next to it. Every apartment had them—a list of local services that delivered. So many of Mike’s Place guests were out-of-towners. Placing the order, she disappeared into the kitchen.

  “Beer?”

  “Sure.” He could handle one and then switch to water afterward. Fortunately, his medication was only on an as needed basis so he didn’t have to decline. Sheet music stacked next to her laptop and the blank screen had him curious, but he didn’t tap the space bar to see what she’d been doing the last time she sat there. “So how many songs are typically on an album?”

  “Depends on the album,” her voice floated back, the pop of a bottle top underscoring the words. “Ideally, I’d like ten or so.” She walked over to the sofa and handed him his beer and set her own on a coaster on the table. “I have seven so far, so that’s three more to write. I may listen to more of the samples Phil sent and see if I like them. But so far, none he’s sent over have matched the theme. Excuse me for just one minute?”

  “Of course.” He bit back, who’s Phil, and ignored the brief surge of jealousy flavoring the thought. She vanished into the bedroom. Restlessness raced through him and his right leg began to bounce. He took a swallow of beer and concentrated on breathing through the mild surge of panic. Jethro rolled over and laid his head on Matt’s leg, quelling the bounce.

  “So—what’s the theme?” he called.

  “Marines.” She reappeared on the heels of the words and he was glad he wasn’t drinking or he might have swallowed his tongue. She’d changed her clothes, swapping out jeans for a pair of shorts and a USMC T-shirt. Without a trace of make-up on, she looked edible. Plopping down on the opposite end of the sofa, she
scratched Jethro’s back and propped her bare feet on the edge of the coffee table. Bright red toenail polish teased him—along with the sexiest little toe-ring he’d ever seen.

  “What?” He blinked and dragged his attention north, focusing on her cheerful brown eyes rather than the pert breasts framed beautifully behind the lettering on her shirt.

  “I said my theme is Marines—Marines, their families, growing up Marine, Semper Fi, and goodnight.” She locked gazes with him and heat pulsed from his head to his cock and up again. He couldn’t be certain if he was relieved or disappointed when her shy eyes ducked away. Her cheeks were pink and flushed and damn gorgeous.

  “I liked the one you sang earlier—about Leatherneck Brothers.” He could barely remember the words, but the playfulness in her voice had captivated him, the shine in her eyes and the way she bobbed her head to the rhythm she’d created reminded him of boot camp, to hard work, pride, and hope.

  “That’s totally about my brothers.” She laughed. “All four of them.”

  “You mentioned Brent earlier.”

  “Yep.” She retrieved her beer and crossed one ankle over the other. “Brent, Charlie, David, and Toby. Toby’s my twin. Brent’s retired, but he still teaches, and he just got elected to Congress last year. Charlie’s overseas in the 5th Expeditionary Force, he does recon and communication set up. David’s in Egypt, and Toby’s somewhere in the South Pacific doing a float.”

  Four older brothers—the thought might have discouraged him a few years ago. “And all Marines?”

  “Every single one of them.” She laughed. “I miss them like crazy, but they’re all doing what they want to be doing. There was only ever one true downside to their calling….”

  “Yeah?”

  “Have you ever tried to date with four brothers who intimidated the hell out of anyone asking you?” She grinned. “Or worse, had a crush on a Marine who knew your brothers and your father and dropped you squarely into the off limits category?”