Keeping a Warrior

by Melanie Hansen

  “No, but I cried about a pig once.”

  A long silence, then, “What?”

  Rhys crossed his ankle over his knee and tried in vain to get more comfortable. “Well, part of the special ops medics course is a live-tissue lab, Devon.”

  With a sigh, she said, “Do I even wanna know?”

  “Probably not, but I’ll tell you anyway.” Rhys let the memories wash over him. “On our final certification exercise, we were simulating an urban battle. Lots of door kicking, shooting, injured guys and triage. It was super fast-paced, kept us all on edge and totally amped up.”

  “Mass casualties! Medic! Medic!”

  “When we breached one door, the smell of blood about knocked us over.” Rhys swallowed hard, then said thickly, “The blood was real, Devon, because the building was full of pigs.”

  “Live pigs?” Her voice was hushed.

  “Yeah. They’d been anesthetized before, um, before being—”

  “I get it,” Devon said hastily. “I assume it was to mimic battlefield injuries.”

  “Gunshot wounds, broken bones, arterial bleeds, blunt-force trauma, you name it. I kept my pig alive for about eight hours before I lost him. It’s controversial, and not easy to think about, but it was the best training I could’ve had for saving lives in the field, Devon.”

  She paused to digest that. “So you cried when he died?”

  “Like a baby,” Rhys whispered. “Like a goddamn baby.”

  Devon was quiet for a long time. “Thanks, Rhys. It’s not quite the same, but I appreciate you making me feel better and not like some dumb female you shouldn’t have even brought.”

  A bolt of anger shot through him. “Fuck that guy. He’s nothing but a prick.”

  “I know. None of it is crap I haven’t heard before so I need to get over it.” She sighed. “Thanks for listening to my tale of woe. How’re you doing?

  Before Rhys could answer, his phone went dead, and cursing, he let it fall to his chest. Dammit, he hadn’t been ready to say good-night yet, not until he was absolutely sure she was all right.

  She’d sounded so sad, so defeated, and if he’d been there, he would’ve taken her in his arms.

  He froze.

  What?

  Before he could suppress it, the thought took on shape, and crystallized. Devon, against him. Her lithe, athletic body, a tantalizing combination of softness and angles, pliancy and smoothness, pressed to his. He’d drift his fingertips down the lean muscles of her back to the swell of her ass. Her rounded cheeks were two delicious handfuls that he’d plump and squeeze, and use to pull her in closer. She’d wrap her arms around his neck and lift her face, those full lips parted for his kiss...

  Jesus!

  An almost overwhelming desire raced through him, thickening his cock until it ached. He pressed his palm to it and sucked in deep breaths as quietly as he could.

  As his body calmed, he thought, Wow, aren’t you some sort of asshole, fantasizing about your teammate like this?

  His brave, amazing teammate. His brave, amazing—not to mention beautiful—teammate.

  Okay, it made sense. But it wouldn’t happen again.

  * * *

  “Fire in the hole!”

  The mercenaries were making their last stand, about to be driven out of the country by the resistance. The oppressive regime had fallen to the local guerrillas, who’d been trained and augmented by U.S. Special Forces.

  Rhys ran for his life through the thick forest. Explosions rocked the earth, and gunshots shredded the branches of the trees right above his head. Freedom was there, over the next rise, so close Rhys could taste it...when suddenly a giant hammer blow to his side sent him rolling and tumbling back down the small slope.

  He jolted to a stop, ears ringing, heart thundering in his ears. Crunching footsteps approached, and then a boot shoved him to his back as the barrel of an AK-47 pressed against his forehead.

  “Pow.”

  Rhys gazed up into Matt’s grinning face.

  “Did you just shoot me?” he wheezed, draping his wrist across his eyes.

  “I did, indeed.”

  “You bastard,” Rhys groaned. Even though it was only a sim round, it’d packed one hell of a wallop. He’d be bruised for days.

  “That’s what you get for being on the losing side, buddy.”

  Matt gave him a mocking salute and walked several feet away to radio in his “kill.” Rhys was supposed to lie there until his demise was documented and counted, so he let his body relax into the wet leaves and stared up at the overcast sky.

  “Hey, stranger.”

  The sound of Devon’s voice spread over him like a warm blanket, and Rhys rolled his head groggily toward her as she crouched next to him. “Hey.”

  She reached out to brush cool fingertips over his forehead. “I know that was just pretend, but damn if seeing you go down like that didn’t shake me up a little.”

  “Shake you up?” Rhys coughed, then let out a whimper as waves of pain racked his side. “I think I cracked a rib.”

  She petted his forehead anxiously, her thumb smoothing his eyebrow, and it felt so good that Rhys came dangerously close to purring.

  “Anything I can do?” Now her fingers were combing through his hair. “Rhys?”

  Don’t ever stop, he wanted to say, but instead he just shook his head and closed his eyes.

  “Hey, what’s with comforting the enemy?” came Matt’s indignant voice. “He’s dead anyway, so you’re touching a dead body. Sicko.”

  “Shut the fuck up, killer.”

  Devon moved her hand and Rhys’s eyes flew open in protest, but she only flipped Matt off with it and returned to stroking his hair.

  “If I ask to put my head in your lap, d’ya think that’d be going too far?” Rhys slurred, and she smiled down at him.

  “Just a little, I think.”

  The warmth on her face and in her voice, combined with the light touch of her hand, was having the predictable effect, so Rhys hurriedly turned on his side to hide his sudden and most inconvenient boner.

  Shit.

  With a hum of sympathy, she patted his shoulder and stood, then moved away to confer with Matt in low tones while Rhys lay there frantically willing his body to calm down.

  A few minutes later she was back. “Okay, we gotta go link up with our guys now, but we’ll see you at the training center in a couple of hours. It’s almost over.”

  “I’ll just stay here, I guess. Take a little nap.”

  “You do that.” With a smile, Devon gave him a wave and turned to tramp away with Matt.

  A brief silence fell, and then Rhys heard, “Hey, over here!” He lifted his head to see Shane, another apparent “KIA,” lying several yards away and waving at him.

  “Hey. Who got you?” Rhys called out.

  “Knytych.” Shane sounded completely pissed. “That little shit.”

  “That ‘little shit’ is a damn good shot. Has he been to sniper school?”

  “How should I know?” Shane snapped. “I don’t keep track of what he does.”

  O-kay.

  Rhys flapped his hand at him and sank back into the leaves. When the pain became more manageable, he cautiously pushed to sitting. “Argh,” he moaned, wrapping an arm around himself. “Cracked a rib for sure.”

  Shane got up and limped toward him, rubbing his thigh. “I can’t believe he shot me,” he muttered. “Anyone else shoots me, fine, whatever. Him? No way.”

  Rhys wanted to laugh. If this was how the two of them had been while they were in BUD/S together, it’s no wonder their relationship had turned into the world’s worst-kept secret.

  Shane lowered himself to sitting, and Rhys directed him to turn so they could put their backs together and hold each other up. They slumped there for what seemed like hours until their radios crackled to life.

  “What’d it say?”

  “We’re supposed to get to the road so we can be picked up.” Shane used Rhys’s shoulders to push
to standing, and then he reached down to haul Rhys to his feet. “Let’s go.”

  Slowly they picked their way over to the winding dirt road, and it wasn’t long until a filthy white pickup skidded to a stop in a cloud of dust. They climbed into the bed and someone tossed them each a bottle of sports drink, which Rhys guzzled in one huge gulp.

  Back at the training center, after enduring a long-winded debrief by the powers-that-be, they were all released to find their quarters, but not before a strong suggestion was made that they appear at an informal banquet that evening celebrating the end of Robin Sage.

  “Mandatory fun,” Smudge grumbled as they trudged to find their rooms. “My favorite.”

  Once inside, Rhys plugged in his phone and climbed into the shower, making the water as hot as he could stand. As he washed, he gingerly explored the huge welt on his side where the sim round had hit him.

  No cracked rib, just deeply bruised, was his final conclusion. The drink and hot shower had already worked wonders. Now all he needed was some food, a lot of it, and he’d feel almost human again. Rhys dressed in a pair of clean—though rumpled—black jeans and a soft forest-green Henley, and he stuck his now fully charged phone in his pocket.

  The banquet hall was a short walk away along a pleasant tree-lined street, where he found the rest of the platoon milling restlessly about.

  “Just a beer and my bed, dude,” someone complained. “That’s all I want.”

  “Free food, man. Free food.”

  There were knuckle bumps and bro hugs for those who hadn’t seen each other in over a week, and Rhys found himself craning his neck for a glimpse of Devon. When he finally caught sight of her walking down the street toward them, his heart gave a thump, and he headed to meet her, thinking, wow.

  She was wearing a simple outfit of dark jeans and shimmery purple blouse, but she’d styled her thick brown hair so that it fell around her shoulders in soft waves. Smoky eyeshadow and mascara enhanced her big brown eyes, and those lips...

  Clearing his throat, Rhys stuck his hands in his pockets and waited until she stopped alongside him. “Hey. You look nice.”

  “Thanks. It feels good to dress up a little.” She made a show of looking him up and down. “You look pretty okay yourself. For a dead guy.”

  Rhys spread his arms and grinned. “I made a miraculous recovery.”

  “You really did. I’m impressed.”

  “Enough to buy me a drink?” Rhys could’ve kicked himself as the flirtatious words slipped out, but Devon only laughed.

  “You got it.”

  The cash bar was doing a brisk business when they got inside, and before long Rhys found himself holding a mug of Amstel Light while Devon ordered a ginger ale. They touched their glasses together with a clink.

  “You’re not having anything stronger?” Rhys asked, rubbing his still-aching ribs. “I think we all deserve it.”

  Her gaze skittered away. “Nah, I don’t drink at work functions anymore. It’s...safer.”

  “Drinking with the guys, a real party girl, you know?”

  At the memory of Mullet’s hissed words, Rhys’s own beer suddenly tasted a little less delicious.

  Dinner was the usual banquet fare of roast beef, thick mashed potatoes and a side of limp veggies, along with a dinner roll hard enough to break concrete. While they ate, they listened to several boring speeches by various Special Forces dignitaries and watched a slideshow depicting scenes from the week’s events.

  “A special thank-you to Coronado, California’s SEAL Team Three, Delta Platoon, for playing OPFOR with such grace and beauty.”

  Unbelievably there was a still shot of Rhys’s final tumble down the hill, complete with flailing arms and scrunched-up face.

  “Whoa, now, he’s Chair Force!” Bradley shouted. “We don’t claim him!”

  There was some hearty laughter at Rhys’s expense, some good-natured ribbing that left him with scarlet cheeks and gritted teeth. Devon patted his shoulder sympathetically, then froze like a deer in headlights when her own picture flashed on the screen.

  “And an even more special thank-you to Warrant Officer One Devon Lowe, a member of the U.S. Army’s very own Cultural Support Team.”

  There were several pictures of Devon in the “guerrilla” camp talking earnestly to the Special Forces candidates.

  “We learned a lot from Ms. Lowe about cultural sensitivities when working with foreign troops. So much of what makes a Special Forces soldier successful is his tact, and skill in fitting seamlessly into those cultures while trying to build trust. The expertise Ms. Lowe imparted will undoubtedly prove invaluable to this next generation of Green Berets.”

  Some scattered applause, and the speaker raised his glass. “To Ms. Lowe!”

  “To Ms. Lowe,” the crowd repeated, and it was Devon’s turn to blush furiously as the applause swelled to fill the room.

  “Pretty good job for a ‘worthless female,’” Rhys muttered out of the corner of his mouth, yelping when she reached out and pinched him on the arm.

  After dessert, the floor was cleared for dancing. He and Devon watched the various couples silently until Rhys gathered up every ounce of his courage and turned to her.

  “Shall we?” he asked. He kept his expression smooth while he waited for her to either accept or decline, didn’t hold out his hand or half rise in expectation that she would follow.

  No pressure, Devon.

  When she nodded, the flutter in Rhys’s belly morphed into a full-blown quiver, especially when the next song started, soulful and plaintive, a dance for lovers. Bashfulness turned his knees to jelly as he followed her to the dance floor, where Devon slipped her hand readily into his and laid the other one lightly on his shoulder. After a beat of hesitation, Rhys splayed his palm over the small of her back.

  “Is this okay?” he murmured, a tingle going through him at the feel of denim and silk over warm skin.

  She looked up at him, her lips slightly parted. “It’s okay.”

  At first they did little more than sway awkwardly together in place, but as the song went on, they relaxed, movements broadening, until they were gliding smoothly about the dance floor.

  “This is nice,” Devon whispered, her temple against his jaw, breath gusting against his throat.

  Rhys tightened his arm around her waist, his pulse starting to pound when Devon moved closer so that the soft fullness of her breasts grazed his chest. “Yeah,” he choked out. “Real nice.”

  “Mmm.” With a sigh, she settled herself fully against him, her hand on his shoulder sliding to the back of his neck, fingers cool on his overheated skin. Rhys’s mind raced along with his heart. He’d never danced this closely with any other woman before, hadn’t been wrapped up in such an intimate cocoon with anyone other than...

  Refusing to think of Lani while he held Devon in his arms, Rhys buried his nose in her fragrant hair and let the music wash over him. One song led to two, then three. At the end of the third one, Devon reluctantly lifted her head from where it was now resting on his shoulder.

  “If we don’t stop,” she murmured with a drowsy smile, “I’m going to fall asleep on you and you’ll have to carry me home.”

  I’ll carry you home. I’ll tuck you into bed, too.

  He gulped.

  “Well, let’s get you home, then,” he said huskily. “Want me to walk you?”

  “Please.”

  They said goodbye to the other guys who were still there, though most had left, either to seek their beds or a more exciting venue.

  Devon shivered when they exited the overly warm banquet hall into the cool evening air. Rhys offered his arm, and she took it, hugging his biceps and pressing in close. He shoved his hands in his pockets as they ambled toward their quarters.

  All too soon they’d reached the entrance to the building, and Devon let go of him, trailing her fingers along his arm before dropping her hand. “Thanks for the escort. And the dance.”

  “My pleasure.”

&nb
sp; Despite the chill, and their fatigue, neither one of them made a move to go inside. Her eyes were soft, luminous, as she gazed up at him. “You want to—” she started to say, whatever it was lost forever when Rhys’s phone chose right then to buzz loudly in his pocket.

  Devon blinked, and she took a giant step away from him, clearing her throat. “Better get that.”

  Intending just to silence the damn thing, Rhys yanked it from his pocket, only to freeze when he saw the number—and the picture—on the screen.

  Lani.

  After a split-second hesitation, he hit the decline button and stuck the phone back in his pocket, but it was too late; he could tell by her face the spell had been broken. A wave of disappointment swept through him. Had she been about to invite him to her room?

  “Ms. Lowe.”

  They both started at the sound of the deep voice behind them.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt.” It was the Special Forces major who’d given out the awards at the banquet, the one so impressed with Devon’s cultural skills. “I know it’s late, but might I have a word?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  The major held the door to the transient quarters open for her, and indicated a small table and chairs next to a coffee machine in the corner of the lobby. Rhys hovered uncertainly, wondering if she needed him to stick around...

  Why would she? She was more than capable of talking to an Army officer by herself.

  At the bank of elevators, Rhys turned to glance back in her direction, but she didn’t even look at him, she was so caught up in what the SF guy was saying.

  Curiosity, exhaustion and regret fought with a low-grade arousal that, all combined, made Rhys want to punch something. Once in his room, he yanked his shirt over his head, intending to change and go for a run. As he did, the heady scent of Devon’s perfume wafted to his nose, and crumpling up the fabric, Rhys buried his face in it.

  If she had been about to invite him to her room, would he have gone? He let out a tortured groan. Yeah. In a heartbeat.

  Shaken by the realization, Rhys changed his clothes and ran down the stairs instead of taking the elevator. In the lobby, Devon was still talking to the major, their heads close together as they looked over a sheaf of papers.