Sharp Shootin' Cowboy (4 page)

His gaze honed in on her mouth. He moved closer, close enough to feel her soft, sweet breath caressing his face. He waited. He'd made his intent clear. The next move was hers.

“Like what?” she whispered, licking her lips.

There it was again, that subtle invitation.

“This,” he answered.

* * *

His lips met hers in a soft exploration that asked, rather than demanded. She didn't stiffen or retreat this time, but leaned into him by fractions. His mouth was gentle, tender, and teasing, as if savoring the kiss. She couldn't help responding to the warm, wet slide of his lips. Despite their differences, her body had been thrumming with anticipation the entire drive, even secretly craving this.

He slid to the center of the bench seat, cupping her nape, and angling his head, but still made no effort to exert total control. Instead, he coaxed with small flicks and darts of his tongue. It seemed he was right after all. It
was
possible to meet in the middle. She opened to him with a sigh. He drew her sideways onto his lap, deeper into the kiss. Their breath mixed and moans mingled as his questing tongue met hers in long, lush strokes that sent warm ripples to the place between her thighs.

She pushed his hat off.

He cupped her breasts with both hands, gently squeezing.

She whimpered with the growing need to feel his hands on her bare skin, his mouth on her breasts. His callused fingers answered one of those wishes, gliding down her body and under her skirt. Slow and deliberate, he inched upward toward the apex of her thighs. She answered with a moan as his warm fingers explored beneath her panties, delving into her wetness. She clenched her thighs together, trapping his hand. His mouth never left hers as he circled and stroked her, continuing to ramp her need until she shuddered with the first spasms of pleasure.

“Good God.” She broke breathlessly from the kiss. “You sure know how to get a girl all hot and bothered.”

She drew her skirt higher to straddle his thighs, squirming against his erection but rather than moving to penetrate her, Reid withdrew his fingers and slowly eased her back with a deep, regret-laced sigh.

Her gaze darted to his face. “What's wrong?”

“This is about to get way out of hand, sweetheart. I didn't mean for it to go so far. I'm not about to do this parked in your front yard.”

“You wanna go somewhere else?” she asked. “I can't take you inside. I live with my grandparents, and they're kind of old-fashioned about these things.”

“Then we have something in common,” Reid said. “So am I.”

“But I don't understand. I thought you…we—”

He shushed her, pressing a finger to her lips. Another shudder of desire rippled through her at the smell of her own essence. “It's not a good idea to start something up when I'm leaving in a few days.”

“Who says this has to lead to anything?” Haley quoted Yolanda. She throbbed with the need he'd incited but now refused to relieve.

His blue gaze met hers. “I do. As much as this pains me,
and
believe
me
it
does
, this ain't gonna happen tonight.”

“Tonight is
all
there is, Reid. I thought this is what all you marines wanted. I don't understand you at all.” She wanted to grind her teeth in frustration.

“I'm not so hard to figure out. I said I don't do hookups. Neither do you, by the way. When I get you in my bed, I want to take my time and do it right.”

“In your bed?” She laughed. “Who says you'll ever get another chance after this?”

“
I
do
. Now give me your number.”

“Not likely. As you just said, there's no point in getting further involved. You're leaving.”

“But I'll be back,” he countered.

“And I'll be gone. UC Davis is over five hours away. Besides, I have a strict no-marine policy.”

“Then what was this?” he asked softly.

“A momentary lapse of reason, but I'm quite recovered from it.” Not exactly the truth, but she was burning with resentment. She'd offered to do something she
never
did, and he'd rejected her.

There
would
be
no
second
chances.

“Give me your number, Haley.”

He tried to kiss her again, but she pulled away and reached for the door. “Good-bye, Reid. Thanks again for the ride.”

This time he didn't stop her. She listened for his engine as she walked to the front door, but he didn't burn rubber like she'd expected. The porch light flickered. Her grandpa opened the door with a look of surprise.

“You're home early.” He gazed past her shoulder to Reid's big, black truck in the drive. His brows met in a scowl. “Who's that? And where's Yolanda?”

“Just a friend, Gramps. I had a headache and Yolanda wasn't ready to go, so he offered me a ride.”

“You aren't asking him in?”

“No. I told you I have a headache. I'm going straight to bed.”

He touched her sleeve. “Is that his jacket?”

“Oh shoot! I forgot I was wearing it.”

Reid had started the truck and was backing out. She tore off the jacket and waved it madly overhead. He paused, nodded acknowledgment, but then pulled out without it, leaving her looking after him.

“Guess he doesn't want it back.”

“Or more likely”—her grandpa winked—“he needed a good excuse to return.”

Reid's balls ached all the way back to base. He'd wanted her something fierce. He wanted more than anything to feel himself moving deep inside of her and knew she'd been as caught up in the moment as he'd been, but tomorrow, she would have relegated him to the lowest depths of hell. Maybe later he'd kick himself for passing up the opportunity, but the last thing he wanted was to reinforce all her prejudices about marines.

Besides that, he'd been raised to believe that anything worth doing deserved to be done right. A girl like Haley Cooper wasn't a fast fuck on the seat of his parked truck. He had a strong hunch she'd be worth his time and effort.

The following morning, he was still thinking about her. Maybe it was just the challenge that appealed to him, but he couldn't get her out of his head. He was damned if he could figure it out. They had nothing in common, but their attraction was as real as any he'd ever felt.

He'd intentionally left his favorite jacket behind. The prospect of going back for it, for her, would give him something to look forward to over the next eight months of purgatory.

She'd refused to give him her number, but he still had the text she'd sent Yolanda from his phone. Worst-case scenario, he'd call her friend and ask for it, but it would probably be easier to get it through Garcia. In this situation, his spotter was definitely his best in.

Reid was sprawled on his rack restlessly flipping through TV channels when Garcia dragged into the barracks looking haggard as shit. “Rough night?” Reid asked.

“She fucking wore me out.”

“Is that a complaint?”

“Hell no,” Garcia replied. “I think she might be
the
one
.”

“Oh yeah? Think you could get Haley's number from her?”

“What? She wouldn't give it to you herself? Even after a lift home? Guess she was the only one who got a ride,
eh
hombre
?” Garcia laughed. “If scoring is that hard for you, maybe you'd better give up on women and just stick to the rifle range.”

“Fuck you, Garcia,” Reid grumbled. “Just get it for me, okay?”

Later that day, Garcia handed him a slip of paper with a smirk Reid was tempted to smack off his face. He snatched it from his buddy's hand without comment and punched it into his phone contacts. He then pocketed his phone only to whip it back out. He wanted to call but resisted the urge. Instead, he quickly typed a text.
Thinking about u Haley Cooper…Reid.

Moments later his phone vibrated.
U forgot ur jacket.

He texted his response.
I'll get it from u when I come
back.

No marines…
she replied.

Give me a chance & I'll change your mind.

* * *

Four days later, the Third Battalion First Marines boarded three commercial jets bound for Kuwait City. For twenty-two hours, they paced the aisles and watched movies—
Ocean's Eleven
,
Men
in
Black
, and
Die
Another
Day
.
Black
Hawk
Down
played twice by request. The incident in Mogadishu was a brutal reminder of the similar Blackwater incident, and why they were returning to Iraq. The arrival of the Thundering Third meant there would be a reckoning for the spilled American blood.

Reid didn't fear death. He'd already had enough close calls to know it was out of his control anyway. Death in a hot zone was random and unpredictable. It was never safe. He'd learned that on his first deployment two years ago.

They'd spent weeks on Failaka Island in Kuwait training for an invasion when America's finest were literally caught with their pants down. Two squads from Bravo were stripped down to their skivvies and kicking back on the beach when an old white truck came barreling out of nowhere, spraying fire. Having used blanks for the training exercises, the marines had no ammo. No armor. No cover on an open beach.

Growing up in Wyoming, with the constant presence of grizzlies, wolves, and mountain lions, Reid was in the habit of carrying—even if taking a shit. Out of two dozen marines, he was the only one with his sidearm and live ammo. While the others dove into the surf, he'd returned fire.

The incident earned him a commendation and a spot in scout sniper school, but the damage was done. Two green recruits were wounded. The third, a combat veteran nearing his end of service, went home in a box. Brutal lesson learned: Complacency kills.

They were now circling over Kuwait City. Reid took a few shots with his phone, snapping photos of the city and the surrounding desert. As soon as they landed, he texted his family in Wyoming. It would probably be the last time he'd have cell service for the next eight or nine months, not that the phone would do any good anyway. It was a huge mistake to take any electronics into the desert. They were usually trashed by dust and sand within two weeks. If he couldn't find a way to store it, he'd have to throw it away. For now, he could at least share a few photos.

He then sent a one-liner to Haley.
Still thinking about u Haley Cooper…Reid.
He might be out of sight, but he refused to be out of mind. Moments later, she surprised him by replying with her email address.

* * *

After disembarking, they assembled for a briefing. The entire battalion was gathered under a scorching desert sun, battle guidons barely flickering in a scarcely perceptible breeze. Though nighttime temps would be close to freezing, days were hot as hell, 110 degrees without counting the slow-cooker effect of body armor. Standing stone-faced in rigid lines, the companies faced one another in formation as their stoic colonel made his motivational address.

“You are marines. You protect innocent lives. You stand for the universal cause of freedom and fight to keep our country from further threat. You are United States Marines. The world's finest warriors. The most feared fighting machines. This is a moment you will remember for the rest of your lives. The time you carved a place in history with the entire world watching. You are marines,” he reiterated. “
Never
forget it.”

After being muzzled and chained for months, the Devil Dogs were about to be unleashed.

The next hours were spent with individual commanders reviewing the battle plan, breaking it down by company, platoon, and individual squads. Dust choked their throats as Reid and Garcia grabbed their gear and trekked toward the lines of armored Humvees and 7-Tons lining the periphery of the airfield. With weapons shouldered, the “Balls of the Corps” piled into their respective transport vehicles.

Within hours of their arrival, the miles-long convoy pulled out onto the highway headed for FOB Volturno, two miles outside Fallujah—the hottest zone in Iraq. The marines grew quieter and more reflective the closer they approached the Abdaly checkpoint separating the two countries. There were a number of changes since his last deployment. Hundreds of soldiers, low-flying helicopters, and a new barrier comprised of electrified fencing and razor wire, reinforced by a fifteen-by-fifteen-foot trench.

A short time after crossing into al-Anbar, a storm of screaming rockets and mortar fire commenced. Reid's gaze flickered to the blanch-faced, wide-eyed “boots.” Although they'd had plenty of live-fire exercises at home, this was the real deal. Several mortars hit nearby, rocking the vehicles and quaking the earth.

Garcia snagged his gaze. “Ali Baba's hospitality committee.” A wide smirk stretched across Garcia's mouth. “Welcome back to hell,
esé
.”

Reid regarded the craters, careful to keep his tone bland. “At least their aim hasn't improved.”

“Time to embrace the suck,
hombres
,” Garcia quipped to his comrades. “For the next eight months, this is about as good as it gets.”

On the heels of the attack came the familiar drone of an AC-130 Ghostrider circling overhead.

Garcia pointed to the sky. “I'm getting a hard-on now. I love that fucking plane.”

More earthquakes echoed in the distance—the Ghostrider's reciprocation.

By nightfall, mortars and missiles were raining down like a meteor shower, with hellfire rockets lighting up the nighttime skies like shooting stars.

* * *

Dear Haley,

This is my first real letter to you. I may not get another chance for a while. Hell, I may not get another chance, period. Truth be told, I don't even know if I'll send it. Although I prefer to live by the adage that if you can't say something positive, it's best to say nothing, there aren't a whole lot of rainbows in the middle of a shit storm. And that's what we're up against. The grunts we came to replace greeted us with a nod and the thousand-mile stare. No words were exchanged. None were needed. We all know what we're facing.

Every morning begins a new game of Russian roulette as we sidestep IEDs, dodge RPGs, rockets, mortars, and sniper fire, taking every minute as it comes, knowing nothing over here can ever be taken for granted. My first thought every morning is only to make it through the coming day, and my last, at night, is a prayer of gratitude that I'm still alive. At the end of each day, I can only marvel at the beauty of sunsets that are some of the most spectacular I have ever seen. Watching them is an evening ritual.

Reid paused to read the message, realizing it was far too raw and real. Did she ever think about him? He didn't know. Did she care? He didn't know that either. Maybe he never would.

With a shake of his head, he deleted the text of the email, attached a photo of a breathtaking desert sunset, and hit Send.