All because he'd wanted to impress Monica.
No matter how many times logic told him Sydney Hyatt would have found her way over there with or without him the guilt stayed.
"Come on, Cobra. What's up with you? We've got a week in Rubistan and then hell only knows how long in Germany afterward."
Jack grunted, running out of excuses and not in any hurry to share, even with Rodeo.
"Ah, I get it." Rodeo nodded, his hands running over the dim neon glow of the control panel as he noted altimeter settings and airspeed. "You've already got something lined up, maybe someone to meet you on that pillow. Korba, for a hairy, ugly son of a bitch, you sure score a lot."
He wanted off this subject. Now. "Not tonight, pal. I'm taking my hairy self to bed."
"Yeah, right. What's your secret?"
Jack upped the throttle again, bringing him closer to his pillow and the end of this chat. "I start with calling a woman by the right name."
"Ah, hell." Rodeo's curse rode a laugh. "Then I'm totally screwed."
The headset echoed with laughter from Tag in back, Rodeo's call sign no great secret. His first had been "George," a link to his last name Washington until word leaked that Rodeo had a reputation for shouting the wrong woman's name during sex. Rumor had it one offended babe of the week bucked him off and onto his bare ass in under eight seconds—rodeo style.
Minutes after the tale hit the Officer's Club, somebody tapped a keg for a new naming ceremony and "Rodeo" was born. A funny-as-hell moniker if it weren't for the fact that Jack suspected Rodeo always called out the same woman's name. Something Rodeo had never shared any more than Jack felt compelled to spill about Monica.
Sympathy knocked with a reminder of how close he could come to being in the same position. Bare butt on cold tile.
Sweat iced on his back. "How about after we wrap things up overseas and get back home to Charleston, let's take some time off? Hang out. No women. I've got a line on some tickets to a Braves' game if you're in for a road trip over to Atlanta."
And damn it, he would not think about how much Monica enjoyed ball games, as at ease in jeans and a ponytail as in her flight suit and a French braid.
"Sounds like a plan." Rodeo smirked beneath the NVGs, his teeth a mocking green grin. "Well, hope you enjoy your date tonight with your... pillow."
"I'm sure I will."
When he completed this mission, he could clear the slate and move on. Celibacy was a pain in the ass, not to mention other body parts. Much longer and he'd be qualified for a call sign change to "Blue."
Problem was, he didn't want anyone else. But if he didn't get his head on straight again, he would alienate everyone around him. What the hell happened to his normal boots steady, laid-back, keeping it cool?
Cracked desert heaved and rolled with rocky out-croppings leading back to Nellis AFB, the location hosting final mission rehearsal as all the combatants from different bases came together. The city lights of Vegas stayed well out of sight in their route chosen for NVGs.
Vegas. That must be what had him on edge, too many dark-cloud memories of his last trip here with Monica. They'd been so damned jazzed over landing a joint TDY—Temporary Duty. Then the news of her sister's capture had come through and everything spiraled out of control in a flat spin—unrecoverable.
Ridiculous to think for a second Monica would hang all over him in gratitude once she found out he'd taken on the upcoming mission to save her sister. Clinging vine wasn't her gig. Fine by him. He'd never wanted her to change.
Much.
Hell, no, he didn't expect gratitude complete with waterworks and hot, thank-you sex. Well, okay, yeah he would give his left nut to have Monica na*ed in his bed again. He was human. Male. Alive.
But he didn't want her taking him back out of gratitude. Rescuing the hostages was the right thing to do. It was his job. His mission. His calling. He would do the same for anyone's sister, mother, daughter—be they from the United States or Timbuktu.
Still, he couldn't stop the bitter surge of satisfaction in knowing that once he finished, he would damn well be imprinted on Monica Hyatt's memory, if not her life, as she'd been imprinted on his.
Only one more week and he would be free to sleep without hellish nightmares or tempting dreams. He could erase her name from his brain and off his mouth. Because no way did he intend to tap a keg for a call sign change to "Rodeo Two."
In two minutes flat Monica Hyatt talked her way past the cleaning lady outside Jack Korba's room at the Warrior Inn VOQ—Visiting Officer's Quarters. Piece of cake, since she'd changed into her flight suit after flying in on a commercial airline from Charleston.
Facing Jack again, however, would be tougher and more embarrassing than taping Band-Aids over her ni**les for the bathing suit competition in the Miss Texas pageant.
She'd been first runner-up for Miss Texas. She wouldn't accept anything but a win today with the stakes a helluva lot higher than scholarship money for medical school.
Monica clicked the door closed behind her. The thud of her combat boots against industrial carpet echoed a lonely tattoo in the empty room. The need to bawl her eyes out clogged her throat, her nose, her head. She couldn't afford the luxury. She didn't lose it often, so when she did, all the bottled emotions overflowed.