An Accidental Gentleman by M.Q. Barber Page A

old man scanned his uniform, his eyes dark and sharp in a face crisscrossed with the grooves of age and experience. “I remember you. Pack of young hooligans. There’s no trouble a boy can’t find if he goes looking for it. But you’re not dressed for trouble today.”
    “No, sir.” Fuck, this’d be easier with Rob at his side, being the stand-up guy so he could laugh the whole thing off as clowning. The rows of candy bars and packs of gum mocked him. He’d taken a fucking eyeglasses kit once, because it’d been small and slim and easily tucked in a pocket. Didn’t wear glasses, but he’d still ripped off the old man and his wife. “I’m here to apologize. For the things I took.”
    “Less than your friends did.” The old man’s stare came down as heavy as a superior officer’s. He stood tall despite the bow in his shoulders and the faded gray of his hair. “I remember that about you, because you stood lookout. Chatted and joked to hold attention while them boys loaded up their jackets. Studied your feet a lot, like you’re doing now.” He swiped the counter with the side of his hand. “You were already ashamed of yourself, son. I figured you for a boy who didn’t have nothing else.” With one pointed finger, he waved at the single row of color decorating the left breast of Brian’s uniform. “Looks like you do now.”
    As he pulled out the hundreds, his hand shook as hard as the old man’s. “For everything we took, and the trouble we caused. I’m sorry, sir.”
    “You were a troubled boy.” The old man clasped him with both hands before he accepted the bills. “You’re a better man. And you and me? We’re square.”
    * * * *
    As she finished off her burger, Kit reclaimed his beer. “Maybe you owe Rob a debt, sure, but no amount of support’ll make someone do something they don’t have it in them to do.”
    She took a slow sip, her head tipped back and her throat exposed and vulnerable. Same as she’d look straddling him, except she’d be bare and moaning and he’d have her breasts in his hands. Fuck, not a good thought. Later, later, later—when he’d made clear sex belonged in a package deal, inseparable from real dating.
    Offering him the bottle, she eyed him sideways. “You might’ve played at being bad for a while, but you’re a good guy at heart. The Air Force—and your buddy—gave you an excuse to be that man.” When their fingers grazed, she laughed and shook her head. “Sorry. That’s not my business. I don’t know you now, and I sure as hell didn’t know you then. Beer talking.”
    “No, you’re right.” He refused to grip the bottle when her fingers fit so perfect inside his hand. She might not know him yet, but she sounded like a woman who wanted to, finally. “The service wasn’t what I expected, but it was what I needed.”
    “To prove you could be your own person. Nobody controlling you or waiting for you to mess up your life like—” As she slid her plate away, raindrops pinged off the pavilion roof and splatted in the dirt beyond. “Jesus, that’s stupid. Not you, me, I mean. It’s the fucking military. You had nothing but people controlling you.”
    “Orders, yeah, but proving to myself I was capable of being a man? That’s the best thing basic taught me.” Better by far than learning that one-handed pushups impressed uniform chasers, which he’d definitely believed the most valuable lesson at eighteen. “I pulled a ton of stupid shit as a kid because I wanted to be liked. Keep up with my big brother, impress my little brother.” No dare turned down. He flashed her a grin. Her sort of dare, he could get used to. “Now I do stupid shit just for me.”
    “Ohh, so that’s why—” Palm out and forward, she mimed a circle over his face. “I thought you’d forgotten to shave. But clearly you lost a bet.”
    “I’m growing a beard.” He scrubbed his face. Still scratchy. Approaching scratchy, at least. Theoretically over-the-top