Mrs. Waverly walked up with an envelope in her hand. “Hello, Michael. Are you looking for Chloe?”
“What? Uh…yes.”
“Ha! Knew it! I figured it was only a matter of time before that girl caught your eye.” The older woman’s white teeth gleamed against her tanned skin as she approached. “She’s a doll. I’m glad she’s making friends. I wish she wasn’t leaving us so soon.”
Chloe was leaving soon? Did her imminent departure have anything to do with what went down at the clinic this afternoon? He hated to pump Mrs. W for information, but he had a bad feeling about this. “Do you happen to know where she went tonight?”
“Well, no…but, a pretty young thing like her is probably out on a date. Why, back in my day, I’d a’ been discoing my ass off every night.”
He couldn’t help but grin. “Are you heading out to the disco, then, Mrs. W?”
She laughed her rusty chainsaw laugh. “God bless you, no. I had dinner and went to a movie with some of the bunco girls, including Loretta. They’re downstairs at my place, finishing off the after-movie cheesecake. Want me to say hi for you?”
Loretta was Mrs. W’s best friend, and his CO’s wife. With nothing but the offhand offer, Mrs. W had just reminded him of the short distance between his personal life and his job. “Sure Mrs. W. Have fun.”
“You too, Michael. Have a nice night.” She stuck the plain, white envelope under Chloe’s door and then went down the hall toward the stairs.
He ran a hand through his hair and turned back to his apartment. Where would you go if you just got fired? He’d never been in the situation, but something told him he’d want a drink. Around here, that generally meant the Stars & Bars Roadhouse. He grabbed his keys and headed downstairs to the carports, not missing the fact that his back didn’t bother him at all. The realization compounded his guilt. She’d healed his back, and his ego, and he’d gotten her canned.
The drive to the Stars & Bars took no time, but parking proved more of a challenge. The place drew a crowd on Thursday nights—mostly young marines and a decent sprinkling of girls from San Clemente and surrounding communities to keep the GIs’ hopes up. Tonight the warm breeze and clear, starry sky had them spilling out onto the raised porch spanning the front of the wood-shingled structure. The crowd didn’t hinder his ability to spot Chloe at twenty paces. Her hair glowed like copper under the porch lights. She perched on the porch rail, holding a margarita, and gesturing sloppily at some grunt whose puffed up chest and perma-smile clearly said he couldn’t believe his luck.
Michael walked over until he stood directly below her. “Hello, Chloe.”
She swiveled her head to look down at him. Her body swayed perilously. “Major Hottieeee! Hey. Long time no see. D’you know Dillon?” She splashed her margarita at the young, clean-shaved marine standing beside her. “Dillon from Amadillo. Texas born, jus like me.”
Dillon blushed and nodded. “Amarillo, sir.”
“Tha’s what I said. Call him Armadillon, ’cause, look.” She reached out and knocked her knuckles against the kid’s abs. “Hard. Just like an armadirro…an amarilla…an armadillo—whew,” she rolled her eyes heavenward and laughed, “I shudda tested that one out before I used it in a sentence…oooh, look at all the stars out tonight.”
A light breeze ruffled the hem of her white skirt, so it fluttered around her dangling legs. To call her “trashed” would be an understatement. She couldn’t focus for shit. She slurred her words, and she was about two minutes from passing out, throwing up, or both. “Chloe,” he said quietly and waited until her spinning eyes made a long, meandering circuit back to him. “You’re headed for a fall here. You plan to take that kid down with you”—he pointed at Armadillon—“or are you going to let a man catch you?”
“Sir?”
“No offense,” he added and braced as she teetered.
“I’m fiiiiine,” she insisted, throwing an arm out expansively, splashing him with her drink in the process. Then she overbalanced. Armadillon dropped his beer and made a grab for her, but came up short. She toppled and fell directly into Michael’s waiting arms. His back barely complained about the sudden burden of a hundred and ten pounds of dead weight, and he figured he had her to thank for that little miracle.
“Nice sa-save,” she hiccupped.
“Saving you seems to be my new habit.”
She looked up at him and her hands found his shoulders. “You’re hard, too.”
“You don’t know the half of it.” He set her on her feet, keeping an arm around her waist, and discretely adjusted the neckline of her slinky little sweater so her bra wasn’t peeking out.
“Do I owe you another kis—” She hiccupped again. “Another ki—uh-oh.” She turned away and stumbled out of his hold.
He caught her around the waist from behind and pulled her hair back. “I’ll take a rain check.”
She nodded and proceeded to fertilize the grass with what had to be half a pitcher of margaritas.
“She’s all yours, sir,” Armadillon said, but had the grace to look sheepish as he handed Michael her purse.
Suitcase, he mentally corrected when he took the large, brightly patterned bag and slung it over his shoulder. He had no idea what she carried in there—and he didn’t want to know—but he’d hefted combat rucks that weighed less.
Chloe moaned and sagged against
him. He gathered her up, ignoring the guilty weight in his chest when she turned her pale, sweaty face into his shirt. “Sorry.”