His heart aching, Rhys extended his hand across the table, and when she laid her fingers across his he gave them a squeeze. “You know I’ll always be here for you, Lee-Lee, but it’s these drive-by booty calls. They’re starting to hurt too much.”
“I know.”
It wasn’t just her fault. His face burned when Rhys thought of the daily texts he’d been sending her, with the rationale that “ex-fiancée” didn’t have to mean ex-friend.
Except maybe it did—maybe it had to, since it seemed they were both stuck in a rut neither one of them could get out of.
Rhys remained slumped in his seat as she got up and poured her mostly untouched coffee down the drain. “I’m gonna go.”
“You should probably take that with you.” He lifted his chin toward the M&M’s mug, digging his nails into his palms at the look of sadness that flitted across her face. She’d left it at his apartment on purpose, he knew—a piece of herself, a reminder of happier times.
Now it was just another way they were each keeping one foot in the past.
Grabbing her purse, Lani stuffed the mug inside, then smoothed her hands down the front of her wrinkled black dress.
“Time for the walk of shame, huh?” Her voice was husky with unshed tears.
Rhys’s throat tightened in response. “I’m leaving on that month-long training trip tonight, so I promise not to text you while we’re gone. Okay? Let’s do the giving-each-other-space thing for real this time.”
Since that’s what we agreed to. Not this half-assed shit.
“Okay.” Another beat of awkward silence before Lani leaned down to kiss him on the cheek. “Bye.”
Then she was gone.
With a groan, Rhys dropped his head onto his folded arms, until the sound of his phone buzzing broke into his misery. He flopped his hand out and pulled it to him, answering with a grunted, “What?”
“It happened again, didn’t it?”
“Aaron, don’t bust my balls—”
“Someone’s got to. Is she gone?”
“Just now. Is she on the phone with Sarah?”
“Yep. Right on cue.”
“Oh, God.” Rhys groaned again. “I’m sorry, man. We never meant to put you guys in the middle.”
“Don’t be sorry, just get a clue.” In spite of the harsh words, Aaron’s tone was gentle. “You’re not one of Lani’s girlfriends. You’re not her confidante. You’re now her ex. And we hate seeing the two of you hurting like this.”
Rhys pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes burning along with the throb in his foot. “What am I supposed to do? It’s that time of year again—” He broke off. “Of course she’s going to come to me.”
“Ah, man. I get it. You two have been through a lot together.” Aaron paused. “But sex isn’t therapy, and if you keep doing this, you’re always gonna be stuck in the past.”
“You’re right.” Rhys cleared his throat. And with me around, the past is always right there in front of her, which is why we both agreed we needed a change.
“I wouldn’t be a friend if I didn’t say something,” Aaron said softly. “You guys wanted to get out there and experience life, man. So do it. If you and Lani are meant to be, you will be.”
Rhys couldn’t help scoffing at the platitude, but Aaron was unfazed. “Fuck you, a cliché becomes a cliché for a reason. Hear what I’m sayin’?”
“Yeah, I hear you.” Straightening from his slouch, Rhys took a long, deliberate sip of his lukewarm coffee. “And we just agreed not to talk at all during this month I’ll be gone.”
“Good. You’ll be busy and she’ll be fine. She has Sarah, plenty of support.” Aaron yawned so big Rhys could hear his jaw crack. “Speaking of work, how’s it going?”
“Great. Platoon’s down a few dudes, though. Two got picked up for sniper training, another dumbass popped positive.”
Aaron caught his breath. “Weed?”
“No. Cocaine.”
With a whistle, Aaron said, “Flushing your damn career down the toilet for a cheap high. Well, that sucks. You guys’re next in the hopper for deployment, right? Sounds like you might need a few straphangers.”
“Yeah, keep your ears open. I’d love the chance to work with you.”
“Sarah will kill me, but you know I’ll be putting my name out there. My platoon’s having some of the same issues, sorry to say. There are lots of rumors floating around.”
Rhys winced, wondering where the hell this sudden explosion of drug use in the SEAL community had come from. Was it the slowdown in combat operations that left some hard-charging guys looking for a different kind of high after years of constant war?
Whatever the reason, it was sad.
Talk about ending your career on a low note.
“Well, if I hear anything on my end, I’ll put in a good word for you, man.”
“Thanks, Rhys.”
They said their goodbyes, and then Rhys stripped the bed before checking that all the lights were off, the appliances unplugged. His bags were already packed, ready and waiting by the door.
Before he determinedly powered his phone off and stuck it in his pocket, he sent one last text to Aaron.
Thanks for the tough love, I guess.
You’re welcome. Catch ya on the flip side.
It was a short drive from Rhys’s apartment in Imperial Beach to the SEAL training detachment headquarters on the nearby amphibious base. He parked on the outer edge of the huge lot, not far from where some hapless BUD/S students were jogging along the road on their way to chow, inflatable boats held high above their heads. Although it was only seven a.m., they were already soaking wet and covered head to toe in sand and grit.
Poor bastards.
Turning away from the students’ misery, Rhys gazed up at the building for a moment, unable to deny the trepidation quivering in his gut. When he’d announced the end of his engagement, every asshole he worked with offered an opinion, which Rhys had managed to listen to more or less politely until someone said, “Eh, go fuck someone else, dude. She probably is.”
The ensuing brawl had trashed both the bar and a few noses. Of course, seeing other people was the whole goddamn point, but that didn’t mean Rhys needed to hear drunken relationship advice from some idiot who had a wife and a secret girlfriend on the side.
After the troop chief had bailed the entire platoon out of jail, he told-slash-ordered Rhys to take some leave in order to get his shit together. Wisely, Rhys hadn’t argued, but now it was time to go back.
Despite everything, a frisson of excitement zinged through him. His personal life might be in tatters, but his professional one was really starting to heat up. Oh, yeah. But first, damage control. He’d busted some chops and the team guys would be looking for revenge.
Rhys buzzed in through the entrance at the back of the building and made his way up to the second deck where his platoon had their space. He pushed inside the door, bracing for whatever came next. SEALs weren’t exactly hug-it-out, forgive-and-forget kinds of dudes. In the next few seconds, he could very well find himself crammed in a janitor’s closet somewhere with his hands and feet duct taped together.
But instead of violence, he was greeted with apathy and glum faces.
“What’s up?” he asked cautiously. “The training trip been canceled?”
Someone grunted. “Nah, man. Worse.”
Worse? This training trip was an important component of their deployment workup. Without it, they wouldn’t get their certification to go downrange. What could be worse than it being canceled?
Nobody would elaborate, so Rhys sighed and went to the small fridge to grab a Rip-It energy drink. He propped his butt against the counter as he sipped it, studying them and waiting them out. It was a motley group currently sprawled about on the ragged chairs and couches, these men of SEAL Team Three, Task Unit Rebel, Delta platoon.
There was a former lawyer, two former cops, a couple guys not long out of high school—just a bunch of dudes from varying ba
ckgrounds with differing beliefs and outlooks, all of whom had been forged in the fires of BUD/S to come together as one cohesive unit.
Then there was Rhys. A team augmentee, or enabler, he was Air Force special ops—or Chair Force, as Smudge liked to rib—not Navy. As a pararescueman, his specialty was tactical medicine, his duty to handle any battlefield casualties, which would allow the more highly trained SEALs to keep their guns in the fight.
Since team guys always wanted to keep the “Doc” happy, he hadn’t been subjected to a whole lot of hazing, which he sort of regretted. Although brutal at times, new guy hazing was a time-honored and traditional form of team building, and Rhys couldn’t help but feel a sense of disconnect from the tight-knit camaraderie the rest of the guys enjoyed.
His little tantrum over Lani hadn’t helped, either.
Rhys crumpled the Rip-It can in his fist and tossed it into the recycling bin, wishing the guys would tell him what was going on.
Finally Smudge grunted, “Today marks the end of the world as we know it, boys.”
Answering grunts from around the room, but still no one said anything. Rhys grit his teeth, his patience with the cryptic looks and statements at an end.
“Someone tell me what the fuck is going on,” he snapped. “Now.”
Even that gauntlet tossed into the middle of a room full of alpha males didn’t get a response. At last Mullet—a redneck from Kentucky, so nicknamed because of his love for ’80s music—squinted in his direction.
“Just found out we’re gettin’ a female,” he growled in his thick Southern drawl.
Rhys stared at him, at a total loss. “What? What do you mean?”
“A female enabler.”
Rhys still couldn’t figure out what the problem was. There were plenty of women attached to the SEAL teams in support roles, serving as cryptotechs or in admin. They deployed with the teams, served with them. Maybe they weren’t assaulters or had boots on the ground during missions, but women were an integral and much-needed part of any task unit.
“And...?”
Mullet’s squint turned into a glare, and Rhys raised his hands. “I’m not trying to be an asshole. There are women everywhere in this building. What’s the problem?”
“The problem is she’s gonna be assaulting with us, numbnuts. She’s not in admin.”
An assaulter? Rhys was totally bewildered. Although ground combat units, including special operations, had officially opened to women, none had made it through the SEAL training pipeline, as far as he knew. Not yet.
The only woman he’d ever known of enabling a direct-action mission had been—
It hit him. “A CST? You’re getting an Army CST?” Nods around the room, and Rhys laughed in relief. “Guys, that’s a good thing. I worked with a CST on my first deployment as a PJ, which was what, four years ago? She was amazing, managed to gather intel about a cave complex that ended up shutting down a major explosives corridor.”
A few of the guys perked up at that. “You worked with a CST? Was she squared away?”
“Totally,” Rhys assured them. “Professional, fit. She had no problem keeping up with us on patrol.”
He’d never forget how she’d carried that injured interpreter on her back. The sheer determination on her face, the guts...
“Yeah?” Mullet crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “Well, this one we’re getting is, uh, problematic.”
“In what way?”
Before anyone could answer, the door opened to admit Lieutenant Bradley. “Gentlemen.”
None of the guys jumped to their feet or saluted, just sort of waved their hands at him. “Hey, El-Tee.”
“Meet the newest members of our platoon.” The lieutenant stood back to beckon two people into the room. “AO2 Knytych, and Ms. Lowe.”
A pin dropping at that moment would’ve sounded like a mortar shell exploding. Rhys’s gaze zeroed in on the woman in tailored Army blues who stood inside the doorway at ramrod attention, her face blank. His mouth went slack with shock. It was her; the CST from Afghanistan who’d made such a big impression on him.
Problematic?
Rhys watched as she scanned the room. When her gaze reached him, he could almost hear her gasp.
Oh, yeah, she remembered him, too.
Chapter Two
Devon couldn’t breathe.
Memories assaulted her from all sides. The smell of shit and dust. A black-and-white shemagh. A redheaded man’s kind green eyes and boyish smile, the same man looking at her now. Rhys, the PJ.
He’d been in Afghanistan with her. What in the world was he doing here? Did he know...?
With monumental effort, Devon pulled herself together. She wouldn’t do this. Not now. Not with all these men staring at her with a mixture of wariness and hostility written all over them.
Clearing her throat, Devon forced herself to sound breezy and unconcerned. “Hey, everyone. Looking forward to working with you.”
Nobody answered her. Devon clenched her fists and fought the temptation to turn and run.
C’mon, girl. Army strong.
Finally a huge Black dude with a shaved head stood and approached, hand out. “Hey,” he rumbled as they shook. “They call me Smudge.”
“Smudge?” She wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly.
A few hoots from around the room. “Tell her why, Smudgy!”
Devon gave him an encouraging look, even though she knew SEAL nicknames weren’t bestowed because of anything heroic or cool. It was usually something a guy wanted to forget, so of course that meant he was stuck with it forever.
“So get this.” A white guy wearing a Mötley Crüe T-shirt propped his elbow on her shoulder. Without missing a beat, Devon stepped back so it’d fall off. Why did some people think they had a right to touch others anytime they pleased? Oblivious, the guy moved closer again, right into her personal space. Devon froze, wondering if she should just let it go, not really wanting to make those sorts of waves in her first five minutes with the team.
As she agonized what to do, Rhys casually pushed in between them as if headed for a nearby couch. Heaving an inaudible sigh of relief, Devon was able to edge away from Mötley and get closer to the door.
By the time she’d tuned back into what he was saying, she’d missed most of the story but it had something to do with Smudge trying to imitate a SEAL movie by jumping out of a moving vehicle—while crossing a bridge.
“He hit the water with a splat,” Mötley enthused. “Total badass. When he finally made it to shore, though, the current had ripped his shorts off.”
Loud guffaws.
“His tighty-whities had a big old brown leaf on them, right over the butt. Looked like a skid mark.”
“You’re a skid mark.”
More laughter, along with some pushing and shoving.
Devon rolled her eyes. “Let me guess. You wouldn’t let them call you Skid Mark, so you compromised on Smudge.”
“Anyone calls me Skid Mark is gonna straight-up eat their teeth,” Smudge growled. “That’s a promise.”
Guys backed away from him with their hands up in mock fear, and one of them cackled, “We really wanted Shit-Stain, but...”
“Okay, people.” Bradley cut into the merriment. “We’re driving to Arizona tonight. Bad news is, our trip has been extended several days.” Before the grumbling could get too loud, he went on, “Good news is, we’ve been tapped to play OPFOR during Robin Sage.”
The groans turned into loud whoops.
“Yeah, I thought you’d like that.” Bradley gave a wolfish grin. “We get to make some dudes have a really bad day.”
A bolt of anticipation shot through Devon, too. Robin Sage was the culmination of Army special forces training, a ten-day exercise that was the last thing standing between a soldier and his coveted Green Beret. Even if she wouldn’t be allowed to participate and play part of the opposing force, at least she’d have a front-row seat.
“Get your gear squared away,” Bradley ordere
d. “Vans leave at 1800.” He turned and strode from the room.
There were a few beats of awkward silence, until Smudge pointed at Knytych. “Yo, fuckin’ new guy. What’d they call you in BUD/S?”
A faint smile quirked Knytych’s lips. “Alphabet Soup. Soup for short.” He pointed to his nameplate.
Some snorts came from the group.
“Well, Soup, FNGs in my platoon are to be seen and not heard. Got it? Keep your head down, your mouth shut and do what you’re told.”
“Got it.”
“Run over to the motor pool. Get two vans. Then take care of our bags.” With that, Smudge grabbed a soda from the fridge and plopped down on the couch to join the rest of the guys who’d turned on and were yelling at the UCLA game.
“Hey, it’s good to see you again.”
Devon glanced over to see Rhys smiling at her. He had his hands stuffed in the pockets of his cargo pants, a gesture she found extremely reassuring after what Mötley had done.
She hesitated a moment before returning the smile. “You, too. It’s been a while.” She could hear how cautious she sounded, but there was nothing in Rhys’s eyes except polite friendliness.
He doesn’t know.
“It has.” Rhys rocked back and forth on his heels. “I never did get to tell you how cool I thought your job was. I wish we could’ve gotten to work together on more than that one mission.”
Devon thought back to how careful he’d been with the Afghan men, how respectful. A twist of regret went through her; they would’ve made a good team.
“You were a total badass, Ms. Lowe,” he went on, his tone sincere. Devon flushed with pleasure, thinking how long it’d been since anyone had bothered to acknowledge what she’d accomplished professionally.
“Thanks. So were you. And the name’s Devon.”
“Hey!” Smudge boomed. “Bright white and stupid!” He pointed at Soup, obviously referring to his uniform. “Get a move-on!”
Keeping a Warrior Page 3