Joint Forces (3 page)

"Yeah, me, too."

Quiet echoed again, the lines occasionally smattered with the background sounds of another phone ringing, conversations off to the corner. But J.T. was hooked in that experience—linked with Bo and the young officer's fears over never flying again.

J.T. scratched along the neck of his flight suit. Even after twenty-four years in the Air Force, he couldn't imagine hanging up his helmet. Flying also offered an escape and release since his personal life had landed in the crapper. He'd be screwed right now if he couldn't fly out his frustration.

Yeah, Rokowsky must be in his own personal hell.

Age and officer/enlisted realities might separate them, but the shared prisoner experience transcended all for a more casual relationship. A bond. J.T. searched for something to keep the guy on the line a while longer, until the edge eased from the kid's voice.

The parenting role came easy, and he figured Bo didn't get much of that since the guy didn't have any family. "What are you doing working the late shift?"

"Easier to call the flight attendant I'm seeing. She's in Japan this week."

"I thought you were dating a research tech from the medical university. Hannah something."

"Hell, mm, that was last Thanksgiving. I've had my heart broken at least three times since then."

Bachelor days. J.T. shuddered as Bo rambled on about all the ways Hannah had ripped his heart out before trouncing on it a few extra times.

J.T. sank to the arm of the overstuffed sofa, his gaze never leaving the front yard. Jesus, he was too damn old for that crap. Although the thought of indefinite abstinence pinched. Hard. And having Rena in sight—

even out of reach in the driveway still waiting to leave—didn't help with all those images of the two of them tangled on the hardwood floor.

A van turned the corner. After that, finally a break in the stream of cars. Soon, she would be on her way.

The van roared, picking up speed.

Irritation nipped. Damn it, this was a residential neighborhood. J.T. reached for a pad to nab the license number on the front while Bo reminisced about heart-stomping Hannah. The van eased over the center line.

What the—

Into the wrong lane.

"No!" J.T. shouted even though Rena wouldn't be able to hear him. Or move out of the way. He couldn't be seeing—

The van surged. Forward. Faster. Rena jerked to look just as—

The van rammed her passenger door.

G
rinding metal echoed.

He'd expected his marriage to end, but please God, not this way.

J.T. spared critical seconds to bark instructions at Rokowsky. "Call 911 and have them send EMS. I'm at the house. Car wreck. Rena. No time to talk."

He jammed the Off button. Tore open the door. Sprinted down the steps, vaulted the hedge. The car pinwheeled across the road. Rena slumped against her seat belt. The van recovered, righted.

Roared away.

Professional instincts? Calm in a crisis? Damn near impossible at the moment. But he scrounged, pulled them to the fore, logged as many details about the van as he could while his boots pounded grass closer to Rena.

Rage pumped through him with every step. The Cavalier slammed against a telephone pole. His wife's fragile body jerked inside like a rag doll. The crash thundered through the ground. Through him. The car bounced off, skidded sideways, tires squealing.

Stopped. Silence echoed, broken only by the hiss of the engine and a late day bird squawking its way out of a magnolia tree.

Glass glinted on the pavement. Jagged edges rimmed the door. Hand steady, his insides not so very, J.T.

reached into the car.

"Rena? Damn it, Rena, wake up."

He pressed two fingers against her neck to check her pulse as his other hand yanked at the handle. The door held firm.

Her pulse pounded under his touch. Okay. One good thing to focus on instead of the bruise purpling her forehead. And at least no blood spurted that he could see.

J.T. sprinted to the other side of the car. Mangled. Dented. He gripped, hefted. Nothing budged. He could bench-press his body weight, but couldn't move the crunched metal.

Even adrenaline wasn't going to work this free.

He dashed back to the driver's side, pried the jagged edges of glass off, tucked his head inside, skimmed his hands over her face, shoulders, arms, checking for injuries and chanting, "Hang on. Just hang on and the paramedics will be here soon, but they're gonna need to talk to you. Come on and wake up for me."

Her head lolled toward him. Relief pressed like weights against his chest. "That's right, babe. Wake up."

"Baby?" she mumbled, dark lashes flickering.

Ah, hell. He shouldn't have slipped and called her that. But twenty-two years of marriage and intimacy were hard to shrug off just because his brain told him they'd reached the end.

"Are you okay, Rena?" He forced himself to speak carefully, say her name. Just her name.

Color drained from her face, leaving her deep brown eyes all the wider, darker. Her hand fell to her stomach. She swallowed hard. "I think so."

Her voice shook. Her teeth chattered. All unusual reactions from his normally feisty wife. Nothing brought her low. She never complained or faltered if illness or life kicked her. She just kicked right back.

Not now.

For her to be this rattled, afraid even, scared the hell out of him. "You'll be free soon. I can't get the doors open. You were hit on the passenger side, and this side bounced off a telephone pole. I can't risk moving you until the paramedics check you out."

She frowned, fidgeted, bit back a moan. "My foot's stuck. I don't think I could crawl out anyhow."

His eyes fell to the floorboards. Blood trickled down her foot onto the plastic mat.

Damn it, where was EMS? Still no sirens. Only birds, wind rustling the trees, traffic on other roads cut the silence, the working-class neighborhood homes mostly empty at the moment. "Just hold still. Help will be here soon. They've already been called."

She blinked slowly. "I should tell you."

"What?"

Her hand drifted over her woozy eyes. "Um, oh God, I can't think and I need the words to come out right."

"You're hurt, and a little shaken up. Nothing more. No need for gut-spilling." He hoped. "This isn't a good time for soul-searching."

What would she tell him anyway? He'd backed from emotional outpourings nearly three months ago when he'd returned from Rubistan. He damn well couldn't handle it now.

"You're right, of course." Her hand fell away from her forehead. "Maybe you should step away. What if the car blows?"

"It's not going to blow up."

"You should step away anyhow. Just in case."

"Like hell."

"Somehow I knew you'd say that." She stroked his face with a limp and so soft, cool hand.

He stilled under her touch, hadn't felt it willingly come his way in months. What a damn inconvenient time to want her. But then adrenaline could screw with a man's better intentions, as he'd found out three months ago when he returned from Rubistan.

Her hand fell away, landing on her thigh. Her eyes flickered to the slowing cars driving past, to the handful of gawkers watching from sidewalks and windows, then back to the car. "Well, there goes the new paint job."

He smiled because she wanted him to. He'd do anything she asked just to keep her awake, talking.

Alive.

"Babe, there goes the whole car." Babe? Damn. "Insurance should take care of it, though."

And by God, he'd wrap his family in a helluva lot more metal and air bags next go-round, no matter how deep it slashed his currently hemorrhaging budget. Maintaining two households with a kid in college while they were still paying off Rena's college debt…

Not the time to think about money
, he could almost hear Rena saying.

"J.T.?"

He landed back in the moment. "Yeah, Rena."

"Would you please call the base clinic and let them know I don't think I'm going to make it in tonight?"

"They can wait. Dedication to your job only goes so far." He clamped his mouth shut. End of discussion.

He held his tone level, tougher by the second. "I'm not leaving this car until they have you out, so stop wasting energy trying to maneuver me away."

"I don't want people waiting around for me. Parents arranged sitters so they could attend this particular meeting. We have a guest speaker."

"Damn it, Rena, the guest speaker can start without you. Or they can just wait and eat cookies for a few extra minutes."

Hell. Great way to calm her, by fighting. He mentally thumped himself.

She laughed.

Laughed? Which stunned the fight right out of him.

Soft, breathless, her laughs tripped out with a huskiness that would have been sexy any other time but was too weak for his comfort level.

"Damn, J.T. We even fight about who's going to take care of whom."

She had him there.

Eyelids blinking slowly, holding closed longer every time, she stared back at him. He reached to take her hand from her thigh. Her bracelets slid, chimed, two sliding from her limp wrist to
tink, tink
on the floor of the car.

"Come on, Rena, stay awake."

Sirens wailed in the distance. About damned time.

She squeezed his hand without speaking, but her eyes stayed open longer at a stretch as she fought unconsciousness. He stared back, held her hand and willed her awake, sirens growing louder, closer.

Pain glinted in her eyes, radiated from her tightening grip around his hand. His fingers went numb, but no way would he tell her, instead kept holding while praying the sirens would move faster.

Her gaze fell to their linked hands. Her grip slackened. "Oh God, J.T., I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cut off your circulation like that."

"No problem." He needed to keep her distracted, talking. "Reminds me of when you were in labor with Chris and transition hit you so hard and fast during the drive to the hospital. I was trying to recall all the coaching stuff I should be doing. Except I was scared as hell I'd be delivering the kid on the side of the road. Remember that?"

"Yeah, I do." Her grip firmed again. Not painfully this time, but holding on in a way she hadn't done in a long time.

Emergency vehicles squealed to a stop beside them. Doors flung open. He didn't want to let go. God, he'd missed her needing him. What a damn selfish thought.

She frowned. "J.T., I really have to tell you—"

A paramedic jogged toward them. "Hold the thought, ma'am. Sir, please move so we can get her out faster."

J.T. backed away. "We'll talk later." He would promise her anything, even one of those conversations she craved. "Hang on and we'll talk all you want soon."

The paramedic chanted a litany of encouragement to Rena while crawling through the passenger window to sit beside her. He placed a C-shaped collar to stabilize her neck, draped her with a protective blanket.

Then noise ensued, grinding and groaning of metal as the Jaws of Life pried her free. His wife's every wince sliced through him during the endless extraction.

Of course, he already knew just how difficult it was to cut Rena out of anywhere. Hell, he'd been trying to cut her out of his life for months without a lick of luck.

* * *

Elbow hooked out the open window of his mother's car, Chris finished clearing the gate guard's station leading into Charleston Air Force Base housing. At least with his friends Shelby Dawson and John Murdoch he could be himself without worrying about being cool.

And he was anything but cool.

Chris accelerated past the never-ending pines and oaks lining the street. He could wear double his regular wardrobe of baggy cargo shorts, open button-down shirt over a T-shirt, and the extra layers still wouldn't be enough to pad his bony body.

What guy wanted to be the "spitting image" of his short, scrawny mama? Geez. Scrawny wasn't a problem for girls, but it really blew monkey chunks for guys. Especially when all the other dudes in high school were so freaking big.

He was tired of hearing that five foot eight was a respectable height for a sixteen-year-old and that he would hit a growth spurt soon. Easy enough for his dad to say from three inches over six feet tall with more muscles than a linebacker.

Then his dad would ask him to work out together. Like wrapping a few muscles around his spindly arms would help. Can't make something out of nothing. And that's exactly what he was.

Nothing.

Clicking the turn signal, Chris rounded the corner toward Shelby's house. At least he wasn't getting pounded at school anymore. His friend John Murdoch kept the bigger guys off him, the ones who called him a marching-band wimp just because he played the trumpet. Murdoch played the saxophone and nobody called him a geek. Of course he was tall, a senior, tall, a wrestler, tall and had a girlfriend.

Shelby.

God, she was so hot. Nice. Totally hung up on Murdoch.

And, hey, had he mentioned the guy was tall?

Except Murdoch was also a friend, which meant staying away from his girl. Not that she would have noticed a dweeb like him that way.

But man, he noticed her.

Her corner lot came closer. Shelby sat cross-legged on a quilt in the side yard playing with her little brother while Murdoch sprawled asleep. She didn't see him yet, and Murdoch was out for the count, so Chris allowed himself the rare moment to just look at her.

Her silky black hair swished over her shoulder in a ponytail. And—oh yeah—her bikini bathing-suit top with jean shorts showcased her belly-button ring. Suh-weet.

He pulled into her driveway. Wanted to pull her right to him and kiss her. Of course, he was more likely to grow ten inches by the end of the day.

"Hey, Chris!" Her greeting floated through the open window. "We're gonna order pizza in a minute. Can you stay?"

Even her voice was hot.

"Yeah, sure. Let me dig out my CDs first." And will away the evidence of exactly how hot he found her.