Boots on the Ground: Homefront, Book 1 Page 2
For a moment Laurel sat still, listening to the bugs chirping in the long grasses on either side of the road. She had a pretty good idea of what she would find when she got out of the car, and she wished more than anything her brief escape had lasted a tiny bit longer.
Finally she retrieved her high-heeled shoes from where she’d kicked them off and swung open the door. She knew as much about cars as most people did about orthopedic surgery, but even to her untrained eyes the diagnosis was easy. She had a flat.
She reached into her purse for her phone, and uttered a curse when she unlocked the screen. No signal bars—she was too far out of town.
“Goddammit,” she barked, snatching her bag out of the car and slamming the door. All she wanted was to go for a mildly irresponsible drive. Was that really too much to ask?
Apparently so. With a huffed sigh, she slung her purse over her shoulder and began making her way back down the highway, her heels clopping against the asphalt in the otherwise silent evening. She was a mile past the gravel-road turnoff that led to a dingy-looking bar that usually had more Harleys than cars in the parking lot. It wasn’t ideal, but they’d have a landline, and it was better than sticking her thumb in the air and hoping she wasn’t about to live out the plot of a slasher flick.
By the time she reached the edge of the bar parking lot twenty minutes later, Laurel’s hair was tangled, her feet were swelling out of her peep-toes, and she could feel sweat soaking her bra—but when she took one look at the three beer-bellied, leather-vested men smoking outside the front door, she seriously considered turning around and high-tailing it straight back to her car.
The men stopped speaking as she approached, and she had a sudden memory of walking into one of the more heavily male-dominated classes in medical school and getting the same reaction. She lifted her chin and smiled at each man in turn. “Good evening, gentlemen.”
“Evenin’, miss,” one of them replied. The other two nodded, which she decided was sufficient. She held her head high despite the wobble in her step and pushed open the door.
It clattered shut behind her, and Laurel paused to let her eyes adjust to the dimly lit interior. There were more patrons than she expected for somewhere so far out of town, although a quick scan told her she was the only female. A couple of gaming machines stood against one wall, neon-lit beer logos pierced the gloom and country music blared from the stereo system.
It was a down-homey, cowboy-style dive bar. It was about as far from her usual upscale, sophisticated scene as it could get. And despite everything, she couldn’t stop the excited grin that flashed across her face.
She strode to the bar, her turquoise wrap dress feeling sexier and much more feminine than it had an hour earlier in the restaurant. She tossed her hair over her shoulder, fully aware that every eye in the place was fixed on her. She hadn’t felt this brazen since her early days as an undergraduate, when life was a series of never-before-tried mixed drinks and good-looking guys, long before the stresses of finals, medical school admissions, board exams, highly cited articles and her parents’ nagging questions about whether there were any potential husbands on the horizon.
It wouldn’t kill her to have a beer while she waited for the mechanic, would it? She smiled at the approaching bartender. After all, one drink in a seedy bar wasn’t exactly going to derail her small-town social climbing.
“What can I get you?” the thickly bearded man asked, but before she could reply, the man on the barstool beside her—whose camouflage coat was way too heavy for the bar’s warm and slightly humid interior—slapped his palm on the bar.
“I’ll take care of this little lady,” he slurred, and flashed her an inebriated version of a saucy wink. “You order whatever you want, honey, and he’ll put it on my tab.”
“Your tab was reached and breached a long time ago, Leroy.” The bartender offered Laurel an apologetic shake of his head.
“I’ll have a Bud Light. And I need to use your phone, if you’ve got one. My car’s got a flat about a mile south of here and my cell has no signal.”
“Yeah, only a few of the service providers have coverage out here. Let me get some fresh glasses. Then I’ll bring you the cordless from the office.”
“Much appreciated,” she told his retreating back. She leaned her elbows on the burnished wood surface and had begun to study the photos taped up over the liquor bottles when Leroy slid his barstool closer, its legs loudly scraping against the floor.
“What’s your name, darlin’?” His grin revealed tobacco-stained teeth, but his face was relatively unlined. Laurel suspected that he was a lot younger than his alcohol- and cigarette-damaged skin portrayed.
“It’s, um, Jane.” She edged away from the scent of stale smoke that clung to his coat. Now she remembered why she preferred quiet wine bars with live jazz ensembles.
“Now that’s a real pretty name.” He slid his hand so close to hers that their fingertips met. She fought the urge to flinch, not wanting to set him off. She glanced at the table immediately behind her, but its lone, mustachioed resident was buried in a game on his phone, completely ignorant of the activity at the bar.
She craned her neck to see over the taps, looking for the bartender. How long did it take to get clean glasses?
“My ex-wife’s name is Jane,” Leroy continued, openly leering at her as his fingers crept farther over hers. “But she wasn’t half as beautiful as you are.”
“You told me your ex-wife’s name is Marianne,” a deep voice rumbled beside her. “And that she left you for the same reason this nice gal doesn’t want to talk to you—you’re a stinking drunk.”
Laurel spun and came face-to-face—or more accurately, face-to-chest—with John Grady Reid.
As Leroy retreated with a grumble, Grady moved in to rest one elbow on the bar beside her. His big frame seemed to radiate power, yet he was comforting rather than intimidating, and his reassuring smile immediately banished her anxiety.
“I guess I could try some line about what an esteemed medical professional like yourself is doing in a place like this, but I’m sure ol’ Leroy probably gave you enough lines to last you for a month.”
Laurel’s treacherous heart thrilled at the implication that Grady wanted to try a line at all. Maybe she hadn’t imagined the sexual tension in their meeting yesterday—although now that he was standing up, she could see she’d definitely underestimated his size.
“My car’s stuck on the side of the road with a flat tire, so I had to hike here in heels. What’s your excuse?”
“Men like me don’t usually need one. But since you’re asking—” he turned to indicate two men perched on stools at a high table nearby, “—I’m reliving the glories of war with two of my former colleagues. Meet Captain Ethan Fletcher and Staff Sergeant Chance McKinley. Guys, this is Dr. Laurel Hayes, who so kindly signed off on my shoulder yesterday.”
Laurel’s face must have shown her surprise to see an officer on a night out with two enlisted soldiers, because Ethan shot her a needlessly hostile glare that dared her to comment. She refrained, pushing her mouth into a warm smile.
“Good thing he didn’t ask you to assess his personality.” Chance grinned. “I’m not sure those words would be appropriate for an official letter.”
Grady made a big show of shifting his body to block Chance from her view. “Don’t mind him, he’s just not used to having a woman look at him and not scream. You know how in all those war movies there’s always one psycho soldier who puts all his comrades in danger to satisfy his own insane bloodlust? Well, Sergeant McKinley here—”
“Outranks you, Reid,” Chance called, his lopsided smile bright and infectious. Even the sullen Captain Fletcher lifted one corner of his mouth.
The bartender finally reappeared, a stack of empty glasses cradled in his arms.
“Sorry, dishwasher got backed up. What was it you wanted again?” He clunked the glasses into a bin beneath the bar.
“I’ve got it covered,” Grady offer
ed, then turned back to her. “I’ll ride you out to your car and we’ll fix your flat together. Every woman should know how to change a tire.”
She arched a brow at his cavalier suggestion, taking in his growing-out crew cut, five o’clock shadow and sleeves rolled up over sinewy forearms. She recalled the exquisitely defined contours of his chest, the smooth flex of muscle as she’d examined his shoulder, the fanned spread of dark hair that practically begged her fingers to follow its narrowing path down his stomach.
Grady was huge, and he was strong, and he was practically a complete stranger. And he wanted her to get in his car to drive a mile out into the empty countryside in the dark. With no cell signal. Alone.
She’d be crazy to agree—and yet her instinct urged her to do exactly that.
She must not have concealed her inner debate as well as she hoped, because he nodded toward the two men at the table. “I could ask Chance to join us, if you want. He could use a few lessons in automotive repair.”
Although Chance’s expression was hopeful, she shook her head. Her gut told her she could trust Grady—and her floozy heart wanted to get him alone, even if only for a few chaste, tire-changing minutes.
Laurel followed him out to an old, weather-beaten Ford pickup in the parking lot. She held the filmy material of her dress out of the way as he slammed her door shut before heading around the front to the driver’s side. The area at her feet was strewn with maps, photocopied papers and ballpoint pens, there was a paint-splattered army ball cap shoved into the cup holder amid a handful of gas station receipts, and a half-empty bottle of root beer had rolled down to where the windscreen met the dashboard.
There was something so old-fashioned and boyish about his choice of beverage that she couldn’t stop her smile as he climbed into the cab next to her. “Who still drinks root beer?”
“Thirsty people. Now where’s your car?”
She pointed the way out of the parking lot, and in less than five minutes he was flipping on the truck’s hazard lights and pulling in behind her disabled vehicle.
“Nice ride,” he remarked. Laurel’s ears were wide open for a note of chiding that she couldn’t take care of her expensive car, but all she got from his Texan drawl was approval. He reached across her to open the glove compartment, and as he pulled on the small door, his knuckles almost imperceptibly brushed the tips of her breasts. It was the kind of touch that nine times out of ten wouldn’t even have registered, but at that moment, with the still of the nighttime outside and the heady, masculine scents of leather and denim pervading the truck’s cab, that miniscule contact was as hot and all-consuming as a fireball.
Grady, seemingly oblivious to the alarm bells squealing in her mind, pulled a flashlight from the glove compartment and shut the door. “Ready?”
Her ears were ringing and her throat was dry. She barely managed a nod, then made an ungraceful exit from the cab even though she knew he’d be circling around to help her out. She had to get a grip on herself, had to pull it together, and if he extended one of those big, callused palms to help her down—
“It’s the front right tire.” She pointed toward the car as he approached, desperate to put some distance between them. It worked—he turned on his heel and crouched in front of the offending wheel, clicking on the flashlight.
“Definitely flat. You got a spare in the trunk?”
“I don’t think so.”
He frowned. “Let’s have a look.”
She dug in her purse for her key ring and hit the button to pop the trunk. She watched with a slack jaw as Grady peeled back the felt to reveal a whole extra wheel.
“You’re going to think I’m an idiot, but I had no idea that was in there.”
“There’s all different kinds of smart in this world.” He shot her a smile over his shoulder as he tugged the wheel up and out, and then extricated the tire iron and jack. “There’s the kind of smart you get from medical school, that lets you operate and save people’s legs—and there’s the kind of smart you get from driving beat-up old cars that need fixing every other day.”
He motioned for her to come over, then dropped back into a crouch in front of the wheel and began to unscrew the first lug nut. “It doesn’t make you an idiot to be lucky enough never to get stranded with a flat before.” He paused midrotation and peered up at her. “This is the first time, right? Because if this is a damsel-in-distress act and I’m one in a long line of guys to change your tires, I’m going to feel used and a little violated.”
Laurel laughed aloud at his deadpan humor and lounged against the chassis, the wild heat of their momentary contact subsiding into easy, relaxing warmth. “You’re my first, I promise.”
“In that case I’ll make sure it’s special. Are you watching how I’m doing this?”
He leaned back so she could see how he loosened the lug nut, but her eyes were fixed on the smooth play of muscles in his back and shoulders as he spun the tire iron, his upper arms flexing and straining the sleeves of his shirt.
She nodded. “I’m watching.”
“Good, because you’re doing the next one.”
“And here I thought I was getting a full-service rescue.” She smiled at his rolled eyes, then crossed her arms over her chest and pressed her back against the car, staring up at the endless black sky. She inhaled in a long breath of sweet, clear air and looked down at the man kneeling beside her tire.
“How does it feel to be back from Afghanistan? Nice? Strange?”
His hand stilled, and Laurel instantly cursed herself for crossing a line she knew nothing about. What was she thinking? Sure, they’d fallen into an immediate rapport, but that didn’t mean it was okay to start—
“It’s hard.” Grady didn’t look up as he spoke. “But it’s good. It’s a relief.” He cleared his throat and sat back on his haunches, his expression softening as he waved her over. “Your turn.”
Contrition sagging her shoulders, Laurel knelt on the asphalt beside him, ignoring the way the rough surface bit her knees through her dress. “I’m sorry, that was a stupid thing to—”
“Don’t be. You just asked what everyone else wonders about. Nothing wrong with that.”
He pressed the tire iron into her hand and raised the flashlight. She fitted the end onto the nut and jerked it counterclockwise as she’d seen him do. At first the nut resisted, but with a little bit of pressure she was soon turning the iron in a circle, although not with the smooth, swift motion Grady had demonstrated.
“The doc from Fort Preston who gave me your name said you do some shifts at the post hospital.”
Laurel nodded as she moved on to the next lug nut. “Physicians are always coming and going up there, so I help provide some continuity. Plus you guys get much more exciting injuries than my Meridian patients.”
“I bet.” The quirk to his mouth assured her she hadn’t screwed up too badly, and she released a tense breath. Grady grabbed the jack and straightened, his gaze sweeping the car. “I don’t suppose you know where your jack point is?”
“What do you think?”
“That’s all right. I can find it.” He slid his hand along the underside of the beam that ran between the front and rear tires, then stopped and shoved the jack into place.
Laurel sat back cross-legged on the asphalt and shucked off her shoes, figuring she’d rather have dirty feet than a backache from trying to shift the spare tire in heels. Once the car was off the ground, Grady knelt beside her and began to take off the loosened lug nuts.
“It’s weird to be back,” he murmured, his eyes fixed on the tire. “But it’s weirder to think that it’s over for me. No more deploying, no more training, no more restationing. I’ve got to make all my own decisions now. Make my own way.”
“Are you ready for it?”
He unscrewed the last nut and held it in his palm, studying it like it was an oracle. Then he raised his eyes to meet hers, and the cautious hope she saw in their depths clutched at her heart with a fierce grip.
She pulled herself to her feet as he dislodged the flat tire, hauled it up on his hip and chucked it in the bed of his pickup. He rolled the new tire in place and nodded her into position in front of him.
“You’re going to put this sucker on.” He stood aside and Laurel gripped the spare tire, turning it slightly so it lined up with the wheel bolts. As she hoisted it, she was surprised by how heavy it was, and she hurried to shove it onto the hub, her fingers slipping on the scored rubber. She felt it slide onto two of the bolts, but she’d pushed it on at a funny angle and couldn’t get the others to line up. She jerked backward to tug the tire off, grimaced as her heel hit something sharp on the pavement, and then Grady’s arms were on either side of her, taking the weight of the tire as he slid it into place.
“Easy,” he murmured, his deep voice rumbling through the chest that was pressed against her back, sending delicious tingles up her spine. He smelled like freshly sawed wood and shaving cream, and his body radiated heat that cut the evening’s burgeoning chill. She wondered what would happen if she turned in the confines of his arms, put her hands on either side of that trim waist, pressed her forehead to the place where his open collar exposed the tanned skin at the base of his throat—
Laurel pivoted to face him, her eyes big and shining in the moonlight.
He looked down at the soft, gumdrop-pink lips that were slightly parted. How would she taste if he had the guts to put his mouth on hers right this minute? Smooth and luxurious, he reckoned. Like rich, dark chocolate. Or ripe strawberries. Or champagne.
Was it too soon to kiss her?
Grady dropped his hands and stepped back. Laurel shivered as cool air swept into the space between them.
“Cold?”