Max, Alex and Kyle
Winner - Round 8
Freefall
Author: Carol000
E-mail: mschanche@aol.com
Category: M/L, but AU
Rating: The whole spectrum, ADULT
Disclaimer: It’s my humble opinion that the statute of limitations on owning characters who were abused and misused minors has run out. I’d like to claim them for myself, of course, but the accompanying legal hyperventilation would be ugly, so I’ll bow to the law and admit they aren’t mine, though everyone knows I’d take very good care of them.
Author’s Note: I have several comments to make before we begin, so please behr with me.
1. This story was born around a large table on a vast deck at the Hotel Coronado in San Diego. Several Rospals, many of them authors you know and love, were there on a sunny day by the ocean, basking in atmosphere, friendship, and Roswell memories. A fighter jet flew over, and my secret lust for them became immediately apparent. Well, you know how one thing leads to another—they laughed, then encouraged, then challenged. When we left that day, Max the fighter pilot was born, and I had promised to tell his story.
2. I’ve never written AU without aliens before, so I fear my wonderful readers may be surprised by my Max and Liz just a little. They are still the people we love, but they are older and wiser, and carry just a bit more baggage than the innocents I usually write about. So go into this with that knowledge and expectation—these are adults who have seen some of the world (sometimes too much). Love them anyway.
3. I did my research—you knew I would. So I will confess up front to some startling discoveries (to me) that I consciously decided to ignore: a)Top Gun is no longer at Miramar, it’s in Nevada somewhere. Oh well. It’s at Miramar in this story! b) The Navy doesn’t use the term “rank,” they use “rate” (don’t ask me why), but I’ve used rank because I’m afraid “rate” would just confuse everyone. c) There are limits to my research—if I have described a scene that would have been handled differently in the military, I apologize. I asked my husband (Army Corps of Engineers civilian, but constantly works with the military), the vets at work, and the Web; I’ve done the best I could.
4. The places named in San Diego are real except for the restaurant (SeaGate) and the radio/tv stations.
5. Here’s the most important one: Max is the hero of this story. I always write Liz as strong, smart, and independent. In this story, she’s smart and independent, but not as strong as my usual Liz. I love heroes. I love Max. Max is my hero, and for a change, he’s not quite so vulnerable as Max the alien. But he’s every bit as gentle, loving, and devoted to Liz, so I hope you can open your heart to him.
Part 1
A shadow fled across the tarmac like a hawk chasing unseen prey. Max squinted against the sun and watched the F14 disappear into the distance. He would never stop thrilling to the powerful vibration that rolled through his chest or the blinding flash of silver that left him blinking each time the sleek fighter jet bulleted through the sky. They were his passion, his pride, and his profession.
“Welcome to Miramar, sir.” The lieutenant snapped to attention, nearly forgetting the clipboard in his hand as he began to salute. “We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.”
Max noted the southern drawl and remembered reading that the unit had a hotshot pilot from Alabama. “At ease, Lieutenant. I’m not officially here til tomorrow. Just wanted to take a look around, breathe a little exhaust.”
Lt. Jeremy Ames couldn’t stop the spontaneous grin. “Yes sir. Plenty of that to go around.”
Eyes to the sky, Max breathed deeply. “Anybody going up this afternoon? I wouldn’t mind taking a spin.”
Jeremy noted with approval the barely restrained excitement in his new CO’s eyes. This was no fly-by-nighter looking for the fast track to rank and a desk—though from what he’d heard, Lt. Commander Max Evans was the youngest man ever to achieve that rank. This one knew the thrill, felt his blood fire at the feel of the throttle in his hand and the eight G’s pressing him against the seat. Shit, he’d come early just to inhale the damn fumes. Looked like his rep was right on target; he was the real deal.
“Owens will be up in an hour,” he said. “He’s putting a new F/A-18 through its paces.”
Max didn’t move, but Jeremy saw the muscles tense, saw the flash light a fire that made amber eyes go gold.
“E or F?”
“F.”
Super Hornet. The two-seater. Hell, yeah, he was goin’ for a ride. He’d tested those honeys aboard the USS John C. Stennis back in 1997, one of his first assignments. But in Iraq, it had been the F-14 Tomcat that he had flown over hostile territory, that he had fought in to protect the troops below, that he’d bailed out of when the anti-aircraft fire had found its mark. No one knew that, of course, at least no one outside his own chain of command. As far as the public was concerned, there had been no fighter battles over Iraq. That didn’t matter, he knew his actions and those of his squadron had saved hundreds of American and civilian Iraqi lives, and that’s all he needed to know. He rubbed his shoulder absently. It still ached from time to time, but friends had seen worse. He wore his purple heart; others were buried with theirs.
Pushing aside the morbid thoughts that caught up with him all too often, he kept his face neutral and turned to Lt. Ames.
“Let Owens know he’s got a RIO for the test run.”
“Yessir.” Jeremy bit back a smile, recognizing feigned calm when he saw it. “Shouldn’t be long. He’s just waiting for Parker to give the okay.”
“Parker?” Max frowned, trying to place the name. He didn’t remember a Parker in the files.
“Civilian consultant, sir. Never saw anybody could tickle an engine like that before and spit on my wings if I’m lyin’.”
Amusement played on Max’s lips as he watched Jeremy trot off to find Owens and, no doubt, to share his first impressions of the new CO.
********
Thaddeus Owens, call sign Goliath, spiraled through the clouds in a series of rolls that would have made a lesser man reach for a bag to hurl his lunch into; he was gratified to hear his new CO chuckling with pleasure. As he dipped and banked like a little boy maneuvering a paper airplane, he could tell he liked the new guy already.
“Wanna take her, sir?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” Max answered, already taking the craft into a sharp incline. The two men indulged their appreciation for speed and fine machinery for almost 45 minutes before landing. When they emerged from the cockpit, they had already bonded.
“Nicely done, Lieutenant,” Max grinned as they walked toward the hangar. A huge smile split the pilot’s ebony face.
“Thank you, sir. Right back atcha.”
“Make a note about that vibration in the nose Vulcan chamber, and I want a rundown on the F414 turbo-fan engine; the thrust isn’t quite what I expected.”
“Will do, sir. Parker’ll have it worked out before we take ’er up again.”
“That’s the civilian consultant, right? Why aren’t our guys doing the work on this?”
“Oh, they do, sir, mostly. But Parker’s the best. The guys just like to watch and learn.”
Curious, Max opened his mouth to ask for more detail, but closed it again when a voice called out from the small office next to the hangar, and a slightly built officer in coveralls jogged toward them.
“Thad! Charisse called. Said you’d better not be late or she’ll burn your ass . . . Sir! Sorry, sir.”
The slim figure skidded to a stop, bolted to attention, and delivered a stiff salute. “I didn’t recognize . . . no one told me . . . Sorry, sir.”
It took several seconds before Max could confirm what the voice had told him; what the coveralls covered was a woman. Tall, slim, and sharp-featured, her blue eyes peered through a smudged face, but even with her auburn hair ruthlessly pulled back into some kind of twist, her smooth skin and fine bones were a dead giveaway.
Even as he tried to match the name on the uniform—O’Hara—with his mental staff list, Max had to chuckle, both at the sudden change in demeanor of the young ensign and at the thought that anyone, let alone a woman named Charisse, thought she could intimidate the brawny man at his side. He had muscles on top of muscles, and although he was shorter than Max, there was little mystery as to the origins of his call sign “Goliath.” On the other hand, Max thought as he saw something flicker over Owens’ face, a woman was probably the only person who could keep a man like this in line.
“At ease, Ensign. I’m only prowling around for now. Just took a spin with Lt. Owens here. And you are?”
“Ensign O’Hara, sir. Folks call me Frankie. For Francis. It was my grandmother’s . . .”
She stopped abruptly, silently cursing herself for talking too much, he was sure. She was in communications, he remembered, though that didn’t jibe with the grime-smeared face. And she was no doubt wondering what her new commander was going to be like. His rank was new, he reminded himself. Brand spanking new, in fact, and he was still learning how to balance military discipline with a rapport of trust and respect with his officers. She’d addressed a lieutenant by his first name and made some overly casual personal comments during duty hours. That didn’t reflect military protocol, yet Owens hadn’t batted an eye. The lieutenant read his thoughts with unnerving accuracy.
“Sir, Frankie is my best friend’s little sister. We practically grew up together. We tend to forget rank when we’re alone. Or think we are,” he finished with a sharp look of warning in her direction.
“I see,” Max said, feeling her tension radiate. It was a small and understandable infraction. Certainly not on his radar as a battle worth fighting. “Good to know.”
He turned his attention back to the rigid ensign. “You run into a coal truck, Ensign?”
“Oh, no sir. I was trying to change the cartridge on the copier and it . . . sort of . . . exploded. I’ve had easier times wrestling the enemy in war games, sir.”
The urge to laugh caught him off guard; he managed to suppress the sound but couldn’t contain the smile. “War is hell,” he sympathized, then turned back to his pilot, whose narrowed eyes shot daggers at the ensign. “Thanks for the ride, Lt. Owens. I’ll see you tomorrow, 0800 hours.”
“Yes sir.”
“And Owens?”
“Sir?”
“Sounds like you’d better get a move on, too.”
Thad’s amusement was thinly disguised, but he offered a serious, “Yes, sir,” and took off toward the office at a jog.
********
It was hot, in spite of the nice breeze, and Max’s t-shirt was clinging to him like a wet tissue. Disgusted, he peeled it off, tossed it into the back of the Explorer, and hefted another box. He didn’t own much, he reflected, so why was it taking forever to get it out of his car and into his apartment?
The answer was simple, he thought with a scowl. His sister had helped him pack, so every box held only half of what he could have squeezed into it. She’d wrapped every damn thing separately, even his CD cases. Weren’t CD cases already wrapped by definition? He decided to ignore his gratitude that each box was also labeled so he could at least find things until everything was unpacked and put away. Which wasn’t going to happen until the truck arrived with his few pieces of furniture. Since his was only a partial load, it could still be a day or two.
He strained under the burden of his weight set—all packed in one box, he realized with an oath. Evidently, Vicki’s criteria was simply that they all fit in the box; hadn’t it occurred to her that they would weigh too much that way? Vicki prided herself on logic, but the fact was, she was just a little ditzy sometimes. Muttering under his breath, he headed inside.
Liz Parker swung into the parking lot, slammed on the brakes, and laid on the horn. Some jerk had parked in a no parking zone and left only the barest opening for other cars to squeeze through. Seeing no one nearby, she pushed out of the car and strode toward the offending SUV, hands on hips and loaded for bear. Boxes were jammed into the car in a tight and efficient pattern, and a disgusting sweaty shirt lay in a heap on the floor. A man. It figured.
“Hey, Liz!”
Looking up, Liz saw Jesse and Spike, two neighbors, waving from the third-floor balcony. Despite their names, they were beautiful women whose obvious attributes sometimes made Liz feel . . . well, inadequate. Jesse had come from Mexico and looked the part—short but curvy, straight black hair, large brown eyes, and a natural tan Liz would have killed for. By contrast, Spike was tall, blond, and built. It took a lot of confidence to hang out with them, but they’d never been anything but friendly, so she waved back.
“So who thinks he’s above parking in a real space like the regular folk?” she called up.
“Wait til you see him!” Spike’s stage whisper and the roll of her eyes made Liz laugh. It was like being in high school.
“Oh yeah? Well, he’s blocking my way.”
“One look and you won’t care,” Jesse agreed. “He’s to die for!”
“Well, if he doesn’t get out here and move this gas-guzzling hulk of a car, he just might.”
“Might what?” Max asked as he hurried back outside with what he hoped was a charming smile. She swung her head back in his direction as he shrugged. “I might as well find out if it’s worth it.”
Liz lost her power of speech. Gaping like a landed trout, she forgot to breathe. At the gym, they would have called him ripped. Every muscle stood in drool-inducing definition; the skin was tan and smooth; the eyes were deep and penetrating; the jeans damp and tight. And the smile . . . if the smile had been arrogant or even just cocky, she could have gathered her wits; after all, she spent every day with hot shot pilots and military types, and she knew how to handle the brag and swagger. But this . . . this smile was slightly sheepish, slightly apologetic, slightly gorgeous. She’d been sucker punched.
“I . . . uh, I . . .” She gestured back toward her car.
Now that Max had a closer look, he, too, was staring. She was dark, petite, with huge intelligent brown eyes that sparkled with promise; they were the beacons highlighting an enticing face with delicate features, an aristocratic nose, and framed by thick dark hair that cascaded past her shoulders like a shimmering curtain. He was glad she was stuttering. It gave him a few seconds to avoid doing the same.
“I never expected to take this long to unpack the car. I’m in your way. I’ll move.”
She watched as he closed the back of the car and hustled to the driver’s seat. In her mind, he moved in slow motion. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction—a basic premise of physics, a science that dictated her professional life. How true it was, she thought dully, since every action he took caused her to brace against the jolt of reaction. He was already parking a few spaces away before she shook herself and climbed into her own car. She didn’t even hear her friends laughing above her.
Feeling foolish and annoyed with herself, Liz parked her car, took a deep breath, and prepared to start over. It was the least she could do after coming on like a ton of bricks and then letting hormones turn her brain to slush. He hadn’t even been a jerk. He was just moving in. She could cut the guy some slack.
Summoning her dignity, she emerged from her car, grabbed her briefcase, and ambled over—at least she thought she was ambling; she wasn’t sure she had ever specifically tried to before—to make amends.
“Sorry I bit your head off just now. I’ve had a long day and was a little too eager to just hit the pool and relax.”
If she hadn’t said “pool,” and opened the door to his fertile imagination, he could have kept it together. As it was, his thinking fuzzed a bit, and he struggled to come up with an appropriate response.
“I could go for a swim.”
Dear god. He’d said it out loud. He was almost sure of it. Yeah, from the look on her face, he was positive.
“I mean, I’ve had a long day, too.” He gestured vaguely to the car. “Moving.”
“Well, then, I guess we’re neighbors.” She offered her hand. “I’m Liz.”
He wiped his hand on already damp jeans and took hers. “Max.”
“So, Max, can I help you carry something?”
That lethal smile erupted on his face again. “Thanks, but it looks like you’re already carrying something.”
She glanced down at her briefcase. “Yeah, well, maybe something light?”
He frowned at the boxes and then threw her a skeptical look. Her chin came up in challenge.
“I tell you what I’d really like is something to drink. Got anything cold at your place?”
Her eyebrow arched and her smile became a smirk. “Slickly done, ace. Let’s compromise. I’ll bring you a cold beer . . . at the pool. Half an hour?”
“You’re on.”
*****
She’d actually spent several minutes choosing her bathing suit, telling herself it was about evening out tan lines and not about making a good impression on Max. She knew better of course, since her thought process had little to do with tan lines. Besides, it was pretty late in the day to worry about a tan. She was afraid the two-piece might be too inviting; after all, she didn’t want to appear eager . . . or worse. The bikini was definitely out. The one piece was very flattering, but might come off as a bit prudish. In the end, she went with the tankini. It was slightly more revealing without giving away the farm. And it still gave her a chance to show off her new belly button ring.
Satisfied, she slipped on a cover-up and sandals, pulled her hair back, picked up a towel and the beers, and headed down to the pool. She chastised herself for feeling disappointment when he wasn’t there yet. He was moving, for heaven’s sake. He probably realized he didn’t have time to relax yet. Or maybe someone stopped in to help. A friend. A girlfriend. Of course. A man like that would have a girlfriend. Maybe she was moving in, too, in which case the whole exchange in the parking lot was pretty tacky. Figures she’d find herself attracted to . . .
“Something wrong?”
She whirled around, embarrassed, and wondered if she’d been muttering. She had a tendency to do that.
“No, I . . . I brought your beer.”
Finding her arm stuck straight out like a proud child offering a treasure, she wished fervently she’d just stayed at work.
“Thanks.” He gestured to the other beer. “Going to join me?”
She sighed, chalked it all up to experience, and relaxed. “Sure.”
San Diego weather couldn’t be beat, he thought. Blue sky, mild temperatures, constant breeze, and plenty of sunshine. Sunshine that brought people outside to relax, to exercise, and to . . . wear sexy little bathing suits. He watched Liz shed her cover up and settle onto the lounge chair next to his. She took a deep breath that expanded her chest and caused the modest top to inch up so he caught a glimpse of a tiny gold sandal dangling from her belly button. The gleaming little surprise was doing unexpected, erotic things to his system.
“To neighbors,” she said, offering her beer up for a toast.
“Neighbors,” he repeated and forced his eyes back to hers as the bottles clinked. A little thrill shot through her at the look in his eye. It’s not that she was trying to seduce him or anything, she assured herself, but hanging out with Jesse and Spike had kept her off men’s radar in a lot of situations lately, and it felt good to have a man’s attention. Especially this man. A gorgeous, personable man who was blissfully unrelated to the military.
Closing her eyes and lifting her face to the sun, Liz took another swallow and shifted comfortably. She couldn’t see Max’s appreciative gaze as she started the small talk.
“Where’re you from?”
“This move is from Florida. How about you? You a native?”
“No, I grew up in New Mexico, but I’ve been in California for a couple years. Just moved to San Diego about 18 months ago, though.”
“Job, I assume?”
Liz hesitated. She was proud of her work, and she knew how to make her way in a man’s field, but she was also aware her profession could intimidate men on occasion, and she wanted to indulge in this little fantasy a while longer. Ignoring the guilt, she chose which truths to share.
“Yeah, a promotion brought me here. It’s a great city to live in.”
“So what do you do?”
Mentally crossing her fingers and issuing a little prayer of apology, she told the truth—albeit a wildly misleading version. “I’m a designer.”
“Really? I’m impressed. I’m no good at that sort of thing. Maybe when I get unpacked, you can stop by and give me some ideas for my place. I let my sister decorate my last place. Never again. I felt like I was living in a dollhouse.”
Liz laughed and Max soaked in the pleasant sound.
“And what do you do?” Liz asked.
“Hey, Liz!”
Jesse and Spike descended in a rush of chatter and activity. These two clearly hadn’t been concerned about appearing obvious, Liz noticed with chagrin, and fought the urge to glare at them. Couldn’t they let her have one? Just this once?
“Max, these are two of your neighbors, Jesse Santo and Spike Johansson. They’re roommates, third floor.”
“Max,” Spike purred, leaning over to shake his hand and her cleavage. “A pleasure.”
Max couldn’t miss the view, but found himself wishing he’d had more time alone with Liz. Women often approached him, and he always tried to be gracious, but he’d felt something . . . more . . . with Liz.
“Nice to meet you both. Spike, is it? That’s an unusual nickname.”
“I know,” she sighed, as though it were a heavy burden. “But I can’t seem to shake it, so I’ve learned to live with it. Most people figure out pretty quickly I’m not a man,” she winked with a laugh, and bent to arrange her towel on the chair to his left, offering visible proof with another provocative view. Liz nearly growled.
“It fits,” Jesse insisted, stripping to her one-piece, though the piece was very small and barely connected in places. She put her towel on the concrete at the foot of the other three chaises and stretched out luxuriously, legs posed at their best advantage. “For one thing, nobody spikes a volleyball like her. Your team has won the rec league . . . what? 3 years running?”
“Four,” Spike corrected.
“Yeah, and she’s the only female I know who can walk around in spike heels for days at a time without her feet filing for divorce. Gives her kick-ass legs, but man, I’d die. Not to mention it makes her like 6 feet tall.”
“Over, actually, but I like being tall,” she huffed. “What do you think, Max? Is a tall woman too intimidating?” She turned to him with pouty eyes and a mouth to match.
“Don’t answer her, Max,” Jesse warned. “It’s a lose/lose proposition.”
Max took refuge in silence and swallowed more beer. He wasn’t sure how it had happened, but he was the center of poolside conversation with three beautiful women—scantily clad women at that—on his first day in residence. Although he would have preferred being alone with Liz, he figured most men would figure it was a pretty decent first day.
At least it was until Liz gathered her things, muttering something about work to do, and went inside. He watched her go, already working on how to arrange their next meeting.
I wasn't trying to be mean, honest. I just know how fragile and uncertain Liz is, but I think our Max is up to the task. You'll see what I mean. 
