He waved toward the other seat, and with a grin, Devon plopped into it.
For the next several minutes they “flew” together, making zooming noises and pretending to do barrel rolls and other aerobatics. She burst out laughing when Rhys smashed his face into the little side window in response to a “roll.”
It was juvenile. It was silly. It was exactly what she needed.
“Okay, that was fun,” she pronounced when they finally wound down and high-fived each other across the aisle.
Rhys’s eyes were bright with mirth. “C’mon, let’s go be passengers for a while.”
They made their way out into the main cabin. Most of the seats had been removed, but right over the wing, by one of the missing exit doors, they found two still bolted down.
The fabric belched a cloud of dust when Devon sank into it, and the acrid smell of mildew tickled her nose. Still, she hit the arm button to recline her seat and stretched out with a sigh. Next to her, Rhys did the same.
“Where’re we headed?”
“I dunno.” Rhys crossed his arms behind his head, his legs kicked out, feet crossed at the ankle. “Where do you want to go?”
“Um, how about Paris?”
“Paris it is.”
They drifted for a while until Devon murmured, “I’m hungry and there’s no food on this flight.”
“Au contraire.” Rhys winked at her. “See what I did there? Spoke French on the way to Paris?”
“I got it. I got it.” Devon rolled her eyes and waggled her fingers impatiently. “That’s right, you said you brought snacks. Hand ’em over.”
He tossed her a packet of peanut butter crackers. She offered him a couple and they munched in a companionable silence. At last Devon dusted her hands off and washed the last of the peanut butter down with a swig of tepid water.
“Hit the spot. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Are we in Paris yet?”
Rhys sat up a little and peered out the window. “Not yet.”
“Darn. I was looking forward to a croissant.”
With a snicker Rhys asked, “Have you ever been?”
“To Paris? No.” Devon stretched out her legs, too. “Spent a couple of months in Germany when we were in garrison there, though. I loved it.”
“Ah.” Linking his fingers over his belly, Rhys tilted his head back. “So what was it like, growing up with a pilot dad?”
Devon mirrored his pose. “Didn’t see him all that much, to be honest. Seemed like he was always TDY somewhere, always deployed. When he was home, it was wonderful, though. He was so tall, so handsome, in his flight suit.” Devon sighed at the memory. “What’s your dad do?”
“Um, which one?” Rhys asked flatly. “My mom’s been married six times.”
Devon gaped at him. “Wow. I, uh—” she floundered. “Sorry.”
“Dudes came and went like a revolving door in my house. I’d get used to one, and bam, there’d be another.”
Devon had no idea what to say. Her father hadn’t been around much, but at least it’d just been him. Mostly. “Were they—”
“Abusive? Nah. They were all just bums.”
“Were you close to any of them?”
Rhys snorted. “Oh, sure. I started drinking with number three when I was, what, ten? Did some pot with number four. Tried coke with number six...”
“Jesus.”
“I was the literal redheaded stepchild, Devon. Didn’t fit in anywhere. No one really paid attention to me unless I was partying with them.” He shrugged. “By the time I was fourteen, I was destined for jail, or rehab, like most of my half siblings and friends.”
“How’d you get away from all that?”
For a moment Devon didn’t think he’d answer. Before she could change the subject, he said, “Lani. She needed me to get my act together. So I did. We both had to grow up really fast.”
By his tone, Devon could tell there was a lot more to that aspect of his story, but she didn’t pry, instead asking, “Which dad is the one who saved her?”
“That was actually my bio dad. Kevin.” Rhys stood up and started opening the overhead bins at random, peering inside and then slamming them closed. “I bounced back and forth between living with him and my mom. Wasn’t too bad. Hey, check this out.”
He pulled a small stuffed bunny from one of the bins and tossed it to her. It was dusty, and brittle, with one droopy ear. It was also missing an eye.
“Oh, poor little thing.” Devon cradled it in her arms. “I bet your human missed you. How long have you been here?”
“Years.” Rhys wandered down to the plane’s galley and poked around a little. “Want some petrified peanuts?”
“Uh, pass.”
Still holding the bunny, Devon followed after him. She propped her shoulder against the open exit door at the tail. “Wonder where this plane’s last flight went?”
“Duh.” Rhys gripped the side of the door over her head and leaned out. “Paris, of course.”
His armpit was right in her face, its tuft of red hair glittering with moisture, the faint smell of clean sweat tickling her nostrils. He was wearing a loose tank top, so loose Devon could see part of that colorful tattoo hugging his ribs and disappearing down toward his waist.
Fighting a sudden urge to trace it with her fingertips to find out where it led, Devon stepped back. “Um, I think we’d better go. It’s late.”
Yeah, good plan, Devon. Lust after your newest coworker. Prove the doubters right.
She headed back down the aisle, Rhys right on her heels. When they passed their seats, Devon stopped and gently put the bunny down on one.
“Enjoy your flight, little guy,” she whispered. “Visit the Eiffel Tower for me.”
Rhys dug in his pack, and triumphantly produced another sleeve of peanut butter crackers, which he laid across the bunny’s lap. “Snacks for the road, dude. Have fun.”
He led the way back down the ladder to the baggage hold, then held the flashlight steady while Devon climbed the landing gear to the ground.
As they jogged toward their barracks, Rhys cleared his throat. “Sorry about all the word vomit back there,” he said gruffly. “I feel like a complete idiot.”
“Why? It was a long flight. People talk on planes.”
Rhys huffed out a laugh. “Well, I should’ve shut up and let you watch the movie.”
“Nah, the movie sucked.”
Outside her door, Rhys waited until Devon unlocked it and stepped inside before tapping on the wall with his fist. “See you tomorrow bright and early.”
Despite his words, he didn’t make any move to leave. Devon gripped the doorknob tightly as she gazed into his warm green eyes, her knees going slightly weak for some reason. “Thanks,” she croaked, “for a really fun trip.”
He smiled. “Best seatmate ever. Good night, Devon.”
“Night.”
Devon watched until he’d disappeared down the breezeway before closing her door and leaning back against it with a sigh, thinking, Men really are like parking spaces.
The good ones were always taken.
Chapter Six
“Halloran, my man!”
“Maddox, oh my God. So good to see you.”
After a huge backslapping hug, Rhys stepped back, unable to stop grinning. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, Aaron.”
“Yep. I put my name in, and now I’m here to jazz up your sorry platoon. Way too many white boys.”
With a smirk, Aaron punched him on the shoulder, then went to greet Smudge like a long-lost friend. “Hey, my brother.”
Another man hovered on the ramp to the C-130, a tall blond with a familiar, high-wattage smile aimed directly at him.
“Shane Hovland!” Rhys strode over to grip his hand. “How’s it going, buddy?”
They took a few minutes to catch up, and then Rhys couldn’t help but notice Shane’s attention wandering as he caught sight of something over Rhys’s shoulder.
Rhys
glanced back and saw Matt standing frozen, staring in their direction, with Devon hovering next to him almost protectively.
Shane cleared his throat. “Well, gotta go meet the rest of the guys.” As Rhys watched, he made his way around the platoon, shaking hands, until he got to Matt.
“Soup,” he said stiffly.
“Hov,” Matt replied, just as stiffly. They made no move to hug or shake hands. Rhys ran his fingers through his hair. From what he remembered, they’d seemed to be close friends at his engagement party. In fact, Matt had leapt to Shane’s defense during the cop fight and had almost gotten arrested himself.
What happened?
He snagged Aaron’s sleeve as he walked by. “What’s up with those two?” he asked, jerking his head toward Matt and Shane. “I thought they were friends. They got beef now?”
Aaron grimaced. “I have my suspicions, man. But what those are, are not for me to say. Ain’t my place.”
With one last knuckle bump, Aaron disappeared into the depths of the C-130 and started unloading his gear. Shane jogged over to join him, leaving Matt visibly shaken. Devon was patting his back soothingly.
What’s going on?
“All right, people!” Lieutenant Bradley raised his voice to get their attention, and Rhys dismissed Matt and Shane from his mind. “We’re doing free falls today with a full combat load. You have one hour to get jocked up and squared away.”
Rhys looked over at Devon. She’d done fine the day before with the “dopes on a rope,” the static line jumps. A little shaky on the exits, though, and Rhys wondered if anyone had bothered to correct her. He hadn’t because he didn’t want to step on any toes. Navy guys wouldn’t look kindly on the “Chair Force” guy horning in on their turf.
Still, parachute jumps were Rhys’s bread and butter—the “para” in pararescue, after all. And it was Devon’s life on the line. A bad exit could mean a very bad day. He winced, suspecting that’d been what happened with the DEVGRU guy. Rhys had seen laziness and carelessness before in this community, the overconfidence that came with being considered “special.”
When the lead jump instructor walked by, Rhys moved to intercept him. “Hey, Senior Chief. Did you happen to notice Lowe having trouble with her exits yesterday?”
The guy glanced at Devon. “Yeah.”
“Did you say anything to her?”
“Nah.” The instructor shook his head. “She recovered each time, within a few seconds. She’s fine.”
“But we’re jumping combat loads today. She—”
The instructor slashed his hand impatiently. “She’s fine, Halloran. If you wanna look like you’re singling out the woman on the team for criticism, go right ahead. Not me.”
Aghast, Rhys could only stand there helplessly as the instructor strode away.
Singling out the woman for criticism? How about correcting a student who was doing something that could get her killed?
Rhys cast another troubled look over at Devon. The instructor was right, though. She’d always recovered within a few seconds, and her time under canopy and her landings were pitch-perfect. If he approached her with his concerns, would she think he was mansplaining to her, picking on her?
She’s just starting to trust me...
He smiled to himself at the memory of the night before. Their easy, relaxed silliness, their conversation. Even though he still felt stupid about the oversharing, he thought Devon had the potential to turn into a really good friend, and the last thing Rhys wanted to do was fuck that up.
He debated with himself for another minute. He’d seen with his own eyes that Devon could handle the jumps. Her body position was good overall, and a simple reminder to watch it on exit was probably all she needed anyway. Rhys would find a way to slip that reminder in while they were on the plane.
“Hey, Devon!” he called out to her. “You good?”
She shot him an enthusiastic, confident thumbs-up, her smile bright. “I’m great! See ya on the ground!”
Relieved, Rhys shoved the last of his misgivings away.
* * *
Oh, my God, this sucks.
Devon shuffled on board the C-130, bent almost double by the weight of the pack strapped to her front. She lowered herself awkwardly onto one of the webbed seats lining the cabin of the aircraft, her legs shaking from the effort.
Matt dropped down next to her, puffing a little himself. In addition to his own gear, as the FNG he was humping all the shit the more senior guys didn’t want to take—such as the sledgehammer and the collapsible ladder.
“You okay?” she murmured to him.
“I will be, as soon as the jump’s over and I can get this crap off me. How about you?”
In truth Devon was nervous. She felt really unstable in all the gear, and she was worried about her exit. During the static line jump the day before, she’d had a hard time stabilizing herself. She desperately wanted to ask someone about it, but she didn’t want the guys to think she was weak or incompetent.
And if it was a big deal, the instructor would’ve said something to me, right?
So she flashed Matt a smile and a cheery thumbs-up, dropping her hand to her lap when she realized he wasn’t even looking at her. Instead he was staring at Shane, who had his head tilted back against the hard steel wall of the plane, his eyes closed.
“Is he asleep?” Devon asked incredulously. It was stifling hot as they sat unmoving on the tarmac, and how could anyone carrying all this shit strapped to them even think about sleeping?
Matt shook his head. “No, he’s probably praying.”
“Praying...?” Not sure if Matt was fucking with her or not, Devon ventured, “Is he religious or something?”
“Nah, he’s scared out of his mind.” Matt wore a smirk on his face but his tone sounded worried. “Shane is afraid of heights.” He muttered something that sounded like, “Three-foot-world time, clown,” but just then the engines started revving up.
“Oh, shit, here we go.”
With the ramp door closed, the cabin was pitch dark except for some red lights lining the ceiling. As they lumbered down the runway, Devon fought back a wave of nausea.
You will not puke on your teammates’ boots. You will not puke on your teammates’ boots.
Her pack was digging into her breasts, flattening them painfully, so Devon hunched forward to try to rest some of the weight on her lap. All that accomplished was to put even more of a strain on her neck and shoulders, so she sat back and grit her teeth.
What a suckfest.
“Okay, people, listen up for the stack order.” The jumpmaster’s voice crackled over their helmet receivers. “Hovland, Maddox, Halloran...”
As the lightest one in the group, Devon would be the last to jump. Shane, Aaron and Rhys were the tallest and heaviest, so they’d lead the stack down to the ground. She regarded Shane worriedly. As jump leader, he carried a lot of responsibility for getting them down safely.
And the dude is scared shitless. Great.
She glanced over at Rhys, who was sitting sprawled out, relaxed. His gear looked more streamlined than hers, and definitely more well-fitting.
Suddenly Devon was angry at herself. She should’ve asked for help, both with her gear and her exit. The guys had no problem helping each other out, and it was ridiculous for her to keep acting like she had something to prove.
Devon firmed her lips and resolved to do better. Once she made it through this stupid jump, that is.
The whoosh of air as the ramp lowered startled her. Outside, the ground spread out fifteen thousand feet below them, drifting by, looking like a patchwork quilt. Twin jolts of adrenaline and fear turned Devon’s blood to ice. She started to shiver.
What if I screw up my exit? What if my parachute doesn’t open?
The picture of the dead SEAL’s boots flashed sickeningly through her mind. Had it hurt? Was he aware of what was happening to him?
“Stand up!”
At the jumpmaster’s signal, everyone struggled
to their feet and shuffled toward the ramp like a group of old men. At the head of the queue, Shane moved to the edge and poised there, waiting for the red jump light to change to green.
“Jumper, go!”
With no hesitation, Shane launched himself out of the plane. The others followed in rapid succession, and then it was Devon’s turn. She waddled to the edge, waited for the signal and leapt stiffly into the void.
The second her boots left the ramp, Devon knew she was in trouble.
“Body position, Lowe. Body position!” The jumpmaster’s voice echoed urgently in her ear. “Your angle is wrong!”
Devon fought to adjust, but the plane’s jet stream had already grabbed her up and was tossing her around like a rag doll. With the extra weight hampering her movements, and unable to get into the correct position, she spiraled out of control.
Oh, fuck!
Images flashed through her mind—a pair of unmoving boots under an American flag. A crumpled parachute. Stunned, grieving teammates gathered around.
If she wasn’t able to fix this, that exact same tableau was about to be repeated.
Her mind clouded over with fear. She was spinning so fast that the sky, the ground, the horizon, all blurred crazily together. Unable to get her bearings, panicked, and in a last-ditch effort to save herself, Devon reached for the handle of her main chute.
“No, Devon, don’t pull your main!” Rhys shouted. “Not till you’re stable!”
Too late. The chute exploded out of its pack. It jerked Devon upright, but something was wrong. She dragged her head up to look at the canopy, her stomach dropping at the sight of it flapping above her only half-filled with air, the other side hanging limp.
She started to spin again, first like a lazy top, then faster and faster. She was going to pass out...
“Devon.” Rhys’s voice broke into her terror. “Check your altimeter, then say altitude. I need you to focus and say altitude.”
One of the basic rules of skydiving...always be altitude aware. She dragged her wrist up and struggled to read the altimeter. Thirteen thousand feet.
As she repeated the numbers to Rhys, an eerie sort of calm suddenly washed over her. There was still time to fix this.
Keeping a Warrior Page 8