in the base lit the room. “I’ll call Stan in the morning and let him know you’ll be out for two weeks.”
She’d been going to protest—no way she could miss work—but the next thing she knew, she awoke to sunlight streaming around closed blinds.
She fought the waking, clinging to unconsciousness to combat the aches and pains waiting for her on the other side. Already the throbbing behind her eyeballs put a dent in her defenses.
In the end the need for the bathroom lost her the war.
Dragging her body out of bed, holding her tender head, she stumbled around until she found the navy-blue and pewter bathroom. Right where Brock Sullivan had told her it would be.
And it all came flowing back to her. The baby. Tad’s leaving. The disaster at her place last night.
She didn’t remember the part where she got hit by the truck, the two-trailer semi, but it must have happened because that’s what her body felt like.
The cool water felt so good against the skin of her hands, she splashed her face, too. And that felt wonderful, too. Then she remembered coming to, on the floor of the Green Garter, and the skanky feeling of strangers having sex in her bed. The mirror reflected the navy-blue shower curtain behind her. That’s all the encouragement she needed to step out of her bra and panties and under the shower spray. For a few blessed moments she forgot everything else, even the memory of Brock stripping her of her clothes last night.
He’d truly seen her at her lowest. At least, she hoped it was her lowest.
What was she going to do? She had a baby growing inside her. She cupped her lower belly as the warm water ran over her. But the doctor said if she wanted to save the baby, she needed to rest and take it easy.
How was she going to take care of herself and the baby if she couldn’t work?
By getting off her feet was the first answer, so she shut off the water, dried off, then wore the towel to the corner of the bedroom where Brock had thrown her bag. She searched through it twice, but he’d forgotten to include a nightie. The thought of tight jeans or shorts didn’t appeal, so she pulled on clean panties and went in search of a T-shirt from Brock’s room.
The gray carpeting in the hall moved right into his room. Black replaced the navy in here. Black, square-edged furniture topped the light-gray carpeting, while a pewter-gray comforter covered the bed he hadn’t bothered to make this morning. Probably because he only got three hours of sleep last night.
The room smelled like him. Clean and masculine. It made her skin prickle. She’d been surrounded by that scent last night, and she was reminded of his strength and competency. She felt safe with him and cared for. And she wanted the feeling again.
So instead of searching for a clean shirt, she reached for the one tossed across a black chair. She held the white cotton to her nose and inhaled. Yes, that was his male scent. She pulled the shirt over her head and sighed. Better already.
Next she went to the kitchen where she took her vitamins with a full bottle of water. Then she drank a glass of cranberry juice that Brock had stopped for on their way to his place in the early hours of the morning.
Her energy gave out on her at that point, and she crashed back into bed.
“Excuse me, Chief. Do you have a minute, sir?”
Brock signed his authorization on a requisition, handed off the clipboard and turned his attention to the seaman apprentice waiting for a response. “What can I do for you, Sanchez?”
The young sailor glanced around nervously. Blood rose up his neck turning his swarthy complexion a ruddy brown. He cleared his throat, stretched his neck.
Brock’s attention sharpened. “What is it, sailor? You have something to report?”
“No, sir.” Another throat clearing. “Chief…sir, I was wondering…” He trailed off, took a deep breath, and grinned real big. “I’m getting married, sir, tomorrow. Would you be my best man, sir?”
Brock crossed his arms over his chest and fixed his concentration on his crewmember. Sea tours often provoked rushed marriages. In Brock’s experience most such marriages failed to go the distance.
“Have you thought this through, Sanchez? Are you sure you don’t want to wait until you get back? It’s only a few months.”
“No, man—I mean, no, sir.” Sanchez didn’t shuffle his feet, but Brock could tell it was a near thing. “I want to do this now. I love Angela. You made me see that when you made me question why I was always so jealous of her. I want to marry her.” He lowered his voice. “She’s pregnant. I want her to have good benefits, you know, while I’m gone.”
For all his nervousness, Sanchez projected an aura of excitement. And he was stepping up, being responsible. Brock couldn’t fault the young sailor for taking action like a man. Brock held out his hand.
“Congratulations. Sure I’ll be your best man. Just tell me when and where.”
Jesse woke up feeling human again. She was hungry, which she took as a good sign. Back in the kitchen she cut up an apple. Wanting a change of scenery from the bedroom, she carried her snack to the couch and put her feet up.
For the next hour and a half she tried to come up with a solution to her problem but still had no answers of how she could survive without working when Brock walked through the door at six.
Just seeing him lifted her spirits. A weird experience, one she’d truly never had before. Not at home, not with Tad. But here it was with this stranger at a time in her life when she needed it most.
Too bad it had to end so soon. No doubt he meant to take her home as soon as he got cleaned up. Not that he looked bad. He wore a beige uniform, short-sleeved with lots of bars on the arm. It gave him an aura of power and authority.
He came into the living room when he saw her and sat on the coffee table to survey her.
Self-conscious under his intense, blue scrutiny, she smiled shyly.
He nodded. “You’re looking better. How do you feel?”
“Rested.”
“That’s good.” He hit his thighs and rose to his feet. “I’m going to fix us some dinner, then we’ll talk.”
Talk? What did they have to talk about? She appreciated everything he’d done for her, but she wasn’t his responsibility and she couldn’t continue to allow him to take on her problems.
With that in mind she returned to the room he’d given her, made the bed and changed into her own clothes. She sat on the bed when she finished, amazed by how weak the slightest effort made her.
She hadn’t called Stan today because Brock had said he would and because she didn’t know what she was going to say when she finally talked to him. She knew she should consider alternatives to keeping her baby, not only for her sake but for the baby’s, as well.
The love she already felt prevented her from exploring any other option. It may be selfish of her, but her heart demanded no other decision.
If that’s what Brock meant
