Aubrey fought to breathe under the crushing tension.
He's tired.
Over the last four days he strung together a whole thirteen hours of sleep. It was her being greedy thinking he'd come home a chatter box, eager and animated, telling her about everything that happened in the field.
She missed those days, back when he'd talk her ear off, using jargon that wasn't at all foreign. Now, it was as if they were total strangers being forced to share a meal together. Like they had nothing in common to talk about, so the best choice was to sit and suffer through the awkward silence until they could go about their respective lives.
"I read eight percent of Army marriages end in divorce." She remembered Sasha once taunting. "There's no shame in walking away."
Except Aubrey wasn't a quitter. She wouldn't become a statistic so easily—so what if dinner was awkward? This wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last.
Dropping a glob of sour cream into her bowl of steaming borscht, she stirred it, watching the rich red broth turn thick and bright pink.
"How was FTX?"
"Fine."
Jack didn't look up to meet her gaze. He ripped off a hunk of bread from one of the crusty slices she gave him and dunked it into the soup.
Aubrey dropped her spoon into the bowl, running a hand through her hair. "Can you try to meet me halfway here, Jack?"
"What do you want me to say?" He shrugged, stuffing borscht soaked bread into his mouth. "There was a… friendly fire incident; Pierce shot me in the back of the thigh while I was pissing at like two A.M., because he thought I was someone from Alpha, and I almost smoked Rossi because the inbred psycho wanted to shoot every animal we crossed paths with. It was a good weekend."
He meant every word of that, unironically.
Aubrey winced. Now she knew not to be surprised if she found a new bruise on him.
"So, Pierce and Rossi were up to their usual antics. How did Sullivan do? Are you still thinking about moving him to be a turret gunner?"
"Why do you give a shit if Hammerhead is on the turret?"
"I don't. It's called, trying to make a conversation. If you weren't such a fucking asshole like your fa—" Aubrey stopped herself "—if you weren't an asshole, you'd be able to recognize when people are being friendly with you." Losing her appetite, Aubrey pushed the bowl into the center of the table. She folded her arms down. All she wanted was a nice evening with Jack, savor every second until he left for work again in the morning. "And another thing; I think Sullivan's eyes are proportionally spaced on his face, so it's pretty mean to be calling him Hammerhead. You really need to come up with a new nickname."
Jack smiled, pointing the spoon at her. "You're on the rag. That's why you're being all, overdramatic."
Aubrey cocked her head, offering only a hint that she gloved up and climbed into the ring with him.
"Now you really sound like your old man, Junior."
Brushing the crumbs off of his fingers, Jack lowered his head, peering at her through eyelashes. His stare was icy, the inky black pools that were his pupils doubled, but still Aubrey refused to apologize. Sometimes he needed to be humbled by being reminded he possessed the ability to all too much resemble the man whose namesake he is.
It was a blow below the belt, a choice never made flippantly.
Jack moved his jaw side-to-side.
"No, I don't." His voice was rough with gravel. "I am nothing like my old man."
Leaning into the table, Aubrey held Jack's gaze. Her heart raced, and she moved her hands down to her lap to not give him the satisfaction of seeing nerves take hold. Maintaining the hard exterior was all that mattered now. If he so much as caught a whiff of her fear, he'd turn the tables on her before Aubrey asked, what happened?
"You had me fooled, Junior."
When he scrubbed his hands over his face, he forced himself to relax. The lack of sleep, coupled with the pressure of telling Aubrey about his promotion, and bringing up the idea of him going to Ranger school was almost too much for him to stand under. If he took his frustrations out on Aubrey, all it would do is make her stubbornness a lot harder to break through.
It was time to swallow his pride and play the long game. He'd forgive now, albeit he'd never forget.
"I'm sorry for being an asshole… I'm just exhausted, Aubs. Since I've got so many leave days saved up, I'm thinking about putting in a request to take a week off." Jack held his breath, watching Aubrey. She relaxed, her shoulders sloughing as she picked up her spoon and moved it around in circles in the tepid soup. "We should do what we used to do when we started dating—pack a bag, hit the highway, spend a couple of nights at the first shady motel we find. I think that would do the both of us some good, you know."
Letting his words soak in, Aubrey unclenched her aching jaw. Her shoulder unlatched from her earlobes. He caught her off guard by bringing up the idea first. Normally she's the one who has to bring it up, make him realize he's legally bound to take leave every once in a while. He's reaching the point of burnout; there's no other reason he'd want to be home with her for a week straight.
Sudden movements startled him, so Aubrey made sure he saw her hand before she put it on top of his, stroking his dry, cracked knuckles.
He hadn't worn his gloves like he promised.
The son-of-a-bitch.
"That sounds perfect." She squeezed his hand. "Maybe we can really make it like old times… stop at a sketchy gas station, and I flirt with the guy behind the counter while you steel mini bottle of liquor and condoms."
Jack smiled wickedly, his milk-chocolate eyes burning with lasciviousness, which made Aubrey quiver. He dipped his head, closing the distance between their mouths, capturing her bottom lip between his. She inhaled sharply, her eyes fluttering closed. When Jack slipped his tongue into her mouth, she tasted the lingering sweet-sourness of borscht. Her hand gripped his a little tighter while the other went straight for the back of his sturdy neck. A soft moan bubbled in her throat, bursting the moment Jack gripped her thigh with the sort of possession that made her belly burn with security. When he pulled away, Aubrey was dizzy.
He left her fighting to form a basic coherent thought thanks to the inebriating show of affection. Warmth she hadn't felt from him in so long, making her wonder if the flame of his passion for her mellowed into something colder. Like he was growing bored with her.
Jack brought his mouth to her ear. His breath grazing her flesh was blistering. "I'm not seventeen anymore, so stealing the uh, condoms, just seems gratuitous."
Aubrey bit her lip, her cheeks burning white hot.
They fell into a comfortable conversation with a little nudging on Aubrey's part. She ate, listening intently to every word he said about how the weekend went. Her heart was lighter seeing his eyes still blazed with an innocent excitement.
Maybe Baker was wrong. Maybe it wouldn't take years for Jack to come back around.
Baker.
The world around her faded out, and Aubrey swallowed hard, remembering Friday night. She had to save her ass one way or another—getting ahead of the approaching storm was the only way she'd come out of this alive.
"Danny stopped by."
"Oh?" Jack lifted his bowl to slurp the last of the soup, getting up to ladle himself more from the pot on the stove. "He just so happened to be in the neighborhood on the exact weekend I'm gone?"
He set the bowl back on the table and then moseyed to the refrigerator.
"He said he's here on business," chimed Aubrey.
She spun around in her chair as Jack grabbed the orange juice, tossed the cap on the counter to drink straight from the carton.
"That makes me feel a little… left out."
Without putting the cap back on, Jack shoved the carton into the fridge before slamming the door shut. None of it fazed Aubrey. Those were nothing more than his annoying little habits she's learned to live with.
"He was only here for a couple of minutes," she assured. The bouquet of luscious peonies Baker had given her were withered and frozen in the dumpster on the side of the building. "Once I told him you weren't here, he left."
Sliding back into the chair, Jack hunched over, his arms circling around the bowl in position to protect his chow as he shoveled it in.
He suppressed the urge to laugh right in her face. What a horrible lie she so stupidly sipped. Maybe she had her reasons, but Jack would never figure out what they are if he played his hand too early. He was well aware of Baker's presence in this boor patch of middle America. The asshole all but waved at Jack on Friday afternoon. Baker tried to keep hidden, but it seemed the once sharp soldier lost his wit the moment he hung up his M4 for an insipid, six-figure job in Washington. It was a little too unsettling for him that Baker still showed up at the door despite knowing of Jack's absence.
"Is that so?" Jack casually pointed to the wine rack sitting in the counter's corner. "You're missing three bottles. You'd put away a fifth of Russian Standard before drinking three bottles of wine by yourself in two days."
Jack was far more observant about things that went on around there than Aubrey was aware of. He noticed how on Friday nights for the last couple of weeks the apartment smelt sickly sweet, not because she spent the day cleaning, but because she was trying to mask the scent of the weed she smoked right before he got home. He also noticed how she stopped wearing her hair straight ever since they lived in Germany and he yelled at her after she accidentally left the flat iron on and it left scorch marks on the cheap vanity in the bathroom.
Long ago, he'd noticed how the same box of tampons she kept under the sink never seemed to run out. Jack figured that was because if she actually used those tampons, then she wouldn't have a place to hide the birth control pills she so doltishly thought he knew nothing about.
Aubrey couldn't hold it in any longer. It's been festering all weekend, finally boiling over.
"He told me about what's going on in Iraq," she blurted. "You promised me there was nothing to worry about—"
"There is nothing for you to worry about."
"Tell me the truth, Jack. Don't play me for a fucking fool anymore."
Jack carefully set the spoon in the bowl, pushing it aside. He wiped his mouth with a napkin, then balled it up. He had two choices: either fess up now so she'd be too emotionally drained to care about what he had planned for the future, or keep pushing it off until the last minute so he wouldn't be around for too long after and have to suffer through the consequences of his decision.
He wished he didn't care enough about her to choose the latter.
"It's not looking good; last I heard, negotiations are breaking down, and if a deal isn't reached within the next couple of weeks, then… The Marines are already in Kuwait, so I don't think I have to tell you what means. It's not my decision to go, and you know that, too."
Jack watched Aubrey's jaw tremble. It was deja vu to see it happen; bringing back the painful memory of the afternoon he sat her down and broke the dreaded news that he'd be headed to Bosnia. This time, the tears sliding down her cheeks were fatter, maybe because they held more grief. Unlike being deployed to the Balkans, this time he'd be smack dab in the middle of a bonafide combat zone. One that would get him a combat patch, not just some pathetic little campaign bar to pin on the chest of his dress uniform.
Jack dug deep, trying to find an ounce of what Aubrey felt. Nothing. What he found was scary, so he tried to ignore it. No one in their right mind would feel the level of excitement he was; finally he saw an end to the soul-crushing mundaneness of this domestic life he face-planted into.
Whether Aubrey agreed, him being gone would do them both good.
Jack pushed away from the table, and Aubrey jumped right up to straddle his lap. He wiped her tears with the pads of his thumbs.
"There's no reason to get upset about it now, before they have even made an official announcement."
"So," she hiccuped. "Doesn't change the fact you're going."
"You don't know that for sure."
"Y—you just said that you ar—"
"I said it's not looking good. A deal could still happen last minute."
"That's what your command said about Kosovo and look how that turned out!"
"This is different. With Afghanistan being total pizdec right now, they're going to do everything they can to keep an invasion of Iraq from happening. The only thing these—these politicians care about is making themselves look good. And let me tell you, us waltzing into another Middle Eastern country before the first mess is even cleaned up won't exactly be forgotten come time for election season."
"But Danny said—"
"Don't be listening to what Baker said. His paycheck revolves around pushing men like me into combat. He fucking sold us out—he'll do and say anything so long as it ends with another operation. His group and the CIA are busy stirring the pot, because without tensions, they have no job."
Aubrey hooked her arms around Jack's neck, nuzzling her face into the crook. Her tears soaked into the collar of his shirt, and as she whimpered in his arms like a goddamn child, Jack patted her back haphazardly to calm her down.
"Is it true they'll also try to keep you in for another year?"
Jack bit his bottom lip and winced. He had no idea why he's the one groveling when it's him who's about to shove a knife into her back. Again. There were so many lodged in her, Jack lost count.
"Absolutely not." He squeezed her tighter, smelling the clean notes of the lotion she'd slathered on after the bubble bath he forced himself to take with her. "There'll be no reason for them to keep for more than a month or two. If my battalion is part of the invasion, once Baghdad falls, I'll be on the first Black Hawk back to Kuwait."
Aubrey lifted her head off Jack's shoulder. She rubbed her eye with the side of her fist as he pushed her hair over her shoulders.
"Baghdad? For months you've been talking about nothing but, Fallujah-this-and-Fallujah-that. Why would you be going to Baghdad?"
It was almost heartbreaking to see what damage watching so many hours of cable news did to her brain. Brushing off the stupid question was easier than explaining the last thirty-years of history.
Holding the sides of her neck, Jack brushed his thumbs along her pulse points. "Remember when you were busting my balls about how I never take you out?" She nodded. "A Sergeant from my platoon asked if we'd meet he and his wife for drinks Friday night. He just got married, so he suggested introducing the two of you. Think you'd mind, you know—" a grin stretched his lips, eyes wildly moving all over the room before they settled on her, a stern glitter "—show her how to be an outstanding member of the integral community that is Army wives."
Aubrey slapped her hands down on Jack's shoulders, resting her forehead to his. It took every ounce of self-control not to burst out with excitement.
"A Sergeant in your platoon? Are you making friends at work, Jack Napier?!"
To hide the rosy hue exploding over his cheeks, Jack tugged her hair to open up her neck.
"Relax," he said, peppering her neck with warm, open-mouthed kisses. "It's just a couple of beers at a dive bar after work… we won't be inviting them over for dinner anytime soon."
"Oh, you never let me have any fun." Aubrey shifted, shamelessly grinding against him. "For the record, Army wives are not all as bad as you think they are. I swear, gossip and rumors fly around base worse than an all-girls prep school."
"Never once have you been the subject of one of those rumors, so perhaps my decision to keep you out of the cesspool wasn't so wrong after all."
"I supposed I'll let you take the win this round." Aubrey's voice was husky. She caressed the tip of her nose along Jack's, this time being the one to go in for a kiss, pulling away before Jack plunged it any deeper. "I don't mind giving her lessons on how to survive around here. You know I'd do anything for you."
He fisted Aubrey's hair, wrapping it around his hand and wrist. "Anything?"
"Yes, Sergeant. Anything."
Jack smirked and winked. "Then you'd better get on those patriotic knees, Cupcake, and make your sergeant proud."
In the chow line, Jack snatched four giant, freshly baked brownies. Warmth seeped through the flimsy plastic, only making him more impatient to break it open and gobble up the under-done, gooey center.
He paid for the treats and his meal, venturing through the bustling mess hall to where Sullivan, Pierce, and Rossi crowded around a table discussing the month's issue of Juggs magazine.
Jack dropped the brownies into the center of the table, sliding into the empty chair beside Sullivan.
"Settle this one for us, Sergeant." Pierce drudged soggy French fries through the puddle of ketchup. "Are natural or fake titties the way to go?"
Jack unwrapped his tepid burger from the paper covering, plopping the top bun aside to peel off the ungodly amount of pickles they piled on top.
"Natural," he said, reassembling the burger to eat. "Implants look nice when they're done right, but I want to get in there and play without worrying about anything popping."
Pierce groaned, reaching into his pocket and then plopping down a wad of crumpled bills in front of a grinning Rossi.
Sullivan reached for one of the brownies, tearing into it like a rabid dog as he pushed the Coke-bottle glasses up the bridge of his nose. While he chewed, Sullivan leaned back a little, eyeing Jack. The hard stare coming from the side made Jack shift, trying to figure out why in the hell this kid was trying to dissect him.
"You don't strike me as a titties kinda guy."
Jack popped open his can of Sprite. His forehead creased as he took a drink, digesting the observation Sullivan thought was necessary to vocalize.
He liked Sullivan. Though liked was a word to be used loosely. Sullivan was a little more tolerable than the rest. Still eighteen and less than a year out of basic training, Sullivan was the youngest and least experienced one on Jack's team, which he preferred. By the time the youngsters made it under Jack's command, they were deep in bad habits it took him forever to break them of. Sullivan was a soft globule of fresh clay, all for him to mold and shape into the worrier he wanted. Despite Sullivan's often animated and b-movie antics, Jack refused to turn his back on him when most other officers—both non and commissioned—did. He's like the perfect little teacher's pet, always so eager to please. Jack couldn't remember the last time he had to fill his own canteen or clean his rifle, because Sullivan did all those things without even having to be asked.
"What kind of guy do I strike you as?"
"A booty guy," said Rossi. His delicate tone held a hint of a hick accent and matched his boyish features.
The crazy glint in his hazel eyes was the exact reason Jack insisted he be in charge of the team's SAW—squad automatic weapon. It was a belt-fed light machine gun, and too many times to count Jack scolded Rossi for wearing said bullet belts around his neck like he was fucking Rambo.
Rossi continued, "I saw your wife at the PX a couple of weekends ago, and with an ass like hers, there's no way you'd marry her for the rack."
"We've all seen you at the gym," chimed Pierce, "and the way you stand behind her, eyeing her ass while she does squats."
Sullivan sighed. "The squats are my favorite part of her workout, too. She gets low; really working the glutes and quads. If she's looking for a trainer, give her my number, will ya?"
They did it.
This group of utter delinquents managed to leave Jack speechless.
Their comments were harmless, the result of nothing more than infatuation, which left Jack more amused than angry. These dimwits, it wouldn't surprise him if they lasted thirty-seconds in bed with a girl before creaming the sheets.
"I appreciate a nice ass…" He didn't want to entertain this conversation from the beginning, but Jack couldn't leave. They dragged Aubrey in; now it was personal. He'd let them shoot their mouths off, but the next time they uttered a single word about her, Jack would make them wish they'd never been born. "… I hate to see her go, but I love to watch her leave."
"I love watching her leave, too."
Jack's head snapped to Sullivan, who was too focused on eating to realize what he'd said. It was time to get down to the real reason Jack come around during lunch before he reached over and it was lights-out for Hammerhead.
"Not sure if you've heard, but at the end of the month, Nichols will no longer be gracing us with his presence here at ol' Fort Riley."
"He's being PCS'd?" Pierce asked, and Jack nodded. "Thank fuck. It was feeling like Sergeant Dickhead was never gonna… Oh, shit."
Jack watched in real time as the gravity of what he said settled in for them. Their faces fell, the worst nightmares of the future flashing before their eyes.
"You're—" Sullivan's jaw trembled— "you're leaving us?"
Rossi brushed chocolate crumbs off his fingers. "That explains the brownies."
Jack shoved the last bite of his burger into his mouth. He hated how this was taking on the vibe of a bad break-up. How much longer until one of them stood up and splashed their 36 ounces of Mountain Dew into his face? The four of them had a good run and saying goodbye was never easy, though for the life of him, Jack couldn't figure out why they were being such babies about this.
They'd bumped into each other at the bar which ended with them drinking together, and sure Jack once broke into Sullivan's dorm in the barracks to fetch his wallet when he'd left it there before going on a date. It's not like they'd stayed up until the wee hours of the morning braiding each other's hair and exchanging secrets. They weren't friends. They've never been friends. This was professional.
"C'mon; it's nothing personal. You guys know that, right? I mean, cut me some slack here… they're making me Staff Sergeant. It's not like I can just say no."
"Well, technically you could," Pierce chimed. "Once you reach E-5, they'll let you serve for another six years without ranking up."
"Thank you, Corporal Obvious," crooned Jack. "You're missing the point—I've been at this twice as long as you asshats hav—"
Rossi intruded, "Corporal Obvious? I thought it was Captain Obvious."
Jack, Sullivan, and Pierce looked at Rossi as he munched away. Jack shook it off, deciding he'd make Rossi run later for being such a fucking idiot, and missing the point he'd made the joke off Pierce's rank.
"What if they assign someone to be our team leader and he's an inbred moron like Rossi here?" asked Sullivan.
The look of genuine concern on his face did nothing but make Jack more guilty for making rank.
"It's not like I'm totally abandoning you guys… you'll still be under my command. Don't forget, I'll have a little sway in who's chosen to take over."
If breaking the news to them was this bad, Jack didn't even want to think about how Aubrey was going to react.
"I guess it won't be bad," said Sullivan, standing up.
Rossi and Pierce got up, too collecting their garbage.
"Thanks for the brownies, Sergeant," said Pierce.
Rossi shoved the money he'd won from Pierce into the pocket of his trousers. "Congrats on the promotion. You deserve it."
And unlike those overgrown children, mess hall brownies would do fuck all to win over Aubrey.
Now that the cat was out of the bag, he had to come up with a damage control plan and fast.
Shit.
Jack was seeing double.
He closed one eye and squinted the other, fumbling with his keys to find the right one. To steady his stance, he rested his shoulder against the jamb. When he came across a rounded brass key on the ring, he held it up to the light illuminating the deserted hallway in the apartment building. This one looked like it could be it.
Getting the key into the lock took a lot more concentration and motor-skills than what Jack mustered. He bit the tip of his tongue, cursing Sullivan, Pierce, and Rossi for insisting they hit a bar after-hours to celebrate his promotion. Word on base about his new rank spread like wild-fire and he only had himself to blame. Ordinarily, Jack didn't feel the desire to give a shit, but now it's a race against the clock to tell Aubrey before some loose-lipped bitch says something to her while in a check-out line at the PX.
His plan to sneak in fell apart. No matter how many attempts he made to get the key into the lock, Jack missed. All he did was make more noise by punching the door. Hopefully Aubrey was in bed and deep into an indica-induced slumber, but that was wishful thinking.
Sure enough, the front door swung right open.
"Hi," he drawled.
The cute little button nose of hers crinkled, smelling the whiskey and beer clinging to the fibers of his civilian clothes. Her clenched jaw, fingers drumming on her hips, and the way her deep-set eyes scanned him up and down, Jack understood she was fighting a battle of temperament.
He didn't blame her. No call to give her the heads up he'd be home late wasn't the smartest in retrospect. How she kept her cool was lost on Jack. If the roles were reversed, her safest option would be to not come home at all.
Aubrey wanted to reach across the threshold, grab him by the collar, and drag him into the apartment. Then again, there wasn't much she could be angry about. No way would Jack go out drinking without so much as a text unless he had a shit day and needed to blow off steam. The last thing she wanted to do was berate him when he's not in a good mood. Things had to be calm, copasetic.
But that's not say she planned on totally keeping her mouth shut.
"You're alive." She rested a hand on her chest, fingers tangling in the chain of the diamond pendant she wore around her neck.
"And you're dramatic." When he spoke, his words held a slur.
"Stop, you scared the shit out of me, J."
She called him J.
Jack smiled, losing his balance. Aubrey jutted forward, gripping the flaps of his un-zipped leather jacket to hold him steady.
He was a fucking mess.
A drunken, pathetic mess.
It brought back memories for Aubrey of the times she'd gotten a call from the owner of Jack's favorite bar in Colorado because he'd gotten so plastered he couldn't stand on his own. Turns out the last time she'd left him to fend for himself, and he woke up with a nasty hangover on a picnic table in some park miles from home, resonated. This time he stayed coherent only enough to make it home. And how he did, Aubrey didn't want to know.
"As you can see, I'm perfectly fine."
He wasn't fine; far from it. For once, Aubrey wished he'd stop being so fucking stubborn and just talk to her. Sticking by Baker's advice was close to impossible because she was tired to waiting for him to come to her. Maybe with his guard down, she'd get somewhere.
"I don't believe you," she snapped. When Jack tried to walk inside, Aubrey grabbed onto the opposite doorjamb, blocking his only way in. "You would've called if you're fine. It's not like you. Did something happen at work?"
If only she knew.
"You worry too much about me, zaichik."
She rolled her eyes, not in the mood to hear him unload his favorite Russian endearment for her. He only called her bunny when he knew he fucked up.
"Someone has to. If you pull this shit again, I'm telling your mother we're staying with her and your father instead of at my parents' when we move back to Gotham. We both know I can put up with your father a lot longer than you can."
She was joking, but he was too drunk to decode the playful undertone of her words.
Jack bit his tongue, swallowing what he wanted to scream at Aubrey: the miserable prick is only halfway nice to you because he wants to fuck you!
"You pull that shit," Jack straightened out, not taking too kindly to her sad excuse of a threat, "and you'll be the only one going back to Gotham. Call my bluff, Aubs—I dare you. Let me worry about myself."
Aubrey recoiled, a sobering sight for Jack.
He sounded indifferent—callous—when there was no need to be. Only when it was too late did Jack understand she was busting his balls. It seemed like nothing has come across as either of them wanted since they got back to the States, no longer on the same wavelength and reading each other like books. There wasn't a day that went by where Jack wished they were back in Europe. Despite the constant tours, life was simpler. Their marriage was stronger.
Then 9/11 happened; within weeks their comfortable, semi-predictable life had been ripped right out from under their feet, leaving them dizzy and trying to make sense of how much home changed since they left. Jack skirted being shipped out to Afghanistan. Turns out, being under criminal investigation made him un-deployable, and being left behind added resentment between him and Aubrey. He hated her for being so happy he missed the Afghan invasion, and she hated him for putting her through hell.
He'd make it all better. One way or another. But he sure as shit wasn't walking from Ranger school.
Cupping Aubrey's cheek, he caressed the apple with the rough pad of his thumb. She curled her fingers around his wrist, nesting into his palm. All of her frustrations with him didn't matter anymore. He was home, and he was safe. What more could she ask for?
"Are you hungry? Let me make you something to help soak up the alcohol. Oh, Jack," she crooned, patting his chest and turning her full lips into an over-exaggerated frown. "You're gonna be hurting so bad in the morning."
"I ate already. Got pizza and watched the Avalanche and Star's game."
"You got pizza and watched the hockey game without me?"
"Don't be getting all jealous on me now."
"I'm not jealous!" Aubrey curled her fingers into the lapels of his jacket. "Okay, maybe I am just a little. I miss the two of us just hanging out."
Jack loved how her bottom lip pouted ever so. All he wanted to do was clamp it between his teeth, elicit the knee-weakening moan from her soul. He took a step closer to close the space between them. His mouth hovered a hair's breadth over hers.
"Careful what you wish for. I greased my first sergeant, and he pushed my leave request to the top of the pile, so I found out this afternoon command approved it. After the benefit next Saturday night, I'm all yours for nine days."
"Lucky me." Aubrey's tongue brushed along Jack's lip. The single act left him feeling more intoxicated than booze ever could. "Come on, let's get your drunk ass to bed."