Enemy Zone: Enemies-to-Lovers Standalone Healing-Love Military Romance (Trident Rescue)

by Alex Lidell

  “I hope Ileene presses charges.”

  No response. As if I didn’t just state the obvious. Fine. I can do nothing about the asshole in custody, but I can certainly deal with the one sitting right beside me.

  “Why did you interrupt me in the middle of encouraging Ileene to talk to the police?” I demand. “It was almost as if you wanted Charlie to get off scot-free for what he did.”

  Cullen’s eyes stay on the road. “Don’t try to get inside my mind, Reynolds. You won’t like what’s there.”

  What the hell is that supposed to mean? Wait. A new, horrible thought occurs to me. “Is that why you gave her free medical care? So that she sweeps what happened under a rock? Did your free X-rays come with a gag order attached?”

  Cullen yanks on the steering wheel, the Suburban cutting hard to the highway shoulder and stopping suddenly enough to make the seat belt dig into my flesh. When he turns to me, his green eyes flashing with icy fury, my breath stops.

  “One. I don’t issue fucking gag orders.” Cullen’s booming voice fills up the Suburban, bouncing off the closed windows. His face is dark, his nostrils flaring as he speaks. “Two. Charlie wasn’t going after Ileene—he probably didn’t even know it was her. And, unlike you, she’s smart enough to know the fucking difference.”

  “Did you just actually make excuses for a man who physically injured a woman?” I shout into his face, though my hands tremble and my breath and pulse are racing each other, quick and ready. “What is this, some soldier good ole boys, closing ranks?”

  I only realize that a tear has somehow escaped my eyes when it plops down on my forearm. His face a foot away from mine, Cullen is fury incarnate, his hand curling into a fist. Oh. Shit. Shit. Shit. My heart hammers so hard, I can’t hear anything over the pounding in my head. I snatch for the door handle.

  Locked. I yank it again. Again. As if I can beat the mechanism.

  On the driver’s side, Cullen reaches for the gearshift.

  I brace myself, but instead of taking off, the Suburban settles. The red D on the dashboard changes to P, the auto locks releasing at once. Before I can move again, however, it’s Cullen who gets out of the car.

  “Eli,” Cullen barks into the phone he just pulled from his back pocket. “I need you to pick Reynolds up. Now. Sending—” He slams the Suburban’s door so hard that the car rocks, the rest of his words now out of my hearing range.

  9

  Sky

  After the Hannigan’s Pub incident, I decide to give Cullen a wide berth. This winds up being easy considering he doesn’t show up at Trident Rescue even once during my shifts, a fact for which I’m monumentally grateful. Having finally escaped my military father and then my ex, the farther away I can keep from Cullen, the better.

  I rub my shoulder, which dear old dad dislocated for me when I was seven. He got me a Barbie the next day and considered the incident closed. My gut says Cullen wouldn’t even bother with the Barbie. I guess I should be glad to have finally seen the man’s true colors, even if he himself doesn’t see anything wrong with his paint scheme.

  “So, incident log,” Catherine tells me. In her early sixties, Catherine is who I want to be when I grow up. Patient, kind, competent. She has that motherly mix of no-nonsense reasoning and careful listening. And she’s organized enough to run a small country by herself. To say I’m glad it’s Catherine and not our boss giving me instructions now is an understatement. She opens a records program. “The guys rarely have the time to log these, so keeping track is up to you. Collect their records from this tray and log in the individual dates, times, personnel, and other details. Fair warning, they’re a jumble, but it’s vital to get it right.”

  Looking down at the “tray,” I discover a wooden box heaped with loose slips of paper, including notebook sheets, sticky notes, and what seems to be a piece of an old envelope with scribbles on the back. “So they’re as organized with response logs as they are with the bills, I see.”

  Catherine’s mouth curves into a smirk, deepening the fine lines around her mouth. Her hazel eyes gleam at me conspiratorially as she leans in, making the tips of her white bob swish around her cheeks. “About. Suzy always detested digging through this mess, and now…” She picks up a piece of paper dated from six months prior.

  “And now it’s my problem,” I finish for her.

  “Well, yes.”

  I shake my head. “And these people run multibillion-dollar corporations?”

  “If they let me hire a full suite of employees for the Rescue, it would be administratively pure. But it’s Cullen’s personal project. They don’t want outsiders.”

  I let the words sink through me. No outsiders. Then what am I doing here? Surviving a month to win a bet, I remind myself. “Do I write the treatment notes too?”

  “No. Those are confidential, so the guys are forced to do the writing themselves,” she explains, and I nod. “They’re actually very good about that part—that sort of information is the most vital, so that’s where their focus stays. This log is important too, but since their time is so stretched, this more menial stuff often goes by the wayside. Obviously.”

  I grin at her, but as my mind turns to the ride I took with Cullen back from the pub, my grin slides from my face. “Can I ask you something, Catherine?” I ask, flipping through the slips of notes. None from the past week have Cullen’s name. Not one thing since the pub. “Something not training related.”

  Her features become warier. “I can’t promise to answer, but if I can, I will. Within reason.”

  I stare at her, noting the caution in the reply. She’s loyal to Cullen. More loyal than the man deserves. Suddenly, the question of is Cullen Hunt always a royal asshole doesn’t seem to flow off my tongue. Wisely chickening out, I lob a softball at her instead. “Why does everyone call the men who work here the Trident gods?”

  Catherine’s wary features soften, amusement flashing over her face. “It’s what one of their drill sergeants at Trident Academy, the military high school where they all met, accused them of acting like.”

  “So it’s an insult?” I ask, though I’m sure that’s not how I’ve heard it used.

  “It was an insult when delivered by a drill sergeant to teenage boys at a military academy,” Catherine clarifies. “You’ve no idea what they can make sound insulting. One of the boy’s brothers tried to make the nickname stick in Denton Valley just to annoy them, but the plan backfired. The boys, men by then, came back so decorated from their deployments that the townsfolk mean it respectfully now, much to Frank’s chagrin.”

  “So everyone around here looks up to them because of how well they did in the military?” I ask, careful not to let any of my feelings on the matter seep into my voice. It’s not that I don’t appreciate what men and women in uniform do overseas, it’s that I don’t think it should give them carte blanche to hurt people when they return.

  “Yes, and what they accomplished since. The four who came back are all running multibillion-dollar businesses, but they all get their hands dirty too. They’ve all saved lives with Cullen’s rescue service here. And then there’s Bar.”

  “One of them owns a bar?” I ask, not seeing what’s so noble about that. Also, this allows me to sidestep her mention of Cullen.

  “Bar is short for Bartholomew. He was the one of the five who didn’t make it back. Denton Valley was Bar’s home town, so Cullen and the others settled here after discharge. Trident Rescue is a way they keep Bar’s memory alive.” She pauses while I let that sink in. “How good are you with spreadsheets?”

  “I’m proficient. I’m good with Quicken as well. Not for nothing, but the Rescue nearly got the lights shut off last week because someone put a check in the envelope and never actually mailed the damn thing. I’m no you, but I can start getting this in order.”

  Catherine smiles, the approval radiating from her making me blush. “Let me get you logged in,” she says, creating a password for me before revealing a sad shoebox of receipts that serv
es as accounts receivable. “This is the finale for what I call Cullen’s pet projects—things that he does personally, as opposed to ones he does in his Trident CEO hat. Those, fortunately, are handled by actual accounting. I enter what I know, but when it comes to the Rescue…you need to be here.”

  After Catherine leaves, I fill out the incident log, mulling over what she told me. There aren’t many callouts, but they’re all serious ones, which, I gather, is Cullen’s niche. I wonder whether each little spreadsheet row equals a life saved. Now that would make a good story. Not that Frank is interested in printing good news. Plus, I gave my word I wouldn’t use the position to hunt for leads.

  Log done, I start transferring the shoebox receipts into the computer, orders for gloves and rescue equipment filling in lines between what Catherine already entered—those being mostly donations Cullen has made to various local, national, and even international charitable organizations. I scroll through page upon page of money spent. The Red Cross. The March of Dimes. St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital. The Disabled Veterans Administration. Save the Children. Doctors Without Borders. UNICEF. The list goes on and on.

  I lean back in my chair. The Cullen I know is, frankly, a brute with questionable morals, but this other version of him clearly isn’t. So what’s the difference? Why the Jekyll and Hyde? Does something about me in particular inspire the man’s antagonism?

  I’ve just finished roughly half of my data entry project when Eli saunters in. Like my boss, he wears a high-end suit and looks like a GQ model. Unlike my boss, Eli has done nothing to freak me out.

  My body doesn’t respond to his either. Not one bit.

  “Oh, hello there, Sky,” Eli says, heading to one of the four beige metal lockers the men use for personal gear. Other than my boss, Eli takes by far the most shifts at the Rescue. I’ve only ever met the other two men, Kyan Keasley and Liam Rowen, in passing, though I guess they live farther out and often respond without coming into the hub first. Ducking into another room for a moment, Eli exchanges the Brooks Brothers suit jacket for a tight blue Under Armour shirt, the man’s unruly copper curls the opposite of Cullen’s precise buzz cut.

  Goddammit. Stop thinking about Cullen.

  As Eli moves, I catch sight of the jagged pink line on his hand—the vestiges from the car accident where I’d all but accused him of drunk driving. My face heats at the memory, though for some reason, the incident seems to have bothered Cullen more than Eli himself. Then again, everything about me seems to bother Cullen.

  Not wanting Eli to think I’m staring, I twist back around to my computer.

  “Hunt around?” Eli asks.

  “Uh, no,” I stammer, then make it a point to shore up my voice. I refuse to let Cullen intimidate me. Especially when he’s not even around. “No. He’s rarely here when I am.”

  For the first time, Eli walks around to where he can see my face, his own tight. He looks…worried. He looks so worried, in fact, that I feel my brows pulling together. “Why? Is everything okay?”

  He blows out a harsh breath. “Yeah, I’m sure it is. Hunt is one tough son of a bitch. But he hasn’t been in for a while.”

  “In here?”

  “Here or at his office.” Another rough gust of air escapes as Eli sighs, and he scrubs a hand down his face. I think he’s about to confide in me, but when his eyes meet mine, he shutters his expression. It’s as if he just threw a wall up between us. “Mind doing me a favor?”

  “Sure?”

  “If he comes by or calls, tell him I need to speak to him.”

  “Of course.”

  Eli gives me a mock salute before heading out to the Suburban. Left alone, I sit mute for several long heartbeats, wondering what the hell is going on. Because I have a feeling that something is.

  After my shift ends at 9:00 p.m., I pull out my work folder for Denton Uncovered. It feels a bit strange staying at the Rescue, but working in my dim and depressing basement apartment is difficult because of the lack of a Wi-Fi signal, and going into the office to bug-spray Frank is worse. I’m working on an exposé piece about school rezoning. With all sides accusing one another of everything from fund mismanagement to incompetence, separating out the facts and verifying them is a bit of a project.

  Not that Frank will appreciate the accuracy. He has one rule—sell the paper. Which means he has no intention of paying me for the time I waste digging through accounting ledgers when I could just as easily work on his suggested topic: a piece questioning whether the youthful female manager of the local burger joint might be responsible for the local fire chief’s recent divorce.

  I don’t let it bother me, though. I knew rebuilding my reputation would take work, and whatever anyone can say for the rest of the paper, my stories will be legitimate. I’m not in it for the money.

  I work for Cullen for the money.

  Clicking on a table lamp with an adjustable neck that’s also a combination pen and paperclip holder, I set to typing.

  I’ve been hunkered down in my writing bubble for a while when the sound of a door creaking abruptly open makes me start. I jump to my feet, brandishing the first thing I can grab at the intruder, my heart sinking as I realize my impromptu weapon is a pen.

  The place goes from being heavily shadowed—the overhead lights automatically go off when there’s no motion to activate them—to full brightness, and I blink, nearly shrieking as a large figure lumbers through the entrance.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” Cullen shouts, sounding just as startled as I feel. His green eyes go from wide to narrow as they take me in. He’s dressed in a muscle tee and running shorts so snug, I find myself staring, the man is carrying a heavy cardboard box with a medical symbol printed on the side. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  10

  Sky

  “I work here.” I’m actually proud of myself for not squeaking like a mouse. My voice doesn’t even quaver. Unlike my insides. It’s a good thing I skipped dinner. Otherwise, it might be all over this immaculately bleached floor right now.

  “No, I work here. Your shift was supposed to be from one this afternoon until nine this evening. It’s now after midnight, so I’ll ask you again. What are you doing here?”

  I check my watch. Sure enough, 12:37 a.m. glows happily back at me. Shit. I lost track of the time, and his tone still jangles my nerves. But before I can really get my mad on, I notice something. “What happened to your hands?”

  Cullen’s hands tighten around the box, the skin along his knuckles red, swollen, and scabby, as if it’d been bloodied not long ago. As if he’d beaten something or someone to a pulp. Oh my God.

  “What did you do?” This last question comes out as what it is: an accusation.

  I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth. I know antagonizing people like Cullen is unwise. Dangerously unwise.

  His face closes off, jaw tense and nostrils flaring. The kind of emotionless clampdown I’ve seen take over my father’s features too many times. Many of those times ended with me in the emergency room.

  I take a step back, my heart beating so fast, I feel like I might pass out. But I can’t pass out. Can’t let myself lower my guard. Men like Cullen are dangerous when angry, and the one before me is plainly none too pleased with my existence. There’s no telling what he may do if I don’t stay on my guard. No telling what he might do even if I do. I saw how he handled Charlie McTierney. Cullen Hunt is lethal when he wants to be. If he ever decides to assault me, I wouldn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell.

  My hands tremble at my sides, my feet rooted to the spot. Never taking my eyes off Cullen, I reach into my pocket for my phone. I might have the chance to dial 911, but not before he does his worst. Still, at least someone will come to investigate my broken skull. Right?

  If I get out of here safely tonight, I’m never coming back.

  It takes five more heartbeats before I absorb the fact that Cullen still hasn’t moved. He’s standing exactly where he was, those green eyes observ
ing my reaction. Then his gaze drops away, sliding down to the floor.

  Moving slowly, as if I’m some feral animal he’s accidentally cornered, Cullen backs toward the opposite end of the room, where he puts the box on the floor against the wall. His hands come up to show empty palms. “The door is unlocked,” he says evenly. “And you have a clear path to it. You’re welcome to use that phone in your pocket too. If you don’t have 911 tied to a side button, you should.”

  I swallow and try to process what’s happening, my pounding heart messing with my thoughts. Cullen stands still. Waiting. Watching. Doing nothing to spook me. I rub my face, feeling stupid. The man owns this place, and all he’s done upon discovering someone unexpectedly inside is raise his voice.

  “I’m sorry.” His words are low and soft, but not weak.

  I swallow again. Did Cullen just apologize? The man I’ve gotten to know doesn’t apologize. He’s a rude, sarcastic dick with a side order of occasional violence.

  “I didn’t intend to frighten you,” he adds.

  I comprehend that he’s not talking about tonight, but I don’t say anything to absolve him. I do, however, feel my breathing settle. “Eli was looking for you. Said you’ve been MIA lately.”

  “Roger. I’ll get back to him.”

  If that’s not an evasion, then I don’t know what is. Now that I’m calm enough to look closer, I grasp how haggard Cullen is, his piercing moss-green eyes rimmed with circles of fatigue. Sweat soaks the fabric of his shirt, which clings to chiseled muscle. It’s near one in the morning, and Cullen’s been working out. From the pale tint to his skin, it was punishing work too, not a light jog.

  Almost against my better judgment, I find myself edging closer to him. “Are you all right?”

  “Always.”

  “I’d have thought you were a better liar than that.” I touch his arm, discovering the muscles coiled tightly beneath his skin. As if he hasn’t relaxed in hours. Days. “When did you sleep last, exactly?”