Chapter Nineteen
Maverick
With every day that passes, my apprehension about leaving grows. Never before did I give a shit about deployments—they are just part of the job. I accept it. It’s usually a little fun…if there’s stuff to do—bad guys to catch, lives to make a little harder.
This deployment will be different because I’m doing something I’ve never done before. Insane, I know. I’m leaving something behind. Not just something, but someone. And I happen to be madly in love, heavy on the “madly,” with that person. My mind is a twisted fuck of a place to be. Having sex with Windsor didn’t have the effect I thought it would. She didn’t push me away; she pulled me closer. I’m not sure which is worse.
I’ve lost all hope of having a clear head before or after I leave. The only time I’m not thinking about Windsor or some part of her body, or something she’s said, or something she’s done is when I’m inside her. See that catch-twenty-two? It’s a bitter bitch. I’m impossible to deal with at work. I can’t stop calling and texting her just because I can. I won’t be able to talk to her very much after I ship out.
And because I fucking think about calling her, I pick up the phone and slam my finger on her name.
Her picture pops up on my screen. She has a white sheet tucked under her arms and her hair is a tangle of perfection. I snapped the pic after we had sex for the second time in one night. Her lips are pink and swollen and her blue eyes screamcome fuck me again. Contrary to popular belief, I will never get sick of being inside her. My dick gets hard just daydreaming.
The phone rings a second time. Windsor answers and says, “I’m never going to get anything done if you don’t stop calling me.” Her voice is playful. I take a deep breath. She giggles. I’ve done this five times already today. I’m packing, so I have thirty huge dead-hooker-bags strewn around my house in haphazard array. I call her to forget.
I sigh. “How many appointments do you have this afternoon? I want you to come home,” I tell her.
“Mav, I have to work. I can’t stay in your sex dungeon twenty-four hours a day,” Windsor whispers. I chuckle. She told me this morning she wishes she could spend the entire day in my bed. I told her she should. I’m at this crazy breaking point of being absolutely insane. I’m scared I’m going to say something so ridiculous that she’s going to freak out.
“What’s wrong with the bedroom? You seemed to love it this morning.” I smile. I wish she could see it through the phone. “Last night. The day before that. And the day before that, too.” I hear a door shut. Her office door.
“I miss you, too. Let me get through these reports. I’ll be home two-ish. Can you work with that?” Windsor asks. I look around my room at all the bags. I purse my lips.
“Yes. I can work you out then,” I growl. I’ll have to pack my shit quick. I want to be finished so I can focus on her as much as possible. T-minus four days. I close my eyes. “As soon as you can. Come home.”
Windsor laughs. For a second I forget about everything except what makes me happy. Her laughter erases every fucked up thought that races through my brain. It’s such a simple, ordinary, unoffending thing. Something I would have laughed at if you told me the same thing six months ago. I never would have believed it. Right now, I’ve never believed in anything more.
“You’re crazy,” she says, pausing. I know she’s thinking. She didn’t say enough. Windsor holds back when she’s not admitting something.
“One word,” I say, curious. She makes a little sucking sound and I’m one hundred percent sure she has her fucking lip in her mouth, eyes turned up to the ceiling. My cock responds accordingly, as if she were here in my presence doing the same thing.
“Sad,” she replies, her voice low. Boner flat-line.
“Don’t be,” I say automatically. “We have four full days. I have plans for all of them, too.” If I can convince her, maybe I can convince myself, too. Stone told me leaving Morganna is a bitch, that he misses her like he’d miss a limb if it got blown off. I never understood what he meant. I will soon. I missed my parents after I left and didn’t look back. That’s a different kind of miss, though. I chose not to care, and they chose not to reach out.
Her phone beeps. She has another call. “You’re everything,” she whispers before clicking off the line. I hold the phone against my ear for a few additional seconds.
I drop the cell to my side, balling it in my fist. “Fuck!” I bellow, my growl echoing in the vast expanse of my bedroom. Existing in this interminable state ofalmost goneis miserable. Windsoralmostsaying love is also a fucking drag. I don’t fault her, because I feel her affection in every word she says to me, in every breath she takes—in her huge blue eyes when she gazes up at me. She needs time. I can give her that.
I drag one of the huge black bags into my closet. I’ve packed all my uniforms already, so I go to the side that houses my t-shirts. Scanning the hangers I pull off one that saysThe Dude Abides, another that has a huge mustache sprawling across the front, and another that saysYo Mamma. All exceedingly appropriate. I fold them the way you’re supposed to fold a t-shirt and put them in my bag followed by a red poncho, a sweatshirt with an AK printed on the front, and a pair of Elvis sunglasses. My skintight, spandex American Flag shirt goes into the mix and I start to feel a little lighter doing what I do every time I ship out. The familiarity of packing eases the burn a little. I feel even better when I pull out my leather, badass eighties rock gear.
The costume reminds me of Stone, so I dial him up to talk about what he’s bringing and to make sure I have all the necessities on the pack-out list. He convinces me to bringmybig screen TV because Morganna isn’t letting him take their TV from their living room, and I have an extra for occasions like this. After that long, drawn out conversation, in which he forced me to listen to the new rock song he just wrote for Morg, I call Steve. I need to make sure they don’t expect me to go to the bar hopping party. He tells me I’m a pussy—that I’ll regret not tapping a few girls from the Maverick stock sex pool. I tell him he should bag them instead. He agrees and I’m off the hook.
A few hours later I’m stacking all my bags next to the front door, feeling a little excited to deploy, when Windsor rushes in. She has on a gray skirt and a black button up shirt, the top two buttons open. Her hair is up, but pieces have fallen down into her face. Her smile, like it always is when she first sees me, is God damned brilliant. She kicks off her heels and runs toward me. She knocks into me as hard as she can, but I catch her easily and pull her up so her face is level with mine. Her eyes sayI miss you. I want you. I miss you. I could stare into them all day long.
Windsor shakes her head and says, “God, you’re even hotter than when I left this morning. How do you do that?”
I let it rip—the big smile, because she’s looking at me like I’m the fucking prize. Her gaze lands exactly where I want it. Almost immediately, she kisses me. Her eyes fall shut as I lower her to the ground and bend down to avoid taking my mouth off of hers. Reaching up, I release her hair so it falls down around her shoulders and fist it in my hands. Her fingers snake under my shirt and skirt up to rest on my chest, always one hand on my heart…over her tattoo. She loves it. I love her.
I help her take my shirt off. My heart races at skin on skin contact because it knows what comes next. Who am I to deny it? I unbutton her shirt, teasing her mouth with flicks of my tongue and gentle kisses. She tilts her head to get a better angle and joins in the competition to see who can dominate better. She wraps her hands around my neck and pulls me closer once her shirt is wide open. Skimming her wet mouth down over my jaw, my chin, and down the front of my throat, she licks my neck tat and sighs a happy little moan. I close my eyes and take it all in.
She sucks my neck, just enough to make it feel good, but not enough to leave a mark. “I don’t want to leave you,” I admit, tilting my head back to give her better access. She bites my collarbone.
Against my skin she murmurs, “So don’t leave. I want you to stay with me, too. I don’t even know what to expect when you leave. I miss you so much when I’m at work and that’s only like nine hours. What does four thousand, three hundred, and twenty hours feel like? Torture.” She kisses me where she just bit me.
“Did you work that out in your head?” I ask to avoid the sickening truth.
“Numbers are my thing. I figured it out around the fourth time you called today.” Her full lips find mine again, but this time they don’t help me forget. They are like the signature on my death sentence— or a drug I won’t be able to have for a significant amount of time. She’s right. It will be torture. Windsor strips her shirt off and then her pink lace bra. Her tiny nipples pucker at the chill in the air. I kiss them. I lick one and then the other as she clutches my head to her chest.
