Let It Ride (14 page)

C
OLE ONLY
stopped by McCabe's to get his duffel and gear. He was scheduled to report to his new commander at Lackland tomorrow at 0800 hours, but he'd missed his flight. Before catching the red-eye, he had a couple of free hours. And if there were no delays, he'd have just enough time to shower and shave in the officers' club at Lackland before reporting for duty.

For now he needed speed. And distance.

The desert night swallowed him up as he pushed his Harley to its limits. The sand spitting into his face and the lonely road curling out before him gave permission to his rage.

He'd wanted to comfort Jordan. What was so bad about that? And then, he'd only tried to be honest. But she hadn't wanted to listen. How was he supposed to think straight after such a grueling day? Her tears had torn him up. Hell, they still did.

Mile after mile, the roar of his bike's engine rumbled in his chest, feeding the restlessness. The arid desert, the spiny cacti, and along the horizon, the inflexible mountains all seemed to match his mood.

His throat felt dry as he pulled up next to a dilapidated adobe shack. It had to be one of the piss-poorest hole-in-the-wall joints north of the border. The place was full of bikers, served cheap tequila and no beer nuts.

The bartender was a Native American named Lucky Bear. Cole glanced around casually as he downed a shot. One of the bikers at the table behind him decided to look at him the wrong way. Cole knew that look. The guy seemed to have a problem with his military crew cut. Good. He was itching to plant his fist into someone's nose.

“What are you looking at?” he snarled, meeting the man's gaze, eager to take the first swing.

With a long-suffering sigh, the biker clenched his meaty hands on the table, shoved his chair back and slowly stood. He looked to be Grady's height: about six foot five, but this guy was massive, maybe three hundred pounds.

Adrenaline shot through Cole's veins. His knuckles clenched as he stood and got in the guy's face. Come on. Fight me, you long-haired freak.

Cole braced himself for impact, but the guy only smiled. “That Harley you rode in on. It got the staggered exhaust with the shorty dual mufflers?”

Cole blinked. “Uh, yeah.”

The biker nodded. “I been thinking about getting myself a new bike. That's the XL 1200 C Sportster, huh?”

Just my luck I walk into the only bar in a thousand-mile radius with pacifist bikers. Cole gestured with his chin. “Yeah. Got a clutch so smooth you can make love and shift at the same time.”

Next thing he knew, the bikers were buying him a shot of tequila for serving their country and Lucky Bear was asking him if he had woman trouble. At that, Cole decided it was time to head back to catch his flight. He'd come in here to take his mind
off
Jordan.

Still, as he sped away, her words kept creeping into his consciousness.

What had she called him? Wild and reckless? Irresponsible? And he was. Case in point: how he'd acted in that bar. He could have been seriously hurt. And that was why he'd never be good at relationships. Even if he decided he wanted the responsibilities that came with being with Jordan, it was too late. He'd screwed up. It was over for sure. And that was probably for the best.

The road came to a sharp curve and, instead of slowing down, Cole gunned it. Yeah. He
was
reckless, wasn't he? Acting responsibly was for other guys. He had nothing to tie him down. Nothing to lose.

He had nothing, period.

A jackrabbit darted in front of his bike and Cole slammed on the brakes and yanked the front wheel sideways. The bike skidded off the road, hit something and flipped.

 

C
OLE AWOKE
with a gasp of much-needed air. Someone had detonated a bomb inside his head. In his mouth was the dusty, sour taste he'd come to associate with the desert. His body screeched in pain as if it'd been set afire. And something wet dripped from his hair and into his left eye.

What the hell?

Then he remembered. He'd been shot down somewhere north of Baghdad. He'd ejected, but the explosion had sent burning shrapnel into his flight suit.

The sun's rays blazed white-hot. Cole judged it to be around midday. How long had he been out?

The Iraqis were quiet for now, but a rescue in hostile territory was tricky. He'd better get moving. Make his way to some cover before their midday prayers ended.

He tensed himself for worse pain and rolled to his hands and knees, then sat up holding an arm across his ribs. By concentrating on breathing, he managed the worst of the pain and used his sleeve to wipe blood from his eyes. Correction: what was left of his sleeve.

Blinking to clear his vision, he searched his surroundings. What was that off in the distance? Gritting his teeth, he pushed to his feet and squinted his eyes.

A U.S. highway sign?

The desert spun around him and images of his life since he'd been shot down flashed through his mind.

He wasn't in Iraq. He'd crashed his bike, not an F-22. Scanning the terrain, he saw its mangled metal glinting in the sun about thirty yards away. But that didn't mean he had to walk the rest of the way. Smiling, he reached in his jeans pocket for his cell phone. It came out in bits and pieces.

Son of a bitch.

 

“I
COULD NEVER
do this all the time.” Alex—aka Captain Hughes—shifted from one combat boot to the other as Jordan sorted through racks of clothes.

“Who says I do this all the time?” When the going got tough, the tough went shopping, right? Today, Jordan was here out of sheer necessity, but it was still fun.

Her new friend didn't look so thrilled to be here. Alex's eyes looked glazed and her shoulders were hunched. Though it'd been Captain Hughes's—Alex's—choice to be here. She'd called Jordan this morning to check on how her mom was doing and asked if Jordan could meet for lunch.

Jordan needed to have a suit to interview in, and hadn't wanted to leave her mom for any longer than necessary, so they'd turned it into a shopping date instead. Jordan was determined to carry on. If nothing else, Mom getting lost yesterday and Cole leaving last night had only made getting a better job even more essential.

“I can't believe women go through all this just to attract a man.”

“Hey, I'm getting this suit for a job interview I have tomorrow,” Jordan clarified. “How about this one?” She held a conservatively cut navy suit jacket with a matching pencil skirt, both still on the hangers, against her body.

Alex shrugged. “I can't tell any difference from that last one.”

“How can you say that? The other suit was black, and had an A-line skirt.” Jordan was beginning to suspect Alex needed a crash course in Fashion 101.

“Honestly, Jordan, they look the same to me.”

“Okay, let me try this on and then I'll be done. I have to be at the casino in an hour.” Jordan took the suit into the dressing room, mentally calculating the Memorial
Day sale price, plus tax. Her savings for investing in job interviews were almost nil, however, this outlet price might mean she'd have enough to get the Calvin Klein pumps, as well.

She'd politely passed on asking Alex for her opinion on the shoes. What the girl needed was Beauty Boot Camp, Jordan decided. She could just picture Alex's petite yet athletic frame softened by the right style and fit of clothes. And some highlights in her brown hair would enhance her flawless complexion. Wouldn't it be fun to see if Cole even recognized her?

Cole. She had to quit dwelling on him. It was over.

Jordan took a deep breath and studied her reflection. The suit fitted her to perfection, even with her aggravatingly big chest. She stepped out of the dressing room and did her best runway pose and turn. “Well?”

“It's great. Let's go.”

Jordan grimaced. “It'd have to be dry-cleaned. It's forty-four percent wool. But it's such a great price—”

“Jordan,” Alex cut in. “You put less thought into screwing Jackson. Just buy it!”

Pain pierced her chest. It wasn't true. Was it?

“I'm sorry.” Alex moaned. “I can't believe I said that. I can be such a bitch.”

“No, you're right. There's definitely something wrong with me when it comes to choosing men. Charmers or daredevils, even quiet bankers, if they're allergic to commitment, I pick 'em.” Or maybe it was just
her
they were allergic to.

“Hey. I have no room to judge. My best buddy is a
guy whose idea of commitment is buying the woman a drink before he nails her.”

Jordan burst into an aborted sob. “How can you be friends with a man like that?” What was wrong with her? It took mentioning Cole's friend to make her lose it? She snatched her purse off the chair, scrambling for a tissue. She refused to get one teardrop on this fabulous suit.

Alex shrugged. “McCabe has his reasons for treating women the way he does, the sorry SOB.”

“But how can you put up with it?”

Alex's face fell and she studied the steel toe of her combat boot. “I'm not sure I can anymore.”

 

“M
C
C
ABE
,”
Mitch answered his office phone Monday afternoon in his clipped professional voice.

“Have you heard from Jackson?” Grady barked.

Normally Mitch might make a smart-ass remark just to annoy Grady, but something clicked when Grady asked about Jackson. Something wasn't right. “He's not at Lackland?”

“No,” Grady answered. “And as of tonight, he'll be AWOL.”

Jackson hadn't picked up his duffel last night, but Mitch had just assumed he'd spent the night with the Keno girl after they found her mother, and then gone straight to the airport from there. “Jackson would never be AWOL if he could help it.”

“You know that. And I know that. Now we just have to find him.”

“I'll call Hughes,” Mitch said as he flipped open his
cell phone. “She took the morning off. Maybe she knows something.”

“Good idea. In the meantime, I'll call Ms. Brenner. I have her number from yesterday. Jackson was still with her last I saw him.”

 

C
OLE FELT
as though the desert sun was boiling him alive. He'd made it to the highway, but not one car had come by in all the time he'd been walking. One painful step at a time, he limped along, holding his ribs, pretty sure something serious was wrong with his right knee. The thirst was making him lose his mind. He kept thinking he was in Iraq. Then the next minute a plane would fly overhead or he'd see a billboard.

The thought occurred to him, he could die out here and no one would know for days. At least in Iraq he'd had a crew looking for him and his approximate location after he ejected.

Why the hell had he been such a fool last night, riding so recklessly after the shots of tequila? Did he actually have a death wish? He'd rationalized his actions in Iraq with the excuse that he was saving soldiers, but what was his excuse this time?

He was lucky even to be alive. Albeit no one knew where he was. Lackland would consider him AWOL by now. They'd call his squadron commander, who might call Grady or McCabe. Damn. What if they called Jordan looking for him? She'd already spent a hellish day searching for her mother. Maybe she'd be too pissed to care where he was.

He knew better though.

She'd worry. She'd be upset.

And he didn't want that. He wished only good things for her. If only he could have been one of them. But he'd lost any chance of having something meaningful with her.

That thought hurt worse than his ribs.

And as simple as that, he knew he loved her. And he knew what he wanted. He wanted Jordan. He needed her. How could he have not known that before? Before it was too late.

Are you happy now, Jackson, you ass? What was so great about having no responsibilities? He had his “freedom,” but what did that buy him? Look how shallow his life was without someone who really cared for him. Damn.

He loved Jordan. Now that he'd acknowledged that to himself, he wanted to tell her. To make things right. Right now. And mostly he wanted her in his arms.

He heard a hawk screech above him and raised his eyes to the sky. It seemed to be a symbol, and he swore to himself that as soon as he made it to civilization he'd get his shit together, sort out his life, and then do whatever it took to win Jordan back.

He pulled his shirt off, tied it around his head and pushed on. Back to Vegas. Back to Jordan.

If she'd have him.

 

J
ORDAN STROLLED
around the casino, trailing her free hand across unoccupied slots. Her feet ached. Her uniform chafed. Her vision was distorted. And several
customers had been forced to repeat themselves when her mind wandered. How was she going to be bright-eyed for her interview tomorrow?