Take Over at Midnight (The Night Stalkers) (15 page)

Tim unsnarled himself from his family and crossed to where Lola still leaned against the counter, its stout support barely sufficient to overcome the weakness in her knees.

Tim worked his way back into the crowd with her hand firmly clasped in his. Cousins, two older sisters, little brother… All went by in a blur, but not a one of them missed that her hand was firmly clamped in his.

Oh shit!

She was being dragged forward to be introduced to the family. Which was great. Except she was being presented as the chosen woman of the prodigal son. No! a voice screamed in her head. No! No! No!

Everyone went quiet when she landed in front of an older man. She could feel every occupant in the room completely focused on her. Time to put on her game face. She had to have one around somewhere.

“This is my da, Jackson Maloney.”

Jackson was a narrower version of Tim. Still strong despite graying hair and enough early wrinkles to be in his fifties, but not with Tim’s sheer physical strength. Though it was easy to see where his son had come by his magnetism. Though Tim’s eyes were dark and his father’s blue, they both shone with the man inside.

Jackson shook her hand heartily and she felt warm for the welcome though she couldn’t pick out most of the words above the buzzing in her ears. A bit of an Irish lilt, but that’s all she could discern.

The chosen one. She so didn’t see that one coming.

Lola hoped she said something nice back to Jackson.

“And this is my ma, Cara.”

Lola’s free hand was enveloped between a splendidly full-figured woman’s two hands. Lola saw the gentle eyes that the mother had passed on to her son, along with the sun-warmed skin. And she saw the fierce hope that maybe she was the one for her boy. Her accent was Puerto Rican, her words just as meaningless as her husband’s, but her hug communicated all the warmth of that island to Lola’s chilled skin.

Run! Away!
Every instinct in her body and soul told her to drop to the floor in a sprinter’s crouch and dash across the kitchen for the closed door. Forget about the duffel bag she’d dropped with the others, just go. Dive through a window if necessary, open or not.

But Tim and his mother, each in possession of one of her hands, anchored her in place against all her better instincts.

She smiled. At least she tried. She was so numb that it was hard to tell if she succeeded. If anyone knew, it wasn’t her.

Within moments the silence, which had held while she met Tim’s parents, returned to its previous roar, far louder in some ways than the steady inundation of the C-5’s four massive General Electric CF6 jet engines. Her head spinning as fast as the turbofans in full flight, she sought some focus but gathered little more than scattered images.

A wall of awards hung in an arc over swinging doors that must lead to the dining area.

A side of beef sprawled on one table.

A headless fish nearly the size of the cow flopped on another, swimming in a giant tray of ice. Swordfish. She recognized it from having seen the movie
The
Perfect
Storm.

While still a teen, she’d snuck in the back door of the movie theater to get dreamy over George Clooney. Little had she’d known that the movie would change her life.

Not beautiful George, but rather Sergeant Millard Jones whose chilling death had been portrayed when his pararescue helicopter crashed at sea. That was the moment to which Lola could trace her desire to fly search and rescue. It took her a while, but the idea started that day, three rows from the back in a stuffy New Orleans theater with a broken air conditioner.

Somehow, her life had moved from that movie to this moment. And her feet felt less certain, less stable with each passing day.

In a daze, she found herself escorted to the prep table set for breakfast and seated between Tim and his father. Tim still held her hand captive, thankfully under the table, so at least a bit out of sight. He was chatting away about produce supplies with his brother or cousin or someone.

The old man. He was looking at her. What was his name? John? James? Jeff? Jackson? Jackson Maloney.

“You fly with my Timmy?”

“No. Yes. Sort of.”
Smooth, Lola, real smooth
. She took a breath, held for a count of three, and puffed it out. Trick she used to re-center herself if a battle slapped her silly.

Okay, now she was present.

“Same company, a different helicopter. But we fly on a lot of the same missions.”

He picked up a large mug of coffee that some cousin had just filled.

“I barely understand why he does it. Why do you?”

“That’s not an easy question.” Then she looked into those bright blue eyes and couldn’t look away. “Tim’s reasons would be different from mine. He flies for you, I’d guess. To protect his family.”

“And you don’t?”

“I,” Lola considered, “I fly for myself.”

Jackson nodded as if being polite and still not understanding.

He searched for a distraction, and thankfully one arrived as large platters of food were delivered to the table, the steam wafting upward in tongue-watering layers. First the spicy edge of a dark, dark chili, then corn tortillas, so fresh she almost wanted to sneeze for how they tickled her nose. Eggs topped the tortillas with just a sprinkle of what might be pulled pork.

It looked Mexican, but the spicing smelled different, richer, more varied. And fresh fruit was worked into the dishes rather than an addition on the side. The warmed maple syrup must be destined for the steaming bowls of oatmeal. And large mugs of coffee all around.

“I apologize.” Tim’s mother leaned forward to look around Jackson. “Tim did not warn us he was coming or we would have made something special.”

Lola assured her that this would be just fine. After a day of cold sandwiches and warm soda, and MREs for most of the last week before that, anything would taste great. But this was incredible by any breakfast standards.

She calmed down a little as the meal progressed. For one thing, Tim released her hand so that he could use both of his to focus on his food. That made her a little less self-conscious. No one had wanted to always be holding her hand since Joey in eighth grade. Last boy she’d let get away with that, now that she thought of it. Still, Tim’s knee rested lightly against hers, oddly comforting.

Constant contact. That’s what was different about this table. They almost couldn’t talk without touching each other. And they all were talking continuously, all at once. Tim and his sister each had a hand on the shoulders of the cousin seated between them. Lola tuned in enough to hear about some girl he shouldn’t let get away.

Everybody who passed by Dilya stroked her hair or gave her a special treat. Once it was discovered how much she liked cherries, by her sneaking the ones that had adorned Kee, Archie, and Big John’s oatmeal, a whole bowl of them appeared by the girl’s side. Even the silent Connie had her attention engaged by a boy barely eighteen who was clearly infatuated.

Jackson and Cara whispered together as they ate, while holding hands. He ate left-handed and she right, so they could hold hands and still eat. About the tenth time Lola bumped elbows with Tim, she realized they could be doing the same if they switched sides.

An advantage to being a southpaw. One of the few plusses she’d found in her life for that particular trait. If it was an advantage.

She nudged her knee against his to get his attention.

“You never told me your family were cooks.”

“Something like six generations.”

It finally clicked. “That’s why your helmet…” She recalled the crossed knife and fork emblem on his flight helmet.

He nodded. “I enlisted as a chef. The plan was to do my two years and then come cook in the kitchen. Army put my butt in the air and I never came back down. I love cooking, but flying with the Majors, Henderson and Beale, and with Big John, it’s the best experience a man could ever have.”

Lola believed him as she took a bite of the best corn tortilla with sausage and egg that she’d ever had in her life. There was no questioning his sincerity. Or his choice, really. Even after only a couple weeks of missions, there was no questioning how exceptional the Majors were. She hoped they were okay. Such a short time and she already felt a pang of what it would be like to fly without Emily Beale beside her.

***

“I’m stuffed.” The food was so incredible that Lola hadn’t been able to stop eating. She struggled from her wallow and onto her feet to help collect dishes, despite the family’s insistence that she was a guest. It wasn’t burdensome, they just stacked everything and took stacks down to the dishwashing station where the teen with the crush on Connie had already manned what was clearly his station. Any attempt to offer help there was an obvious insult to his manly ability to crank out clean tableware, which he did with immense efficiency.

“He’ll make a good crew chief some day.”

Tim nodded. “Jimmy’s a sharp boy. We’re all hoping he goes to college rather than Army. He’s smarter than all the rest of us put together, but I’m afraid I’ve been a bad influence on his generation. And Connie isn’t helping things. He’s totally in love with her ever since she helped him rebuild his motorcycle engine last year. My little sister is in boot camp right now.”

Lola could hear the pride in his voice. It wasn’t that they were an Army family that struck her. Nor was it the pride in the service. It was that there was a feeling of pride of family. Tim cared enough about his sister to have strong feelings about her. To care. She’d never had that in her life.

If Mama Raci had ever felt pride about Lola, it was only expressed by a decrease in the old woman’s general nastiness. Her father’s only emotions had been, well, nonexistent on the subject of his daughter. Her moving in with Mama Raci was no secret, couldn’t have those in New Orleans, but not once had he bothered to come by and check on her or…

She shook herself before she could walk down those dark paths of memory.

And noticed that even in the last moments, the environment of the kitchen had changed. The rest of the SOAR fliers had left with warm hugs and large bags of leftovers. Those of the family without aprons were pulling them on. Long trays of unprepared vegetables were being pulled from the coolers. The sharp “wick, wick, wick” of knives being run over sharpening steels. They were preparing for lunch service, just another day in the restaurant.

She could see Tim wanting to drift in to help.

“I’ll just grab my stuff and find the hotel.”

That stopped him cold. “No. Don’t. They won’t let me help anyway.” He grinned. “Watch.”

He grabbed a perfectly white apron from a pile stashed under the near end of the counter. He headed to the side of beef, pulling a knife from a large wooden block. And stopped.

Dead square in front of him stood his mama. Hands on her hips. Fire in those gentle eyes as she glared up at her son.

“You no come home to cook.”

“Mama, I bragged about your cooking, our cooking. I gotta.”

“You are no’ a good boy to leave your lady friend to stand there alone.”

Lola could think of a hundred things she’d rather do after an all-night flight, but dutifully pulled out an apron to put it on. She’d become a fair cook under Mama Raci’s watchful eye.

Tim’s broad smile and wink were almost worth the price she’d have to pay out in work.

“I’m glad to help.”

The glare now turned on her, strong enough to stop Lola in her tracks though the woman stood the better part of a foot shorter than she did.

“He put you up to this. I know my son and his jokes, better than his father. Better than his sister. You, young lady, you come back for dinner and we make you something nice. And you”— she spun back to face her son—“you take your girlfriend somewhere nicer than this old kitchen.”

The rest of the family, who’d paused for the drama, plunged back to work. The swordfish was unearthed from its deep tray of ice, and three of them started in to break it down.

It was actually the nicest big kitchen Lola had ever been in, and “old” wasn’t even close to right. “Old” was Mama Raci’s bordello with the cracking brick and ceiling paint flaking into the thin soup, the creaky stools and the rusting old wood stove that was only lit during the hottest weeks of the summer when canning was going on.

Then Cara’s words caught up with her and Lola choked. A spasm deep in her throat and she had to cough so hard to clear it that it actually hurt. She’d heard the space Cara hadn’t put in “girlfriend.” Lola hadn’t been labeled “girl friend” who was one of Tim’s flight mates. Lola had just been labeled “the girlfriend” of the eldest son.

She hacked and swallowed against the bristly pain in her throat as someone ran for a glass of water and someone else thumped her sharply between the shoulders.

“The girlfriend” who’d just been brought home to meet “the family.” It was so weird that it surprised her each time the thought came back.

Lola straightened abruptly, took the glass of water, and sipped at it a few times to steady herself before setting it down.

Tim was out of his God. Damn. Mind.

Tim pulled off his apron, tossed it to his mom like a bouquet of flowers, and wrapped himself up in one of her deep, warm hugs.

His dad and a couple of the others grinned at him. They’d clearly known the strategy he’d just played on his mom. He hugged her again.

“Love you, Mama. More than your soup.”

“More than my stew?” He smiled. He hadn’t heard the ritual in too long, six months since he’d last been home.

“Well, not that much,” he completed it.

“Good!” She patted his cheek as if he were twelve. “Then I have not lost my touch. Now you two go play. I have lunch to get ready.”

Tim turned to Lola. “Wanna go for a run? Best way to see the city.”

She had the oddest look on her face. He’d only seen her run once. After
Viper
had flown a twelve-hour mission, he’d hauled himself up on one of the concrete risers that surrounded the soccer field at Bati, too tired to move. Too tired to breathe without considering it a burden.

He’d napped briefly in the sun, then woken to a dream image—Lola running the track that followed the inside perimeter of the soccer stadium. There was almost always someone running there because there was almost nothing else to do at Bati base between missions. You sure didn’t go into town unless you took an armed squad with you.

So, he’d sat there, feeling too hazed to do more than watch, as she ran lap after lap.

Lola had run like a goddess. Or maybe a nymph. Her hair blowing back, her step light and fast. He could have watched her for hours. He did, for at least a dozen laps. It had taken him a while to realize that she hadn’t come around again. He waited a while longer, then finally gave up and went to crash-land in his bunk.

This time he wanted to see her up close. And D.C. was an awesome city to travel on foot.

She shook her head. Nodded. And finally shrugged.

“You’re a nutcase, Maloney.”

He shot her his best smile. “The few. The proud.” And he snapped a regulation salute.

“Okay, you’re not as nuts as a Marine, but you’re really, really close.” He didn’t need to turn around to know that they were still the spectacle of the moment. The lunchtime prep was less than half of the normal volume and almost no one was talking. They wouldn’t want to miss a word.

“C’mon.” He snagged her elbow and led her toward where they’d dropped their gear, which was now cluttering up the middle of the butchering area.

As soon as they were out of the way, Jamie and Sally moved in to start breaking down the beef into steaks, tenderloins, roasts, and the parts to be fresh ground.

“You try to sleep after a long flight, you’ll end up twitchy and all out of sync. You gotta stay awake until nightfall if you wanta flip into the right time zone.”

She shrugged again. “Okay, I guess.” She knew that trick. It was just a question of how to stay awake for at least another dozen hours.

He aimed her at a bathroom. Again couldn’t help noticing the nice way she filled out those narrow jeans she wore. He definitely wanted to see as much of what lay beneath as possible. He’d had his hands down her flight suit against a helicopter and up her body in the darkness of the C-5’s cargo bay. But he’d actually seen very little of Lola LaRue’s skin except a brief moment in a wind-blown desert.

“Gonna be a scorcher in another hour or so. Don’t bother with layering up.” Seemed like an efficient way to phrase his lust as she disappeared into the bathroom.

Tim considered following her in. Reliving an early fantasy when he’d gotten Suzanne Sanchez back there during his fifteenth birthday party… and been caught by his dad with his pants half down and her skirt half up.

He glanced up to see his dad watching him. Watching with that smile of his.

Dad tipped his head toward the door for a moment, indicating that Tim should follow Lola in.

Nope. Not with Dad watching. Not even if he’d had condoms with him and no longer needed the lecture he’d suffered through at fifteen about a man’s responsibilities.

He turned for the other bathroom.

He couldn’t hear the old man’s laughter in the noisy kitchen.

But he could feel it.

***

What Lola was wearing, or rather wasn’t wearing, was exactly to Tim’s liking. He watched her come across the kitchen toward him. Running shoes with short socks. Brilliant red shorts and a sports bra to match. Wraparound shades and her hair out loose.

There was so much glorious skin that it was blinding. He couldn’t help but stare.

Apparently neither could anyone else. Tim could feel the kitchen growing quieter and quieter behind him as he looked her up and down.

He’d been right—the woman had the longest damn legs in the world. And they were amazing legs. The thighs rippled smoothly as she flexed and stretched, oblivious to all watchers.

Tim turned around and glared at his family. They all grew very busy with their prep work, the volume rapidly skyrocketing to several times the normal mayhem of a working kitchen.

Jimmy still gawked, but at that age, Tim remembered, it was impossible not to.

Tim also decided they’d better get to running unless he wanted to embarrass himself completely.

“Your shorts aren’t hiding much,” Lola whispered from close enough beside him that he could feel her breath on his ear.

He swallowed hard. He should have followed her into the bathroom.

“Let’s go!” She led him out the door, indicating he should lead the way. Tim tried to set up a steady trot though it was hard with his knees turned to Jell-O.