Night Maneuvers - By Jillian Burns Page 0,49

lips to hers. His kiss was achingly sweet, and then he raised his head. “Contact me through my dad. Okay?”

She nodded. He was such a nice g—

The front door slammed shut and she jerked her gaze to the back door. Neil hadn’t closed it behind him. Anyone standing in the shadow of the kitchen would’ve seen Neil kiss her.

She heard the familiar roar of Mitch’s Jeep’s engine firing up and cursed long and loudly. As tires screeched in her driveway, she ran for the front door and out into the front yard just in time to see Mitch’s Jeep careen around the corner in a spray of gravel.

Suddenly, she remembered Lily’s warning about sea animals. A seal was a sea animal.

If the whole thing weren’t so disastrous, she’d have chuckled.

15

SITUATION REPORT: ON the way to getting totally shit-faced.

Mitch snagged a barstool in the seediest dive he could find in Vegas. The floor was sticky with who knew what. The air held the vague odor of urine and vomit. No chance of anyone he knew locating him here. He’d turned his cell off after ignoring the third call from Alex.

Alex! He kept picturing her in that navy man’s arms, kissing him…

Goddammit! The one person he’d always believed he could trust. Who’d never lie to him or go behind his back.

Country music blared from a battered jukebox, and an old Haggard song was playing, something about turning off the memories.

If only he could.

But that’s what he’d come here for.

A hulking man behind the bar looked at him questioningly.

“A bottle of Jim Beam.”

Without batting an eye the bartender grabbed a bottle and a shot glass, opened the bottle, and set it on the bar in front of Mitch.

Mitch laid a fifty on the bar. “I’m going to need a bigger glass.” In his uniform, and wearing his Tag Heuer watch and diamond tiepin, he might not look like he fit in here. But this was exactly the kind of place he belonged. Only the truly down-and-out patronized this seedy joint. The ones who’d given up on life a long time ago and were just waiting to die. People like his mother.

Once the barkeep handed him a large tumbler, Mitch filled it and raised the glass in a silent toast to dear old mom. To Angi McCabe. Whoever you’re spreading your legs for tonight, I hope he pays you enough to score your next hit. Knocking back the bourbon in one gulp, he slammed the glass on the counter and poured himself another.

His mom. Last time he’d seen her, he’d just been promoted to First Lieutenant, and he’d been saving his money for a while. He used his leave before shipping out to Iraq to fly to Memphis, making sure to wear his service dress uniform with his ribbons.

He took her out to dinner and offered to pay for a rehab facility close to where he’d be stationed when he got back. She’d seemed so happy to see him. So eager to get clean and sober.

He’d told her he’d bought her a ticket to Vegas, and gave her some money for food—she looked so thin. She’d promised to go. He’d made plans to pick her up at her trailer the next morning.

But when he got there, the first thing he saw was a brand-new case of whiskey on the floor under the table. His blood ran cold and he called for his ma, but she didn’t answer. So, he stumbled back to the bedroom and she was lying there, stinking drunk with some lowlife passed out beside her.

Disgusted, Mitch strode back to the table, grabbed up the case of whiskey and tried to take it outside. But the man must have been more awake than he looked. He’d caught up to Mitch at the door and hit him across the back with a two-by-four.

His mom was screaming, not telling the old guy to stop hitting Mitch, no. She was screaming at Mitch, begging him to leave them alone.

He hadn’t let himself think about his mom in a long time. But tonight he couldn’t seem to stop the memories.

The bourbon roiled in his gut.

That’s what he needed. A woman. He looked around the bar. The only female in here was on her knees under the back booth earning her booze in a time-honored tradition. Okay, he hadn’t sunk that low. He’d never paid for it. And he never ever would.

Refilling the tumbler, he went to work draining the bottle of Jim Beam. He eyed the