No White Knight

Of course, my wisecrack is as over-the-top as it sounds.

Libby bursts out laughing, throwing her head back, reaching up to tilt the brim of her hat back and press her hand to her brow before tugging it down again. “Hot damn. All those jokes about rivalry between the branches weren’t really jokes, were they?”

“Nope. You put us out in the field together, we’ll have each other’s backs. No question, we’ll save each other’s lives. We’ll fight together like the men we’re supposed to be, and we’re all equals out there in the battlefield. Off the game, though?” I chuckle. “You can take out an entire bar with the brawl just from fighting over what unit did the real work on a sortie, while everyone else just drifted along. We get pretty damn territorial about it.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard the stories.” She gives me that no-fucks-given smirk again. This girl’s completely unimpressed by me, and it just makes me grin more. “Doesn’t change the fact you’re a flyboy who doesn’t want to mess up his hair.”

“You should see how it looks when I’m just out of the cockpit. Helmet off, sweaty, sticking up everywhere. I’m not always this smooth.”

It’s gratifying that makes her blush, her smirk briefly fading before she looks away from me pointedly.

That tells me she thinks I’m pretty, too.

Or handsome.

Or, shit, whatever.

And here I am, still having evil thoughts I shouldn’t.

“It’s not all easy coasting up there in the sky,” I say. “The G-forces are enough to make you pass out if you don’t build up your endurance. It’s pretty goddamn terrifying being the only thing in control of thousands of pounds of steel and complex machinery hurtling at speeds that break the sound barrier. Thousands of feet up in the air, you’re relying on skill. There’s no safety net if you get hit. It’s just you in freefall, vulnerable and exposed to enemy fire, hoping if you get nailed by flak or a missile, you won’t break apart on impact when you hit the ground.”

I’m expecting her to laugh at me again.

I’m definitely not expecting the look she rakes over me, disbelieving. “Like you’d know anything about being vulnerable.”

I blink.

If I didn’t know better, I’d almost say she sounds mad at me.

For real mad, not the playful teasing we’ve been throwing back and forth and I’ve actually been enjoying.

“Pardon?” I growl back.

“Don’t you ‘pardon’ me. Talk like you know where you came from,” she hisses, then looks away from me again. “Men like you never know what it means to be vulnerable. I’ve seen your sort of guy before. You break hearts like pinatas so nobody can ever hurt yours.”

What the fuck? I don’t know where this is coming from, this sudden bitter, hurt animosity like I left her high and dry personally.

Except, I realize, maybe I do know.

Because there’ve been times when I was pretty skeptical about chicks, after the way my last so-called love treated me. After watching how my brother’s first wife treated him, too, and how easy it was for me to almost cheat with her, and she didn’t even hesitate.

It’s Sierra, I bet. If I’d been watching men fuck over my vulnerable, emotionally needy sister for my entire life, maybe I’d be mistrustful, too.

“Sierra, huh?” I mutter. “You blame the dudes she hooks up with for taking advantage.”

Her soft gasp tells me I’ve hit the mark, but she won’t look at me. “Who says that’s any of your business?”

“Nobody. Sierra’s business isn’t mine. I just can’t help but notice when you’re clearly worried about her.” But I can’t help but add, almost under my breath, “…and I know more than you’d imagine about heartbreak.”

“What was that?” A suspicious look snaps toward me.

“Nothing.”

I don’t need to bare my demons to her.

She wouldn’t want to meet them, anyway.

Some things, I’d rather keep close to home. Especially when I’m trying to forget—and you don’t forget bad juju by dumping it on every pretty stranger who’ll listen.

Libby looks at me for a long moment, something odd flickering in her eyes, before she just clucks her tongue.

Then she gently kicks her heels against Frost’s sides, snapping the reins with a practiced “Hya!”

The Vanner lurches forward in a ground-eating run.

I stare after her, wide-eyed, before squeezing Plath’s flanks. The horse responds instantly, beautifully, all that surging power under me and the wind whipping me in my face as I race after Libby.

At first there’s just the Vanner’s lashing tail and Libby’s sweeping blonde mane, her shoulders taut, and goddamn, her ass looks deadly, spread over the saddle in those tight cutoffs.

But then we’re running neck and neck, our horses racing to overtake each other.

My blood burns like the sun blasting down on my face and my heart beats like the thud of their hooves.

The whole thing is a little dumb, a little reckless, a lot spontaneous.