found out she was still talking to him, he'd make his chief's life a living hell at work.
I should never have told Bronco Max's secret.
Heaving a troubled sigh, she plodded to the trashcan to throw away the paper towel. Then again, if she hadn't told him, would she dare to even think of leaving Max? It was Bronco's moral support that made her feel brave. Still, she ought to have relied on her girlfriends for support. If only they could grasp what life with Max was like. She had been told more than once by her colleagues that she was lucky to be married to a high-ranking SEAL.
Don't you talk bad about your husband, girl, one of them had scolded her. Think about what he's gone through for our country. Didn't he earn a Bronze Star?
The wives of other SEALs weren't quite so adamant. Maddy had merely suggested she was approaching the four year itch, one year early. It'll pass, she'd promised.
Only Bronco really understood that life with Max was often scary. Like her, he seemed to recognize the potential menace lying latent in his commander. And unlike her friends, he encouraged her to think for herself, to trust her intuition.
Seeing Max's key ring on the counter instead of hanging on the hook where it belonged, she scooped it in her palm, weighing its heaviness as she went to hang it up. The set of keys struck her as a symbol of her captivity. As she slid it on the hook mounted by the door, the smallest key on the end caught her eye. The number 2850, etched into the bronze head, identified it at once.
It was the key to her old post office box. She frowned down at it.
Before marrying Max, in the absence of a permanent address, she had kept a mailbox at the Princess Ann Post Office. But she hadn't used it since their marriage. So what was Max doing carrying it around?
With a shrug, she decided she would ask him later and proceeded into the laundry room to move their clothes from the washer to the dryer. Max didn't like his clothes being left to wrinkle.
Half an hour later, she was folding the white load on their bed when he hurried into the room, stripping off his sweaty T-shirt.
"Damn it—I've got a golf game with Admiral Johansen in half an hour. Can't be late for the admiral."
He shucked off the rest of his clothes and stalked naked into their en suite to shower. Rebecca tore her gaze off his broad back. Max was getting fat.
Minutes later, he emerged with his hair damp, still toweling off his mat of chest hair. Grateful for his haste, which would keep him from making any sexual advances, she remained quiet while he pawed irritably through his drawers, hunting for his golfing socks. This was not the best time to ask him why he carried around her old mailbox key.
Dressing in record time, he came over to drop a kiss on her dry lips before heading to the door. "I'll be back in three hours."
"Play well," she called, feeling a distinct pressure ease off her shoulders as he walked away.
A moment later, the door between the laundry room and the garage slammed shut. She listened to the automated garage door rumble open and then close again. At last she was alone and free to take action.
But Max would have armed the security system before leaving, the way he always did under the premise of keeping her "safe" inside. He would know if she left the house because, of course, the system would send a message to his phone when she opened the garage to let herself out. He would also know how long she'd been gone when she opened it again upon her return.
First, she had to think of an excuse. Because sure as Max would throw the game to keep the admiral happy, he would interrogate her when he got back—where had she gone and what had she done? With her heart already beating faster, she abandoned the clothes she had yet to put away and hurried to the other side of the house to the laundry room. The camera in the kitchen couldn't film her behind the laundry room door where she opened the half-full bottle of detergent and poured the
I should never have told Bronco Max's secret.
Heaving a troubled sigh, she plodded to the trashcan to throw away the paper towel. Then again, if she hadn't told him, would she dare to even think of leaving Max? It was Bronco's moral support that made her feel brave. Still, she ought to have relied on her girlfriends for support. If only they could grasp what life with Max was like. She had been told more than once by her colleagues that she was lucky to be married to a high-ranking SEAL.
Don't you talk bad about your husband, girl, one of them had scolded her. Think about what he's gone through for our country. Didn't he earn a Bronze Star?
The wives of other SEALs weren't quite so adamant. Maddy had merely suggested she was approaching the four year itch, one year early. It'll pass, she'd promised.
Only Bronco really understood that life with Max was often scary. Like her, he seemed to recognize the potential menace lying latent in his commander. And unlike her friends, he encouraged her to think for herself, to trust her intuition.
Seeing Max's key ring on the counter instead of hanging on the hook where it belonged, she scooped it in her palm, weighing its heaviness as she went to hang it up. The set of keys struck her as a symbol of her captivity. As she slid it on the hook mounted by the door, the smallest key on the end caught her eye. The number 2850, etched into the bronze head, identified it at once.
It was the key to her old post office box. She frowned down at it.
Before marrying Max, in the absence of a permanent address, she had kept a mailbox at the Princess Ann Post Office. But she hadn't used it since their marriage. So what was Max doing carrying it around?
With a shrug, she decided she would ask him later and proceeded into the laundry room to move their clothes from the washer to the dryer. Max didn't like his clothes being left to wrinkle.
Half an hour later, she was folding the white load on their bed when he hurried into the room, stripping off his sweaty T-shirt.
"Damn it—I've got a golf game with Admiral Johansen in half an hour. Can't be late for the admiral."
He shucked off the rest of his clothes and stalked naked into their en suite to shower. Rebecca tore her gaze off his broad back. Max was getting fat.
Minutes later, he emerged with his hair damp, still toweling off his mat of chest hair. Grateful for his haste, which would keep him from making any sexual advances, she remained quiet while he pawed irritably through his drawers, hunting for his golfing socks. This was not the best time to ask him why he carried around her old mailbox key.
Dressing in record time, he came over to drop a kiss on her dry lips before heading to the door. "I'll be back in three hours."
"Play well," she called, feeling a distinct pressure ease off her shoulders as he walked away.
A moment later, the door between the laundry room and the garage slammed shut. She listened to the automated garage door rumble open and then close again. At last she was alone and free to take action.
But Max would have armed the security system before leaving, the way he always did under the premise of keeping her "safe" inside. He would know if she left the house because, of course, the system would send a message to his phone when she opened the garage to let herself out. He would also know how long she'd been gone when she opened it again upon her return.
First, she had to think of an excuse. Because sure as Max would throw the game to keep the admiral happy, he would interrogate her when he got back—where had she gone and what had she done? With her heart already beating faster, she abandoned the clothes she had yet to put away and hurried to the other side of the house to the laundry room. The camera in the kitchen couldn't film her behind the laundry room door where she opened the half-full bottle of detergent and poured the
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