Finally he lowered his bottle. "I used to be 'King,' the whole Elvis theme. Before long, 'King Korba' shuffled to 'King Cobra,' and then just 'Cobra.'"
A deep chuckle sounded from behind her. She turned to find Rodeo looming over her.
He leaned one shoulder against the wall. "Don't let him bullshit ya, Hippocrates. It's a snake joke from the time he lost his wallet at a bar in California and the manager offered to comp his tab if he dropped his flight suit."
Jack winced. "I had on shorts."
"With big hearts on them, I seem to recall."
"You don't have to tell all my secrets."
Laughter faded from Rodeo's face. "Well, sometimes secrets can be toxic."
Monica's eyes flicked back and forth from Jack to Rodeo, unspoken communication so heavy there almost seem to be a visible thread linking the air between the two men.
The last strains of a Rolling Stones' classic dwindled. Santuci raised his megaphone to his mouth and shouted, "This next one's a special request from Captain Derek 'Rodeo' Washington going out to his pal Major Korba. Let's hear it for the King!"
Three notes into "Hunka, Hunka Burning Love," suspicion niggled along with memories of Vegas vows serenaded by music from the King. There had been all those pointed looks from Rodeo lately. Now Jack's glare at his best friend. Sure, everyone knew he liked Elvis, but somehow this went further.
By the time Elvis started wailing, she knew just how far. "God bless it, Jack Korba! You told him, didn't you?"
Damn him, he didn't deny it. Or even apologize. Just stared back at her with one slow blink before shooting another glare at Rodeo that stated clearly the guy was dead meat.
Did everyone know their marriage secret? She darted a quick look at the other fliers sprinkled in the crowd. No one was staring their way, which boded well. For now. Gossip flowed faster than air through a squadron.
Crew dogs were bad enough about teasing with little or nothing for fodder. Now her most painful mistake would be paraded in front of her for the rest of her Air Force career in the form of endless Elvis dedications.
As if she wasn't already going to have enough trouble getting over Jack Korba. Heartbreak and no sex. Now wasn't that a sad tune in the making?
Anger and betrayal strummed through her in four-four time. The music built along with laughter and dancing, all seeming to mock her with the mess she'd made of her life.
So much for warm chocolate and tender feelings toward Jack. "I specifically made it clear I did not want this discussed with others. You agreed."
God, she couldn't think right now, felt selfish enough for worrying about herself when Sydney was suffering.
She spun away, sidled past a small cluster of soldiers, ignored Jack's voice for five steps until she plowed into another body. Yasmine. Could this day get any worse?
Her sister nodded past her to Jack standing a couple of feet away. "Trouble with your boyfriend?"
Boyfriend? The word grated, although husband didn't sit too much better right now. But calling him a blabbermouth bastard would require an explanation she certainly didn't want to make, especially to Yasmine. "Everything's fine, thank you. Could you step aside please?"
"Fine? Really? He certainly does not seem happy."
"Aw. Too bad." And she felt petty and small for finding comfort in the notion he hurt, too. She started past her sister.
Yasmine stopped her with a fluttery hand on her arm. "Maybe if instead of storming off you went back over and smiled, talked."
Like a flood of gas on fiery anger already alive and well inside her, Yasmine's buttinsky advice incinerated the last vestiges of pretended civilities. "And you're a fine one to pass out love life advice after all your great success chasing Colonel Cullen down every hall."
Yasmine gasped. "That was flat-out hateful."
"And your sisterly advice wasn't solicited."
How five hundred Army Rangers could go completely silent, Monica didn't know. But a roomful of men crowded the portal, eyes all trained on her with her sister like randy men ready to watch a wet T-shirt catfight.
Yasmine definitely looked mad enough to hiss.
Instead, she pulled herself up with inherent regality, the calculating gleam giving Monica all of a two-second warning that this woman would fight a helluva lot dirtier than eye scratching or hair pulling.