CHAPTER 17
Bailey
“I’m surprised you came out with us tonight, Diaz,” Phillips shouts over the blaring county music. “You’re not normally one for the bars.”
I shrug and take a swig of my beer. “Finally wore me down I guess.”
He nods his head toward the bar, chuckling. “Want anything?”
“No, not right now.” I hold up the half-full bottle in my right hand. “I’m good.”
“Suit yourself. Anyone else?”
The rest of our group declines his offer, and Phillips makes his way across the crowded dance floor.
He’s right. I don’t typically go out to the bars with them. There are too many people and too much alcohol, which almost always ends up in somebody doing something dumb and someone else having to rescue them.
That, and I hate how some of the college guys here in Manhattan get real bent out of shape when soldiers show up at the bars down in Aggieville. Any sort of altercation ends in fists or cuffs; there’s no in-between.
And, again, there are too many people.
It’s not that I don’t like people. Well, okay, that’s kind of not true either; I don’t like many people, especially a lot of people who I don’t know in a confined space.
It’s just that I don’t know what they’re going to do in any given situation, and I can’t do anything if I don’t know.
My anxiety has been in high gear since I walked in the door, the knife in my pocket serving as the slightest bit of solace, until I can find a way to end the night early.
I’d probably feel better if I was able to have my gun on me, but considering alcohol and firearms are an illegal combo in the state of Kansas, I try to tell myself that my knife is sufficient.
Maybe I can just say my stomach hurts?
They won’t believe me. Plus, I’d already offered to DD for one of the younger guys from the unit. He just turned twenty-one two weeks ago, and I don’t think he’s had water since. Plus, if I don’t volunteer, at some point, I’m going to get volun-told.
The thought crosses my mind that I would much rather be somewhere like Special Olympics practice, where there’s something (or someone) specific for me to focus.
Something for me to do. I spent yesterday evening sitting with Virginia and some of the other parents on the bleachers, painstakingly sorting a massive tote of rhinestones by color, taking every chance to steal a glance at Palmer.
The team was learning a new dance, and seeing Palmer’s body moving only served to make me think about her naked body and what it would look like to have her writhing beneath me.
Even though I had tried to create another opportunity to sneak a kiss, Virginia insisted that I help her carry the totes to her car, not leaving me with any alone time with Palmer.
Unfortunately.
Moore and Lindy sit several seats down from me at the end of the three round tables we shoved together.
Palmer sits across from them, and it takes everything in my power not to move down there and plop her into my lap.
She had given me a wave and smile when she came in, but she had spent most of the past thirty minutes laughing with those two.
I don’t know why jealousy crashes over me. It’s not like we’re anything to each other. But dammit, I want that smile and laugh directed at me.
Ever since last weekend, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her: the sweet floral perfume she wears, her messy hair when she wakes up in the morning, her soft skin, her full breasts bouncing in my face, her perfect ass just begging to be smacked, her…
My cock strains painfully against my zipper. Okay, think of anything else. Baseball, cold showers, anything other than the way Palmer’s naked body would look under mine or over mine or in any direction related to mine.
Fuck, I’m not good at this.
And the short, flowy skirt she’s wearing tonight does not help the matter at all.
It rides up her long legs when she sits, stopping just short of the curve on her smackable ass.
The memory of her lips pressed against mine has lived in the forefront of my mind ever since Monday, and every time I see her, it threatens to make me act every way I know I’m not supposed to just to feel her skin against mine.
Just when I think I might not be able to get myself under control, a man with a handlebar mustache and too tight Wranglers comes to our table. He exchanges some words with those at the other end, then offers a hand to Palmer. She takes it, and he leads her onto the wooden dance floor.
I watch as he twirls her into his arms, and they two-step across the floor. One dance turns into two, which turns into three. More than once, she leans in as if to hear him better, which almost always ends in her head thrown back in laughter.
Talk about a quick boner killer.
I want to be that guy, arms around her body, making her laugh like that. I’ve recently come to the realization I would be more than happy to do that for her forever, but I know myself, and with the nature of my job, I know I can’t.
I’m not that kind of guy. I’m good for a good lay, but nothing much longer than that.
If I had never reclassed to Special Forces, I probably could’ve convinced myself to be with her.
But I did reclass, and because I did, I’m never sure where my job will take me or when.
I don’t always know when I’ll come back (if I do at all), and that’s just the reality of it.
I knew that when I chose to do it. I also knew I didn’t have plans for a relationship, so it didn’t seem like I was giving much up when I made that choice.
The only people I had to worry about calling were my mom and sisters.
But that’s not the kind of life a woman wants or deserves.
That’s not the kind of life she deserves.
As the song begins to wind down, the man dips Palmer low, then brings her back up with a slow intentionality. His eyes stare at her face with the kind of hunger I’m more than a little familiar with when it comes to Palmer. He begins to lean toward her, and my breath hitches in my chest.
Not on my watch.
Before I can think about what I’m doing, I am out of my seat and striding across the floor toward them. I reach them before he can get close enough to kiss her and tap his shoulder. I extend my hand to Palmer, palm up. “May I?”
He starts to resist, but Palmer doesn’t give him the chance to argue. She steps from his grip into mine.
The man says, “I guess that’s a yes,” then hangs his head and walks away.
Palmer steps past me and moves as if walking back to our seats. I don’t budge. She looks back at me, confused. “Bailey?”
“Dance with me, Palmer.” I gently tug her hand back toward me. “Please?”
She doesn’t resist. “Okay.”
The song is slow and romantic. Chase and Lindy file onto the floor, dancing in a swaying motion together, as do other couples in my periphery, but the only thing my eyes are on is Palmer.
I step in closer and wrap my arm around her waist, pulling her in close.
My knee slides between her legs, parting them, and I do the absolute utmost to think about anything other than doing that with her naked body sprawled out beneath me.
She readjusts her right hand in my left and slides her other up to rest on my shoulder.
We begin to sway, she following my lead.
Palmer’s eyes scan the dance floor. “Thanks.”
“For?” I ask in slight surprise.
“Saving me. Again.”
I chuckle. “You didn’t need me to save you.” I leave out what I’d like to say: I needed me to save you. All I knew was that I was planning out how to knock the guy’s fucking teeth in if he laid his lips on my girl.
Palmer, I mean.
If he laid his lips on Palmer.
She turns her gaze toward me and gives me the shy smile I’ve gotten used to. Even though it’s not one of the big ones she gets when she’s around Moore and Lindy, it still makes me go weak in the knees.
“Well, you always seem to be there to get me out of trouble, and I really appreciate it. And you.” Before I see it coming, she leans forward and plants a small kiss on my cheek.
God, this woman is going to be my undoing.
“You better be careful, Palmer,” I growl in her ear. “You don’t know what you do to me.”
Her shy smile widens and takes on a knowing edge. Palmer leans to me, her lips directly against my ear. “I can assure you, I am well aware.” She nips at my ear lobe then resituates so that her right hip is pressed against my hard cock. “Very well aware.”
“Well, well, well.”
Palmer stiffens instantly in my arms. It’s a familiar threat. One we both know.
“If it isn’t the biggest whore in town and her little boyfriend.”
We pivot toward the voice, the sound registering instantly, even with the drunken slur that makes his words hard to understand.
Fucking. Clay.
If I didn’t want to kill him already, I certainly would like to now.
Dressed in what looks to have once been a carefully pressed button-down, dark jeans, and unscuffed boots, Clay staggers toward us.
Although his clothes look new, the way he wears them is disheveled.
His shirt is partially untucked, and he wears his cowboy hat back too far on his head.
He stops just in front of me, swaying back and forth.
“Get it? Little? Because you’re short? Probably got a small dick, too.
” He looks around to see if anyone is laughing with him.
I don’t dignify his comment with a response. Instead, I turn, placing myself between him and Palmer and begin guiding her back to the table.
Clay grabs my shoulder, turning me back toward him. “You stupid or something?” he asks.
“Not in the slightest. I just know who’s worth the trouble.”
Clay’s jaw tightens, along with his grip on my shirt. “The fuck did you say to me?”
I brush my hand along my shoulder, never taking my eyes off him. “You heard me.”
His hand balls into a fist, and I wait for him to swing. I’ve been just waiting for a fight, and fucking him up isn’t something I’m going to feel bad about.