Grayson's Surrender
Page 8
Warm, sleepy woman molded herself to him as he shoved down the comforter. Gray guided her onto the bed, slipped her shoes off and draped a spread over her, no lingering touches.
But maybe one last look.
Moonlight slatted through the navy miniblinds. She burrowed into the pillow, sighed, and stopped moving. Her femininity contrasted with the stark furnishings of his apartment, always had.
Wisps of caramel hair straggled across her face, one catching on her mouth. Gray brushed them aside, allowing his thumb one extra stroke across her full bottom lip.
A dark part of his mind whispered he could have her now, in his bed, in a minute—in her. Just as quickly he squashed the thought and went to his own room alone. Of course he wouldn't take advantage of her that way. As he fell facedown on his bed, already half-asleep, he wondered who he was protecting more.
Lori or himself.
* * *
His father stepped out of the cargo plane. Reed-thin, painfully thin, Dave Clark clutched the handrail as he descended the stairs onto the tarmac with the other liberated POWs.
Gray wanted to sprint forward, but hung back with the rest of the waiting families. He gripped his brother's sticky hand while his mother held his little sister.
His father's clothes hung from his shoulders like a uniform left on the hanger. Righteous indignation and rage filled Gray's nine-year-old chest. What had they done to his dad?
He didn't want to think about it. His father was home, and that's all that mattered. Gray could give back his job as man of the house. Everything would be normal again.
His feet itched to move. Gray bolted forward.
But wait. That wasn't right.
A part of his mind argued with the familiar dream. That wasn't the way it happened. He'd stayed with his mom, brother and sister until his dad limped over to them.
Except Gray could feel his flight boots pounding the pavement, the panic slugging through him. Flight boots? But he was a kid.
He ran faster. He had to reach his dad before everything blew. The cement cracked and spewed chunks of asphalt with each round of fire. His leg flashed with fiery-hot pain. Gray dodged and wove across the runway.
His father disappeared inside the uniform. Lori appeared in his place, holding Gray's little sister.
Gray leaped forward to tackle them just as the tarmac exploded beneath his feet.
Ring.
His ears echoed with the aftershock.
Light streaming through the blinds stung his eyes. Gray stuffed his head under his pillow to smother the sound and restore darkness.
Pillow?
Ring.
He shook off the bad dream, an expected byproduct of gunfire. Most combat flyers had them, and yesterday's shoot-out in Sentavo qualified for nightmare material. Knowing didn't make it suck any less. But at least his would fade normally, as they had done after he'd flown C-130s in Desert Storm, and again after his brief stint in Afghanistan. His father's combat dreams still had the old man walking the floors at night.
Ring. Gray pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes to dispel the lingering grip of fear for his dad—for Lori.
Ring.
Gray lobbed his pillow at the phone—and missed.
Fire shot up his leg. Groaning, he rolled to his back on the queen-size bed, boot propped, knee bent so his throbbing calf wouldn't touch even the comforter.
Ring.
He snatched the phone off the cradle. "Yeah."
"Morning, sunshine."
"God, Bronco. It's still…" Gray scrubbed a hand over his bleary eyes and read his watch. "Two hours till debrief. Go pound sand."
"No, thanks." Tanner Bennett's too-damn-cheerful laugh faded on the other end. "So, Cutter, what's up?"
"Nothing."
"Too bad."
"Not funny."
"Now is that any way to talk to your best bud?"
His nosy best bud. Gray needed to get off the phone so he could see Lori and wash away the sour aftertaste of his dream. "It's not fair to challenge a man before his morning pot of coffee. I'm hanging up, bud."
"Wait. I'm calling to offer my help."
"Help?"
"Moving Lori's car back to her place. I couldn't help but notice it parked in the lot when I came in."
Gray resisted the urge to growl at Bronco, knowing that would only further fuel the guy's curiosity. Locker-room confidences about women, especially Lori, weren't his style anyway, no matter how close the friendship. "Quit fishing, pal. That pond's empty."
"So why's her car still here?"
"She was too upset to drive, thank you very much for your help yesterday. I already took her home." His home, but Bronco didn't need to know that, and forget asking him to help trade out Lori's car now. Gray stared out his open bedroom door, his eyes attracted like a guilty magnet to the closed guest room across the hall.
"You took her home? What the hell were you thinking?"
"Your concern is downright touching."
"Hey, I'm a sensitive guy."
Gray snorted on a laugh that set his leg on fire again. He bit back a groan.
"Are you okay?"
"Charley horse. Gotta go. See you in a few."
Bronco's reply faded as Gray dropped the phone in the cradle. Time to haul his sorry butt out of bed and face Lori's wrath when she realized he hadn't taken her home.
Gray untied his boots and eased them off, careful not to jar his leg. He stood, unzipped his flight suit and shook it free before dropping back to rest on the edge of the bed.
Bit by painful bit, he peeled the fabric from his thigh and tossed aside the ruined uniform. Bracing one foot on his knee, he evaluated the back of his calf. Not too bad. Specks of asphalt mixed in with the shrapnel. Hurt like hell, but he should be able to pick free what didn't soak out in the shower.
He only had to put in a half day with debrief and wasn't scheduled at the base clinic. A call to check on Magda's condition would clear his work commitments. Then he could crash on his deck for a beer and a nap in the sun.
After he took Lori home.
His dream came roaring back like the exploding tarmac.
How the hell was he going to figure out how to put the past to rest for good this time?
Maybe he should start with a simpler, less painful task, like digging shrapnel out of his leg.
Chapter 5
She couldn't decide what would be simpler, climbing out the apartment window and hitching a ride clear across Charleston or facing Gray again. Morning sun sliced through the miniblinds as Lori tucked her knees to her chest.
Gray hadn't taken her home, but then, she hadn't stayed awake long enough to give him her street address. She knew better than to blame him for not waking her. A category-five hurricane couldn't have roused her.
Of course, he could have looked in her purse, a little voice spurred her.
Her conscience silenced the little voice in no time flat. Gray had no doubt been equally as exhausted, and she'd been selfish enough depending on him.
She pressed her back against the daybed corner in Gray's guest room, the room he set aside for his family and friends. Were they friends now? Or would they say goodbye for good? Which would be harder … never seeing him again or having to face him in a platonic way, watching other women pass in and out of his life?
The bedside clock flashed eleven o'clock. She eyed the door. Was he still in his big bed? A bed she'd shared more than once.
A clump of lank hair fell in Lori's face. She probably looked like a worn-out hag, exactly how she felt. All thoughts of vanity aside, no woman wanted her ex seeing her looking like this, with wrinkled clothes, dirty hair and undoubtedly bloodshot eyes.
Time to go home through the front door—after a speedy dash into the bathroom.
Lori flung aside the navy comforter. If only her memories could be so easily discarded.
Damn it, she'd been fine two days ago. Or had she? Work dominated her life and had for a year, no relationships, only superficial friendships.
Resolutely she squashed self-doubts. She was content—happy—with her life. She certainly preferred her new job to her prior one with the state. Career building demanded focus, and focusing on her career helped her stop thinking about Major Grayson Clark.
Lori padded to the door, peeked out at the empty hallway and listened. A shower swooshed from behind Gray's bedroom door.
No way would she let her thoughts wander there.
She darted down the hall past his computer room to the spare bath. While she hated the thought of putting back on her grungy clothes, at least a shower would slosh away the grime. She whipped open the door and stopped short.
Resting on the edge of the vanity waited an old pair of her shorts and a Spoletto Festival T-shirt. A half-empty bottle of shampoo nestled on top of the stack. Her brand. Things she'd left at his place.
Cottony thickness wedged in her throat like a wadded T-shirt. Why hadn't he tossed them out? He wasn't a neat freak by any stretch, but he kept a clean apartment, especially for a bachelor.
A horrible thought blindsided her. Could he have let some other woman use her things?
Unable to stop the green-eyed monster from rearing its ugly head, Lori leaped forward and buried her nose in the T-shirt. It held the same detergent scent as Gray's flight suit. There were no lingering flowery fragrances to fan the green-eyed monster's flames.
Not that it was any of her business or concern.
Lori bumped the door shut with her hip, stripped out of her clothes and stepped into the tub. The shower stung her eyes as she stared at her old shampoo bottle. Soap didn't have an expiration date, like milk and bad relationships, did it?
The bottle all but seared her hand. They'd come out of more than one shower together smelling like peaches.
Enough daydreaming about Gray.
She scrubbed through her shower and toweled dry, staring at the little pile of clothes. Too bad she hadn't left behind fresh underwear, not that she really needed a bra. Hating the thought of putting on anything she'd worn the day before, Lori whipped the T-shirt over her bare chest and stepped into the shorts.
The hall echoed with her light footsteps. Gray's door stood open to an empty bedroom. Her eyes traveled to his rumpled bed, then skittered away.
Ping. The tinny sound reverberated from the kitchen, followed by a grunt from Gray. "Yeah… Uh-huh…What's her temp now…? And when do those sputum cultures come in from the lab…? Well, page me… Yeah, thanks. I'll check back later."
Ping.
Odd. It tinkled like a spoon lightly tapping a dish, but without the rhythm or force that accompanied eating. She walked toward the kitchen.
Ping.
Lori closed the last few feet to the kitchen archway where a fresh flight suit dangled from a hanger hooked on the molding. She stepped around it to find Gray sitting at the table in his boxers and a plain, black T-shirt. His left leg lay propped on the white tiled table.
What was he doing? His broad shoulders hunched forward, blocking her view.
She inched closer. A large blue towel draped half the table. The cordless phone and a notepad rested beside a small medical kit.
And a dish with pieces of bloody metal inside.
Gray's hand extended toward the bowl, tweezers firmly in his grip, and released another fragment of metal.
Ping.
"Ohmigosh!"
Gray jerked, then glanced over his shoulder. "Oh, hey, Lori."
She rushed forward, staring horrified at his shrapnel-splattered leg. Nausea stung the back of her throat.
Flecks of metal and rock the size of peas and pinheads dotted the upper back of his left calf. Blood oozed from the small wounds already cleared of debris.
Lori grabbed the edge of the table and sank into a chair. "'Hey, Lori'? That's all you can say? You're digging chunks out of your leg and all you can say is 'Hey, Lori'?"
"It beats flinging crew dog curses your way. And believe me, hon, I've got a few of those floating around in my head right now."
But maybe one last look.
Moonlight slatted through the navy miniblinds. She burrowed into the pillow, sighed, and stopped moving. Her femininity contrasted with the stark furnishings of his apartment, always had.
Wisps of caramel hair straggled across her face, one catching on her mouth. Gray brushed them aside, allowing his thumb one extra stroke across her full bottom lip.
A dark part of his mind whispered he could have her now, in his bed, in a minute—in her. Just as quickly he squashed the thought and went to his own room alone. Of course he wouldn't take advantage of her that way. As he fell facedown on his bed, already half-asleep, he wondered who he was protecting more.
Lori or himself.
* * *
His father stepped out of the cargo plane. Reed-thin, painfully thin, Dave Clark clutched the handrail as he descended the stairs onto the tarmac with the other liberated POWs.
Gray wanted to sprint forward, but hung back with the rest of the waiting families. He gripped his brother's sticky hand while his mother held his little sister.
His father's clothes hung from his shoulders like a uniform left on the hanger. Righteous indignation and rage filled Gray's nine-year-old chest. What had they done to his dad?
He didn't want to think about it. His father was home, and that's all that mattered. Gray could give back his job as man of the house. Everything would be normal again.
His feet itched to move. Gray bolted forward.
But wait. That wasn't right.
A part of his mind argued with the familiar dream. That wasn't the way it happened. He'd stayed with his mom, brother and sister until his dad limped over to them.
Except Gray could feel his flight boots pounding the pavement, the panic slugging through him. Flight boots? But he was a kid.
He ran faster. He had to reach his dad before everything blew. The cement cracked and spewed chunks of asphalt with each round of fire. His leg flashed with fiery-hot pain. Gray dodged and wove across the runway.
His father disappeared inside the uniform. Lori appeared in his place, holding Gray's little sister.
Gray leaped forward to tackle them just as the tarmac exploded beneath his feet.
Ring.
His ears echoed with the aftershock.
Light streaming through the blinds stung his eyes. Gray stuffed his head under his pillow to smother the sound and restore darkness.
Pillow?
Ring.
He shook off the bad dream, an expected byproduct of gunfire. Most combat flyers had them, and yesterday's shoot-out in Sentavo qualified for nightmare material. Knowing didn't make it suck any less. But at least his would fade normally, as they had done after he'd flown C-130s in Desert Storm, and again after his brief stint in Afghanistan. His father's combat dreams still had the old man walking the floors at night.
Ring. Gray pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes to dispel the lingering grip of fear for his dad—for Lori.
Ring.
Gray lobbed his pillow at the phone—and missed.
Fire shot up his leg. Groaning, he rolled to his back on the queen-size bed, boot propped, knee bent so his throbbing calf wouldn't touch even the comforter.
Ring.
He snatched the phone off the cradle. "Yeah."
"Morning, sunshine."
"God, Bronco. It's still…" Gray scrubbed a hand over his bleary eyes and read his watch. "Two hours till debrief. Go pound sand."
"No, thanks." Tanner Bennett's too-damn-cheerful laugh faded on the other end. "So, Cutter, what's up?"
"Nothing."
"Too bad."
"Not funny."
"Now is that any way to talk to your best bud?"
His nosy best bud. Gray needed to get off the phone so he could see Lori and wash away the sour aftertaste of his dream. "It's not fair to challenge a man before his morning pot of coffee. I'm hanging up, bud."
"Wait. I'm calling to offer my help."
"Help?"
"Moving Lori's car back to her place. I couldn't help but notice it parked in the lot when I came in."
Gray resisted the urge to growl at Bronco, knowing that would only further fuel the guy's curiosity. Locker-room confidences about women, especially Lori, weren't his style anyway, no matter how close the friendship. "Quit fishing, pal. That pond's empty."
"So why's her car still here?"
"She was too upset to drive, thank you very much for your help yesterday. I already took her home." His home, but Bronco didn't need to know that, and forget asking him to help trade out Lori's car now. Gray stared out his open bedroom door, his eyes attracted like a guilty magnet to the closed guest room across the hall.
"You took her home? What the hell were you thinking?"
"Your concern is downright touching."
"Hey, I'm a sensitive guy."
Gray snorted on a laugh that set his leg on fire again. He bit back a groan.
"Are you okay?"
"Charley horse. Gotta go. See you in a few."
Bronco's reply faded as Gray dropped the phone in the cradle. Time to haul his sorry butt out of bed and face Lori's wrath when she realized he hadn't taken her home.
Gray untied his boots and eased them off, careful not to jar his leg. He stood, unzipped his flight suit and shook it free before dropping back to rest on the edge of the bed.
Bit by painful bit, he peeled the fabric from his thigh and tossed aside the ruined uniform. Bracing one foot on his knee, he evaluated the back of his calf. Not too bad. Specks of asphalt mixed in with the shrapnel. Hurt like hell, but he should be able to pick free what didn't soak out in the shower.
He only had to put in a half day with debrief and wasn't scheduled at the base clinic. A call to check on Magda's condition would clear his work commitments. Then he could crash on his deck for a beer and a nap in the sun.
After he took Lori home.
His dream came roaring back like the exploding tarmac.
How the hell was he going to figure out how to put the past to rest for good this time?
Maybe he should start with a simpler, less painful task, like digging shrapnel out of his leg.
Chapter 5
She couldn't decide what would be simpler, climbing out the apartment window and hitching a ride clear across Charleston or facing Gray again. Morning sun sliced through the miniblinds as Lori tucked her knees to her chest.
Gray hadn't taken her home, but then, she hadn't stayed awake long enough to give him her street address. She knew better than to blame him for not waking her. A category-five hurricane couldn't have roused her.
Of course, he could have looked in her purse, a little voice spurred her.
Her conscience silenced the little voice in no time flat. Gray had no doubt been equally as exhausted, and she'd been selfish enough depending on him.
She pressed her back against the daybed corner in Gray's guest room, the room he set aside for his family and friends. Were they friends now? Or would they say goodbye for good? Which would be harder … never seeing him again or having to face him in a platonic way, watching other women pass in and out of his life?
The bedside clock flashed eleven o'clock. She eyed the door. Was he still in his big bed? A bed she'd shared more than once.
A clump of lank hair fell in Lori's face. She probably looked like a worn-out hag, exactly how she felt. All thoughts of vanity aside, no woman wanted her ex seeing her looking like this, with wrinkled clothes, dirty hair and undoubtedly bloodshot eyes.
Time to go home through the front door—after a speedy dash into the bathroom.
Lori flung aside the navy comforter. If only her memories could be so easily discarded.
Damn it, she'd been fine two days ago. Or had she? Work dominated her life and had for a year, no relationships, only superficial friendships.
Resolutely she squashed self-doubts. She was content—happy—with her life. She certainly preferred her new job to her prior one with the state. Career building demanded focus, and focusing on her career helped her stop thinking about Major Grayson Clark.
Lori padded to the door, peeked out at the empty hallway and listened. A shower swooshed from behind Gray's bedroom door.
No way would she let her thoughts wander there.
She darted down the hall past his computer room to the spare bath. While she hated the thought of putting back on her grungy clothes, at least a shower would slosh away the grime. She whipped open the door and stopped short.
Resting on the edge of the vanity waited an old pair of her shorts and a Spoletto Festival T-shirt. A half-empty bottle of shampoo nestled on top of the stack. Her brand. Things she'd left at his place.
Cottony thickness wedged in her throat like a wadded T-shirt. Why hadn't he tossed them out? He wasn't a neat freak by any stretch, but he kept a clean apartment, especially for a bachelor.
A horrible thought blindsided her. Could he have let some other woman use her things?
Unable to stop the green-eyed monster from rearing its ugly head, Lori leaped forward and buried her nose in the T-shirt. It held the same detergent scent as Gray's flight suit. There were no lingering flowery fragrances to fan the green-eyed monster's flames.
Not that it was any of her business or concern.
Lori bumped the door shut with her hip, stripped out of her clothes and stepped into the tub. The shower stung her eyes as she stared at her old shampoo bottle. Soap didn't have an expiration date, like milk and bad relationships, did it?
The bottle all but seared her hand. They'd come out of more than one shower together smelling like peaches.
Enough daydreaming about Gray.
She scrubbed through her shower and toweled dry, staring at the little pile of clothes. Too bad she hadn't left behind fresh underwear, not that she really needed a bra. Hating the thought of putting on anything she'd worn the day before, Lori whipped the T-shirt over her bare chest and stepped into the shorts.
The hall echoed with her light footsteps. Gray's door stood open to an empty bedroom. Her eyes traveled to his rumpled bed, then skittered away.
Ping. The tinny sound reverberated from the kitchen, followed by a grunt from Gray. "Yeah… Uh-huh…What's her temp now…? And when do those sputum cultures come in from the lab…? Well, page me… Yeah, thanks. I'll check back later."
Ping.
Odd. It tinkled like a spoon lightly tapping a dish, but without the rhythm or force that accompanied eating. She walked toward the kitchen.
Ping.
Lori closed the last few feet to the kitchen archway where a fresh flight suit dangled from a hanger hooked on the molding. She stepped around it to find Gray sitting at the table in his boxers and a plain, black T-shirt. His left leg lay propped on the white tiled table.
What was he doing? His broad shoulders hunched forward, blocking her view.
She inched closer. A large blue towel draped half the table. The cordless phone and a notepad rested beside a small medical kit.
And a dish with pieces of bloody metal inside.
Gray's hand extended toward the bowl, tweezers firmly in his grip, and released another fragment of metal.
Ping.
"Ohmigosh!"
Gray jerked, then glanced over his shoulder. "Oh, hey, Lori."
She rushed forward, staring horrified at his shrapnel-splattered leg. Nausea stung the back of her throat.
Flecks of metal and rock the size of peas and pinheads dotted the upper back of his left calf. Blood oozed from the small wounds already cleared of debris.
Lori grabbed the edge of the table and sank into a chair. "'Hey, Lori'? That's all you can say? You're digging chunks out of your leg and all you can say is 'Hey, Lori'?"
"It beats flinging crew dog curses your way. And believe me, hon, I've got a few of those floating around in my head right now."
