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  My Boogie Woogie Bugle Guy

  Copyright © 2012 by D.L. Jackson

  ISBN: 978-1-61333-305-1

  Cover art by LFD Designs

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Decadent Publishing Company, LLC

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  www.decadentpublishing.com

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  My Boogie Woogie Bugle Guy

  A 1Night Stand Story

  D.L. Jackson

  ~DEDICATION~

  To the past, present, and future soldiers in the 10th Mountain Division. Climb to Glory.

  Chapter One

  Grace lay on her belly, her cheek pressed into the lush grass, staring at a shot-glass of liquid. It sat at the base of her brother’s tombstone, as if someone waited for him to take a drink.

  George Daniels, born June 18, 1987, Died August 8, 2011. Hero, Son, Brother.

  Whoever left the whiskey had set it on an ace of spades. Probably one of the Green Berets Geordie had served with. They’d liked to play that game. She smiled, remembering the stories her brother had told her about his downtime while deployed, the heated spades matches, the stomach churning dares to eat creepy crawlers, the roach races, anything to keep them entertained between patrols.

  “I miss you.” She sniffed and wiped a tear from her cheek. It had been a year since she’d lost him, and the hole still gaped open, raw, unbearable.

  She wouldn’t be off shift for another thirty minutes, but on the anniversary of his death, she hadn’t been able to stay away. She’d needed to talk to him. So, she’d sprawled over his grave in her uniform, getting grass stains on her elbows from the freshly cut lawn, telling him about how much her life sucked without him.

  “For my next number, I’m gonna play something a little more laid back.” A slurry voice rang out over the headstones, echoing through what was supposed to be a closed graveyard. A trumpet began to play. Dah, dah, dum. Dah, dah, squawk.

  She bolted up. “What the hell?” Believing she was alone, she’d bared her soul to her brother. She certainly wouldn’t have had that conversation if she’d known someone lingered nearby. She turned around three hundred and sixty degrees, until her gaze landed on a mausoleum backlit by the moon. A man stood on the roof with brass to his lips, butchering Taps. In his other hand, he held a bottle of what was probably in the glass on Geordie’s grave.

  Grace swatted the debris from her pants and stomped toward the mausoleum, irritation prickling over the back of her neck. She stopped at the base of the stone structure and glared at the man on the roof. “What are you doing here at three in the morning? The cemetery is closed.”

  “Whoa, hot chick in the audience.” He swayed, threatening to fall off the roof. “Feel free to toss your panties onto the stage in appreciation.”

  She clicked her flashlight on and cast the beam at him. “I suggest you get down from there before you fall or I have to arrest you for public intoxication.”

  He gave her a shit-eating grin. “You got handcuffs?”

  “Oh, God,” she groaned under her breath. “Of course I’ve got handcuffs. I’m the police.”

  He rocked and blinked his eyes. “You’re hot for a cop.”

  “Thank you, I think. Now get down.”

  “Okay.” He jumped, hit the edge of the roof, rolled off, and dropped like a stone at her feet, doing it with all the grace of a bag of potatoes. Yet he’d managed to keep hold of the bottle and not spill a drop. He put the horn to his lips and blew, but nothing more than a raspberry came from the mouthpiece. “For my next number, I’m going to play….” He looked up at her. “Any requests?”

  “Yeah, tell me where you’re staying, so I can take you to your room.”

  “Easy, girl. What kind of guy do you think I am?”

  “Drunk, cocky, and full of shit.” She reached down. “Come on. You either tell me where you’re staying or I take you to the drunk tank.”

  “Are you a meter maid?”

  Grace sighed. “I’m an officer. You obviously knew my brother, so I’m going to cut you a break. Come on, soldier, you need to sleep that booze off.”

  He gave her his trumpet. She tucked it under her arm and extended her hand to him again. After several attempts, his palm made contact with hers, and she pulled him to his feet.

  “So you’re Geo’s sister.”

  “Geordie’s, yes.”

  “Did I tell you, you are so fuckin’ hot?”

  “I think we covered that.” Grace frowned. Usually she’d blush to her roots, but the guy was probably too drunk to remember flirting with her, so the embarrassment factor wasn’t there. Even if he was damned hot himself.

  Tall, at least six foot four and with a warrior’s build—lean, muscled and powerful—he certainly didn’t lack any of the wow factor. His T-shirt stretched across his chest, defining a well-cut torso she could appreciate, if she weren’t so focused on getting him to her car.

  He draped his arm over her shoulders and nodded to a dark area in the trees that bordered the cemetery. “My bike’s over there.”

  “Sorry, no can do. You can ride in the back seat of my patrol car and come get it in the morning when you’re sober.”

  “Yes, sssir…ma’am. Did I tell you how hot you are for a cop?”

  “Yes. Let’s go.” She tugged, but he didn’t move.

  “I can’t feel my feet.”

  “Come on. Put one foot in front of the other.”

  “Heel, toe, and say something backward?”

  “No, I want you to walk. No sobriety test needed. I’m pretty sure you’re cocked. Let’s go. We’ll do it in a language you’re familiar with. Your left, your left, left, right, left.”

  “You’re funny. And cute.�
� He turned toward her and grinned. The fumes on his breath were enough to send her to the drunk tank if she inadvertently inhaled too much of them. “C-130 rolling down the strip.”

  “I think we can do without the cadence.”

  “My girl’s a….”

  “I know that one, and you better shut it.”

  He shot her a mischievous smile and stumbled along beside her, only staying upright with her assistance. When she reached her car, Grace opened the back door. “Get in.”

  He took a swig of his whiskey. She grabbed it from him and turned it over, pouring it onto the street.

  “Hey.” He reached for it and she jerked it away, not stopping until every last drop ran toward the storm drain.

  “You’ve had enough.” She pushed on his head and forced him to sit down. “Put your feet in.”

  He fell back on the seat. “Everything’s spinning.”

  “Don’t puke in my car.”

  “Oh, God.” The drunken soldier rolled to his side and heaved onto her mats.

  “Shit. I told you not to…. Never mind.” Grace shoved his feet inside and slammed the door. She should haul his ass to jail for the night. But she couldn’t. He’d known her brother, served with him. It made him like, family. He barfed again, gagging up chunks of whatever he’d had for dinner. Family—right. A very distant relative nobody talked to, maybe. She went around to the trunk, dropped the bottle in, slammed it shut, and continued to the driver’s side, tossing his trumpet on the seat. “Okay, big boy. Where are you staying?”

  Snores answered her. Grace turned around, and her mouth dropped open. How could he pass out so fast? Damn. “You can’t fall asleep. You need to tell me where you’re staying.”

  Snort, nose growl, lip smack.

  Not the answer she wanted.

  Now what? She could go home and leave him in the car, but if he got sick again and choked, she didn’t want to explain the dead body in the back seat.

  Couldn’t take him to his room, not without knowing where that would be. So home it was, and she’d make him a bed on the couch. He knew her brother, so he couldn’t be a bad guy. Besides, if he got out of line, she’d Taser him or put him in cuffs.

  Grace put the car in drive and pulled onto the street, glancing at the time on the dash. Her shift was over anyway, and she had the next two days off. Plenty of time to deal with him in the morning.

  When she pulled into her driveway, the drunk soldier sounded like a grizzly on attack. Now the difficult part, waking him up, getting him in the house and on the couch. Considering he was twice her size, she might need backup in the way of her best friend. She pulled her cell phone out and dialed Maggie, certain she’d help, even if she got her out of bed earlier than she liked.

  “This better be an emergency.”

  “I’ve got a drunken soldier in the back of my cruiser, and I need help getting him into the house.”

  “Why not take him to the station to sleep it off?”

  “Because he knew my brother, and I can’t. I need help. Will you please come over and give me hand lugging him into the house.”

  “It’s four in the morning and today is my day off, my morning to sleep in—or was.” Maggie let out an exaggerated sigh.

  “I’ll let you use my red pumps anytime the mood strikes you.”

  Silence.

  “Maggie?”

  “The sacred CFMs, the pair that’s off limits? The designer pumps you swiped out from under my nose at that yard sale?”

  “I didn’t swipe them out from under your nose. I saw them first.” In the box, never worn, the shoes had been a dream come true. Instead of a thousand dollars, she had paid ten, a steal that Maggie wouldn’t let her live down. They’d both seen them at the same time. Grace had been faster, much to her friend’s dismay. Every time they went out, she begged to borrow them, and Grace told her she saved them to wear for a special date—whenever in the next century that would be.

  “I’ll be over in five minutes.” Considering she lived ten minutes away, that said a lot.

  Grace twisted in her seat and eyed the soldier. Though he sounded like a chainsaw, the man put the god Aries to shame with his dark hair, thick lashes closed over sexy, bedroom eyes, and a bad ass body that kept going. His shirt had ridden up on his stomach, exposing a happy trail she wanted to follow to its ending. And that mouth. Wow. His mouth was strong, his smile, disarming. She’d bet her red shoes he was a great kisser.

  She blinked. Where the fuck did that come from? She snapped back around, gripped the steering wheel, and stared at the house. She didn’t lust after strangers, and she sure as hell didn’t jump soldiers. She really needed to get out more. There was no other explanation for her sudden loss of lucidity.

  ***

  Maggie stared into the cruiser, her mouth agape.

  “So, you can see why I needed a hand.”

  “Or two.” She turned to Grace. “Look what the cat dragged in. Damn, girl, I want to go where kitty’s been hunting.”

  “I didn’t drag him in. I was going to give him a ride to wherever he’s staying, but he kind of passed out on me.”

  “You were going to let that get away. Honey, we need to have a serious talk. Sober him up and ride him until you’re bowlegged.”

  “I can’t believe you said that.”

  “I can’t believe you don’t know what you got here. Hello, do you see the same thing I do? Well, all of it but the mess he made. Damn, he just fell into your lap.”

  “That’s trouble.”

  “That’s breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

  “You’re such a whore.”

  Maggie grinned and raised her hand. “Guilty. At least get his name and number when he wakes up.”

  “I’m not pimping for you.” Grace eyed the soldier, irritated at the thought of her friend doing everything with the guy she’d sworn she wouldn’t think about.

  Maggie snorted. “Not for me,” she poked her in the chest, “for you. You need to get laid, and something tells me he’s the guy for the mission.”

  “Help me get him inside.”

  “And…?”

  “And then you go home.”

  “Promise me you’ll at least think about jumping him.”

  “If I promise to think about it, will you help me get him in the house and leave?”

  She crossed her finger over her heart and smiled the kind of smile that usually started trouble. “Can I offer a suggestion?”

  “Yes?”

  “Get the dolly from the garage. Even with two of us, I don’t think we can carry him in.”

  When her grandparents left her the house, it came with accessories, and though that wasn’t the purpose for which the dolly was designed, it would work. “You’re a genius.”

  “Yeah, I am, huh?”

  Grace glanced across the street to make sure the old hen who lived there wasn’t up and spying. Usually the curtain would be cracked open, or she’d drive up and down the street on her Moped. The last thing she wanted was to be the topic of discussion at Wrinkle City on bingo night. In a small town, everyone knew you, and when grandma talked about you, the tales grew bigger by the second. She could only imagine the stories Mrs. Jones could concoct if she saw the two of them roll a man into her house while he was strapped to a dolly.

  Chapter Two

  Frank sat up, slammed his eyes shut, and pressed his hand over his forehead. “Ah, what did you do last night, Frank?”

  “You drank too much, played a horrendous solo on top of the mausoleum, and puked in my car.”

  “God. Please tell me I didn’t.”

  “Oh, but you did,”

  His eyes snapped back open and he searched the strange room for the source of the voice. When his gaze stopped on the strawberry blonde in an overstuffed easy chair, her leg draped over one of the arms, sipping a cup of coffee, he couldn’t look away. She wore a pair of red sweat-shorts and a worn T-shirt that had faded from black down through several shades of gray until it settled in
to a dingy, well-loved, pewter shade. A big Army logo ran across the front in bright yellow.

  Hu-ah.

  “You left your bike at the cemetery. When you’re ready, I’ll take you to get it.”

  “Who are you, and where am I?” Frank surveyed the room, searching for any memory of how he’d ended up there. The place was cozy, the woman gorgeous, and he certainly could have done worse. “Did we?” His head throbbed as he strained his brain for details. Certainly he wouldn’t forget hitting that.

  “My name is Grace Daniels.” She snorted and rose to her feet. His gaze immediately drifted back to a body that rocked the workout clothes she’d donned. “You can rest assured, we did nothing. I had to haul your ass in here on a dolly last night.”

  “Damn. Can we get a do over?”

  “How about we start with java instead?”

  “Yeah.” Grace Daniels. What were the chances? Frank rubbed his temple, trying his best to sooth the monster headache that threatened to split his skull. A dolly? Really? Did she say I puked in her car? Fuck. There went any chance of a good first impression. He’d have to clean that up as soon as he got his bearings.

  She moved for the kitchen, and his gaze followed her retreat. Her rounded butt swayed with each step, forcing him to shift his body on the couch and pull the blanket up to hide the emerging problem.

  She came back with a steaming cup and handed it to him. “Black, no sugar. Okay?”

  “Perfect.”

  “So, you were in my brother’s unit.”

  “No, but we served on the same post, were friends. Actually, that’s why I’m here.” He took a taste and sank into heaven. She even knew how to make a cup of coffee. Damn, how perfect could she be? Everything about this woman tripped his switches.

  Her eyes widened. “You’re not Special Forces.”

  He shook his head. “Nothing that glorious. Army band. I play trumpet and travel with the color guard.”