toward Eric, Liam was one of the most obnoxiously happy guys in their squadron. Mike was a close second, only because his Zen-master front meant he didn’t rub it in.
Eric didn’t count on anything that permanent with Trish, but he had hopes for a nice ride while it lasted. And if nothing else happened, he’d always have her on his wall. Anticipation burned down his spine. That would be his reward. Once he listened to the voicemail, he’d spend some time with Trish’s pictures. Her face, her eyes. The bonuses in every shot.
“Just means neither of us will be flying,” he said. “Sucks.”
Mike leaned back on his bike, shading his eyes against the sun. “No one will fly at the air races except civvy showoffs and the Patriot team. The only thing more arrogant than a Thunderbird is an ex-Thunderbird.”
Eric and Liam joined in with mumbled, good-natured curses. The Thunderbirds and the Navy’s Blue Angels were adept at what they did, fostering morale and patriotism. Retired air demonstration teams such as the Patriots were nearly as effective in that regard. Eric was partial to the Aggressors’ more practical purpose. Fly like the bad guys so other pilots didn’t die. He loved it.
Suddenly Mike smiled past his friends.
Liam laughed. “Princess just walked out behind me, didn’t she?”
“Sure did,” Mike said unabashedly.
Part of Eric craved that relaxed joy, but it wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. No one else could handle the stress of Carey’s crap. Fuck, some might claim Eric had crashed because of his brother. The timing had been right to bear that blame. Two hours after landing in Canada, he’d received a call. Somehow Carey had managed to snag a phone, bawling, screaming, suffering another round of withdrawals. Eric had listened, heartsick, as the phone smacked something and what he assumed had been rehab personnel wrestled Carey into submission.
Sorry, Sir. Won’t happen again, Sir. He’ll be fine now.
Eric’s head hadn’t been in the game when he’d taken to the air. He’d resorted to rote measures to maintain the envelope-pushing techniques Tin Tin had said would get him killed.
At least the shit hadn’t been that right. Eric was still alive.
If he could barely handle it, how could he expect a chick to? Although Trish wasn’t the Barbie Eric had first assumed, she lived the life of a showgirl gypsy—not exactly a dependable, low-maintenance girl. Plenty of more casual souls had bailed over the years. Christina had lasted six months before shouting that Eric had “no emotional depth other than Carey”. During the darkest times, when he felt like he was holding his brother’s life in his hands, Eric had wanted to bail right along with her.
They didn’t know how Carey had been there for him—the only person who’d understood his drive to leave Detroit. Everyone else thought he should’ve been able to make a life in such a big city. Instead, Eric crawled out of town and into a fighter jet, saving his own sanity by leaving his brother behind.
Carey had wanted out too, only he’d chosen OxyContin and boosting cars.
Leah walked over with a whole lot of attitude, but God forbid Mike catch anyone checking out her fantastic ass. Seriously, the man had no sense of humor regarding his woman. She ran a touch down his arm as she strolled toward her hot pink Ducati. They were a disgustingly matched pair.
Eric couldn’t help a quick-flash thought of Trish. Unexpectedly, he remembered the way they’d laughed, wrapped together on his bed. Relaxed. Sated. Almost…playful.
When had playful memories ever popped into his brain before dirty ones?
Princess Leah strapped on a helmet that matched her bike. “Michael, did you tell them?”
Liam’s mouth bent into a smirk. “Don’t tell me you two are finally getting hitched.”
“A barbeque,” Mike said dryly. “We’re having a damn barbeque. What the hell is with you?”
Eric shook his head. “He thinks marriage is
Eric didn’t count on anything that permanent with Trish, but he had hopes for a nice ride while it lasted. And if nothing else happened, he’d always have her on his wall. Anticipation burned down his spine. That would be his reward. Once he listened to the voicemail, he’d spend some time with Trish’s pictures. Her face, her eyes. The bonuses in every shot.
“Just means neither of us will be flying,” he said. “Sucks.”
Mike leaned back on his bike, shading his eyes against the sun. “No one will fly at the air races except civvy showoffs and the Patriot team. The only thing more arrogant than a Thunderbird is an ex-Thunderbird.”
Eric and Liam joined in with mumbled, good-natured curses. The Thunderbirds and the Navy’s Blue Angels were adept at what they did, fostering morale and patriotism. Retired air demonstration teams such as the Patriots were nearly as effective in that regard. Eric was partial to the Aggressors’ more practical purpose. Fly like the bad guys so other pilots didn’t die. He loved it.
Suddenly Mike smiled past his friends.
Liam laughed. “Princess just walked out behind me, didn’t she?”
“Sure did,” Mike said unabashedly.
Part of Eric craved that relaxed joy, but it wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. No one else could handle the stress of Carey’s crap. Fuck, some might claim Eric had crashed because of his brother. The timing had been right to bear that blame. Two hours after landing in Canada, he’d received a call. Somehow Carey had managed to snag a phone, bawling, screaming, suffering another round of withdrawals. Eric had listened, heartsick, as the phone smacked something and what he assumed had been rehab personnel wrestled Carey into submission.
Sorry, Sir. Won’t happen again, Sir. He’ll be fine now.
Eric’s head hadn’t been in the game when he’d taken to the air. He’d resorted to rote measures to maintain the envelope-pushing techniques Tin Tin had said would get him killed.
At least the shit hadn’t been that right. Eric was still alive.
If he could barely handle it, how could he expect a chick to? Although Trish wasn’t the Barbie Eric had first assumed, she lived the life of a showgirl gypsy—not exactly a dependable, low-maintenance girl. Plenty of more casual souls had bailed over the years. Christina had lasted six months before shouting that Eric had “no emotional depth other than Carey”. During the darkest times, when he felt like he was holding his brother’s life in his hands, Eric had wanted to bail right along with her.
They didn’t know how Carey had been there for him—the only person who’d understood his drive to leave Detroit. Everyone else thought he should’ve been able to make a life in such a big city. Instead, Eric crawled out of town and into a fighter jet, saving his own sanity by leaving his brother behind.
Carey had wanted out too, only he’d chosen OxyContin and boosting cars.
Leah walked over with a whole lot of attitude, but God forbid Mike catch anyone checking out her fantastic ass. Seriously, the man had no sense of humor regarding his woman. She ran a touch down his arm as she strolled toward her hot pink Ducati. They were a disgustingly matched pair.
Eric couldn’t help a quick-flash thought of Trish. Unexpectedly, he remembered the way they’d laughed, wrapped together on his bed. Relaxed. Sated. Almost…playful.
When had playful memories ever popped into his brain before dirty ones?
Princess Leah strapped on a helmet that matched her bike. “Michael, did you tell them?”
Liam’s mouth bent into a smirk. “Don’t tell me you two are finally getting hitched.”
“A barbeque,” Mike said dryly. “We’re having a damn barbeque. What the hell is with you?”
Eric shook his head. “He thinks marriage is
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