* * *That night, I bunk downstairs on the couch. I figure, she wants me to stay downstairs, so I’ll stay downstairs.
Plus, I think I can react to any threats more easily from down here. Up there, I’m basically cut off. Downstairs is a little more open and I feel like I have access to more of the house.
Doesn’t matter, though. All is quiet all night, and I even get a few hours of sleep. More than I’d get on a late-night patrol out in the desert, at least.
In the morning, I get up and head into the kitchen. I’m tired but it’s warm out, so I leave the shirt behind and put some coffee on. She has some fancy drip machine and fancy coffee, the sort of shit I never even tasted before. Takes me a bit to figure it all out, but once I do, it smells damn good brewing as I lean up against the counter and wait.
I hear some soft steps on the stairs. I tense a little, not sure why. Maybe because I left my shirt behind. I’m supposed to be a fucking professional, after all, but oh, well.
Katie comes into the kitchen. She’s wearing these tiny little shorts, basically panties, and this practically see-through white t-shirt that clings to her body. Her hair is a little messy from sleep and even with dark circles and a yawn on her lips, she looks fucking gorgeous.
She stops and stares at me. I feel her eyes roam my body, looking at the scars from countless shrapnel wounds and even a couple bullets, and the tattoos that crisscross my skin. I bet this girl’s never seen the likes of me before in her too-perfect little life.
I grin at her. “Morning, sweetheart. Want some coffee?”
That seems to snap her out of it. “Uh, why aren’t you wearing a shirt?”
I grin a little at that. “It was warm so I left it behind. Didn’t think you’d be up this early.”
She winces a little and I wonder if she hadn’t planned on getting up early, either.
“We’re leaving today so I thought I’d get an early start,” she says breezily.
She still lingers on the threshold, not sure what to do. The coffee finishes so I pour myself a mug and her one.
“Cream and sugar?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Black.”
I grin. “That’s my girl.”
“Not your girl.” She finally walks over and takes the mug from my hand. “Keep your shirt on from now on.”
“Too distracting?” I grin at her. “You’re pretty distracting yourself.”
She glares at me, but she turns a little red. “It’s unprofessional.”
“Understood, sweetheart.”
“And stop calling me that.”
“Nah. You need a new Daddy, just like I said.”
I can see the anger flare up in her. I like that, the fight she has.
“You should stop saying that,” she warns.
I let that slide past. “You want breakfast?”
“Excuse me?”
I open the refrigerator. “Breakfast. You know, eggs, bacon, all that shit. You got any bacon in here?”
“No, I don’t have bacon,” she says.
“Eggs then? Got any Bisquick or something for pancakes?”
“No,” she says. “Wait, you’re cooking me food now?”
“Might as well. I was about to make myself something, might as well feed you too.”
She stares at me for a second, expression softening. “Didn’t think you could cook.”
“Oh, we learn a lot in the marines. Gotta learn to cook, at least a little bit. Never know when it’ll come in handy.”
I find some eggs, these little piddly free-range bullshit eggs, but they’ll do.
“Aren’t you special?” she says vaguely.
I laugh at that. “I know. It gets old, listening to me talk about the Corps. I guess I don’t know anything else”
“How long did you serve?”
I hesitate a second, frowning. “Joined up the second I turned eighteen and I’m forty-four now. So the majority of my life.”
She looks surprised. “You’ve been in the military for that long?”
I shrug a little. “The only life I ever knew, until they told me I got too old to fight.”
“Too old to fight?” She sits down on a stool and stares at me. “You don’t look, uh, out of shape.”
I smirk at her. “I know I don’t. I’m still a goddamn trim killing machine. But I guess they didn’t want an old man fighting their war anymore. Thought maybe I deserved a nice retirement.”
“So what happened?” she asks. “I mean, something must’ve, or else you wouldn’t be here.”
I hesitate a second and sigh. “Retirement didn’t sound fun,” I say finally. “I want to fight. Still do, I guess. So here I am, working private security for your bratty ass.”
She glares at me, the anger back again. “I’m not a brat. You don’t even know me, asshole.”
“Fair enough, but you’re still a brat.”
She throws up her hands, rolls her eyes, and starts looking at her phone like I don’t exist.
That suits me just fine.