Bare Knuckle: Vegas Top Guns, Book 5 (32 page)

The bell sounded. Three minutes gone.

He didn’t look away from McMahon as someone lifted a water bottle to Eric’s lips and rubbed lidocaine over his cheeks. He was so focused that he barely noticed a woman strut past. She wasn’t Trish, so she didn’t matter. Only McMahon mattered now. Beating the man.

Round two began with brawling punches. Eric rained slam after slam on his opponent’s head and jaw and cheek. McMahon couldn’t dance away this time. He reeled and grunted. The skin of one cheekbone split just before he fell flat. The knockout was declared by the black-and-white-striped referee.

Match over.

Eric had won.

He spit out his mouth guard as the ref lifted Eric’s right arm in triumph. His chest was burning as he gasped for breath. He’d won. And he’d done it so fast that passing the med exam was almost a sure thing. Damn, what a feeling. More than a win. It was the moment when Eric had saved his life and Carey’s. Relief was cool and sweet in the back of his mouth.

He looked for Trish.

His girl.

She was clapping and screaming from her place beside the other ring girls. The brightness of her blue eyes could’ve lit the whole arena.

Next, Eric found Major Haverty. Fang nodded solemnly then pointed at Eric. The warning was unspoken.

That’s it.

Eric nodded, then ditched any thought about his CO.

Trish was waiting just outside the ring. She threw her arms around his neck with unbelievable enthusiasm. The crowd was ear-splittingly loud, but he heard when she giggled near his ear.

“You won, sugar! You did it.”

“Fuck yeah.” He was sweating. Didn’t care. Wearing his gloves, he hooked an arm low around her hips. “Got the prize money and a showgirl. Lucky man.”

Her kiss was hot. Wet. Taking and giving. She curled her tongue along the inside of his lip. Sharp nails dug into the back of his neck—tiny spikes of pain to ground him, to bring him back to earth.

Fuck, it was easy to believe this could end well. Maybe she was strong enough after all. Maybe she could grab a guy like him and hold on tight.

At that moment, Eric almost believed she could.

Chapter Thirty-One

Trish had never been on a military base. She’d known plenty of soldiers and seamen back home, especially when so many of her friends’ older brothers and cousins went to war in the wake of 9/11. That wasn’t the same as arriving with Eric at Nellis. He’d been cleared by the doctors and was leaving for a Red Flag in Alaska to fly combat missions against allied pilots. He and the other members of his squadron played the bad guys. That definitely fit Eric.

She didn’t like that a previous exercise had been responsible for the scars he wore like armor. She
really
didn’t like that he’d taken his frustrating, sweet ol’ time telling her even that much about his crash.

After passing through checkpoints in his Camaro, he drove them across base. The quiet Wednesday morning had started to brush the streets and buildings with streaks of pink and orange. Trish asked questions, and he responded with more detail than she would’ve expected. About his job and where he worked, he was becoming practically chatty.

“That’s the BX there.” He pointed toward a building shaped like a stark warehouse. Then again, most of the buildings had that industrial, stripped-down look. Purely functional. When compared to the rest of Vegas, it was quite a different mindset.

“BX?”

“Base exchange. Like a Walmart. The commissary’s for groceries.”

“How long have you served?”

“Seven years.”

Trish nibbled her lower lip. How much could she risk? She wanted to pry more and more out of him while he seemed amiable, especially because he would be gone for two weeks. “And how many times have you gone over to fight?”

“Tours? Five.”

Five times. He’d returned from those missions unscathed. A routine training exercise, though? Not so lucky. Anything to do with jet planes bore a measure of risk. She’d either cope, or she’d have to step back.

As if she could make that decision now. So much of him remained a mystery.

She shivered in the cool October dawn. They’d left the top down. She wore a halter under a fake leather jacket, but she wished for a little more protection, especially since she’d complied with his midnight phone request to accompany him unadorned. No wig. Very minimal makeup.

When had she started to put his opinions and desires above the need for her usual defenses? Of course they were defenses. She’d never been self-deceiving on that score. She only wondered if she was deceiving herself about Eric.

Trish checked the urge to reach over and touch him. Lately, when they were together, she was always forcing herself to calm down. Grasping wasn’t sexy. Men backed the hell off. But the deeper she got—and God, only recently could she admit that she was in deep—the more she needed some reassurance that he was sinking down with her.

Instead she was left with assumptions. A guy wouldn’t lend a girl his Camaro for two weeks while he was gone. “No busses,” he’d said that morning, having made a call to his insurance company. The Camaro was probably his most prized possession outside of his photo collection.

“And here’s the squad’s hangar. The 65
^th
is down that way.” He pointed. “They’re Aggressors too, but they fly smaller planes.” He said that last with a cocky, absolutely masculine grin.

He pulled into a parking lot. Long dawn shadows draped over the asphalt and a who’s who of incredible vehicles. She laughed, easing some of her disquiet. “Are sweet rides a requirement?”

Eric shrugged those wide shoulders, which seemed wider and more impressive because of his flight jacket. “Adrenaline junkies, remember?”

For the first time, she was seeing him as a real serviceman. She’d known he could be fierce and brutal. But his choked-back admission of the crash… Now his jacket and his responsibilities… He was smart, determined and had devoted himself to long years of training. He hid so much in that bounced-around skull of his.

He parked next to a pair of bikes she recognized from the barbeque. “Mike’s and Leah’s?”

“Yup. Never dare them to race.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Without fanfare, he shut off the engine and handed her the keys. “My house key’s on there too if you need anything.”

Trish banked a hard moment of temptation. She hated her hotel. It was like living in a pile of rancid meat. Asking him whether she could stay at his place while he was gone would mean admitting where she lived. She got the distinct impression he wouldn’t approve. She would’ve appreciated that possessiveness had he backed it up with anything more substantial. Instead she was left with the prospect of sleeping among his things, in his bed, washing clean in his shower—all in secret. The flash image of wearing his black satin robe against her naked skin made her inhale.

She masked that hard reaction by taking the keys in her hands, trying for nonchalance. “Thanks.”

Eric leaned in then, cupping her cheek. “Kiss me. I want to taste you before I go.”

“You tasted me plenty two hours ago.”

“Complaining?”

“Not at all, Captain Donaghue.”

He blinked once, as if the name was unfamiliar. Maybe it was, coming from her. But his mouth stopped her racing thoughts. Soft. Intense. The touch of tongue and a gentle moan. He hadn’t been joking. He was tasting her as much as kissing her, drinking her in. Trish pushed closer and crossed her arms around his thick, leather-warm middle.
He’s leaving.
She ducked her face against his neck to stem a strong tide of emotion. She needed to get it together.

After a pair of breaths, she thought she could trust her voice. “Would it be too corny to say I’m gonna miss you?”

“Nope.”

Trish pulled back and grazed down his scar. She ended at his mouth, that beautiful mouth, where he nibbled her fingertip. “Well then,” she said, “I’m gonna miss you.”

He took her wrist and kissed her palm. “Me too, showgirl.”

A place in her chest opened up wide. She felt like she could resume breathing, although she hadn’t realized she was so lightheaded, waiting for him to match what she felt. “You’d better.”

One more kiss. His eyes were such a dark, dark blue, but insanely vivid. He was memorizing her. The process was scary, but she would’ve been disappointed had he done anything less.

“And good luck with your audition. Second callback. That’s gotta be a good thing.”

“Sure it is.” She banked another round of nerves and hope, so nervous to return to the Paris that afternoon. Maybe… God, maybe. “But you don’t say good luck. That’s
bad
luck. You say break a leg.”

He squeezed the thigh nearest his. “I like your legs just the way they are.”

A throat cleared behind Eric. He gave her one more swift kiss. “C’mon.”

They both got out. Leah and Mike stood together like two goddamn bad-asses, though only Mike was suited up for flight. Shoulder to shoulder. So different, but an undeniable team. Trish choked back a swallow of envy.

“Didn’t take you for the type to make out in a parking lot, Kisser.” Leah grinned. She practically bounced with energy. Mike stood calm and tall, sipping from a takeaway cup of coffee. “At least not anymore,” she added with a wink. “Morning, Trish. Damn, love the hair.”

Trish ran a hand over her nape. “Thanks.”

“I mean it. Really suits your face.”

“Princess, it’s too early for so much talk,” Eric said.

“That’s
Major
Princess to you, Captain.”

“Whatever. Sometimes I prefer Fang’s snarls to your mile-a-minute.”

“Won’t be an option much longer,” came another voice. A wiry young man with a dark buzz cut and a sly smile joined the group. Trish sensed Eric’s sudden stiffness. “Fang’s ditching us for good. This is his last Red Flag.”

Eric lifted his brows. “No shit?”

“We knew it was coming. Bigger and better awaits our fair leader, although apparently that means Florida.” The man faked a shudder. “It’s official as of last night. In less than three weeks, the newly minted lieutenant colonel and his lady love will set up house at Eglin AFB. Major Princess here will be our CO. Daddy Dash was senior, but he’s on his way out, so Allegheny will be her second.”

“
Two
chicks in charge?” Eric asked with mock outrage. Trish slugged his arm.

The dark-haired man smirked behind his hand. “What’s the world coming to, eh, Kisser?”

“Congratulations, Leah,” Trish said, taking the high road above all the shit-slinging.

Leah shrugged in a self-deprecating way, although Trish guessed her insides were jumping around as much as the woman was prone to do on the outside. “That’s why I’m back behind a desk at S-3 today instead of flying with these cocky shits. To earn it—no matter how long the freaking paperwork takes.” She smiled at Trish. “Dues to pay, you know?”

“I do.”

“Damn straight,” Mike said with a proud smile. “Like the kid said, less than three weeks.”

Eric’s body relaxed, as if having made a decision. He grinned at the young, dark-haired man. “At least the XO won’t be you.”

“Or you, Kissy Face.” He nodded to Trish. “Are you going to introduce me?”

“Trish Monroe, this is Jon Carlisle. Call sign Tin Tin.”

Ah, so that was it.

She remembered the name—something about how he and Eric didn’t get along. That would explain their slight wariness. But Eric had eased, and Carlisle didn’t seem a bad sort. Trish knew men. This guy Carlisle was cocky. His polished voice didn’t come from an elocution coach. Maybe money?
Old
money. No wonder he and Eric didn’t gel. She hardly minded the chip on Eric’s shoulder, but he probably didn’t do well among men who’d grown up in the lap of luxury.

Carlisle extended his hand. “A pleasure, Miss Monroe.” His cheekiness was gone. Only a polite welcome remained.

“Same here,” she said with a gracious smile.

Whatever weird vibe had pulsed between him and Eric dissipated to nothing, as if Eric had expected something bad that hadn’t materialized.

He nodded toward Carlisle. Nearly…approval.

“Damn it, you idiots.” Leah hitched her flaming pink motorcycle helmet under her arm. “Kiss and make up already.”

Carlisle flashed her a snarl of a smile. “I think we just did. Shall we do some damage, bandits?”

The pilots hardened. Trish knew that moment of transformation, when the laughs and frantic preparation behind stage screeched to a stop. Curtain rising. Showtime.

Eric gave her one more kiss, this one to her temple, then ran a hand over the Camaro’s steering wheel. “Take care of her.”

Although she nodded and managed to bank a surprising shimmer of tears, she had to swallow before she replied. “And you take care of you.”

Two weeks was a long-ass time. She still went to class. She still worked the boxing ring. On those nights, when she missed him the most, Trish gave in to the temptation of staying at Eric’s loft. She wanted to be close—closer than phone calls that crackled with static. Their conversations lagged more than usual, between his brevity and the things he wasn’t permitted to say.