Battle Scars

  I sighed, my smile slipping. I knew myself too well. I was falling for a man whose ass looked great in cammies or jeans, whose smile could stop traffic; a kind man, an honorable man. A man who made me laugh and knew how to make a woman cry out his name. But despite all that, Jackson Connor would be a dangerous man to love—and my heart was right in the firing line.

  A low growl of frustration ended with a sharp huff as I scowled at my reflection. I’m so bad at this! So bad at having casual sex. It always ended up meaning something to me when I knew it shouldn’t.

  There was a soft knock at the door.

  “You alright in there, Maggie?”

  I grabbed a towel, wrapping it around myself firmly, nakedness just adding to the vulnerability I felt. I opened the door, forcing a smile when I saw Jackson’s worried expression.

  “Just contemplating the meaning of life,” I answered lightly.

  “Find any answers?”

  I laughed quietly.

  “As many as the next person.”

  He leaned against the door jamb, wearing only a smile, at home in his skin.

  “Come here,” he said, gently pulling me toward him.

  I wrapped my arms around his neck, feeling his strong hands at my waist, his head burying itself in my neck as he kissed me sweetly.

  “It’s a new day,” he murmured against my flushed skin. “Let’s just see where it takes us.”

  “I like your plan,” I said, my head thudding backward against the bathroom door as his talented tongue licked the salt from my neck, and his soft lips kissed along my pulse point.

  He drew me towards the large bed, tugging my towel free, and in the morning light, with all my imperfections and flaws displayed, Jack Connor made soft, sweet love to me, his body urging me to enjoy life with all its fleeting moments of pleasure. Because that’s what life is—many moments of joy and sorrow, connections with other people, small and great, making memories.

  And I understood that whether I knew him for a few more minutes or days, weeks or months, I would never forget this man or this moment.

  Manhattan had woken with a rumble of passing traffic and the inevitable, swirling, colorful mass of humanity. It never truly slept, but now the city roared into life, cars and buses and taxis crawling along the grid-pattern of streets, commuters making their way to work, the hum and noise that even a Saturday morning couldn’t slow.

  My stomach grumbled quietly, and Jackson smiled.

  “Do I need to feed you?”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “That makes it sound like I’m expecting you to go hunter-gathering. But don’t worry, I won’t let us starve. You’re in my neighborhood now and I know some great places for breakfast. I even know somewhere that specializes in Southern cooking: grits, biscuits, sweet tea, all of that.”

  His eyes lit up.

  “Really? Because if you’re teasing, you might just see a grown man cry.”

  “I wouldn’t do that to you, Sarge. I know how serious you are about your food.”

  He grinned.

  “If you’d lived off of MREs for most of your adult life, you’d be serious about food, too.”

  We were laying in bed, face to face, knees touching. My hands were curled in front of me while Jackson rested his head on his right hand, his left idly stroking my hip.

  “There is one flaw in our plan . . . it requires moving.”

  “Hmm, that is a problem.” He sighed. “Then I guess I’d better get my ass out of this bed.”

  “And you want to see your friend today,” I reminded him.

  His smile faltered, and if I hadn’t been staring at his beautiful face, I’d have missed the fleeting expression of concern that clouded his eyes, but it was gone so quickly, I wondered if I’d imagined it.

  “Yeah, I do.” He leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss against my willing lips. “Gotta hit the head.”

  “Such sweet nothings you whisper,” I laughed.

  “Sorry, sugar. I’m out of practice being around civvies.”

  “You did fine last night and earlier this morning,” I reassured him.

  He gave me a very wicked grin.

  “That right? I was sure I could use some more practice.”

  “Oh definitely,” I nodded sagely. “Lots and lots of practice.”

  He winked at me and disappeared into the bathroom.

  I stretched out in the bed, feeling the pull of well used muscles. Jackson was a man in his prime—his love-making was on the athletic side. God, was it ever! And if I thought he’d be around for any length of time, I’d cancel my gym membership. I smiled at the thought.

  A moment later, Jack stuck his head around the bathroom door.

  “Shower with me, Maggie?”

  An offer I had no intention of refusing.

  The steam drifted around us as he washed my hair with firm, gentle hands, soaped my body and rinsed the suds away.

  And when I got on my knees to show him how much I appreciated the way he took care of me, his groans of pleasure were another special memory filed away for future use.

  Pink, shiny and satisfied, I wandered into the bedroom while Jackson shaved.

  It was a pain having to put on dirty clothes, but I was used to it. In fact, on one embedment when I was in South Sudan reporting on the Civil War and refugee camps, I didn’t wash or change my clothes for nearly two weeks.

  I’m happy to say that back in New York, my standards were usually a little higher.

  I frowned as I pulled on my underwear and shirt, sniffing discreetly and not finding anything too objectionable. Still, I was looking forward to clean clothes back at my apartment. I would have borrowed a pair of underwear from Jack, except he didn’t seem to wear them.

  He caught the direction of my gaze as he buttoned his jeans.

  “The uniform is skivvies, so when I don’t have to wear them . . .”

  “ . . . you let it all hang out.”

  He laughed.

  “You do have a way with words, Ms. Buckman.”

  “Journalistic training,” I agreed with a smile. “I get paid by the word.”

  “That why you use so many big ones?”

  “Are you saying I talk too much?”

  “Waal, you are a woman.”

  “Glad you noticed—but I’m not so keen on the stereotype.”

  He pulled me into his arms and buried his face in my hair.

  “I like that you won’t take any shit from me,” he breathed against my neck. “It’s refreshin’.”

  I nipped his earlobe gently.

  “I’ll bear that in mind. Consider yourself warned.”

  It took Jackson all of thirty seconds to pack his bag, ready to check out of the hotel.

  As we rode the elevator to the lobby, smiling at each other stupidly, he held my hand.

  “Never thought I’d take to a big city,” said Jackson.

  “Oh? How much of it have you seen so far?”

  “Your office building, the pub last night and my hotel room.”

  I laughed.

  “I can see why the Big Apple is sweeping you off your feet.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Best view since my bedroom is in this elevator.”

  The doors opened and the silly grin that I’d worn almost since the second I’d woken didn’t leave my face.

  His car was parked in the hotel’s underground parking lot.

  “A sedan? I figured you for a Jeep, Sarge.”

  “We have a saying in the Marines, ‘Any fool can be uncomfortable’.”

  “I like it.”

  “Catchy, isn’t it?”

  He opened the passenger door for me, helping me inside, then tossed his heavy bag in the trunk.

  I watched him from the corner of my eye as he handled the large car, easily navigating the unfamiliar streets, until we had a minor miracle of finding a parking spot and pulled up just around the corner from a cheap breakfast/brunch place famous for its chicken and waffles.

  “Glazed
Virginia Ham! Corn Beef Hash! Oh man! Catfish! Waffles! They do fried or smothered?” Jackson asked as he peered through the window, his eyes wide with hope and expectation.

  “Both,” I answered with a wink.

  “Damn, I think I died and went to heaven,” he said, pushing the door open and ushering me inside.

  “I think you got a little drool, just there,” I laughed, touching the side of his lips.

  His tongue flicked out and licked my finger, sucking it gently into his mouth.

  “You taste better than anything on this menu,” he whispered.

  “Oh, if you’re not hungry, we can leave . . .” I teased him.

  His face fell.

  “Maggie . . .”

  “Come on in before you pass out from hunger or die from disappointment.”

  He smacked my butt on the way through the door. I’d get him back.

  Jackson looked like he was positively in pain when he had a menu in his hand, a coffee in the other, and our waitress was running through the specials. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d said he’d take one of everything.

  I watched him eat waffles with pork sausage, bacon, fried eggs and grits on the side, while I settled for French toast and as much caffeine as I could ingest without bursting. I hadn’t gotten much sleep last night.

  Finally sated, if only temporarily, Jackson rubbed his stomach and grinned at me.

  “You coming up for air at last?”

  “That was a fu—freakin’ great meal. You sure know the way to a man’s heart, Maggie.”

  I smiled politely, because I knew he didn’t mean it.

  With a couple of coffees to-go, we climbed back into Jack’s sedan and made a quick stop at my apartment. I packed a bag and emailed my Australian contact with apologies, promising that I’d be in touch on Monday. And yes, I did feel guilty—I’d never blown off work for a man before. It left me with an uneasy feeling.

  While Jack found somewhere to fill up with gas, I threw on a clean shirt and jeans, and tossed some toiletries and underwear into my weekend bag.

  When he rang my cell, I ran down the steps and jumped into the car. Then we joined the line of cars creeping toward the Holland Tunnel.

  “So, tell me about this friend of yours we’re going to see,” I said, when silence had settled in the car and the traffic was moving freely.

  I was surprised when Jack’s hands tightened on the wheel until his knuckles turned white. It had seemed like an innocuous question, but clearly there was a back story.

  I remained silent. If Jackson wanted to tell me, he would. If not, I’d find out for myself in a couple of hours.

  After several long minutes, Jackson spoke.

  “He was a guy on my team.”

  I glanced across at him, waiting for more. But his lips were pressed together and he had a strangled expression on his face.

  “What’s his name?” I asked gently.

  “Grayson. Gray, to his friends.” Jack cut me a look. “He also answers to Shitneck,” and he gave a small smile.

  “Well, darn me, you Marines sure have catchy nicknames. What do they call you?”

  “Sarge,” he deadpanned, and I couldn’t help laughing.

  “Well, you certainly lucked out more than Shitneck. I don’t think I dare ask how he came across that name.”

  Jackson cracked a smile.

  “I’ll tell you sometime—just not right after we’ve eaten.”

  I rolled my eyes. Military guys had the same humor level as ten year-old boys. My smile faltered when I thought that a lot of the young guys I met when I was on an embedment were barely out of their teens. But by the end of their first deployment, they had the eyes of old men.

  “I think I’ll stick to Grayson,” I said mildly.

  As we headed through Parsippany, Jack tuned the radio to a soft rock station, humming along with the music. I wondered why he’d asked me to come with him on this trip when he didn’t want to talk, or even seem to want company that much. But I didn’t push him. It was obvious that today’s visit was going to be difficult for some reason. I had a few theories about that.

  As we approached Scranton, Jack’s mood took another dive.

  Despite being from Philly, I’d never been to this part of Scranton and it was prettier than I’d expected, with the river winding its way through the low hills.

  Heading north along the Lackawanna River, we stopped in the older suburb of Dickson City and a quiet street where most of the houses were painted white with small wooden decks at the front.

  Jackson pulled up outside a neat two-story house with a large attached garage.

  He took a deep breath, his hands still gripping the steering wheel.

  I didn’t say anything, but I touched his knee gently, letting him know I was here and supporting him, whatever it was.

  He gave me a stiff smile and climbed out of the car, holding my hand tightly. I squeezed his fingers as we walked toward the house.

  The door swung open and a woman with curly brown hair and pleasant face stood in front of us. Her smile grew as she stared at us—well, at Jackson.

  “Oh my God! Jack! You came!” she said joyfully, throwing her arms around his neck.

  I stood awkwardly to one side while he hugged her warmly.

  “Hey, Jules! I told you I’d be visiting.”

  “You did, but I didn’t believe you,” she laughed, then turned to me, smiling. “Where are your manners, Jackson Connor? Introduce me to your friend.”

  “Hi, I’m MJ,” I smiled, at the same time Jack said “Maggie.”

  I grinned at him and he gave a wry shake of his head.

  I held out my hand to Jules, but she ignored it, instead pulling me into a hug.

  “Any friend of Jack’s is welcome, MJ Maggie,” she smiled, the warmth in her eyes telling me she was sincere. “Have you traveled far?”

  “Just up from the Big Apple,” Jackson answered for us.

  She turned to stare.

  “Seriously? You were in the city? I can’t imagine that, a good ole country boy like you!” Then she threw me a sly look. “Although maybe I can. Come on in. Gray is in his studio.”

  We followed her through a living room cluttered with children’s toys into a kitchen that smelled of laundry and baking bread.

  “Please excuse the mess,” she said, “we weren’t expecting company. Honestly, Jackson Connor! You couldn’t give me a heads up? I would have made your favorite peach cobbler!”

  Jackson mumbled something unintelligible and shoved his hands in his pockets. Jules shook her head, still smiling, and opened a door off the kitchen.

  “Gray, we have company!”

  We heard a muffled curse and Jules laughed quietly.

  “He gets grumpy when he’s interrupted, but ignore him. He’ll be happy to see you. Go on through.”

  Jackson tentatively walked into the room and I followed a few paces behind, unsure if I should stay with Jules or follow Jack.

  The space that must have once been a three-car garage had been turned into a pottery studio. Glazed and unglazed ceramics stood in varying stages of completion on wooden shelves, and the man seated at a workbench was shaping a pot on a turntable.

  He was about the same age as Jackson, but his hair was prematurely salt and pepper, and lines of worry creased his forehead. But when he saw Jack, his smile was immediate.

  “Fuck me, Jack Connor!”

  “You’re not my type,” Jackson laughed, leaning down to hug his friend and slap him on the back. “Good to see you, man.”

  “I’m seeing it, but I don’t believe it! How long has it been?”

  Jackson’s shoulder twitched uncomfortably and he scratched the side of his face with his thumb.

  “A year or so.”

  “Try two-and-a-half years, asshole!”

  “Yeah, sorry. Been busy.”

  “So I see,” smiled Gray, raising one eyebrow. “You going to introduce me?”

  “Uh, this is Maggie, my . .
. friend.”

  “He’s lying,” I said cheerfully, shaking Gray’s hand. “We hooked up last night and he invited me on a road trip to meet you.”

  Gray laughed loudly and grinned at Jackson who was uncharacteristically flushed.

  “I like her. She’s got you on the run already, buddy. Good to meet you, Maggie.”

  “It’s not like that,” Jackson muttered, shooting me an irritated look. “We met three months ago. In Helmand.”

  Gray threw me a surprised look.

  “Truth?”

  “Yes, I’m a reporter for the New York Times,” I said. “But don’t let that put you off. I was working on a few stories out there and Jack just happened to save my life.”

  Gray nodded slowly.

  “Yeah, he does that.”

  Then he stood up and walked around his workbench. It was a warm day and he was wearing shorts, so I couldn’t help but notice that two carbon fiber prosthetics replaced his legs.

  He saw my gaze and answered the unspoken question.

  “IED, three years ago. Our APC cargo carrier drove over a landmine. The rest of the team were killed—Jack dragged me out.” He laughed bleakly. “I was 6’1” and weighed 190 pounds. Now I’m 4’2” and weigh 130 pounds. But I’m alive—thanks to this guy.”

  Jackson was rigid, his face frozen, but when Gray walked toward him and hugged him, his stance relaxed. I looked away while Gray whispered something to him as Jackson shook his head.

  I left them to their reunion, retracing my steps to the kitchen.

  Jules was standing at the sink, gazing out into the yard.

  “How’s he doing?” she asked.

  “They’re having a moment,” I said quietly.

  “I meant Jack. How’s he doing?”

  “Uh . . .”

  I wasn’t sure how to answer that, and I stared at her questioningly.

  “He blames himself,” she said. “Jack was the driver that day. He shouldn’t have been, but the regular driver was sick. So . . . he pulled Gray out of the burning APC even though he was injured himself. Got a medal and everything,” she said with a small sigh. “This is only the second time he’s seen Gray since it happened. The first time was in hospital. They were best friends. But you probably know that.”

  “No, I didn’t,” I admitted. “Jack and I . . . it’s new. Whatever it is.”