Wingman Warriors - Joint Forces Part 13

Her hands clenched. She didn't want to talk about their children. She wanted to hear more about how much he'd missed her. And why. Silly, frivolous words, considering her age and how long they'd been married.

All the more reason they were better off talking about their children. Safer for them. Safer for her heart.

J.T. slammed the truck door. "I'm not sure what's up with the boy anymore. I have tried to talk to him. Guys just approach things ... differently."

"Guess that's why men have more heart attacks than women."

He draped his wrist over the steering wheel. "I'll try to talk to Chris. If you have any ideas for

conversation starters, I'm not adverse to listening." His gray eyes lit. "Then I can translate them into manspeak."

"Manspeak?"

"Sure. You've seen those lists that float around on the Internet. Guy says 'uh-huh' and it means-"

"It means, 'I'll agree to anything if you'll quit blocking my view of the football game."'

"Busted." He grinned.

"So if I asked Chris if he's upset and does he need to share what's bothering, you would ask...?"

"Something p.i.s.sing you off?"

"Or if he's suffering from any anxiety about his parents splitting?"

"You okay about everything?"

Ah. Understanding hummed through her as clearly as the airplane's drone overhead. "Your question is a

third as long as mine. And vague. What if he misses the point because of that vagueness?""What if I'm missing the point and he tells me something I never expected?"Surprise at his insight stunned her quiet. What else might he have offered up if she'd asked his input on the parenting more often? "Valid thought."

"Yeah, I just made it up."

A laugh snorted free. His dry wit always snuck up on her like that. "But women need those extra words.

Otherwise how are we supposed to know when you're in pain?"

"There's your logic flaw. A man's never in pain."

"That he'll admit."

"Bingo."

What else could she pry out of her reticent husband with a few more questions? "So how does a woman

know when a man needs something?"

A slow smile dimpled his rugged handsomeness seconds before his smoky gray eyes steamed over her.

"Oh, babe, trust me, you'll know."

The truck cab fogged all over again, heavier this time since it sparked the barely banked heat of their kiss

moments prior. She wanted so much from him, and she was right in demanding he pony up more in their

relations.h.i.+p.

But she'd hit a wall so many times with her clam-up husband. Regardless of whether they stayed together, they would be together in many ways because of their children. She needed to understand J.T.'s hidden emotions if she ever expected to survive without combusting into flames-from both anger and pa.s.sion. "What does it mean when a guy stumbles on his wife in the kitchen and when she offers to share her precious chili, he says, 'What the h.e.l.l are you doing up?'"

He stared outside at the red brick building for so long, she thought he wouldn't answer her. No surprise. However, she was mega-surprised by how much she wanted that answer.

Finally, he turned, resigned, like a man heading to the gallows, scouring guilt over her for having sent him there. "You want more words, Rena? Here they are. In this case, the snapping then and now means a guy is h.o.r.n.y as h.e.l.l since he hasn't been with a woman except for one weekend in six months. It means he misses coming home from work to his wife, being able to slip up behind her, wrap his arms around her, fill his hands with her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Fill her body with his."

The steam came straight off her overheated flesh this time. He missed her, missed what they had together. And even as she knew they needed so much more to hold it together, it felt so good to know he'd found some comfort, happiness, something in their life together.

He cupped her chin, his touch not quite gentle, but then the emotions stinging through her were anything but gentle. "It means he's d.a.m.n tired of life being so complicated. But it is. And he's got to deal with it the best way he knows how, which means keeping things uncomplicated."

His fingers threaded up into her hair. "And we both know, babe, s.e.x between the two of us is never uncomplicated." He drew his hand back, gentle, insistent, tugging against tangling curls, long, slow. "s.e.x for us is intense and messy and mind-blowing."

Her breaths came in heavy bursts of need, nerves along her scalp tingling with awareness. If he leaned forward, she would kiss him again. Let him kiss her, maybe more, because his words touched her as firmly as his hands.

But he didn't kiss her. "And we both need a clear mind now more than ever."

He pulled away. Left her again. A few months ago she would have cried. Or raged. A part of her wanted to now.

Except as she watched him retrieve her crutches from the back of the truck, she couldn't help but wonder what two-thirds he'd left unsaid. And was she really ready to hear what else she might learn from deciphering his "manspeak" when they climbed back into the truck again?

Chapter 7.

Who would have thought he'd prefer a chemical-warfare cla.s.s to making out with his wife in a parking lot?

Saluting a pa.s.sing officer, J.T. strode up the walkway toward the brick and brown building, late afternoon sun beating down on his shoulders. d.a.m.n it, but Rena had wriggled under his skin and made him say more than he wanted. His trump card in their relations.h.i.+p had always been keeping his cool. Weathering the storm.

Somehow he'd managed to walk away a few minutes ago without giving in to the predictable urge to distract her with s.e.x. Even with that out-of-control kiss of hers, he knew she would do a ninety-degree about-face once they took the edge off their frustrations.

She would start asking more of those chick questions. If he stayed quiet, he p.i.s.sed her off. If he answered, somehow he came up short of what she wanted.

So he would go slow, soften her up since, no doubt, his prideful wife wouldn't easily get over his leaving. And with a cargo hold full of luck, they wouldn't die from hormonal overload.

He pushed through the gla.s.s door into the building, the full blast of air-conditioning catching him in the face. The soft echo of his boots on the industrial carpet echoed along with the low-pitched rumble of voices, ringing telephones, computer chimes.

From one of the rooms stepped Spike, his spiked hair longer than his previous buzz now that he wasn't undercover. In keeping with his regular OSI position, he'd exchanged the flight suit for khakis, a sports coat, and a palm tree-patterned tie that never stayed tight enough. Not exactly the normal look for an OSI agent, but Max "Spike" Keagan got the job done. His way. "Hey, dude. Are you on the schedule for chem-warfare update?"

"Heading that way now."

"Me, too. Thought I'd listen in." Spike slipped into pace alongside him. An easy man to hang with, the guy was as comfortable with silence as J.T.

They'd worked well together during the weeks training the OSI agent to pose as a loadmaster for the infiltration into the American base in Rubistan. Regs kept Spike from holding the crew position solo, but he knew enough to look credible when flying along with another loadmaster. No doubt Spike had picked up some additional tips from his pilot fiancee.

J.T. cleared the door into the room packed with aviators, tables in front of them littered with gas masks. Two more tables lined the front of the room with stacks of training carbon filters, a couple of training chemical suits. A mannequin stood propped in the corner, outfitted in the full gear.

C-17 squadrons didn't fly with set crews except during wartime or special operations, but allegiances gelled all the same, as could be seen by the seating choices. J.T. found his boots carrying him back to the corner with Scorch, Bronco, Crusty, Joker, Cobra...

And, G.o.d help him, motormouth Gabby, a six-foot-two-inch wiry guy in constant motion like a kid on sugar overload. Apparently Gabby had raided a Pixie Stix factory today.

"Hey there, sir, glad you could make it. How's your wife? Her foot doing any better? Sorry to hear about your totaled car, but good thing n.o.body was hurt bad, sir."

Swinging his gas mask up onto the table, J.T. averted his gaze from Scorch-smothering a laugh with his hand over his mustache. For some reason Gabby insisted on calling him sir no matter how many times he reminded the kid he wasn't an officer. Sarge would be fine. Or his call sign, Tag. Call signs were a universal leveler in the air to build a more cohesive team while flying. "My wife's doing better, thanks. She had to pull some office time, so I figured I'd work in the cla.s.s, after all. Saves me having to make it up later."

Scorch leaned back in his chair, the Ivy League creases in his appearance and flight suit not the least diminished by his casual sprawl. "So she's getting around okay?"

"On crutches, yes sir."

"Glad you've been able to stay on the schedule with night flights." Scorch nodded. "We need you around here."

"I can pitch in extra," Gabby interrupted, "anytime you need time off or whatever. I'm always looking to log more flight time."

"Thanks." J.T. didn't bother arguing because it was a non-issue since the kid didn't have anywhere close to the security clearance needed to fly these missions.

Gabby reached for his Mountain Dew. "Where's Bo?"

Scorch shot over his shoulder. "Had some other appointment."

"Hmm." Gabby's combat boot twitched nonstop against the leg of the table while he banged back a gulp from his soda. "Wonder if his flight attendant's in town?"

J.T. hoped so since it would keep the squadron player occupied if Nikki came home for the weekend.

Cobra, the squadron's previous player but now happily married to one of the flight surgeons, hooked a boot on his knee. "If his girlfriend's not back soon, she'd better hurry. Word from my wife has it that the nurses flocked to the clinic yesterday when he got his cast sawed off."

Scorch swung his gas mask from the floor to the table. "About time he pulled his weight around here again."

They needed all the flying hands up and running. World deployments already taxed manpower, and the current surveillance flights added an extra load. But stopping the terrorist drug activity would put a serious dent in cash flow for the bad guys. Their dirty money bought things like shoulder-held missile launchers off the black market.

Already, their squadron had lost two planes in just that manner. His, shot down by the Gomer in a boat nearly four months ago. Another plane piloted by Cobra later was nailed during an operation to rescue American hostages being held overseas. Cobra's Gomer had camped his a.s.s out in a field three freaking miles away from the runway for the fateful pop.

Gabby whistled low. "d.a.m.n, but Bo's got the good life. Women crawling over him. Guess we old married guys have to live vicariously through him, huh?"

Old? Gabby was what? All of twenty? But he certainly was married-to a nineteen-year-old wife who worked checkout at the base commissary to help make ends meet.

J.T. remembered those days well. If life wasn't so crazy he'd have the talkative kid and his wife over for a few meals and mentor him. Except Gabby and his wife would probably run screaming for divorce court with him as a model.

Cobra ducked to the side, lifted a brown grocery sack from under the table and pa.s.sed it to J.T. "Oh, hey, Tag, when we heard you were coming today, we decided to throw you an impromptu baby shower like we did for Crusty a few months ago when his little half brothers came to live with him. We all chipped in and got you a few things."

Ah h.e.l.l. If Gabby's goofy-a.s.s grin was anything to go by, J.T. could smell a roast coming. He took the bag from Cobra. Crewdogs cut zero slack when razzing their own. The best way to handle it? Play along.

And plot the comeback.

Already plans formed to ink permanent marker around the earpieces on their headsets so they would walk around for hours after landing not knowing about the doughnut rings circling their ears. And the beauty of it all? n.o.body ever suspected him. Usually funnyman Bronco took the fall.

J.T. fished his hand into the bag. "Earplug holder?" He shook the suspiciously light canister. No sound. He c.o.c.ked an eyebrow at Cobra. "Empty?"

"Bo thought you'd need earplugs to block out the baby hollering, but then Colonel Dawson reminded him that all you old guys are just about deaf anyway from so many years on the flight line. So Bronco stole the plugs out to take home for when his kid's pitching a fit."

Chuckling, J.T. dug in the bag again, pulling out a bottle labeled ... v.i.a.g.r.a. Ah c.r.a.p. "d.a.m.n, guys, it's brutal around here today."

Gabby leaned forward. "Well, not totally. This bottle's empty, too, since it's mighty obvious you don't need that, either, old man."

At least the kid had a sense of humor buried in all that chatter. J.T. jerked the two bulky remaining items, larger, soft packages.

"Huggies and Depends." Cobra announced the obvious with a wicked grin. "'Cause you'll both be going into diapers at the same time."

"Same foods, too," Scorch added. "Should have thought to add some of that rice cereal and strained carrots my sister feeds my niece."

And the roast got hotter. J.T. pivoted toward Spike. "Just decided to sit in on the cla.s.s, did you?"

Spike loosened his palm-tree tie. "Wouldn't want to miss out on a good party, even brought along a subscription card for TV Guide," he said, patting along his jacket pockets as if searching. "For all those nights you'll be walking the floors."

More smart-a.s.s quips rippled through the room until someone shouted over the fray, "Hey, what happened to those v.i.a.g.r.a pills? Maybe I can find some use for them."

Cobra snagged the empty bag and dumped the "gifts" inside like a nice "hostess." "Since Tag didn't need them, we dished them out to the lieutenants for experimentation."

Rolling her eyes. 1st Lieutenant Darcy Renshaw strode across the room and plopped into the seat next to her fiance, Spike. "Just what those dorks need, more ego inflation."

J.T. dropped the brown bag by his feet. "Well, thanks, everybody. You are all too, uh, generous."

"Ahhh-" Cobra chuckled low "-that's only the beginning."

"Seriously, man." Scorch cruised the front legs of his chair to a landing. "We'll be getting together a real