Rogenna Brewer - Mitzi's Marine

Kelly followed her to the door before turning around. “Will you tell Keith we were here?” Her cheeks, already pink from the winterlike weather outside, brightened. “And that I can’t tutor him this Saturday. I have to work.”

Calhoun offered a curt nod. Mitzi frowned after the departing pair, then at him.

“What?” he demanded.

“Whatever.” She shrugged. “Be careful.”

“Of those two?”

“The last recruiter is gone because he gave in to temptation. Seventeen may be legal in this state, but there’s a very fine line—”

“You know me better than that.”

“It’s not you I’m worried about.” That uniform and all that brooding silence could be hard for a young girl to resist. Mitzi propped herself against his desk and picked up his stapler. “Don’t you remember what it was like to be seventeen?”

At seventeen he’d been her whole world.

“No,” he denied, taking the stapler from her. The brush of his hand took her by surprise. Every scarred knuckle, every callus on his palm were as familiar to her as the memory of his touch.

“Me, either,” she lied. Heaven help her, she wasn’t seventeen anymore and it was hard for her to resist.

Lest she forget, when she was twenty-four he’d brought that world crashing down.

She crossed the room and picked up the folder with his travel orders. “Here,” she said, handing it to him. “You left this on a chair and it wound up on my desk.”

“Sorry about that.”

“Not a problem,” she said, heading back to her desk.

“Did you read them?” He sounded curious, not angry.

His curiosity intrigued her. “Your orders are none of my business, Gunny.”

“I just thought you should know I’m only here temporarily.”

It sounded like a warning not to get her hopes up. She knew better. “I guessed as much.”

“Once my detachment gets back to The Boathouse, I’ll be joining them. I’ll have to pass a physical fitness test first. But as soon as they call…” He shrugged.

He’d be gone. Back in the line of fire.

Not a matter of if, but when.

The Boathouse was a modern space-aged building tucked into the boat basin at Camp Pendleton in San Diego. If his recon unit wasn’t there they could be almost anywhere.

Which was obviously where he wanted to be.

Anywhere but here.

“It’s what you wanted.” Was it petty of her not to be happy for him? Even if he got himself killed just to prove he was worthy of being called a Marine?

“Hey,” Keith called out, coming through the door, basketball tucked under his arm. “I hear there’s a new Marine Corps recruiter in town. Where do I sign?”

“Over my dead body,” Bruce declared.

“I’m serious.” Keith approached the desk and Mitzi retreated to her side of the room.

“So am I.” Bruce stood with his hands on his hips. A dozen cold calls his first day down the list of high school seniors and not a single lead, then in walks his eighteen-year-old brother ready to sign on the dotted line.

As if he was ever going to let that happen.

Keith dropped into the chair opposite Bruce’s desk, put his basketball and backpack at his feet. “Seriously,” he said, kicking back, with his size thirteens up on Bruce’s desk. “I want to join the Corps.”

“Seriously.” Bruce knocked Keith’s feet to the floor, then sat where they’d been. “You’re going to college.”

“College is an expensive waste of time.”

“Coach says your scholarship prospects are good.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So you’re going.”

“You didn’t.”

Bruce crossed his arms. “And look where it got me.”

“I don’t see what’s so bad about being you.”

“Then you’re not looking hard enough.”

“It’s family tradition. You—”

“Didn’t have the same opportunities you have. And sure as hell didn’t have your grades. You’re a smart kid—act like it.”

“I’m sick of school.” Keith pushed to his feet, full of restless energy. They were roughly the same height now. When had the kid shot up those last few inches? “I’m sick and tired of people telling me what I can and can’t do.”

“And you want to be a Marine? You’re going to have someone in your face 24/7 telling you when to eat, sleep, drink and take a piss. Hoorah!”

“That’s just boot camp.”

“What’s that poster behind me say?”

Keith tilted his head to see around him. “Every Marine a rifleman.”

“Deer hunting. Few years back. Me, you, your dad.” Despite the fact that Uncle John had been more of a father to him than Big Luke, Bruce couldn’t bring himself to call his uncle and stepfather Dad, so he settled for John. Or your dad when talking to Keith. “You stared down that three-point buck, but couldn’t bring yourself to shoot.”

“I was thirteen.”

“Fifteen.”

“It was my first time hunting. And I don’t like venison all that much either,” he added for good measure.

“You been hunting since? To a rifle range?”

“No,” Keith admitted. “But I know how to shoot and I know I’ll get the training I need in boot camp.”

“Go home,” Bruce said.

“So I’m not you. There are other jobs in the Marine Corps besides Force Recon.”

Bruce had been Recon, parachute and diver qualified when he’d gone through BUD/S training and integrated into Navy SEALs. He’d added recruiter to his list. And if he was any kind of a recruiter he’d be showing Keith his options right now.

But this was his brother and there was no way in hell he was going to put the kid in harm’s way. Just because Keith knew how to fire a weapon didn’t mean he knew jack about war.

“Like what, admin?” Bruce asked. “Think you’re going to sit behind a desk all day until your ass is as wide as the chair? No matter what your military occupational specialty, you’re going to fight. That’s what a Marine does.”

Unless you’re a recruiter stuck behind a desk.

“Maybe not admin,” Keith agreed. “But there are some pretty cool jobs in the Marine Corps.”

“Like…?” Bruce prompted.

“Cameraman. I took a photography class last year. I’m pretty good at it.” The kid had done his homework.

But it was Bruce’s job to know all eighty of the Marine Corps occupational fields. He reached for a thick three-ring binder and opened it to “Combat Camera.” “What do all of these jobs have in common? Combat illustrator,” he read. “Combat lithographer. Combat photographer. Combat videographer. Could it be the word combat?” he practically shouted. “Besides which—” he slammed the book shut “—I don’t have an opening for a cameraman. That’s CNN’s job these days.”

“I’m not a kid anymore. I’m eighteen. I don’t need your permission. I could walk into any recruiting office in the state and enlist,” Keith threatened.

“Try it and I’ll kick your ass from here to Timbuktu.”

“What the hell, Bruce? I came to you. You’re my brother. You’re supposed to help me!”

Bruce could understand being sick of school. Sick and tired of being told what to do. At eighteen Keith was well on his way to becoming a man. What he couldn’t understand was his brother turning his back on a chance to play basketball for four more years.

That didn’t make sense.

“I’m trying to help you.” Frustration tinged Bruce’s voice. “Trust me. I know you well enough to know you’re not cut out for the Marine Corps.”

He didn’t even realize he and his brother stood toe-to-toe until Mitzi put a gentle but firm hand on each of them. “You’re scaring my DEPers.”

Keith slunk back to his seat. And Bruce sat back on his desk. The front office was full, every couch, every chair occupied. When had that happened? Three guys and one gal. DEPers, kids on the delayed entry program, enlisted while still in high school for guaranteed jobs after graduation.