The Top Gun's Return

Chapter 8

Tristan slept in a shadowless room without doors or windows. He could hear no sounds, not even his own heartbeat, his own breathing. He was neither cold nor warm, he felt nothing, not even the press of his body against a bed or a floor…not even the brush of clothing against his skin.

Asleep, he thought…I wonder if this is death?

But even as the thought formed, he awoke to find himself in a lovely golden place, a safe place, and his body bathed in warmth. Jessie was coming toward him, her stride long and sexy, her smile like the sun. Her smile and heat wrapped around him like a lovely summer day as she slipped into his arms, smelling of grass and flowers, warm sand and sex. Her lips hovered, breathlessly brushing his as she whispered love words into his mouth. He plunged his fingers into her hair and it poured over his hands like the finest silk…floss spun for gods and goddesses from spiderwebs and sunbeams…

"I've been so empty without you," she whispered. "Fill me…please…"

Yes, he murmured inside his mind. Yes…

His hands began to trace her body, and it seemed fluid and malleable as wet clay. His hands glided downward over her back, slalomed through the gentle undulations of waist and buttocks and thighs…his fingers slipped into the tight protected crevasses and explored the tender valleys between. Her breasts hardened as she moved against him, and he, hard already and full of his need for her, pressed himself into the cleft between her thighs. Her mouth, lost in his, made tiny whimpering sounds of need, and he drank in her whimpers and her honeyed essence…greedily nourishing his own need.

He felt the velvety brush of her belly as he moved his body to cover hers. Heat blossomed inside him. Pounding heat enveloped him. He sank into her body like a man on fire into a healing fountain.

There was resistance but it had no meaning for him. The sounds coming from her now were little pants and shuddering breaths, and his groan mingled with them as he pushed past the resistance, pushing inexorably deeper into her body. His need of her was unstoppable…his hunger unquenchable. It had taken him over completely, mind and body. Her body enfolded him…her legs were firm and strong around him…her fingers dug deep into the hard ridges of his shoulders…her breath pumped humid warmth against the rocketing pulse at the base of his throat. His body surged, beyond his control.

She uttered a high, sharp cry, and he opened his eyes and looked down through layers of passion fog to find her eyes fever bright and gazing up at him, their pupils huge, black and deep as wells. Genuine awakening came, and then awareness, but it was far too late. His body shuddered and surged one final time as a cry tore through his throat and grated between his spasming jaws. The muscles in his back and belly contracted with a violence he thought would tear him apart, and left him drained, exhausted, and weak as a newborn babe.

Drenched and heartsick, he held himself utterly still while an exhalation sifted slowly through his nostrils and the last remnants of passion-fog lifted from his brain. His arms quivered with the strain of supporting even his sorely depleted body. Eyes closing, he swallowed and mumbled brokenly, "God, Jess…I-"

"Hush up." Her hands were on his face, a cool and nurturing touch. "It's all right."

"But I didn't…That's not the way I wanted-"

"I know…I know. But it's still all right. You just hush, now, you hear?" Her voice was husky. He'd always loved the sound of it while they were making love. In her mouth love words-sex talk-never sounded crude…just warm and sultry, with enough of a tang to stoke the fires in his blood. Like molasses…

He rolled himself away from her and felt the soft pillow come to cradle his whirling head and smooth fabric comfort his cooling skin. He covered his eyes with his arm and mumbled, "Jessie…love, I-"

There was so much he wanted to say to her…so many things he needed her to understand. But sleep was waiting for him, warm and lovely…voluptuous and seductive as the body he'd just left. He surrendered himself to it with a sigh.

"Mom! Hey…" Cross-legged on her bed, Sammi June nudged the book and notepad off her lap and leaned over to peer at the clock radio on the nightstand.

"Hey, hon', how're you?"

"Wow, Mom, what time is it over there? Two…three in the morning?" Fear clutched at her heart, making her gasp. "Oh God-what's wrong? Is Dad-"

"No, no, nothing's wrong. Your daddy's fine-he's asleep right now. We're in Düsseldorf, in a hotel-I told you he wanted to see where his momma grew up? So that's what we've been doin' today. Anyway, I couldn't sleep, so I thought I might as well give you a call. I thought this might be a good time."

"Yeah, it is, it's fine. I was just studying…nothing too important. Hey, Mom-"

"I tried calling you at school, but your roommate said you'd gone home. Is everything okay?"

"Oh. Yeah…I guess." Sammi June made a disgusted sound as she unfolded her legs and got comfortable. "The media just turned the whole school into a zoo. Nobody could get in and out of the dorm, there wasn't anyplace to park…they even followed me to classes, Mom. Anyway, it was politely 'suggested' I should maybe go home for a while until the furor dies down. So I did. And guess what? Now they're all over here."

"Who, the media? You mean, they're there? At Momma's?"

"You guessed it. They're camped out in Randall Jackson's field. You should see it. Place looks like a damn refugee camp."

"I hope you don't let your gramma hear you talk like that," her mother said mildly.

Sammi June snorted. "You should hear her cuss when she thinks nobody's listening." She shifted around so her legs were hanging over the side of the bed. "Hey, Mom?" Hunched over and hugging herself, she began to rock gently back and forth. Butterflies…emotions…were quivering and jumping inside her. "I started to tell you. I saw you guys on CNN this morning."

"You did? What-oh. That must have been from yesterday. Yeah, we were coming back from visiting your grampa Max's hometown and there they were, waitin' for us. Your daddy was tired, but there wasn't any way we could have avoided them. So-" she hesitated, and Sammi June heard her take a quick, catching breath, the way someone does when they're getting ready to lift something heavy "-you saw him, then? What'd you think? Does he look like you remember?"

Remember? But what if I don't even know what I remember? The quivering inside Sammi June wanted to jump right out of her stomach and into every part of her, and she fought with everything she had to make her voice firm and strong. "He…looks really good. Thin, though, like you said. You looked good, too, Mom," she added as a guilty afterthought. The truth was, she hadn't been able to tear her eyes away from her dad, standing stoop-shouldered and gaunt behind her mother, like an emaciated shadow. "Kinda tired, but…"

"Yeah, it had been kind of a long day." Sammi June heard a whisper of sound she thought must be laughter. "It's been a whole bunch of long days…actually."

"Mom?" She held herself still, listening intently. "Is everything okay? I mean…really."

And she heard that fortifying breath again. "Oh, hon', everything's just fine. I'm ready to come home, is all. I think we both are. Which is actually why I wanted to call you. I think they're plannin' on lettin' your daddy go day after tomorrow, so we'll be leavin' here as soon after that as we can."

Sammi June stared at her finger, making random patterns on the bedspread. She wasn't disappointed in her mother's evasion, not really. She'd expected the lie. "Does that mean you're finally coming home?"

"Well…we have to stop off in Washington, D.C., for a couple of days first. They want him to have some more tests and exams at Bethesda before they release him. But what I'd like for you to do is come and meet us there-can you do that?"

Rocking and hugging herself again, Sammi June stared at the floor as reawakened butterflies danced in her stomach. "Can't I just wait for you guys here?" Aware of how whiney that might sound, she hurriedly added, "Everyone's coming here to see Dad. Grampa Max is coming up from Florida, and Gramma told him he could stay here. I don't think it's right I should leave her with all the company, do you?"

"Well, hon'," her mother said, laughing because she knew how much Sammi June did not normally enjoy helping out around the house, "that's sweet of you to want to be there for your gramma, and all, but you're gonna have to make the sacrifice. Your daddy tells me we've been invited to the White House."

Her mother's voice had a lilting brightness that made Sammi June think of the times when she'd come home from the NICU after an especially bad day, and she'd have stopped off at the store to pick up ice cream or a cold watermelon, and she'd march into the kitchen with a big determined smile on her face and a light in her eyes. Like a woman on a mission, Sammi June always thought. Happiness or bust.

"No kidding, the White House? Honest to God?"

"Honest to God."

Was she crazy, Sammi June wondered, or did her mother's laughter have an almost desperate sound?

After the usual exchange of "Take care now" and "Love you," Jessie disconnected the phone, then sat and held it and stared at nothing, lacking even the energy to return it to its niche on the bathroom wall. She felt limp, dispirited and utterly drained, a condition she'd been in a lot, lately, alternately with an equally unhappy state of tension, uncertainty and fear.

The White House. The president. CNN. The Today Show, Good Morning, America! Most likely 60 Minutes and God knows how many reporters. Sammi June and Max and Momma and all the rest of the family, not to mention friends…the world…life…They're all out there, waiting for us.

Huddled on the toilet seat, Jessie hugged herself and shivered. The hotel bathroom was a cocoon of soft gray, illuminated by the single red-gold eye of a night-light. The bedroom beyond seemed a quiet den, isolated…protected. Safe. But out there, the world waited. The question was, Was Tristan even remotely ready? Would he be strong enough to face it? Will I?

Right now she didn't feel remotely ready, either, and she definitely didn't feel strong. In fact, when she stood up and went to hang the phone back on its cradle, she found that her legs were still wobbly. Her pulse shied and danced when she thought of what had just happened…of Tristan…their lovemaking. And from out of nowhere a sob crept up and caught her by surprise. Gripping the edge of the sink, she leaned on her hands and pressed her lips together and closed her eyes tightly to hold back the tears. But they came, anyway, great rivers of them.

Why am I doing this? she thought. Why? I don't want to do this! I don't mean to…

What were they all about, the tears-joy? There was some of that, certainly-and relief, too, at discovering that her husband was capable of healthy male appetites and obviously functioning normally, after all he'd been through. But there was sorrow and loneliness, and-oh, who in the world knew? Just emotions letting go, she supposed, too many emotions all mixed up together. And right now maybe it wasn't all that important that she sort them out. Just that she let them go.

The tears dried up as quickly as they'd come, and she washed her face one more time and slipped quietly out of the bathroom. She left the door open for the light, and in that gentle illumination she could see that Tristan was still in bed, at least, sprawled on his stomach and sleeping soundly, like a child. He was snoring softly, too, though he'd never been a snorer before. Probably something to do with his altered nose, she thought. As she stood gazing down at him she felt tears threaten again-not a great gush this time, but an itchy tingle, like a sneeze coming on. She reached out her hand to finger back a dark comma of hair that had fallen across his forehead, and only just remembered and stopped herself in time. Promise you won't touch me…promise me…

Drawing in a great breath to ease the ache in her throat, she released it in a shaky, whimpering laugh. Then she tiptoed around to the other side of the bed, and as silently, as carefully as she knew how, slipped between the tumbled sheets. Beside her Tristan slept on, peaceful and untroubled. And after a while sheer exhaustion allowed Jessie to do the same.

Tristan drifted, floating on his back in warm saltwater, rocked by the rhythm of placid waves. The water caressed, nurtured and supported him; unneeded, his mind drifted away to play with frivolous things…clouds…appleblossoms…seagulls. Mindless and completely relaxed, he didn't notice, at first, that the water had become viscous…oily and dark. Or that instead of caressing and nurturing him, now it coated his skin with a smothering thickness, like tar. When he did realize and began to fight it, it was too late. He struggled against the sticky weight that threatened to drag him under, and it seemed to separate into ribbons that wrapped themselves around his arms and legs like tentacles. Gasping and grunting with revulsion, he tore at the ribbons, but the more he ripped them away, the more entangled he became. In full panic, sure he was going to be strangled or drowned, he struck out-and hit something solid.

And his truant mind, returning in the nick of time, informed him there couldn't possibly be anything solid where he was, and therefore it was quite possible he was dreaming. With that enlightenment he ceased thrashing about, and the darkness grew grainy and transparent, and the tentacles thinned and became ribbons…then softened and blurred into sheets and blankets. It came to him finally that he was in a bed-in a hotel room, he remembered now. With his wife. With Jessie.

Freed of the tangle of bedding and with cool air drying the sweat on his skin, he wanted to bask for a while in the miracle of that-of waking up in a soft bed, in a world where no one wanted to hurt him, and his wife-Jessie!-lying warm and sleepy at his side. But his mind was back on active duty now, and it nagged at him insistently with the memory that a short while back his hand had struck out and hit something. Something solid. And warm. And alive.

He opened his eyes and heard "Good morning," spoken in a husky murmur that made him think of the musical hum of a sultry summer day.

Turning his head, he saw Jess's face in its pillow nest, wreathed in tousled honey gold. Her eyes peered back at him, wide and luminous and unblinking, and there was a distinct red mark on the cheek nearest to him. He sighed and brushed it-somewhat clumsily-with the back of his index finger. "I thought so. God, Jess-I'm sorry."

"It's okay. You didn't hit me very hard." A frown of concern hovered between her eyebrows as she studied him along one shoulder. "Guess you were havin' a nightmare, huh? Wrestlin' around and fightin' the covers. Didn't seem all that bad-really." A smile tugged at one corner of her mouth. "And I didn't touch you, swear to God."

He groaned. "And I managed to pop you one, anyway."

She sat up, yawning unabashedly as she lifted her arms in a luxurious stretch. He watched her, enjoying the simple wonder of her waking-up routine as she combed through her hair with her fingers…raked it all back, then gathered it up in both hands…lifted it and briefly held it piled high on her head. For one sweet moment her neck was bared for him…graceful curve lightly furred with velvety swirls of fine golden down, like something newly born, before she released her hair and it tumbled down in a silken curtain to hide that tender part of her from his view. And he was left with a kick of desire under his rib cage that took his breath away-and for the first time understood why, in some cultures, the nape of a woman's neck was considered her body's most intimate and private place.

He must have made a sound of some kind, because she swiveled toward him, an unspoken question in the lift of her eyebrows, lips barely parted. Her breasts, more voluptuous than he recalled, moved with her body as she turned, swelling and thrusting beneath the drape of the oversize T-shirt that served as her nightgown, and he was suddenly swamped by tactile memories-recent memories-of the way those breasts had felt…the way she'd felt, filling his hands-of himself pushing into her tender body…her warmth enfolding him. Heartsick, he groaned and folded both arms across his face to hide from her his overwhelming guilt and shame.

"Tris? Honey, what is it? What's wrong?"

He felt her touch, light on his shoulder, and heard the lilt of fear in her voice, but couldn't comfort or reassure her. How could he, when he didn't know what was wrong with him? He threw himself away from her and sat on the edge of the bed, where at least, with his back to her, he wouldn't have to see her face. "Last night," he breathed, rocking himself, muscles tense and quivering. "Last night I didn't-"

"Well yes, darlin', as a matter of fact, you did." Her tone was droll, but he wasn't fooled.

"It was the beer," he muttered, his voice tight with self-loathing. "I drank too much. I'm not used to it. I should have known better. Don't know what I was-God, Jess. I'm sorry-"

"So, we made love. Big deal." The bed rocked violently as she left it. "Hey-I'm pretty sure I'll survive the torture."

He snaked out an arm in time to catch hers as she tried to sweep past him on her escape route to the bathroom. She resisted him, tugging angrily against his grasp, and to his surprise and pleasure he felt desire blossoming again in the part of him that had been dormant for so long. He pulled, testing his strength and will against hers, and felt a surge of all-but-forgotten triumph when she began to move slowly and reluctantly toward him. When she was close enough, he let go of her arm and put his hands on her hips. Sliding his hands and the fabric of her T-shirt over that gentle curve and lightly kneading the firm-soft textures underneath, he lifted his eyes to hers. He wasn't surprised to find tears shimmering there.

"Jessie…" He wrapped his arms around her, drew her close and whispered brokenly against her breasts, "I didn't mean-It's not the way I wanted to make love to you. Not the way you deserve to be…"

He felt the breath sigh from her body and her fingers come to sift gently through his hair. "So it wasn't perfect," she said, trying for steadfastness in a voice that was as uneven as his. "Big deal. The main thing is-" and he heard a smile come "-I guess you found out everything still works."

His laughter was painful…and healing. Her words didn't do a thing to ease the guilt he felt for what he'd done to her, or lessen his shame for his lack of self-control. But now, in the most secret part of himself he felt a small but growing ember of triumph. Yes, by God, everything still works.

"I'll make it up to you," he said, the embers of his new triumph burning fiercely in his eyes as he looked deep into hers. "That's a promise."

"I'll say you will," she said, giving his shoulder a slap. And then she sighed and added reluctantly, "Not right this minute, though. We have to catch a train."

Not right that minute, nor anytime soon. The next two days were an exhausting blur of meetings and phone calls and tests and reporters and being shuttled from one crowded place to another, beginning when they arrived at the guest house in Landstuhl that evening to find Major Sharpe waiting to take Tris back to the hospital for a last round of tests and debriefings.

Jess spent the night alone, tossing and turning in the great big bed, her body restless and itchy, her mind ricocheting between erotic thoughts and worried ones. We found out everything still works… Yeah, okay…physically. She had no fear that eventually Tris's body would heal from the abuse it had endured. It was the rest of him she wasn't so sure about.

The next morning, Lieutenant Commander Rees picked up Jessie and took her to join Tristan and an assortment of doctors and military dignitaries for the long-anticipated press conference. She recognized several of the reporters in the crowd from the impromptu briefing in front of the guest house two days before. They seemed a little surprised when she smiled and greeted them like old friends, apparently not understanding it was just the natural way where she'd been born and raised.

Tristan was wearing a borrowed flight suit for the occasion. It was the first time she'd seen him in one since before his last deployment, and there was a guilty stab of fear mingled with the pride that misted her eyes as she gazed at him, standing erect and composed before a backdrop of a gigantic American flag, alongside all the officers and doctors in their dress uniforms, with their ribbons and buttons and braid gleaming in the camera lights. The truth was, her emotions were a whole stew of things right then. If she'd had to say what they were she'd probably have been able to name the pride, but for the rest…the best she could come up with was a kind of poignant bewilderment.

She kept searching his face, still so handsome it made her throat ache to look at him. And there was a new dignity there, now, too, in the silvery shadings at the temples of his dark hair, in the somber hollows of his cheeks, the gentle furrows in his brow…the quiet presence that can only come from having faced the worst the world can throw at a man and survived. But though she kept searching, and even though he was wearing the familiar flight suit, she couldn't seem to find a trace of the fearless young flyboy she remembered, with that cocky and arrogant grin and dark aviator's sunglasses hiding the laughter in his eyes.

The press conference began, as was apparently the customary procedure, with prepared statements from senior military and hospital personnel, outlining Lieutenant Bauer's rescue and recovery, his physical condition and medical treatment. Jessie only half listened to the dry and droning recitals; Lieutenant Commander Rees had already told her all this, in much more detail, and she was preoccupied with her own thoughts, both anxious and eager to hear what Tris would say. He'd told her so little-almost nothing-about what he'd been through. What would he reveal now, with the whole world watching and listening?

Tristan's opening statement was brief but obviously heartfelt. He thanked the brave members of the special forces team responsible for his rescue, the doctors, nurses and med techs who had taken such good care of him during his stay, first on the hospital ship, then at the medical facility in Germany, and everyone else who'd helped to ease his transition back into the world. He expressed his gratitude for his country and family, thoughts of whom had helped sustain him during his captivity-especially those of his wife. His voice broke when he said Jessie's name, and she was instantly struggling to hold back tears. He finished by saying how much he was looking forward to going back home to the U.S.A., being reunited with his daughter and his dad, and getting on with his life.

"How about having dinner at the White House and meeting the president, Lieutenant Bauer?" someone called out.

"Well, yeah, I'm kind of looking forward to that, too," Tris said with a flash of his old grin, and everybody laughed.

Then the questions began. Most of them were directed at Tristan, naturally. The media had had enough of technical data; they wanted the personal story.

"How are you feeling, Lieutenant Bauer?"

Tris gave them his best gung ho grin. "I'm feeling good-getting stronger every day. Just give me some more good home cookin' and I'll be good to go."

"Where were you kept? What were conditions like?"

There was a pause, and then, "I was moved around a lot. Some places were better than others."

"How were you treated?"

Jessie's whole body seemed to be vibrating in anticipation of the answer to that one, but Tris cleared his throat and said, "I'd rather not talk about that, if you don't mind."

"Can you tell us whether or not you were tortured?"

Hovering in the background, Jessie felt riled and jumpy, protective as a mother dog with one pup. The knots in her stomach had tightened with every question; her nerves were singing like high-tension wires. Her gaze and every ounce of her concentration were focused only on Tristan, so she knew just when the strain began to be too much for him. She knew by the set of his shoulders and the angle of his head, the lengthening shadows in his cheeks, the rigidity of his jaw. By the sheen of sweat across his forehead…white knuckles on the hands that gripped the lectern, out of the view of reporters and camera lenses. Were you tortured, my love? Oh dear God…

"Sorry-I'm not gonna comment on that."

"Lieutenant Bauer, have you spoken with Cory Pearson since your rescue?"

Tristan gave his head a little shake, apparently not understanding the question. With her thoughts still agonizing over the previous question, it sailed over Jessie's head, too. "I'm sorry-who?"

"Cory Pearson-the AP correspondent who was rescued along with you."

"Oh. No…no, I haven't."

"It's my understanding that in a way he's the one responsible for you being rescued. That the special forces team were, in fact, looking for Mr. Pearson when they entered that prison. Is that true?"

Again Tris cleared his throat before answering. "That's what I'm told, yes."

"Lieutenant Bauer, were you and Mr. Pearson able to communicate with each other?"

"How long were you together? Did you know there was another American in there with you?"

"Did he know who you were?"

Tristan waited patiently until the barrage of questions had died down, then leaned down to the microphone. "Cory and I met when we were both transferred to the location where we were when we were rescued. Before that we'd been kept in different places. They moved us when the bombing started…that'd be about…three weeks before the SEALs showed up. Once I realized he spoke English, we began communicating, yes. We, uh…we talked when the guards weren't around. Mostly in whispers." Jessie could hear the new ironic smile in his voice as he added, "Hey, Cory's the journalist, he'd be a lot better at telling this than I am, why don't you ask him?"

"As a matter of fact, Lieutenant, in his stories filed since his return, Mr. Pearson has described being beaten and starved while he was a prisoner, as well as other forms of physical and psychological torture. Is it safe to assume you suffered similar treatment?"

During the silence that followed the question, Jessie realized that her throat felt raw and sore, as if she'd been screaming and yelling for hours. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes and made herself think about playing on the beach when she was a girl, picking up shells and starfish and dancing barefoot in the lapping surf. It was a coping technique she'd learned to help herself when things went bad in the NICU. Watching a dying baby struggle for its last breaths wasn't an easy thing to do, but neither, she discovered, was watching her husband struggle to escape the horror of his memories.

At last, when she thought she wasn't going to be able to stand the suspense another minute, he ducked his head toward the microphone again. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "That's something I don't care to get into. That's in the past. I'd like to keep it there-put it behind me and get on with my life. Right now I'm looking ahead to the future I didn't think I was ever gonna have. I'm looking forward to getting back home, seeing my daughter, spending time with my wife…flying again. That's what I want to think about now. The past is over and done with. Let it be. That's all I have to say. Thank you…"

He turned away from the lectern, and Jessie's heart turned over when she saw his face. It was ravaged, haggard…tense and drawn…the face of someone looking into hell.

One of the officers in dress uniform quickly stepped up to the microphone and thanked all the reporters for coming. The press conference-one ordeal, at least-was over.