Joint Forces (Wingmen Warriors 7)

"J.T.?"

He landed back in the moment. "Yeah, Rena."

"Would you please call the base clinic and let them know I don't think I'm going to make it in tonight?"

"They can wait. Dedication to your job only goes so far." He clamped his mouth shut. End of discussion.

He held his tone level, tougher by the second. "I'm not leaving this car until they have you out, so stop wasting energy trying to maneuver me away."

"I don't want people waiting around for me. Parents arranged sitters so they could attend this particular meeting. We have a guest speaker."

"Damn it, Rena, the guest speaker can start without you. Or they can just wait and eat cookies for a few extra minutes."

Hell. Great way to calm her, by fighting. He mentally thumped himself.

She laughed.

Laughed? Which stunned the fight right out of him.

Soft, breathless, her laughs tripped out with a huskiness that would have been sexy any other time but was too weak for his comfort level.

"Damn, J.T. We even fight about who's going to take care of whom."

She had him there.

Eyelids blinking slowly, holding closed longer every time, she stared back at him. He reached to take her hand from her thigh. Her bracelets slid, chimed, two sliding from her limp wrist to tink, tink on the floor of the car.

"Come on, Rena, stay awake."

Sirens wailed in the distance. About damned time.

She squeezed his hand without speaking, but her eyes stayed open longer at a stretch as she fought unconsciousness. He stared back, held her hand and willed her awake, sirens growing louder, closer. Pain glinted in her eyes, radiated from her tightening grip around his hand. His fingers went numb, but no way would he tell her, instead kept holding while praying the sirens would move faster.

Her gaze fell to their linked hands. Her grip slackened. "Oh God, J.T., I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cut off your circulation like that."

"No problem." He needed to keep her distracted, talking. "Reminds me of when you were in labor with Chris and transition hit you so hard and fast during the drive to the hospital. I was trying to recall all the coaching stuff I should be doing. Except I was scared as hell I'd be delivering the kid on the side of the road. Remember that?">"Listen up, ladies' man." J.T. settled a hip against the window ledge, batting aside a flowering something-or-other hanging from the ceiling. Waiting for Rena to go. Hoping it would be soon before he ended up outside. "You go anywhere near that flight kitchen and I'll tell the nurses over at the hospital what your call sign really stands for. We've been letting you get away with that 'Bo stands for Beau, want me to be yours' crap long enough. Hmm, just think if I tell them you're really—"

"Okay!" The squadron Casanova rushed to interrupt. "No need to say it out loud and risk somebody overhearing. These are government lines, dude, with people listening."

J.T. let a much-needed laugh roll free. "All right, then. You're safe for now. But I'll be double-checking that flight lunch of his for contraband Pixie Stix."

Why wasn't Rena leaving? His boots started twitching on the hardwood floor. Maybe he would just—

She sat up, started the car. J.T. exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The car backed to the edge of the driveway while a steady stream of after-work traffic flowed past.

"No Pixie Stix," Bo promised. "Wish I was going with you Monday. I'd shut Gabby up."

Hell yeah, they all wished Bo was flying, instead of indefinitely grounded until docs determined if his left hand would be worth a crap in the airplane once it healed. Flying. They all needed it, actively doing something to discover who had sold out their flight plan that day in Rubistan.

Although having Bo sit his butt in scheduling wasn't a half-bad plan for keeping an ear to the ground. God, the thought of one of their own turning traitor… J.T.'s fist numbed around the phone.

Not gonna think about that day. Keep it level before the weekend with Chris. "Looking forward to flying with you again soon."

"Yeah, me, too."

Quiet echoed again, the lines occasionally smattered with the background sounds of another phone ringing, conversations off to the corner. But J.T. was hooked in that experience—linked with Bo and the young officer's fears over never flying again.

J.T. scratched along the neck of his flight suit. Even after twenty-four years in the Air Force, he couldn't imagine hanging up his helmet. Flying also offered an escape and release since his personal life had landed in the crapper. He'd be screwed right now if he couldn't fly out his frustration.