“Jesus.” I think I already regret this. “They’re haters, Marshal, but I’m not sure anybody wants you dead.”
“No? That’d be a big fucking relief for them, I’m sure. Easy. Maybe the Castoff schtick will take me down like Frankenstein or Dracula someday. Everybody treats this place like it’s fucking haunted.” He guzzles half his beer, wiping his mouth. Then he lifts his hand and points to the army picture on the wall. “Don’t worry yourself, darling, I’m not planning on doing nothing I shouldn’t. On the contrary, I’m still alive and kicking. Plus I’d never leave my little girl. Some other boys aren’t so lucky.”
“No? What happened?” It oozes out in a whisper. It’s hard to keep my eyes on his when they’re so incredibly fierce.
At least he doesn’t look offended. Thank God. “Botched mission. A real sloppy prick who made some big promises about catching a Taliban lieutenant got good men killed. The raid was supposed to be a cakewalk. I knew in my guts it wouldn’t be, and the intel was wrong, but fuck…our commanding officer wouldn’t hear it. Our source’s reputation was iron-clad, you see. He insisted, ignoring obvious dangers.”
My eyes study his, diving into the pain. It’s hard.
I can’t tear myself away. Lifting my beer, I gently sip, ready for the gentle buzz to sooth the restless itch in my veins.
“I still hear their screams in my nightmares, Red. Adam, Erik, Zane…they didn’t deserve to die like that. Gunned down with their fucking faces melted into vapor by the airstrike that came, without even checking to see if my boys were clear.” He sighs, pushing a rough hand through his hair to bring him back. “I limped away untouched. That’s war, though. Sorry for the gruesome image.” He drains his beer and then collapses the can with a vicious squeeze.
“It’s fine. I’ve heard stories from my brother, too. He had it just as bad…came home with a nasty burn. He spent weeks in the hospital getting therapy, skin grafts…” I close my eyes, hating the ordeal Jackson went through, shortly before his honorable discharge.
Marshal doesn’t say anything. He gets up, walks across the room, and reaches under the table on the other side of the shop. There’s a fresh six pack, chilled from the crisp air in here when the stove isn’t going.
He cracks two new beers and hands me one, reclaiming his place. “Fuck bad memories. It’s the New Year, isn’t it?”
His voice lights me up. The sudden optimism in his voice is a pleasant surprise, however faint. “Right. There’s plenty to look forward to. If all goes well, I’ll be one step closer to a real career. I hope you make mad money on that big job coming up, too. And Mia, well, she’ll be a doll at preschool. I just know it.”
Marshal stares into his beer, taking a long sip. When he looks up, his features have darkened just as mysteriously as they warmed a minute ago. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I like to focus on the present, one minute at a time. Think I’d be a whole hell of a lot crazier if I didn’t.”
“Not me. I’d be a goner without goals to work for.” I suck down more beer, its liquid courage adding a defiant note to my voice. “Different strokes, you know?”
He grins, setting his beer down next to him. “Yeah, Red. I do.”
The look in his eyes aimed down at me is new. It’s hungry, ferocious, and understanding all in one. It’s not the look of my boss or some drunken tough guy who’s short on company. It’s the way a man sees a woman, the kind of eyes I ignored through high school and college, always too afraid to let it take me away.
“Red?” Marshal’s voice drops, and so does his hand.
Pure heat. He gently cups my chin, turning it to face him.
“What?” You already know, I tell myself, and it’s amazing I’m not terrified.
“Come the fuck here,” he growls, lifting me up with his strong hands.
Then they’re around my waist, joining me to his tight, hard, unrelenting muscle.
His lips are on mine, and those sparks resonating in his deep blue eyes are more numerous than stars.
They’re everywhere. Crackling in my tongue, electrifying my flesh, turning that hot, slick urge at the ends of my nipples and between my legs into a beautiful discord.
His tongue presses against mine. I think I moan, and he definitely growls.
His savage hand sweeps down my low back, clasps my ass, and squeezes.
What. Is. Even. Happening?
I can’t tell where he begins or I end. That goes double for this new reality, where I’m honest-to-God kissing the Castoff.
I’m kissing Marshal. Marshal freaking Howard.
A dangerous temptation that’s now swallowed me like a pit, and I have no clue where it ends.
He breaks the kiss, more reluctant thunder hanging on his lips. “Happy fucking New Year. Had to make it count. Now I think we’d better both turn in.”