Duty: A Secret Baby Romance (11 page)

“If you mean is he still on my mind . . . yeah, he is. When his class graduated, the
Army Times
published the full list of graduates like they do every year. I'll admit I checked it out. He was an Honor Graduate,” I inform her, shrugging and taking another sip of my cooler. “He's an officer now, Petie. At the rates of promotion, he's most likely going to be promoted again pretty soon. He’s probably out there somewhere, looking like the next coming of Patton, and hasn't thought about me in years.”

“And you've never thought about telling him about Lance?” Petie asks. “No offense, but that's a little greedy to me. Does Lance even know who his father is?”

I shake my head. “Of course I’ve thought about it. And Lance is too young still. I don't need him talking to a classmate at daycare and suddenly, I've got JAG knocking on my door. But it doesn't matter, Petie. Like I said, I'm enlisted, a Non-Commissioned officer even now. He's an officer. What can I really do besides ruin the man’s career? And mine.”

“No offense, babe, but you're full of shit,” Petie says, sipping her drink. She says it in just the right way to not make me angry, a skill she's had our entire relationship. “Or maybe just the Army's full of shit. You want me to leave now?”

I laugh, shaking my head. “You have never, in the eighteen years we've known each other, been afraid to voice your opinion to me. It's what I love about you, and I don't want you to ever change. Just like you know I'm not always going to follow your advice.”

Petie finishes off her wine cooler and gets up, grinning. “Top you off?”

“No thanks, sweetie,” I tell her, looking at my half bottle. “But if you want, I'll give you a ride home after this. Enjoy all you want. A walk home would be nice, if it comes to that.”

Petie heads inside to grab another wine cooler. I watch her go, shaking my head in amusement. I missed her, and she is right. I do miss Aaron, and I think about him a lot. It's impossible not to when every night I hug Lance and put him to bed, it's Aaron's eyes looking back out at me.

* * *

“
Y
ou're three days early
,” the company clerk notes as I sign in. “What's up?”

“My son takes up a lot of time,” I say, looking around the company offices. “I didn't want to rush, and I figured I'd like to be able to take my time getting housing squared away.”

“Smart idea,” the clerk says. “A hint, talk to Tiffany at post housing. She's the general schedule civilian who really runs the shop. She'll hook you up right.”

“Thanks,” I tell him, signing my papers. “Anything else?”

“Hold on, CO might want to talk to you. Lemme see. He might just wait until you're on duty again. You might be on post, but you're still on leave for another few days,” the clerk says. “By the way, call me Beanie. All the others around here do.”

I nod, and he turns around, knocking on the office door on the other side of the room. He goes in, coming out a few seconds later. “Sergeant Morgan?”

I go over, and the Company Commander gets up, coming around his desk to size me up. He's tall, and I immediately notice with a bit of a twinge the West Point diploma on his wall. “Sergeant Morgan? Hi, Pete Lemmon. Nice to have you on board.”

He offers his hand, and I shake, unsure of what to do since I'm in civilian clothes. “Thanks, sir. Honestly, I don't know if I should salute or not.”

“Not in civvies. I'm more relaxed than that,” Captain Lemmon says. “I'll run you through that dog and pony show Monday morning after formation. We'll officially introduce you to everyone that morning, then get you processed in properly. I read your file. I know you've got some things to square away before then. If you need any help, give us a call.”

“Thank you, sir,” I reply, giving Beanie a thankful look. “Sergeant Beanie has already given me some good advice on housing.”

“All right. Good to meet you, and good luck getting settled in. I know we're a deployable unit, but I'll tell you the truth, Morgan. I run this company like a family. We look out for each other. Catch my drift?”

“Roger that, sir.”

“Good. Now, I've got some reports to catch up on, so I'll make my departure. Welcome to the company.”

T
he commissary is chilly
, especially after the warm humidity outside, and to be honest, it's a bracing bit of relief. The platoon was out at the range today, and my undershirt is still sticking to my chest after sweating out on the line all day. It's not the high part of summer, but fall still comes late to Bragg.

Thankfully, the Regulators are in good shape. Nobody had to re-fire, and a lot of the platoon shot expertly. Forty-one soldiers up, forty-one down in fewer than three hours.

Unfortunately, range days mean late nights, as cleaning our rifles took nearly as much time as firing once we got back to the company area, since Captain Bradley wants them so clean that we could use the barrels as a straw if we wanted. Some of the young privates aren't quite as up to speed on how to scrub down a rifle efficiently, and it was nearly six thirty before the weapons room was locked up and I got to sign off on everything. Still, I have to give it to Captain Bradley. He was at his desk too, and when I handed him my report, he did say the Regulators did a good job.

But, that means I'm running late to get my weekly shopping done, and the post commissary closes in a half hour. More importantly, though, my fridge is pretty much empty, and unless I want dinner to be either Burger King drive-through or a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios, I need to get a move on.

Thankfully, shopping for me is pretty easy. I always put my shopping list on my phone. It's the best way to make sure I don't forget it. As I go through the spice aisle, I'm thinking about my platoon. We've got a field training exercise coming up next Monday, and I want to make sure things are smooth. It's not my first ride with these guys. The Regulators are truly my platoon now, if not for much longer. I've already heard the rumors that when I’m promoted in a couple of months, the countdown's going to begin. I’m most likely going to be rotated to another unit for an Executive Officer position. I expect it’ll happen in the next six or seven months. That's about normal.

The promotion will be nice, even though leaving the Regulators behind kinda sucks. Not that I live wild and crazy. I have no idea how some of the other single guys do it, but the extra money will be good to sock away for a rainy day. I don't plan on staying in the Army unless I want to serve. I don't want to be one of those guys who serves because he needs a damn job. That isn't what service means.

I'm so focused on everything but shopping that I don't see the other cart as I come around the end of the aisle, and we end up crashing in a jumble of steel wire and it sounds like a few broken eggs in the other cart. “What the . . . hey, watch it!”

I look up at the same time the other person does, and I feel time stop. The face is the same, perfect and heart-shaped, her blue eyes still so intense, the eyes that have haunted my dreams for three years.

“Lindsey?”

Lindsey blinks like she's seen a ghost, and I get a chance to look her over more. She's in her ACUs, and I notice that pinned in her rank tab are the three stripes of an E-5 Sergeant. A quick glance to her right chest tells me something else, too. She's still single. The name tape on her uniform still says
Morgan
, and she's not wearing a wedding ring. My God, she's beautiful, and I can't believe it. “Aaron?”

“Mommy, that hurt!” a small voice says, and it's my turn to blink, stunned, as I see the little boy in the seat of the cart. I didn’t even notice him at first. His head is just sticking up over the rim of the cart. The commissary has special carts for people with kids. The seat is low enough that a child can be put in there without being too high in the air, I guess to prevent falls. “What happened?”

“W–ah–mah,” Lindsey says, stuttering for a few seconds. Finally, she takes a deep breath and looks down at the child, whom I can't get a good view of yet. “Sorry, buddy. Mommy kinda ran into someone.”

“Can I see?” the kid asks, and I'm still feeling stunned. She's a mother? When the hell did this happen? “Mommy, I wanna see!”

Lindsey nods and picks him up, and I see that it's a little boy, with blond hair like his mother. “Lance, this is A . . . Lieutenant Simpson,” Lindsey says. “We knew each other before you were born.”

“Hi, El Tee!” Lance says, waving. He's cute, maybe a big three or a small four, and he grins cheekily. “You gotta check your lanes!”

“Check your lane, huh?” I ask, smiling at the military speak. “I see you've been studying your lingo. Know any running cadences? I could use some new ones.”

“Nope, Mommy won't let me learn those yet,” Lance says, smiling. He turns to Lindsey and gives her a hug. “Can I go look at the popcorn?”

“Stay on this aisle,” Lindsey says, setting her son down. Lance waddles his way down and squats in front of something, intent on his choices. Content in her son's safety, Lindsey turns and looks at me, still looking surprised.

“Hi . . .”

“Hi,” I return, still feeling like I'm back in plebe boxing and just caught a blindside shot to the head. She's still so beautiful, and it feels like my heart is beating a thousand times a minute. “When did you get to Bragg?”

“Just about a month ago,” Lindsey says, self-consciously tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. It looks like she still wears it long. It's pulled back into a regulation bun, for the most part, except for the one strand that escaped when she hugged Lance.

I clamp down hard on the handle of my cart in order to not reach out and grab her and pull her close. My hands twitch, my heart aches, and I’ve never hated the uniform more than I do right this second. “Lindsey . . .”

“I know,” Lindsey says, smiling a little. There's so much I want to say, but the bar on my uniform is stopping me, just like the chevrons on hers are stopping her. “By the way, you broke my eggs.”

I look in her cart and see the dripping carton, and I feel heat fill my neck. “Sorry. I was thinking about Monday. I've got a training exercise to do. I wasn't really looking where I was going.”

“No, probably my fault,” Lindsey demurs, her smile still dazzling. “I was listening to Lance. He was telling me about his new friends at the post daycare center.”

“Well, can I help you replace your eggs at least?” I ask. “It's been a long time, Lindsey.”

She looks like she's about to say no, biting her lip, and I understand. The damn Blue Line. It's stronger than even the Gray Line. “Come on. It's been almost four years.”

“It has, hasn't it?” she muses, and I see in her eyes the same feeling I have. I feel like I'm coming home after a long break, that something that's been missing is now here, and that I'm almost complete again.

Lance comes over, holding a box of microwave popcorn. “Can I, Mommy?”

Lindsey takes a look, then nods. “Okay. But we share.”

“Okay,” Lance says. “Can I walk now?”

“Stick next to the cart,” Lindsey says, and he dutifully grabs hold of the side of the cart, wrapping his fingers through the wire in a tight grip. We start off, circling to my left, heading back toward the eggs. She notices my uniform and nods in appreciation. “Air Assault and Ranger. You've got the full stack now.”

“When half my battalion is running around with a Combat Infantry Badge, my chest feels awfully empty,” I answer, realizing I'm talking about more than just my badges. Still, I'm in uniform. I have to change the subject. “How was Lewis?”

“The falls are a lot better than Bragg,” Lindsey says with a chuckle. “So do you still ride?”

I nod, understanding what she's doing. Bikes were always our safe zone. We could talk about them for hours. Gears, shifters, pedal arrangement and geometry—we could geek out safely about that no matter what. “You'd be proud of me. I'm riding a Specialized now too. Since I stopped doing tris, it's a bit of an expensive toy now, but I still get out and ride on weekends when I can. What about you?”

“She rides a lot!” Lance interjects, looking up at me. I look down at him and feel a wave of disbelief hit me again. His eyes . . . they're hazel. Like mine. And while it's a bit blurred with his little kid chubbiness, he's got a cleft chin. Like mine. “I get to ride on back.”

“Well that's gotta be good for the workout. Do you cheer your Mom on?” I ask, struggling to hold back the question that suddenly pops in my mind, and he nods. “Good. It's always better when you have a partner to ride with.”

I look up to Lindsey, who is smiling strangely, and I smile back, even though I want to say more. “He's well spoken.”

“Smart as a whip,” Lindsey says, ruffling his blond hair, so like his mother's. “Aren't you?”

“She says I’m named after Lancelot,” Lance declares proudly. “The knight.”

“I see. And how old are you, Sir Lancelot?”

“I turn four in Febooary,” Lance mispronounces, and I do the quick math. February birthday, almost four years ago . . .

“I . . . I see,” I tell him, looking up at Lindsey, panicked and a little bit pissed off. Am I? Her eyes are beseeching, and I shut my mouth. Obviously, if I am, the boy doesn't know. And frankly, this isn't the time or the place to talk about it. Instead, I give her a slight nod, reassuring her for now, even if inside, I'm about ready to go off. “So when did you pin your E-5?”

“Just before leaving Lewis,” Lindsey replies, relief in her voice and in her eyes.

“And now you're with the MPs?” I ask, seeing her nod. “I know someone over there.”

“Captain Lemmon?” Lindsey asks, and I feel like I've been kicked in the head again. “He's my CO.”

I nod, stopping my cart. We're at the eggs, and I help her get her damaged carton out of her cart, putting it in my basket before putting a replacement in hers. “Here, I'll pay the commissary for these.”

“Thank you,” Lindsey says, opening her mouth to speak again, but before she can, the PA system interrupts us.

“
Attention, Commissary shoppers. The Commissary closes in fifteen minutes. Please finish your shopping and come to the front to check out as quickly as possible.
”

Lindsey looks up, surprised, and I gulp. I know what she's thinking, and I don't want this to end. “Aaron, this has been nice, but . . .”

“Wait,” I say urgently, stepping closer. “We have a lot to catch up on . . . and things I think we need to discuss.”

“But . . .” Lindsey says, and I stop her, shaking my head. No, not this time. I won't let it happen again, especially with the suspicions running around in my mind.

“Four years ago, I made one of the worst mistakes of my life by walking away. I just want to talk. We can do that at least, right?”

Lindsey takes a deep breath, nodding. “Got a pen? You guys always do.”

I laugh and reach into my chest pocket, pulling out my notebook and pen. “They make us keep these things even in the shower.”

Lindsey laughs lightly and flips to an empty page, scribbling down a number. “Here. Call me tonight. After eight thirty, but before ten. Lance goes down around eight, and I think you want to ask questions I don't want to answer where he can hear. And I've got PT in the morning. I can't be staying up much past ten thirty.”

“Thank you,” I say, trying not to reach out and touch her. I'm upset, but still, seeing her perfect face right in front of me, I want her again. “I'll call you tonight. My cell.”

“In the meantime, I need to get some pasta unless he's eating microwave popcorn and eggs tonight,” Lindsey says, gesturing toward Lance, who's looking around like a normal three-year-old. “It . . . we'll talk later, Aaron.”

Lindsey scoops up a suddenly protesting Lance, who waves as they leave in the cart. I let them go around the curve before hurrying off in the opposite direction. Lindsey was right. I don't have half my shopping ready, and I need to get something in my cart if I'm going to be eating anything tonight. If anything, I need some more damn milk.

* * *

M
y fingers shake
as I look at the phone number on the piece of paper, and I wonder again if I'm doing the right thing. My heart and body are saying one thing, and my brain is saying another. I've been lonely for too long. I haven't even gone on a date past a couple of group things with other junior officers on post in the past six months, and seeing Lindsey, I know what I want. I want her. Seeing her just reignited the burning ache that's been sitting inside me for all these years.

But that's the problem. I want her, and I can't have her. Hell, I don't know if she even wants me still. Sure, maybe I saw something in the commissary, or maybe my imagination was filling in gaps that weren't there. What can't be argued is that triple chevron that rests in the middle of her chest, or the butter bar still in the middle of mine.

But I have to know, even if it's dangerous. Even if I just talk to her this one time. I have to find out. I have to ask questions that have haunted me for four years, and more importantly, the questions that have been running around my head for the past two hours.

Finally, I tap in her phone number, hoping that she picks up. The phone rings two, three times . . . “Hello?”

“Lindsey? It's . . . it's Aaron.”

There's fear and worry in her voice, but also a bit of what sounds like relief too. “Aaron. I wasn't sure if I was going to pick up or not.”