own dick in a blender.
Major Haverty shook his head. “I haven’t said when, Tin Tin. But lucky you, I’ve picked a team on this one.” He aimed a look at Eric. “That’d be you, Kisser. And, Brunch, you too. Wednesday and Thursday. The Patriots Air Team will take over from there, promoting military aviation careers in general.”
Eric cleared his throat. “Sir, I’m not exactly a poster child for the Air Force.” He left off anymore because everyone damn sure knew what he was talking about. “Sure you wanna scare off potential recruits?”
“First off, Brunch is pretty enough for the both of you.”
“That’s sexual harassment, Fang,” came a protest from another female pilot.
“Deal with it. Second, you’re a bona fide war hero, Captain. Five tours. A half-dozen honors to show for it.” The major paused, then shook his head. “Let’s just say none of this was my call.”
“Aw, c’mon,” Liam protested on Eric’s behalf.
That was the other emotional fuckup Eric had to deal with, as if Carey, Princess, Fang, Tin Tin and now, damn, even Trish weren’t enough. Some friends affectionately, and some people not so affectionately, called Eric a caveman. Most times he agreed. He wasn’t built to deal with interpersonal shit.
Liam was a different case. The man lugged around a shovelful of one hundred percent guilt. Eric had been the guy to take his place in the Maple Flag assignment in Canada. Eric had been the guy to crash. Hell, shit happened. But Liam was surprisingly sensitive under the standard-issue pilot bravado. Who else would be giving up on the Air Force to raise his infant daughter and teach karate to kids? A nice guy and a family man. He woke up every morning believing he owed his current happiness to Eric for taking the fall.
Eric would let his friend wallow forever if it’d make Liam feel better, but that heavy cloud only reminded Eric of shit he’d rather forget. Pain. Rehabilitation. Wondering if he’d ever walk again.
Now he was relatively hale and hearty, enough to follow his basic imperatives. Fly. Fuck. Fight. That didn’t mean he wanted to face a bunch of strangers. Call him vain, but it got old. That’s why he didn’t want to do the air show. Get trotted out in front of all those people? Have to answer a million questions? The whole time he’d see the unasked questions on the civvies’ faces.
Where the hell had he gotten all those scars?
His discomfort wasn’t limited to strangers. Even his buddies checked in on him too often, as if he were an infirmed aunt. Couldn’t they go back to treating him like just another throttle jockey?
He hadn’t thought he was that kind of man, so focused on himself. It had always been more important to find the perfect thrill. To fly the perfect mission. To find a gorgeous working girl and prove he was the best fuck she’d have for a year.
Now…Trish. He was back to thinking about catching the perfect shot.
Watching her.
Yet she’d drawn him out. He’d been compelled to join her in front of the lens. He hadn’t noticed at the time. Afterward, looking at the pictures, he hardly paid attention to himself. His concentration and holy-fuck arousal centered on her. But Eric was in more than half the shots, taking her, whispering in her ear, coming with a grimace of ecstasy he never would’ve recognized as being Eric Donaghue.
Trish hadn’t cared about his scars. Although she’d wanted to talk about what happened—obvious enough—she hadn’t given off the pity vibe Eric had come to despise, even when that vibe came from friends.
Yet he understood his duty. Good airmen always did. Airmen lucky enough to climb back into a cockpit after stuffing one into the ground understood that duty more acutely. Three months of counseling had made that crystal clear, even if the shrink had worn doubts throughout every session.
At least she’d cleared him for flight.
He’d been lucky. Period. So everybody shut the hell up.
Eric said
Major Haverty shook his head. “I haven’t said when, Tin Tin. But lucky you, I’ve picked a team on this one.” He aimed a look at Eric. “That’d be you, Kisser. And, Brunch, you too. Wednesday and Thursday. The Patriots Air Team will take over from there, promoting military aviation careers in general.”
Eric cleared his throat. “Sir, I’m not exactly a poster child for the Air Force.” He left off anymore because everyone damn sure knew what he was talking about. “Sure you wanna scare off potential recruits?”
“First off, Brunch is pretty enough for the both of you.”
“That’s sexual harassment, Fang,” came a protest from another female pilot.
“Deal with it. Second, you’re a bona fide war hero, Captain. Five tours. A half-dozen honors to show for it.” The major paused, then shook his head. “Let’s just say none of this was my call.”
“Aw, c’mon,” Liam protested on Eric’s behalf.
That was the other emotional fuckup Eric had to deal with, as if Carey, Princess, Fang, Tin Tin and now, damn, even Trish weren’t enough. Some friends affectionately, and some people not so affectionately, called Eric a caveman. Most times he agreed. He wasn’t built to deal with interpersonal shit.
Liam was a different case. The man lugged around a shovelful of one hundred percent guilt. Eric had been the guy to take his place in the Maple Flag assignment in Canada. Eric had been the guy to crash. Hell, shit happened. But Liam was surprisingly sensitive under the standard-issue pilot bravado. Who else would be giving up on the Air Force to raise his infant daughter and teach karate to kids? A nice guy and a family man. He woke up every morning believing he owed his current happiness to Eric for taking the fall.
Eric would let his friend wallow forever if it’d make Liam feel better, but that heavy cloud only reminded Eric of shit he’d rather forget. Pain. Rehabilitation. Wondering if he’d ever walk again.
Now he was relatively hale and hearty, enough to follow his basic imperatives. Fly. Fuck. Fight. That didn’t mean he wanted to face a bunch of strangers. Call him vain, but it got old. That’s why he didn’t want to do the air show. Get trotted out in front of all those people? Have to answer a million questions? The whole time he’d see the unasked questions on the civvies’ faces.
Where the hell had he gotten all those scars?
His discomfort wasn’t limited to strangers. Even his buddies checked in on him too often, as if he were an infirmed aunt. Couldn’t they go back to treating him like just another throttle jockey?
He hadn’t thought he was that kind of man, so focused on himself. It had always been more important to find the perfect thrill. To fly the perfect mission. To find a gorgeous working girl and prove he was the best fuck she’d have for a year.
Now…Trish. He was back to thinking about catching the perfect shot.
Watching her.
Yet she’d drawn him out. He’d been compelled to join her in front of the lens. He hadn’t noticed at the time. Afterward, looking at the pictures, he hardly paid attention to himself. His concentration and holy-fuck arousal centered on her. But Eric was in more than half the shots, taking her, whispering in her ear, coming with a grimace of ecstasy he never would’ve recognized as being Eric Donaghue.
Trish hadn’t cared about his scars. Although she’d wanted to talk about what happened—obvious enough—she hadn’t given off the pity vibe Eric had come to despise, even when that vibe came from friends.
Yet he understood his duty. Good airmen always did. Airmen lucky enough to climb back into a cockpit after stuffing one into the ground understood that duty more acutely. Three months of counseling had made that crystal clear, even if the shrink had worn doubts throughout every session.
At least she’d cleared him for flight.
He’d been lucky. Period. So everybody shut the hell up.
Eric said
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