LITMIR.BIZ

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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.

      Mitzi handed him and his brother a can of soda, presumably to cool them off. Bruce popped the top. “What’s this I hear about you needing a tutor?”

      “So you’re just going to change the subject?” Keith accused, tapping his can before opening it.

      “Skinny, dark-haired girl. Lives around the corner from us.” Bruce held his ground.

      His brother wavered under his steady scrutiny. “Kelly Casey. I help her with math, she helps me with Spanish.”

      “Since when do you need help with Spanish?”

      With Bruce on the offense, Keith became defensive. “Since…whenever.”

      “Mom mentioned your grades were slipping.”

      “One lousy B on a calculus test.”

      More than one, according to their mother. “You’re better than that,” Bruce said. “And by the way, Heather stopped by today.”

      “So?” Keith took a big gulp of pop and hid whatever it was he felt for Heather behind a shrug.

      Was Heather the reason for Keith’s general lack of interest in continuing education? Did he think he was going to marry her? Live happily ever after?

      Bruce glanced over at Mitzi, involved in discussion with her DEPers. It looked as if they were getting ready for physical training. She’d changed into gray sweatpants. Dark blue letters spelled out Navy down one leg. She wore a snug gray T-shirt that showed off the athletic lines of her body from her slender neck to her slim wrists.

      He could circle those wrists with one hand. Band them like steel. Hold them above her head. Kiss all the hollows of her neck. She’d put up a fight at first because she hated giving up control.

      She glanced back, caught him drooling over her breasts and signaled her displeasure with the tilt of her chin. Then she gathered her crew and headed outside.

      Bruce watched her all the way out the door. His self-imposed abstinence had gone on too long. Eighteen months too long. He hadn’t gone that long since… He’d never gone that long.

      Did Estrada know the secrets to her surrender?

      Would the schoolteacher be the one snuggling up next to her for the rest of his life? Bruce could have had that lifetime commitment. Before his injury it had seemed that clear. After, all muddled.

      But no one married their high school sweetheart.

      Least of all a Marine.

      “Girls can cloud a guy’s judgment,” he continued. “Maybe you and Heather should think about taking a break for a while. At least until after graduation.” He knew firsthand that break meant break up. “And I don’t want your girlfriend and her friends hanging around the office anymore, either.”

      “Heather’s not my girlfriend,” Keith said. “We haven’t dated since eighth grade.”

      Eighth grade? The kid was dating in eighth grade?

      Bruce hadn’t started dating until… Okay, Mitzi had been in ninth grade, but he’d been in eleventh—a junior. It took a lot of restraint for a guy to wait that long for a girl. The wait had been worth it, though.

      Definitely worth it at the time.

      “She was wearing your jacket,” Bruce pointed out. He didn’t know what they called it these days—dating, not dating, hooking up. But back in his day, a guy gave up his letterman jacket for only one of two reasons. He was getting laid. Or he wanted to get laid. “Are you sleeping with Heather? And her friend? Because that’s just asking for trouble.”

      Keith pushed to his feet again, fists balled. “What business is it of yours anyway?”

      Bruce was back on his feet, too. “You damn well better be using a condom. Every time,” he warned. “You have your whole life ahead of you. Don’t screw it up!”

      Keith snatched his backpack. “Who are you to give me relationship

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