Chapter Twenty-Three
She’d learned to ask beyond what she needed, but he’d yet to learn to provide only what was asked.
—The Temptress of Pecan Lane, by Mae Daniels
Jules was off again. Her sunken cheeks and eye bags had moderately improved, but she was arriving later and later, working some weekends to catch up. And Anna had had to correct a few notes and color-codings.
The color-coding was normal, but the notes?
Freaky, that’s what it was.
Not that Jules responded to any inquiries about her health and happiness with anything other than, “Life’s a beach.”
So when she asked Anna to lunch the next Thursday, looking as if she wanted to talk, Anna cancelled her lunch date with Jackson and went with Jules to the food court at the BX on base.
Neither of them were authorized to shop at the BX anymore, since Anna’s divorce and Brad’s separation from the Air Force, but contractors were allowed to eat at the food court.
Jules wanted a Philly cheesesteak, so they climbed into Jules’s car and headed out for Charley’s.
Their base access badges from work got them through the security gate.
Anna didn’t have a reason to visit base often.
Being surrounded by uniforms again felt odd.
Jules didn’t seem to notice much of anything around them.
She was fixated on watching the woman behind the counter fry her steak.
Even when they sat to eat by the soda fountains, Jules barely looked around.
She downed the sandwich, then asked if she could have Anna’s fries.
“Sure.” Anna slid them over. A prickle went up her nape.
A good kind of prickle.
The my-boyfriend-is-watching-me kind of prickle.
Not that he was her boyfriend. Exactly. Yada yada. He stood with a couple of uniformed guys near the Robin Hood pizza counter, giving her a half-smile.
The I see you too but you’re too busy for me and can make it up to me later kind of half-smile.
And how could she not half-smile a you bet your britches I will half-smile back at that?
Jules cleared her throat. “So, how was your divorce lawyer?” She shoveled another handful of fries into her mouth and eyed the rest of Anna’s sandwich as though she’d be asking for it next.
As if she hadn’t just used the word divorce as casually as if they were talking about a mechanic and a tire rotation.
“Jules?” Anna’s lips went rubbery, her cheeks paralyzed, her eyebrows so high she’d nearly given herself a permanent face-lift.
“Seriously, if this is going to get touchy-feely, forget I asked. You gonna eat your sandwich?”
Anna doubted she’d want to eat anything the rest of the day, and she regretted what she’d already ingested. She slid the paper box across the table.
“It’s not working out between me and Brad,” Jules said. If it hadn’t been for the twitch in her cheek and the catch in her voice, barely noticeable between her inhalation of two fistfuls of fries, Anna might have believed her.
“God, I could eat a horse.” Jules glanced at the next table over. A master sergeant was cleaning away an unfinished box of Burger King chicken tenders. Anna’s stomach rolled over.
She hadn’t seen anyone lust after chicken like that since Beth hit her second trimester with Jacob.
“Jules—”
“Have you ever dipped fries in a milkshake? Because, oh. My. God. Better than an orgasm.” The wonky eyebrow appeared. “Tells you something, doesn’t it? Giggidy, my ass.”
Anna’s face screwed up like she’d bit a lemon. She didn’t need that mental image. She scrubbed her tongue over the roof of her mouth, swallowed hard, then put on her best poker face. “Have you two had counseling?”
“Counseling’s for fucking losers,” Jules said.
Out of the corner of her eye, Anna tracked Jackson moving her way. She gave a subtle head shake. He stopped.
“You’ve had some major life changes this year,” she said delicately. Brad still wasn’t working, but Jules had been tight-lipped with any other information. “Lots of stress. Are you sure divorce is the right answer?”
“It put you better off, didn’t it?”
Anna’s phone dinged a text message alert. “It put me different.” She glanced at her phone even though she knew what it was.
Here if you need me.
“See?” Jules said. “Better off.”
No, not better off. Jackson had an expiration date. “Temporary reprieve.”
“Suppose it doesn’t matter how good your lawyer was. Brad won’t get off his ass long enough to fight me.” Jules straightened. “Hel-lo. Hottie checking us out.” She winked and waved.
And Jackson, happy-go-lucky, grin-at-anyone Jackson, didn’t crack the barest hint of a smile.
“This repeal of don’t-ask-don’t-tell is seriously hurting the uniform hotness factor,” Jules said. “God, I want a milkshake.”
“Does Brad know you’re pregnant?”
Jules went from slightly irritated to radiating pissed-off anger in half the time it would’ve taken her to down a large shake, which was probably three nanoseconds. “Are you calling me fat?”
Anna held up a hand, more to stop Jackson than to make peace with Jules.
He dropped into an empty seat at the end of a long row of tables.
Jules kept talking. “I could take you to human resources for that. The workplace isn’t supposed to be hostile. What a woman does with her own body is nobody else’s damn business.”
“I’m asking as your friend.”
“Well, who asked you to be my friend?”
Neil had.
A couple lifetimes ago, back when it had been Jules doing Anna the favor.
Anna stood. “Shirley had a good lawyer. Talk to her.”
“Where are you going? You have to work this afternoon.”
“I’ll get a ride.”
Jules flounced away. “Don’t be late,” she snapped.
Anna’s phone dinged again. Jackson was slouched as much as he ever slouched in uniform, phone in hand, watching her.
She didn’t check the message, but gave him a single nod. A minute later, he was walking her out to his truck.
“Thanks,” she said. She rubbed her arms over her jacket. But her teeth chattered and the quivering in her stomach had nothing to do with hunger.
“Looked like a big mess.”
“Makes my divorce look like a prance through the daisies.”
He slid an arm around her shoulders. “Not too glad he hurt you, but I appreciate that the idiot gave me a chance to get to know you.”
“You just want to get laid.”
“Anna Grace, that’s no way for a proper young lady to talk.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Yep.”
“If one of your troops was having personal problems, what would you do?”
They stopped at his truck. He gave her the wary eye. “You know someone needing some counseling?”
“He separated over the summer.” She brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “But he’s not doing well.”
Jackson handed her his phone. “Name and address, if you’ve got it.”
“Forget who you’re talking to?” she asked with as much cheek as she could muster.
“Never, Anna Grace.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead, right there, in uniform and everything, then boosted her up into the truck. “Thought you needed reminding.”
She needed reminding all right.
Or, more appropriately, her heart needed reminding.
This one had an expiration date.
Mamie was right. He’d met someone, and she’d kicked him in the collard greens. That was the only explanation he had for calling his commander to ask for a personal afternoon so he could kick a guy in the tulips because a woman asked him to.
Not that he was that up front with his commander. He’d told the colonel he needed to be a good wingman.
He swung by home, gave Radish some bonus attention, and changed out of uniform. Then he drove a couple of miles up the road to the address Anna had given him in the land of the cookie-cutter mini-mansions.
Anna had been sparse with the details. Today, anyway. She’d told him enough about her friend at work the past couple of months for him to fill in a few pieces.
Friend’s husband lost a brother to the war, fell to pieces. Never a Southern gentleman, but a real something else now.
Grief was a bitch.
Anna Grace’s words, not his.
The house was a big brick number with an arch over the front door, oversize front windows looking out on the lawn, and fancy landscaping in the middle of the block.
A big oil stain smeared the driveway. A motorbike was sprawled half on the grass. Two garden gnomes sat in the center of the yard, one tilted, the other modified to give the street the finger.
Jackson blew out a resigned breath and pulled himself out of the truck. Only took a minute to get to the door and ring the doorbell.
But he had to stand there ringing the doorbell for fifteen minutes before a chubby guy with bloodshot eyes and two-day-stupor breath answered. “What the hell?”
“Brad Hutchinson?”
“Yeah? What the fuck’s it to you?”
“Rodney sent me.”
The guy’s face blanched. “Rodney’s dead, motherfucker.”
He shoved the door. Jackson shouldered into it. “You dead? ’Cuz Rodney ain’t too happy with sacrificing his life so you could piss your own away.”
The guy came out swinging.
Criminy.
Jackson ducked, then rolled his neck. He didn’t want to do it this way, but didn’t look like he had a choice. He turned to face Brad. Brad got his bearing, let out a feral growl, and charged.
His shoulder rammed Jackson’s chest. The impact made Jackson stagger backward into the house. Took some of his wind out of him, but it was the sucker-punch to his kidney that made him mad.
He flipped Brad to the floor, then stepped back. “Feel better?” Jackson asked. He winced, gingerly touched his back, wary eyes on Brad.
Anna Grace owed him for this one.
“Motherfucker,” Brad said again. He rolled to his feet, fists flying.
Jackson thought about taking it again.
But self-preservation won out. He hauled off and socked the guy in the jaw.
Brad landed in the foyer with a thud. His stomach jiggled beneath his stained T-shirt.
“Now you feel better?”
The lug blinked at him. His eyes went shiny. “Fucker. Rodney did send you.” He pressed his palms into his eye sockets. His shoulders shook and he drew in a series of soggy, ragged breaths that took Jackson on a trip down memory lane to the night he’d lost his father.