Battle Scars Read online

She turned to smile at me.

  “Well, whatever you want to call it . . . or not call it . . . if Jack brought you here, you’re someone special to him. I’m not sure he’d have come otherwise. Thank you for that.”

  I shook my head.

  “It’s nothing to do with me. Jack was already planning to come here—he just asked me along for the ride.”

  “Well . . . thank you for coming. It means a lot to both of us.” Her gaze returned to the window. “He kept saying he’d visit, but then there was always another deployment, another job. Gray was hurt at first, but he gets it now—you know, Jack’s survivor’s guilt.”

  That explained so much, and my heart hurt for Jackson. I’d seen enough of war and the cruel things that human beings did to other humans to understand that it was random: fate or luck, kismet or karma—whatever you wanted to call it. And it rarely made sense. But those same human beings, those same people, we were left to pick up the shattered pieces.

  “Jack and Gray grew up together, enlisted together, and fought together,” she said.

  “I thought I detected some southern in Gray’s accent.”

  Jules smiled.

  “You wait until they’ve had a couple of beers together—we’ll need a dictionary!”

  “I’ve learned a few things,” I chuckled. “One of which is never to keep Jackson from his waffles.”

  “Oh my God, I know!” she laughed. “I’ve had to learn to fry pretty much everything. Although I have to say, when Gray has been fishing and he brings back trout, it makes for some pretty great frying. I think I have some in the freezer . . . if you’re staying for dinner? It would be great if you could meet the kids—Josh especially used to be really close to his Uncle Jack. They’re both at soccer practice till five; it was our neighbors’ turn to take the kids today. Josh is eight and Becca is six. I’m not sure she’d remember Jack,” she sighed.

  “I don’t really know what our plans are. Jack didn’t tell me much on the way over.”

  She nodded sadly.

  “Guess we’ll play it by ear.”

  There was an awkward pause, then she turned to smile at me, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “So, how did you two meet?”

  After I’d explained about my work and how Jackson saved my life in Afghanistan, her eyes were round with surprise.

  “Wow! That’s quite a story! Obviously there was some serious chemistry going on even then.”

  “It certainly seems that way,” I smiled. “Where we go from here, I have no clue.”

  “Early days, Maggie,” she said. “Marines are complicated men. They compartmentalize their lives—there’s a lot Gray won’t or can’t tell me. It must be strange for Jack, having met you the way he did.”

  I shrugged because I had no answers for her. Or for myself.

  Jules sighed.

  “I’m glad you came—both of you. Gray’s doing really well, but I know he gets frustrated not being able to talk about all that military stuff. He says I won’t understand, and really, how can I? I do my best, but . . .”

  “He seems . . . well,” I offered gently. “And pretty mobile.”

  “Yeah, he’s doing great now. It was hard at first—really hard. Especially on the kids. I didn’t know if he’d make it . . . if we’d make it. But he had OT when he was in Walter Reed, and he discovered he had this gift for clay—shaping and molding things. He’s selling his work online now and doing really well.”

  “His ceramics are pretty amazing. I’d like to write a feature about him for the paper if he wouldn’t mind.”

  “Oh my God, really? That would be amazing! Thank you, Maggie.”

  And I meant it. Men like Gray deserved to have their stories told—not just about the terrible, awful things they’d been through, but the way they’d taken hold of their lives and done something positive to channel all that energy. I knew as well as anyone that a man was a Marine for life, even when he was no longer a combat warrior. Men like him needed something to get them out of bed in the morning. Something that drove them.

  And I’d also seen another layer of Jack Connor—the man whose scars weren’t all on the surface.

  I looked up to find him watching me, desire mixed with wariness, questions in his expressive blue eyes.

  Twenty-four hours shouldn’t have been long enough for me to feel every chaotic emotion that rampaged through me in that moment. It shouldn’t be long enough.

  I was in trouble.

  A Long Way From Home

  I REALLY LIKED Jackson’s friends. They were easy to talk to, fun, and teased the hell out of Jack, which made me laugh. I got the impression that they hadn’t met many of his girlfriends before. I wasn’t sure if I fell into that category—it was too early to say.

  I also spent an hour interviewing Gray about his time in the Marines, what it was like being a civilian now, and how he’d built up his ceramics and pottery business. We touched on the issues surrounding his double-amputation after the IED attack, too, but the focus of the article was going to be on his life since then.

  And talking with Jules, she gave me an insight into being the wife of a Marine. She’d felt as much a part of the service as he did, so when Gray had left, they both felt like they’d lost their family, to some extent.

  “It was hard, at first,” Jules said thoughtfully. “Well, none of it’s easy, because you’re not just marrying your husband, you’re marrying the whole team. Sometimes it feels like I married the whole darn Marine Corps.”

  “So long as I’m the only one keeping your bed warm at night,” Gray laughed.

  Jules winked at him. I could see the love they shared, and I felt a small frisson of jealousy, even though I was not the marrying kind.

  “But seeing as you’re here with our boy Jack,” Jules said to me, “you’d best have Julia’s Crash Course in Dating a Uniform.”

  Gray and Jackson both groaned.

  Dating? Is that what we were doing? I shot Jackson a look, but he just smiled at me.

  “Counting down to the next deployment is part of the deal—they’re always around the next corner. So if you can’t cope with that, your life will be hell,” she said. “Simple as that. A lot of military wives get swept away with the whole romance of the uniform, but there’s nothing romantic about being a single woman with a ring on your finger for six months, or nine months, or a year—however long the deployment is. And you’ve got to be prepared to move around with a few weeks’ notice, or even a few days’ notice. Add kids into the mix . . . well, you get the picture.”

  I nodded, understanding what she said.

  “And they can be hard to live with when they’re home.”

  I could hazard a guess that it wasn’t easy.

  “I get it. I’ve interviewed a lot of men and women in the armed services. It’s a strange dichotomy: when they’re away from home, they can’t wait to come back, but when they’re home . . .”

  “We’re always waiting for the next mission,” Gray finished with a nod. “At least you understand that, Maggie. Most stay-at-homers don’t.”

  “Because I’m the same. When I’m away, I’m focused and professional, but also longing for home. When I’m home, life seems to move in slow motion, and I’m waiting for the next assignment. Hell, I go searching for the next assignment.”

  Jackson nodded his agreement.

  “It’s addicting.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  He met my gaze unblinkingly.

  “It’s a good life for a single person . . . the military.”

  I wondered if he was sending me a message; it certainly wasn’t a subtle one.

  “It’s tough for the ones left behind,” Jules added. “You’ve got to be resourceful. There’s no use whining on to him about a clogged gutter or ants in your kitchen when he’s 5,000 miles away. So it’s tough—like make or break tough. Deployments are mostly planned well ahead, but shit happens, you know? So you’re never sure if the next one will be in six months or sixty min
utes.”

  “In some ways you’re describing my life, Jules,” I explained. “I never know where the next story is going to break. I need to be able to throw some clothes in a bag and get on a plane within a few hours. My body armor is under my bed and I pack portable solar power cells so I can keep my phone and laptop charged. I could be away a few days, or maybe a couple of months. I might even get offered the job of foreign correspondent for the Middle East, which would mean I’d have to go live over there.”

  “Is that likely?” Jackson asked, looking serious.

  I shrugged.

  “It’s possible. It would be great for my career.”

  I didn’t tell him I’d been lobbying for that job for more than two years now. I was in line when the current incumbent retired, but there were two or three equally qualified journalists.

  His lips pressed together, but he seemed thoughtful rather than irritated, which was my usual experience of how most men viewed my job. The guys I’d dated before had liked the idea of being with a journalist, but when it came to working late on a breaking story or missing a date at the last moment because I was booked on a flight, they didn’t like it so much.

  I gazed at Jackson.

  “That’s my life, my job, and I love my job. So I guess it has similarities since not everyone can deal with my lifestyle and career choices.”

  Somehow the conversation had turned serious, and I saw Jules glancing at Gray apprehensively.

  I didn’t know what this was with Jackson. He intrigued me and I’d begun to imagine that a relationship might be possible, but I needed to lay out the realities of my work. But perhaps now wasn’t the right time.

  “Anyhow,” I said, trying to lighten the tone, “I try and make the most of my time when I’m home—make memories, you know? So I’d like to propose a toast: to new friends and good times.”

  They all raised their beer bottles and saluted the toast. As we clinked our bottles together, I almost missed Jackson’s softly spoken words.

  “I can deal.”

  Jackson was pensive during the rest of the afternoon, quieter than usual. I felt his eyes on me frequently. He didn’t look away when I caught him watching me, but his smile seemed tinged with sadness. I didn’t know why.

  Shortly after 5PM, we heard a car pull up outside and the sound of children’s voices. The front door flung open and two children ran inside.

  The boy was the spit of Jules, but the girl looked more like Gray. They went from talking at a hundred miles an hour to nearly mute when they saw me.

  I waved as Jules introduced me, then Jack came and stood beside me.

  “Wow, you got so big!” he grinned, reaching out to shake hands with a suddenly shy Josh, ruffling his hair kindly. “And look at you, little lady. That sure is a pretty bow you’ve got in your hair.”

  Becca obviously didn’t remember him, but nodded seriously and shot an angry look at her brother.

  “Josh said it was stupid and that soccer players don’t wear bows in their hair.”

  “If it helps you see out from all of those curls, I guess it makes sense.”

  Jack picked up a soccer ball and bounced it.

  “Anyone want to play?”

  “You’re not allowed to play soccer in the house,” Becca chastised him, and Jules agreed.

  “Yeah? Waal, maybe we can play in the backyard.”

  Jackson led the children outside, all shyness gone in the face of his warmth and enthusiasm.

  I watched him playing with them, and Jules came to stand next to me.

  “He’s great with them,” she said quietly.

  “Yes, he is,” I agreed.

  I was roped into helping later, when bath time turned into story time, and Becca asked me to read to her.

  Jack, of course, was having ‘man talk’ with Josh.

  Jules was right—he was really great with children; certainly these children.

  I’d never been particularly maternal. I don’t know if that was because my own mother had died when I was young. I’d been close to my father, but having a family of my own? Only one of my close friends had children and she was so busy, we rarely had time to hang out.

  Besides, work had always been more important to me. I couldn’t imagine being tied down by having children. Although that didn’t mean I couldn’t see the happiness and pride that shined in Jules’ eyes as she watched her husband with their children.

  “Waal,” Jack said, interrupting my musings as the sun began to set, “we should be getting going now and . . .”

  “Jackson Connor!” snapped Jules, her eyes flashing with annoyance. “Do not tell me that you drove all this way just to be heading back so soon!”

  He shifted uncomfortably in his chair as I watched the exchange with amusement. I wondered if Jules was the only woman who bossed him around.

  “Maggie needs to get back to the city . . .”

  I smiled beatifically.

  “Nope, I’m not working tomorrow, Sarge. I’m good.”

  He gave me a look that said he didn’t appreciate being thrown under a bus.

  “Then that’s settled,” Jules said decisively. “I’ve made up the bed in the guest room already.”

  Jackson grinned ruefully, looking at both of us.

  “Guess you weren’t planning on taking no for an answer, huh?”

  Jules threw him a stern look.

  “It’s taken you two-and-a-half years to get your ass to Scranton. You’re not getting away that easily. Besides,” she said, her smile softening the words, “the kids would be so disappointed if you weren’t here in the morning . . . and I’m making buttermilk biscuits with gravy, sausage, eggs and fried potatoes for breakfast . . . if you’re interested.”

  Jackson’s eyes lit up.

  “Why didn’t you say that to begin with?”

  “An army marches on its stomach,” I said drily, quoting Napoleon (or Frederick the Great, depending on which source you’re using).

  “Ain’t that the truth,” laughed Gray.

  “I’m just saying one thing,” Jackson said grumpily. “MREs.”

  Gray nodded seriously.

  “Three lies for the price of one: it’s not a Meal, it’s not Ready, and you can’t Eat it.”

  “Truth,” nodded Jackson. “Meals Requiring Enemas.”

  “Meals Refusing to Exit,” sniggered Gray.

  “Meals Refusing to Excrete,” Jackson added with a grin.

  “Massive Rectal Exp . . .”

  “Enough!” Jules bellowed, her face turning red while I put a hand over my mouth, holding in the laughter. “It’s like having a couple of sixth-graders!”

  She was yelling, but I could tell she was pleased to see Gray so light-hearted. Disgusted, too, but I was used to grunt humor and I didn’t mind. Seeing Jackson laugh was good enough for me.

  “You kiss your momma with that mouth?” she asked furiously.

  “Sure do,” Jackson grinned, planting a kiss on Jules’ cheek as she smacked him on the shoulder.

  We sat late into the night chatting easily as I listened to stories of Jackson and Gray at boot camp and all the trouble they’d gotten into. But when Jules started yawning, we all agreed it was time to throw in the towel.

  As we climbed the narrow stairs, I felt Jackson’s eyes on me.

  “Are you staring at my ass?”

  “Yeah, it’s kind of mesmerizing. Like two juicy watermelons.”

  “You did not just say that!” I huffed over my shoulder.

  I was slightly self-conscious about my ass. I had a decent rack and trim waist, but my ass and hips were on the generous side.

  “Aw, sugar! Don’t be sore!” And he lowered his voice so it wouldn’t carry. “You know I love holding your beautiful butt in my hands when I’m pounding into you.”

  My face flamed and I felt the first tingle of arousal. God, the man turned me on with just a few, well-chosen if crude words.

  “Why, Maggie Buckman! Don’t you have a single word to sa
y, darlin’?”

  “Yes, actually I do. You’re wearing too many clothes.”

  He laughed quietly.

  “Waal, maybe if you take yours off, I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “How long is a ‘while’ exactly?”

  “Long enough,” he said, his voice low and rough.

  He locked the door to the guest room behind him and made good on his promise. For several hours.

  After a magnificent breakfast that probably added ten pounds to my waistline and ‘juicy’ butt, we said goodbye to Jules, Gray and the kids, promising to visit again. I didn’t know if it was a promise I’d keep, but I hoped so.

  Jackson hadn’t said anything to me about another date or even staying in touch, and I vowed that if he hadn’t brought it up by the time we were back in the city, then I would. My heart beat a little faster at the thought. Being rejected in person was never fun. Being rejected when I had a strong suspicion that I was falling for Jackson was an even less pleasant thought. But either way, I wanted to know where I stood. For my own sanity.

  My phone rang when we were just over halfway home, and I frowned. It was my editor’s number, which meant something had happened: a story, somewhere in the world.

  “Ben? What’s up?”

  “Where are you, MJ?”

  “About 90 minutes from home.”

  “Good, I need you on a flight to Amman leaving at 9AM. We’ve got permission for you to join an MSF contingent traveling to Zaatari. Swing by the office first—Allison will have your visa. Please tell me all your shots are up to date?”

  “Yep, fully medicated,” I said, and Jackson gave me a quizzical look.

  “This is going to be a big one, MJ.”

  “I know. Thanks, Ben.”

  I hung up, watching Jackson’s face.

  “That was work?”

  “Yes. I’m on a flight to Jordan first thing in the morning. There’s a group of Médecins Sans Frontières doctors going to one of the biggest refugee camps on the Syrian border. Ninety-three thousand people, Jack. That’s like a city the size of Albany. Living in tents, hardly enough food or clean water.”

  Jackson was silent.

  Was I asking for his approval or just hoping that he’d understand?