music. “Who is this guy? Where’s Tad?”
Brock turned his attention to the living area where the washed-out blond woman perched on the edge of a brown plaid couch. He met her suspicious gaze impassively. Finally, a show of concern on Jesse’s behalf. He’d begun to wonder if she had anyone who cared about her, who’d be there to help her through a difficult pregnancy.
Maybe she did just want him to leave.
“My roommate, Tracy,” Jesse told him and then raised her voice to say, “Tad’s gone.”
The woman frowned. She reached out and turned off the stereo. Blessed silence followed.
“What did you say?” Her shrill attitude made him wish for the music back. “Where’s Tad?”
“Gone,” Jesse informed her flatly. “He left.”
“Left where?” Tracy demanded. She licked her lips. “He usually brings the beer. Why are you home so early, anyway? I figured you’d taken a second shift.”
So much for the roommate’s concern.
“And what?” Jesse demanded. “You decided to throw a party?” The bite in the question didn’t quite disguise the underlying disillusionment. “You told me this morning you were going to work a second shift to pay back the money you borrowed for the rent.”
Tracy answered with a dismissive shrug. “There’s plenty of time to make that up before rent is due again.”
During all he’d seen her go through tonight, Jesse had lifted that delicate chin and kept on going. Now, for the first time, defeat stole the life from her expression.
He reached for her as her strength gave out and she went limp in his arms.
She looked up as if seeking reassurance from him. Then she blinked and the hope disappeared. “Please take me away from here.”
That’s all he needed to hear. He hooked the shoulder strap of her sport bag over his shoulder, then thrust her purse and cosmetic bag into her hands. But she stopped him when he would have swept her into his arms.
“I’m walking out of here on my own steam.”
“Let’s go.” He nodded approval before he opened the door, and they were in the clean night air on the way home.
Jesse slept the day away. She’d been beyond thought, beyond emotion by the time Brock tucked her between the clean sheets of his spare bed.
“I have duty in a few hours.” He’d competently and impersonally helped her strip off her blouse, skirt and shoes. “Sleep as long as you want. Don’t leave this bed except to use the bathroom and for meals. Help yourself to anything in the fridge. I’ll be back around six.”
She dragged the covers up to her chin. On principle she should protest his high-handed attitude, but sleeping for the next twelve hours sounded like heaven so she didn’t.
A thought nagged at the back of her mind, and she finally came up with the memory of work.
“I have first shift tomorrow.”
“The doctor said no work.” He turned the switch on the bedside lamp until only the dim light 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.”