you!”
The following October, around Lisa’s birthday, she boarded another jet bound for San Diego. In the romantic California evening, Chris handed her a gift-wrapped package. Inside was peach-colored lingerie from Victoria’s Secret. She’d told him she’d wanted diamond earrings. She slipped on the lingerie.
“Uh,” breathed Lisa. “This color. I don’t think it really goes with my skin.”
“Here’s the receipt,” he said, handing it to her. “You can take it back.”
She dug deeper into the lingerie box and found another box. Inside was a pair of diamond earrings, a third of a karat each. Lisa Pace thanked Chris Hatton with sex.
Afterward, at dinner, Lisa reluctantly looked at her lover. “Uh, Chris.” For once, her words leaked slowly from her mouth. “I went to this party at this guy’s house. I drank too much. I spent the night, in his bed. But that was it, just slept there.”
“Who?” said Chris. “Who was it?”
“I don’t want to tell you his name or anything because that’s irrelevant. We kissed.” They kissed, hot, hungry, heavy-breathing kisses. “And it happened more than once. But I haven’t seen him in, like, three weeks.”
“I don’t believe you.” Hurt splashed across Chris’s dark brown eyes. “You wouldn’t be telling me this if you’d just kissed him.”
“He had a king-size bed, and I slept on one side, and he slept on the other. Nothing happened. I promise.”
“Well, how do you know if you were drunk?” Chris retorted.
“I wasn’t out-of-my-mind drunk. I’d just had too much to drive. And I know that I didn’t have sex with this person, and that’s what you’re implying. I think I’d know if I had sex with somebody or not.”
“Okay.” What else was there for him to say? He remembered all those times back in Round Rock when Lisa had flirted with him and everybody else in the room, all at the same time. He knew the way she touched him when they talked. He had seen the way she touched everyone when she talked. It intimidated him. And it scared him. Women just weren’t trustworthy.
“Well, I’m sorry,” Lisa replied to his silence.
“That really hurts.”
“Well . . . I felt really bad about it, so I thought I had to tell you. And now I told you, and I probably shouldn’t have told you. Whatever.” But her carefree, disgusted “whatever” belied the fact that Lisa felt like dirt for her indiscretion. She truly loved Chris Hatton.
Hatton had truly trusted Lisa Pace. Suddenly that trust was forever tainted.
Not long after Lisa Pace left San Diego, Chris Hatton got caught for driving his Chevy S-10 truck on post without insurance. “Do not drive this vehicle until you get insurance for it,” the MPs told him. Hatton didn’t get the insurance.
He was promoted to E-4 Seaman and went out with his Navy buddies to celebrate. Sometime between two-thirty and three o’clock in the November morning, the celebration turned dark. Chris Hatton got stopped for drunk driving. He was written up for DUI, no insurance, and speeding. He was sent to jail.
His truck was towed, and when he got out of jail, he couldn’t locate it. Nor could he locate his buddies. He didn’t have any money to get back to the ship, and when he finally made it back, he was in big trouble.
Hatton was given extra duty, lost his promotion, and lost his Christmas leave. He was confined to the ship, allowed to work or eat, then go back to his bunk. If he went to the head, a guard accompanied him.
I can’t stand it, I can’t stand it, I can’t stand it, went through Lisa Pace’s brain. Those were the words Chris Hatton had spoken so many times when her mother had come home drunk. Now he’d gotten a DUI. And lost his Christmas leave.
Chris Hatton couldn’t stand it, either. He put on his black Skivvies and a wet suit, tucked his cash and plane ticket into a plastic Baggie, crammed the Baggie between his body and the wet suit, slipped over the ship’s
The following October, around Lisa’s birthday, she boarded another jet bound for San Diego. In the romantic California evening, Chris handed her a gift-wrapped package. Inside was peach-colored lingerie from Victoria’s Secret. She’d told him she’d wanted diamond earrings. She slipped on the lingerie.
“Uh,” breathed Lisa. “This color. I don’t think it really goes with my skin.”
“Here’s the receipt,” he said, handing it to her. “You can take it back.”
She dug deeper into the lingerie box and found another box. Inside was a pair of diamond earrings, a third of a karat each. Lisa Pace thanked Chris Hatton with sex.
Afterward, at dinner, Lisa reluctantly looked at her lover. “Uh, Chris.” For once, her words leaked slowly from her mouth. “I went to this party at this guy’s house. I drank too much. I spent the night, in his bed. But that was it, just slept there.”
“Who?” said Chris. “Who was it?”
“I don’t want to tell you his name or anything because that’s irrelevant. We kissed.” They kissed, hot, hungry, heavy-breathing kisses. “And it happened more than once. But I haven’t seen him in, like, three weeks.”
“I don’t believe you.” Hurt splashed across Chris’s dark brown eyes. “You wouldn’t be telling me this if you’d just kissed him.”
“He had a king-size bed, and I slept on one side, and he slept on the other. Nothing happened. I promise.”
“Well, how do you know if you were drunk?” Chris retorted.
“I wasn’t out-of-my-mind drunk. I’d just had too much to drive. And I know that I didn’t have sex with this person, and that’s what you’re implying. I think I’d know if I had sex with somebody or not.”
“Okay.” What else was there for him to say? He remembered all those times back in Round Rock when Lisa had flirted with him and everybody else in the room, all at the same time. He knew the way she touched him when they talked. He had seen the way she touched everyone when she talked. It intimidated him. And it scared him. Women just weren’t trustworthy.
“Well, I’m sorry,” Lisa replied to his silence.
“That really hurts.”
“Well . . . I felt really bad about it, so I thought I had to tell you. And now I told you, and I probably shouldn’t have told you. Whatever.” But her carefree, disgusted “whatever” belied the fact that Lisa felt like dirt for her indiscretion. She truly loved Chris Hatton.
Hatton had truly trusted Lisa Pace. Suddenly that trust was forever tainted.
Not long after Lisa Pace left San Diego, Chris Hatton got caught for driving his Chevy S-10 truck on post without insurance. “Do not drive this vehicle until you get insurance for it,” the MPs told him. Hatton didn’t get the insurance.
He was promoted to E-4 Seaman and went out with his Navy buddies to celebrate. Sometime between two-thirty and three o’clock in the November morning, the celebration turned dark. Chris Hatton got stopped for drunk driving. He was written up for DUI, no insurance, and speeding. He was sent to jail.
His truck was towed, and when he got out of jail, he couldn’t locate it. Nor could he locate his buddies. He didn’t have any money to get back to the ship, and when he finally made it back, he was in big trouble.
Hatton was given extra duty, lost his promotion, and lost his Christmas leave. He was confined to the ship, allowed to work or eat, then go back to his bunk. If he went to the head, a guard accompanied him.
I can’t stand it, I can’t stand it, I can’t stand it, went through Lisa Pace’s brain. Those were the words Chris Hatton had spoken so many times when her mother had come home drunk. Now he’d gotten a DUI. And lost his Christmas leave.
Chris Hatton couldn’t stand it, either. He put on his black Skivvies and a wet suit, tucked his cash and plane ticket into a plastic Baggie, crammed the Baggie between his body and the wet suit, slipped over the ship’s
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