Page 18 of The Commander

When she turned, I steeled my expression, using the same control I’ve needed with Quinn Parker since the day we met. Giving nothing away.

Word spread quickly throughout the base that she didn’t date men in uniform. It didn’t matter; I didn’t like seeing her with anyone. Perhaps that’s why I went to the bar that first night and sat at the end of the bar.

I was protecting her, is what I told myself, as if I was some kind of saint.

Fucking hardly.

I watched as she drank and danced and quickly wobbled on her lightweight feet. Quinn never saw me that first night, probably because they’d all been doing tequila shots.

She surprised me by sneaking out the door without saying goodbye. I tossed back my warm-as-fuck beer after sitting on it for hours, and intercepted her out the front of the bar, then dragged her drunken sexy ass onto my bike and drove her home.

Every Friday, for months, this went on.

She’d seek me out at the bar, pretending she didn’t see me, occasionally spying on me over her glass of water.

“Pro tip, sweetheart; water won’t keep you sober if you shoot back five shots of tequila,” I said one night when I slid her helmet on.

“It might,” she giggled, holding on to my bicep as I steadied her on the seat.

It became our thing for a while.

Every Friday night, I’d wait for her to grab her phone and sneak toward the entrance, giving me the barest glance. Then she’d wait for me on the corner. All pretense of calling an Uber was gone.

No one ever saw us.

I’d hand her the helmet, and she’d climb on the back, wrapping her lithe body around mine.

I fucking loved it.

“McDonald’s?” I asked one night, clamping her hand to my buckle. Her other hand palmed the muscles of my back through my T-shirt and slid down slowly.

“You’re so warm,” she purred.

Clearing my throat, I warned, “Quinn.”

“I bet you’re so nice to snuggle up with after—”

“Okay, that’s enough.” I revved the bike, not willing to hear the next words out of her mouth. I was her CO, and nothing could change that.

One night, halfway home, she banged her fist on the side of my body. I pulled over, and she scrambled off, tearing the helmet off.

“The hell is wrong?” I cried.

“I feel sick. Ugh.” Quinn breathed in and out, turning around and fanning herself. “You ride too fast.”

“I was doing thirty.”

“Thirty thousand.” She glared.

“Sit.” I pulled a bottle of water out of the storage on the bike and cracked it open. Then I tugged her down on the grass. “Sip it slowly.”

“What if I barf?”

“Then you barf. Gargle after.” I sat down on my ass next to her and leaned my elbows on my knees.

“My dad was talking about you last week,” Quinn said, surprising me. “Says you were a hero or something in the Middle East. At least I think it was you.”

I glanced out at the traffic.