Joint Forces (Wingmen Warriors 7)

Sitting still with nothing to do but think about all the things she'd worked to ignore was a daunting proposition.

Almost as daunting, as the impending showdown with her husband.

J.T. turned the page, reading with a lone corner light while Rena slept. The hospital halls outside stayed silent in the early night but for the occasional rattle of a passing cart.

He couldn't bring himself to wake her yet for the talk. Like he could have roused her anyway. Pregnant women slept like the dead.

Dead.

Pregnant.

Baby.

Breathe, damn it. Forcing breaths in and out, he loosened his grip on the bending paperback. Escape through the words.

Who can control his fate?

J.T. reread the line from Shakespeare's Othello, let it roll around in his head for an extra second. He liked the old Bard's take on life. Human nature stayed the same. Warriors such as Macbeth and Othello and Mark Anthony faced universal issues still relevant in modern day.

The horrors of war.

Getting screwed over by a woman.

Which brought him right back to Rena. No escape through reading tonight. J.T. let himself look at her, something he used to do for hours on end while she slept. Not so easy to do now that he parked his ass in an apartment at the end of the workday.

Her dark curls splayed over the stark white pillowcase. Odd how he still forgot how short she was until she slept and he realized what a small portion of the bed she occupied. A few more curves than when he'd first met her, but the softness from bearing their children only made him want to lose himself inside her all the more. She was a striking woman.

Age had been kinder to her than he had over the years. He'd taken much and given little back.

Well, he sure as hell wouldn't let her down when it came to her safety. Again, he studied the even rise and fall of the hospital blanket, reassured himself she'd come through the day alive. Albeit, still pale under her normally bronzed Greek complexion inherited from her family.

Her family…

Damn but they'd been furious that he'd knocked up their little princess Irena. But the minute he'd seen her—so full of energy and fire—he'd felt as if somebody flicked on a light switch. Colors splashed over a world that had been a monochromatic routine of work, eat, sleep, start over again.

For one time in his life, he'd ignored the practical choice and he'd gone after her. Full force. No holds barred, he had to have her.

He braced his boot on the end of her bed. He still wanted her, even when he was so damn pissed the top of his head felt ready to pop off.

Which pissed him off all the more.

Yanking his eyes away from temptation, he opened his pocket-paperback Shakespeare again. Wouldn't the crewdogs have a field day with that? Yeah, he liked Shakespeare, the classics, even poetry sometimes. He enjoyed the rhythm of how the words went together.

Reading did for him what meditation likely did for other folks. Relaxed him. But he balked at the point of the whole woo-hoo yoga idea. Not to mention the loss of control.

No need for yoga. Iambic pentameter would get the job done for him tonight.

He'd started reading more when Rena went back to college and he thumbed through a few of her books, paused, enjoyed. When others were around, he still kept to more pop fiction selections, like a Tom Clancy novel. The Bard, however, he saved for moments alone when he needed to quiet the roaring frustration in his head.

After the crash in Rubistan and his final split with Rena, he'd worked his way through Shakespeare's whole damn historical canon.

Footsteps sounded outside the door seconds before a soft tap, followed by the door creaking open. A slice of light slanted across the room before Chris tucked his head inside. "Dad?"

J.T. snapped his book shut and held one finger to his mouth. "Your mom's sleeping," he whispered, shoving the book into the thigh pocket of his flight suit. "Come on in, but keep it quiet."

An almost comical request given how deeply Rena slept.

"Oh, sure," Chris whispered in response, shuffling inside, untied laces on his gym shoes dragging as he squeaked across sterile tile.