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Headaches were common, especially after surviving several bombardments with 81 caliber M252 rounds with a percussive force that could shatter bones, let alone jam your brain around in your skull. And then there were the nightmares—screaming, explosions, heat, sticky blood, searing pain, and the feeling of helplessness—all invading his dreams until he awoke the next morning, bathed in sweat and reeking of fear.
But he hadn’t had a single nightmare in six months…not since setting his eyes on Cilla.
Cilla and coffee.
That’s all he needed.
And if the world ran out of coffee beans, he wouldn’t give a shit as long as Cilla was still there.
Cilla…Cilla was all he needed.
Turning his wrist, he checked his watch—a precision piece he’d been gifted by his command sergeant major when Patriot had signed his discharge papers. It was a symbol of what he’d lost over the fifteen years. Time. And a whole lot else.
He flicked his eager gaze toward the swinging kitchen door.
Where was she? Hadn’t she heard the bell over the door?
Turning his head to look over his shoulder, he noticed only two other diners, heads down over their breakfasts.
A huff, and then a shuffling sound made him turn back, his gaze landing on someone coming through the swinging kitchen door that most definitely wasn’t Cilla.
Shit.
Dana.
Shit.
A mistake he’d made a year ago. He’d fucked her at one of the club parties, and since then, she’d been after his dick for another ride. One he wouldn’t give her even if she were the last pussy on Earth.
He’d known she’d worked the lunch rush at Millie’s, but he’d never come in to the diner during the lunch hour. The place was a breakfast and lunch eatery, so it was closed after 5pm every night, which he’d always remembered when the itch to invite Cilla out in the evenings had hit him. He’d never done it, but he knew she’d be free to join him if he had.
If Dana was there, it meant Cilla wasn’t. Why wasn’t Cilla at work? Was she okay?
Immediately, thoughts of Cilla running into trouble after the party rushed through his head. Did someone hurt her? Did she make it home safely? Was she hungover and feeling the booze and just not able to come to work? So many possibilities and not a single one was acceptable. They were friends—he knew that much—so he figured that if something had happened to her at or after the party, she’d know she could call him.
Her being hungover? Well, he couldn’t see that happening with someone as responsible as Cilla. The woman did everything in moderation. That was one of the reasons she was out of place in the clubhouse. There wasn’t a brother or piece of pussy at the compound that knew what the fuck moderation was. During the few times Cilla had been to a Friday night party, she’d been witness to some seriously raunchy acts. She’d played it off like it didn’t bother her to see men with their dicks out, women with their tits and ass out, and all the fucking on nearly every surface. To him, it was just another Friday night. To Cilla, it was an orgy—except she never called it that.
No, Cilla wasn’t a drink til you get hammered kind of woman. And he liked that about her—one of the many things he liked about her.
But there had to be an explanation as to why she wasn’t at work.
Fuck. He’d have to ask Dana.
Dana plastered on a customer service smile and headed toward the other patrons, filling their coffee mugs. She wasn’t as nice or as warm as Cilla, her voice abrasive, and her manner all business, like she just wanted to get that moment over so she could leave.
Not privy to his less than glowing thoughts about her, Dana caught sight of him sitting at the counter and her eyes widened like a cartoon character. She grinned, her expression going from plastered-on pleasant to predatory in a blink.
“Patriot,” she cooed, walking toward him with an obvious sway to her hips that did nothing to make her look appealing.
“Dana,” he drawled, leaning back against the seat to put some distance between them.
Dana took that opportunity to look him over. Thoroughly. Her eyes ate him up like he as on the menu. Her voracious gaze slowly moving over his thighs incased in his jeans, thick from leg presses and riding his hog, up his defined 6-pack, and over his broad bench press hewn chest. Most of the time, he was damn proud of his efforts to keep himself in shape, but in the moment, under Dana’s ravenous eye, he was disgusted.
“You’re lookin’ real good, Patriot,” she cooed coyly, coming up close enough to put the coffee carafe on the counter in front of him, and lean into his personal space. He leaned back further, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t see you ‘round here often, but I hear you come most mornin’s. You finally come to see me?” She licked her lips, and he fought the urge to shudder.
He cleared his throat. Fuck, if his brothers could see him then, they’d laugh their asses off at him. Never in his life had been so uncomfortable, being the object of a woman’s desire.
It’s because you only want one woman to desire you. Just as you desire her. You want to be hers…as she is yours….
