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

by Alex Lidell

  At my sides, my hands tighten into fists, my heart pounding hard enough against my ribs that I feel each dull thump as I behold the man I’ve recently slept with in a whole new—unflattering—light.

  Cullen’s face lifts, his mossy-green eyes flashing with a fury that makes me back up a step despite myself. “I’m still unclear how you went from paying invoices in an inbox to sifting through my personal finances. I’m quite certain I left no bills for Pine Towers for Catherine to cover.” His voice tightens like a spring. “Is this your version of investigative journalism? Get to what you want to know by any means you find convenient? Paint front pages with your version of the truth?”

  And there we go.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Red flashes at the sides of my vision, the twist of the conversation giving me whiplash despite my having expected it. “No. Never mind. I don’t even want to follow that line of questioning. What is it with you attacking my career and journalistic ethics every five minutes?” The words spill from me in ragged bursts, barely audible over my heart’s pounding. “I respect your career choice. Do me the courtesy of respecting mine.”

  Cullen’s hand grips the doorframe, his knuckles blanching. “Why did you leave New York?” he asks. “Why did the Post, a well-respected publication, fire you outright?”

  My eyes widen. Jaden. Apparently, I wasn’t the only visit the asshole had made today. What the hell had he said to Cullen? Would Cullen have believed him? My gaze falls on Cullen’s wall art, the few pictures reflecting memories of the good old days in uniform. There’s a bond between soldiers, my father used to tell me. A bond that’s forged in war and that makes everything in the civilian world look like a washed-out shadow by comparison. Don’t imagine yourself in some competition with the Marine Corps, he’d growl, grabbing me by the front of my shirt, his breath reeking of cheap beer. The corps long since won.

  “I was fired because military buddies sweep things under the rug for each other.” I shake my head. “I don’t know what you think you know, but during Fleet Week, I went—”

  “I know where you went.” Cullen cuts me off before I can finish my sentence. Reaching into his drawer, Cullen pulls out several photos and scatters them over his desk. The same photos that Jaden had produced to the Post, though he’d been passed out drunk most of the night. Me dancing with the marines. Bile rises up my throat as Cullen stares at the pictures that tell so little of the truth. “Tell me that you didn’t trade on a personal relationship with your fiancé to get entry into an exclusive venue, all while intending to write a story about it.”

  “Of course I wanted to write a story. Why the hell else would I have gone to that shithole dive in Manhattan?” I force myself to not look at the photos. To ignore the emphasis on the word fiancé. To stick only to the truth. “But Jared knew that was why I was going. It was his idea.”

  “It was his idea to set up his war buddies to be humiliated on the front page of the Manhattan Post?” Cullen’s voice drops dangerously low. “I don’t like being lied to.”

  “I don’t lie, Cullen. Not in person, and sure as hell not in print.” I huff. “I obviously danced with the marines. It was a party. What I didn’t do was give up my right to stop. I was there for a story, not an orgy. Jaden had—”

  “What drugs were you on that night?” Cullen demands, interrupting me.

  “What?” I shake my head in bewilderment. “None.”

  “Stop it, Skylar. You said you don’t lie, so tell me the damn truth. All of it.”

  I lean forward toward him. “I. Took. No. Drugs. Not that night, and not any other night.”

  “You’re sure?” he asks quietly. “You don’t lie, and you don’t take drugs.”

  “You wanted to know why the Post fired me,” I say through gritted teeth. “Are you going to listen to the answer, or does throwing random accusations at me scratch the itch enough for you?”

  “I already have all the answers I need,” he says. “Excuse me.” Turning away before I can say a word, he takes out his phone and presses something on his speed dial. Instantly, a picture of a drop-dead-gorgeous brunette with bright, attractive eyes—like a cross between the pretty girl next door and a supermodel—flickers across the screen.

  “Fuck you, Cullen Hunt,” I whisper, backing away from the door. My eyes sting, my voice threatening to break if Cullen asks whether I really made up allegations of assault and attempted rape just to have a story. But maybe it’s worse if he doesn’t even bother to ask. If he believes Jaden’s version just like the USMC and the Post did.

  “Addie, glad you picked up,” Cullen says, shutting the door in my face before stepping deeper into the office to finish his conversation.

  I’m numb as I stand there for one heartbeat after another before finally turning on my heel. Striding back into Catherine’s office. Fishing a blank sheet of paper and pen from the drawer.

  Then, collecting what’s left of my self-respect, I write out the only response Cullen’s behavior warrants. Two words only, in short, bold strokes.

  I quit.

  30

  Sky

  Sitting at my desk in Denton Uncovered, I stare at my police response time story from hell. The more I dig into the research on crime incidents and police response times, the more variables keep popping up, like the heads of some kind of exotic monster. Yes, crime is higher in the poorer neighborhoods. And yes, responses are scarce. But so are the calls to the police to begin with. In fact, best I can tell, the PD only found out about my own incident the same way Cullen had—from the local news. But should they have known? Should a vehicle have been stationed somewhere? I don’t know. The only definite correlation I’ve found so far is one between mistrust of police and socioeconomic levels. I read another set of interview notes with contradicting statements and growl in frustration before sticking the whole package into the drawer. This story is too important not to be perfect, and my mind isn’t working properly right now.

  Pulling up the story Frank is actually paying me to write, I concentrate on finishing the last three paragraphs on WorldROCK without inhaling too deeply. Uncovered’s workroom reeks of old coffee and that bug spray Frank wears all the time, the scent permanently clinging to the old checkered couch. I don’t remember the smell bothering me so much before, but now, a week after I’ve walked away from Cullen, I miss the Rescue’s caustic antiseptic smell.

  “Yoda is at WorldROCK?” Stopping too close to me, Frank leans over my shoulder to peer at the screen.

  Shit. I’ve misspelled yoga three times. No, four. Plunking in the correction, I hunch my shoulders a bit, making sure my red drape-neck shell isn’t showing too much cleavage. If there’s one thing I seem to attract in my life, it’s males who have boundary issues. Or PTSD. Or a controlling nature. Or a bent for dishonesty. Yep. I sure can pick ’em.

  Ignoring my attempt to pretend he’s not there, Frank walks around to lean a hip against my desk before folding his arms over his suit-clad chest. It still amazes me that he would purchase such an expensive suit—even if it is silver with weird lapels—and not have it tailored to fit him correctly. It looks too tight around his middle and yet gaps awkwardly at the shoulders. He simply doesn’t have the body for how this suit has been cut. He needs a more athletic build to pull it off. Broader shoulders and a narrower waist. A build like one of the Trident gods. A build like Cullen’s.

  Damn it.

  “You’re working hard, honey,” Frank says.

  “I am.” I always work hard. But that’s something few people ever seem to notice.

  “Over this past week, especially. You know I don’t pay by the hour, right?” The last is said with a touch of something that smells suspiciously of empathy. Apparently, I look pathetic enough to stir even Frank to pity. “Something going on at the Rescue?”

  My jaw clenches, my hands furiously typing some bullshit note about the weather. Then I misspell yoga again and close my eyes, hoping Frank doesn’t fire me on the spot for incompeten
ce. The way my week has gone so far, he just might. “I wouldn’t know. I quit last week.”

  Frank stays silent for a moment, the lack of sardonic remarks making my skin crawl. Then he lowers his voice. “Did that bastard hurt you, Sky?”

  “What?” My head jerks up, something inside me protective of Cullen even as the rest of me wouldn’t mind casting a stone or five. “Why would you think that?”

  “Because the best indicator of future behavior is past behavior. And Hunt was violent even before he went into the military.” Frank shakes his head. “I’m telling you, the armed forces draw those sorts of overbearing personalities like bees to honey. The muscle-bound hotheads who live to work out and blow shit up. Can’t say that I understand them, but I’ve seen plenty of it.”

  Frank pauses, watching my face too intently for comfort. “The most fucked-up thing I find about dealing with those types is that their mood swings come in bursts. One moment, everything is going fine, and the next, they explode like a grenade.” Frank scoffs in that annoyingly condescending way of his, but I find myself unable to really disagree.

  It’s too close a description to the men I know. My father. Jaden. His friends. Cullen.

  “Anyway…” Frank stands, straightening his ill-fitting suit. “I know you and Hunt were…close. If he went haywire, I didn’t want you thinking it had anything to do with you. Because it doesn’t.” His hand brushes my shoulder and stays there. “If you ever need a safe place to stay, or just someone to grab dinner with and talk, I’m here.”

  Wait, what? I carefully remove Frank’s hand from my shoulder, but he doesn’t seem to notice my discomfort. In fact, his attention is already on where Denton Uncovered’s photographer is going over photos from WorldROCK’s opening night, the yoga instructor in her leotard posing prominently against the mountain range backdrop.

  “Dyer!” Frank calls, sauntering the photographer’s way. “Need to talk to you. First, get rid of that time-stamp gibberish on the shots and second…” The men disappear into Frank’s office, their voices muted behind the frosted door while I stay where I am, still staring at the photo on Dyer’s screen. The one with the mountain range in the background.

  Colorado is beautiful, and I do love climbing. Yet there’s no denying it’s a dangerous sport. Kind of like fucking your boss. Sometimes the excursions just don’t end well.

  I tap the pen against my notes. Shit. If I’m getting pep talks from Frank, of all people, it’s time to go home. Well, to the apartment. I can’t think of the place in which Cullen had set me up like a goddamn mistress as “home.” I’ve been doing my damnedest to find another place to live, and maybe this weekend I finally will. I’ll miss the view, but it will be nice not to be reminded of Cullen with every swipe of my gaze.

  I still can’t believe how long it took me to figure out what the Cullen situation was truly all about. I guess better late than never, though.

  With high hopes for weekend apartment hunting firmly in my imagination, I set about packing my nonessentials the moment I get back to my place. Since I rarely cook, I begin with my meager amount of cookware, setting my two saucepans and single skillet into one of the handful of boxes I grabbed from beside a dumpster at a local housewares store. I’ve just discovered a way to make the lids fit—flipping them upside down—when my phone rings from the kitchen counter.

  It’s such a lovely counter too. A rich tan granite with golden speckles throughout. But as lovely as it is, it’s not worth selling my soul to Cullen Hunt. Fuck him and the medical transport he rode in on.

  “Hi, Mom,” Holding the phone between my shoulder and ear, I retrieve the pint of Ben and Jerry’s from the fridge. The one Jaden had brought is long gone, but I’ve been investing in chilled dairy all week.

  “Lary darling,” she exclaims way too loudly. “Oh, wait one moment, let me take off this earring. The diamond solitaire is very pretty, but it’s just too thick not to hurt my ear with this phone.” There are some clunky noises. “There, that’s better. How are you?”

  Does she care? It’s doubtful. I’m already regretting picking up. I have packing and apartment hunting to do. “What do you need, Mom?”

  “Who says I need anything? Can’t a mother contact her daughter without a reason?” Not in my experience. But then she sighs. “I’m sorry, Lary. I wanted to let you know that Greg and I are home now. I’d love for you to visit. I miss you.”

  Home. As in the Big Apple. As in the same city where I suffered all my worst memories. “I’m in the middle of an upheaval at the moment. This isn’t the best time.”

  “What sort of upheaval?” she asks, and wow, she even sounds sincerely curious.

  “Some employment challenges.” What else is new? “And I’m having to look for another place to live.” In other words, my life is once again in shambles.

  “Oh, Lary, that’s perfect.” She sounds delighted. “What I mean is, it’s a perfect time for you to come home. Move in. I’d love to have you, and Greg has lots of connections. He’s already told me that he’d be happy to help you find a job that’s right up your alley.”

  I must be bad off, because the idea actually appeals to me. For a whole minute, I consider it. Not having a rent. Not having to pound the pavement searching for a journalism position where I can showcase my writing skills. Having someone to come home to. All I’d have to do is my part in whatever version of house Greg feels like playing.

  “Doing tricks for men’s treats is your thing, Mother, not mine.” The words come out harsher than I intend, my chest clenching at the silence that comes over the line. I open my mouth to say something, but no words come. Not after one breath. Or two. Or five.

  I’m already going to disconnect the line when my mother’s voice fills the other end. “First of all, Lary, don’t you dare judge me or how I’ve managed to feed and raise you. Don’t you dare say that I’m only allowed to be happy with your approval. And if you must know, things with Greg are different—he wants a family. He wants to meet you. The fact that he happens to come from money doesn’t say anything about him as a person. Any so-called journalist would’ve checked her sources before drawing conclusions.”

  The line goes dead before I can answer, my gaze resting dumbly on the dimming screen as I tell myself that I’m not a horrible human being. In my defense, we’ve never exactly had a healthy relationship. Maybe it’s because my father was such a goddamn tyrant who beat her into submission any time she dared to defy him, but growing up, all my mother’s energy went toward dealing with him rather than raising me. I thought things would improve after my dad passed away, but that’s not what happened. There I was, eleven years old and desperate to be loved by the parent who remained, but instead, Mom acted as if I wasn’t even there. She started to actively date, treating me like a piece of luggage that got in the way if not put into storage with neighbors or friends or in an empty apartment.

  I can’t even tell whether her invite home was because she actually missed me or to satisfy some whim Greg the current sugar daddy had. God knows she’d do more than that so long as he supported her. She’d had so many of these men over the years that I lost count. When shit hits the fan, my mother’s solution isn’t to become stronger or more independent, it’s to find a man to sponge off.

  And I’d very nearly made the same mistake.

  Returning to my—to the—kitchen, I cinch up the first box with packing tape, finishing just as my phone rings again. Mom again? Nope. Jaz. It’s her third call to me this week, and, the coward that I am, I can’t bring myself to face her. Tightening my jaw, I hit the Ignore button as quickly as I can.

  A second later, my phone pings with a text message.

  If you don’t pick up, I’ll assume you’re in trouble and call Rescue.

  Shit. Snatching up the phone, I dial her number before she decides to make good on the threat. Knowing Jaz, she just might.

  “Hey, girl!” Jaz’s forever cheerful voice fills my ear. “Where the hell have you been? And did it involv
e booze and sex?”

  “No and no.” I clear my throat. “Listen, Jaz, this isn’t the best—”

  “Blah blah blah. Open the door.” A knocking sound accompanies the demand, the rap rap rap beating out a march against my doorframe.

  I open the door, jumping out of the way as the petite force of nature that is Jaz bursts into my place, a six-pack of raspberry beer in hand. Jaz, clad in tight ripped jeans and a very cute bright pink jacket, sets her sights on my boxes, her intelligent gaze putting two and two together. Then her dark eyes jump to mine, her curly hair swinging. “Oh. My. God. You’re moving in with Cullen the broody and didn’t tell me?”

  “No!” I rub my face. I’m not sure what I expected Jaz to know given that I hadn’t talked to her or anyone from the Rescue crowd since walking out of Cullen’s office a week ago, but I thought she’d at least know we’d parted ways. My face heats, guilt rising inside me. I should have told her myself. Should have bitten the bullet and at least explained what happened, extending her the courtesy of deciding for herself whether she still wanted anything to do with me. Well. Time to face the music. Straightening my spine I turn to face Jaz fully. “I’m not with Cullen. Actually, I’m not with the Rescue anymore at all. I’m sorry, I thought one of the guys would have told you that much.”

  Jaz’s eyes widen, and for the first time since meeting her, I find her speechless. “They didn’t,” she says finally and quite unnecessarily. Moving as if through sludge, Jaz sets down the raspberry beer on the kitchen counter, pops off the caps, and extends one bottle out to me. “No, in case I haven’t mentioned it before, my brother is an utter shithead. I mean, it’s one thing to go all radio silent on his personal stuff, but this? I’m going to throttle him in his sleep. Now, tell me what happened. Because if I’m gonna be throttling one Trident god in his sleep, I can do two.”