“Damon?”
“I know, I know. Shut up.”
This time the silence managed to last almost fifteen minutes. An explosive rumble sounded from under the covers. Gage gagged and pulled the sleeping bag into a tight collar around his neck.
“Damn it! What the hell have you been eating?”
“Frankie did it.”
“It wasn’t Frankie.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m in back and I know she didn’t.”
Quinton broke into laughter. Frankie sneezed, twisted in Gage’s embrace and firmly planted her knee into Damon’s testicles.
* * * *
Morning light filtered through pane glass windows. Frankie moaned and made a weak attempt to struggle out of a deep slumber. She was securely held in place. Something hard, smooth, and warm was curled up behind her. She wanted to open her eyes, cast off the strange dream, but couldn’t muster the energy. Whatever had attached itself to her backside felt good. Really good. Comforting in a yummy way she didn’t want to wake up from. Her nipples tingled and ached. She squirmed and wriggled, trying to push closer to the delightful sensation rubbing against her ass. Her lips parted, she let out a soft sigh and whispered, “I want to see spots,” then promptly fell back to sleep.
* * * *
Gage Adams came brutally awake at the lusty sound of a moaning female. He was sporting a raging, almost painful, erection. The kind of diamond-cutter he hadn’t had for years. Warily opening his eyes, Gage found to his marked horror that he was lying on his side with Frankie curved to his body like a spoon. She was cleaved so tightly against him he was damned near inside her.
That wasn’t the worst of it.
She wiggled her sweet little heart-shaped butt. God save him. He almost slid right into home base. Gage held his breath and counted to ten, then slowly, cautiously, slipped from beneath the blankets.
Padding quietly across the wood floor, he tiptoed up the wide staircase to the second level and eased past an open door. Quinton was still in bed, snoring softly with his head tucked at an awkward angle.
Gage closed the door to his room. When he found the nerve to start breathing again he took a quick cold shower and dragged on a sweat-suit and running shoes.
The house was silent as he stealthily crept back down the stairs. He turned and took one last look before exiting. Damon was stretched out on his stomach with Frankie’s arm draped over him.
* * * *
He ran up and down the sandy beach for almost an hour and still couldn’t find the zone. His mind and body were frustratingly out of sync. Running always brought him a measure of relief from whatever was troubling him, some temporary peace of mind while listening only to his body. His senses would blur and the miles drag on.
Frankie.
She was the problem. He had gotten a boner over his captain and he was way beyond distracted. His body screamed over the clamor in his head. He tried to regulate his breathing, make his running movements smooth and fluid but his body wasn’t responding. The only high it wanted was to have sex with her until it passed out from sheer exhaustion. He tried to divert his mind to other, less pleasant things.
Like Robin.
The thought of what she did always put him in a bad mood.
Or Greg.
Greg would still be here if Gage hadn’t fucked up and gotten him killed.
He pounded past the tourists who were flocking to the shore like migratory birds. His feet sank into the dampened sand then pulled free. He stared straight ahead, ignoring the bikini-clad females ogling him.
The morning sun beat down on his exposed skin. He stripped down to running shorts and insignia shirt. The pager at his waist slapped against his hip with each jarring step. Gage wiped the sweat from his eyes and angled a path through the edge of the water in deliberate attempt to get his shoes wet.
Wet.
Gage bit down painfully on his lip. His mind would not let it go. Frankie had been arched and shuddered against him that morning, inviting moisture seeped from between her legs while she moved in a sweet, stroking rhythm to coax him inside. She wanted sex. If he hadn’t caught her hips in that last moment of sanity, Gage would have done the unthinkable.
Military training had helped school him to minimize and control his reactions. Fucking her was all he could think about at the moment and not a damned thing seemed to change that.
He scowled and picked up the pace.
* * * *
She was not by nature a morning person. Dragging herself upright without the adrenaline-rush that a rescue call brought was a challenge. Frankie pitched into wakefulness in total confusion. She sat up, rubbed her stiff shoulders and looked around. She was naked and alone under a big bedroll in the middle of the living room floor.
“What the hell?”
The house was silent. She sniffed in the scent of Damon’s after-shave and sneezed. Mingled odors permeated the air and tainted her skin. She smelled like salty ocean, hearth smoke, the rich aroma of chocolate and something else. A musky female scent combined with the delightful essence of…
“Gage?”
Her mouth tightened into a thin line. Her recollection of the night before was punched full of holes. She sifted through fragments of vague recollection.
Swimming.
Fighting a strong current.
Numbing cold.
The face of her dead sister.
The worried tone in Gage’s voice.
Damon’s nagging.
Swatting at a temperature probe.
Quinton’s reassurance.
Drinking something too hot and sickeningly sweet.
Naked flesh next to her own.
Warmth and security.
More naked flesh next to her own.
Frankie rocked back on her heels feeling suddenly queasy.
“What have I done?”
She took another wary glance around the room and tried to stand. Her legs were wobbly. Moving with trepidation, she scooped up an armful of bedding and staggered off. No matter what had happened, Frankie reminded herself, she was still the senior officer of the station with duties to perform. Or at least she hoped that was the case. She stumbled on a trailing edge of blanket and banged her knee.
Her mind swirled with images while she showered, dressed and worked up the courage to seek out Quinton. She found him on the far side of the helipad. A braided steel cable had been played out to its full, three hundred-foot length. Quinton was running it slowly through his ungloved hands, checking for any frayed strands. The sturdy metallic rescue basket and Stokes litter were on the ground beside the helo.
He looked up at her approach and motioned her closer. Intense blue eyes sparkled with genuine warmth.
“Feeling better?”
Frankie gave him a sheepish grin. “It depends.”
“On what?”
“On how big an ass I made of myself last night.”
He let out a deep rumble of laughter that warmed her heart.
“Fuzzy on the details?”
“In a major way.” She was cautiously finger-drying her wet hair. “I bet Gage is ready to strangle me.”
Quinton shook his head negatively. “You gave us a scare.”
Frankie looked away. She couldn’t bear the thought she’d disappointed him.
“It’ll never happen again, Chief. I promise.”
“I know that,” he answered solemnly. “Gage needs to hear it from you. I’ve never seen him like that.”
“Seen him like what?” she asked, confused.
“He blames himself for not reaching you sooner,” Quinton answered matter-of-factly.
“It wasn’t his fault,” Frankie whispered. She shook her head, trying to clear away all the panicky thoughts.
That Others May Live.
To Gage they were more than empty words. The PJ motto continued to shape his behavior. He always put the welfare of others before his own safety.
Quinton stopped working the
cable and watched her closely. His soft brown hair, lightened by the sun, curled in a corona around his angular face.
“He was frightened for you. Scared shitless, in fact. We were all worried.”
“Where is he now?” she asked.
“Running the beach.”
“Where’s Damon?”
“Taking Stewie to the vet.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Him is about to become an IT.”
She grinned widely. “Serves the little monster right.” Frankie stared across the blue-gray ocean at a distant speck. A cargo ship with a heavy load, she thought automatically.
“I wonder if it will improve his attitude?”
The gnarled alley cat Damon had found wandering the woods had a deep lack of affection for Frankie, it spit and hissed except when she came bearing gifts of food.
“If neutering works on Stewie, we should send Damon in for the same treatment,” Quinton joked.
Frankie listened, attentive to the way the big man spoke and wondered if God was feeling exceptionally generous the day he created Quinton’s vocal cords. Something nibbled at her subconscious that didn’t quite make sense.
“Quinton?”
“What?”
“I need to know something.”
“I’m listening.”
“Who was in the sleeping bag with me?”
She brought her curious gaze up to meet his. His only reply was a sly grin showing the faintest hint of a dimple in his right cheek. She closed her eyes on a curse and wandered back into the house.
* * * *
Hanging out with the boys was part and parcel of life in the Coast Guard. Chores and maintenance were done while keeping an eye on the prevailing weather patterns.
Frankie was making potato salad and sandwiches for lunch when Gage came back from his run. Turning to the sound of the sliding glass doors, one look at him almost stopped her heart.
Pale, drenched with sweat, guppy-breathing, he had hit the wall, literally running himself into the ground. He made direct eye contact with her, turned slowly and dragged himself upstairs to his room.
Frankie dropped the paring knife onto the counter and followed. She gave him a few moments of privacy, waiting for the tinkling spray of the shower, then opened the bathroom door and stepped inside.
“Gage?”
“What the hell are you doing in here?” he barked.
“I’m the boss. I get to go anywhere I want. Remember?”
His mumbled reply was unintelligible but Frankie got the gist. The man could be so damned testy. Something vicious weighed on his mind and it got worse every year around this time. After four years of working together, she could usually decipher his mood but rarely understood what powered it.
“What do you want?” he growled.
She took a deep breath and tried to stay calm. Gage always responded better to honesty. “I want to thank you for helping me last night,” she replied nervously. He’d always affected her more than she liked to admit. The thought of disappointing him weighed heavy on her mind. “I also want to apologize for my irrational behavior.”
“It wasn’t irrational,” he snapped.
“Yes it was,” Frankie answered. “I made a stupid mistake. It won’t happen again, I promise.”
Gage leaned his forehead against the cool tile of the shower and closed his eyes. Warm water trickled down his spine. He could tell by the way her voice carried that she was standing not more than three feet away from the opaque shower stall. Good thing there was a glass door and some distance between them, he thought. Because he felt an inexplicable need to hold her.
“I have to ask you something. One question and I’ll go away.” Frankie cleared her throat. “Exactly where were you this morning?”
“Running the strand,” he rasped, winced when his burgeoning cock struck the shower wall.
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Then say what you mean, captain,” he enunciated each syllable. “I can’t read your mind.”
He was going to make her spell it out.
“Were you in the sleeping bag with me last night?”
Frankie thought she heard him pound his head against the shower stall.
“Are you going to answer me?” she asked.
“No.”
“No? You weren’t in the sleeping bag or, no, you’re not going to answer me?”
She bit her lip in exasperation and tried not to get pissed off. Why all the secrecy? Where was the straight answer from these guys? She had a simple request and they acted like it was a need-to-know case of national security. She was a big girl. She could handle it. At the very least, she could pretend she did. His silence only added to her suspicions. Had she made such a big fool of herself that he couldn’t even talk about it? How could she be embarrassed without any cold, hard facts?
“Yo, Captain.” Damon, silent and sneaky, had returned to the base and was lurking just inside the bedroom door. “Glad to see you’re feeling better.”
Frankie grimaced at the sound of Gage’s exasperated groan. Maybe she could get some answers from their resident frat-brat.
“How’s Stewie?”
“Sore down-under,” Damon answered with a frown. “They’re keeping him overnight for observation.”
Frankie tried to hide a perverse grin.
“Hey,” Damon protested. “It’s not funny. My cat is great. He’s the perfect pet.”
“He’s perfect all right,” she deadpanned. “Stewie would fit perfectly on the barbecue.”
“You’re a sick woman, Moriarty.”
“You’re a fine one to call me sick.” She rolled her eyes and looked to the heavens. “Why couldn’t I have been assigned a junior crewman who likes reptiles or birds?”
“No way,” he shook his head.
Frankie continued to harass him. “How about a big green parrot who likes to shit down the back of your shoulder? Now that’s a pet I can identify with.”
“Any animal that has a can opener for a mouth isn’t my idea of a pet,” he sneered. “All loving and snuggly one moment and the next, the thing’s taking a DNA sample from your finger.”
Gage suddenly spoke up. “Do you two mind taking this discussion elsewhere? I’m trying to shower.”
Frankie ignored him.
“Damon, I’ve got a question for you.”
“Yeah?”
“I want to make it clear that your entire career is hanging in the balance, so think carefully about your answer.”
His full upper lip curled in petulance.
“Roger that,” he answered wryly.
Frankie could barely keep a straight face.
“Exactly where were you last night?”
A slow conspiratorial grin spread across his baby-face. He arched a blonde eyebrow. “I was the one keeping your breasts warm.”
She had to give him credit. The boy’s reflexes were superb. He spun so quickly that she barely had time to lob a toothbrush in his direction.
“By the way,” he yelled from down the hall. “You really ought to shave your legs more often.”
Frankie could hear a pathetic groan from the shower as she let out a howl and sprinted after Damon.
* * * *
The civilian public works scanner monitoring activities around New Harbor crackled with static and went silent. Frankie eyed Gage over the top of a roast beef sandwich. All his attention seemed riveted on his meal. He hadn’t said two words to her since the shower incident. His eyes were hooded and wary. Across the wide kitchen table, Quinton studied them both like they were some freakish lab experiment gone wrong.
“So, boss,” Damon asked. “What’s the significance of that tattoo on your butt?”
Frankie bit the inside of her lip and glared at him. “You’re the second person to ask about my tattoo this week.”
Gage’s head snapped up. “Who else asked about it?”
Lauren, she mouthed.
All three men asked simult
aneously, “Lauren saw your tattoo?”
Frankie nodded.
“Isn’t she a—” Gage paused.
“A lesbian?” Frankie finished the question.
His brilliant green eyes flew open in what Frankie recognized as worry. This was the most talkative Gage had been all day and she wasn’t about to let the opportunity slip away.
“Yes, she’s a lesbian and very popular with that crowd too. Did I mention that she is currently single and back on the dating market?”
Gage shook his dark head.
“What happened to her last girlfriend?” Damon asked.
“I’m not entirely certain but I know they haven’t seen one another for months.” Frankie paused to take a sip of water. “I think Denise might have been too butch for her.”
“Doesn’t Denise work for the fire department?” Damon asked.
Frankie nodded her head. “She’s the director of their emergency medical services. Book smart, street dumb.”
The three men were strangely quiet.
“I heard things got ugly between them. Denise started to harass Lauren at work, circling the ER’s ambulance bay on her big red motorcycle until the hospital security staff called the cops. Lauren was mortified. She even took out a restraining order.”
“Motorcycle?” Damon perked up. “What kind of motorcycle?”
“I don’t know. Lauren is coming over for dinner next weekend. I’ll ask her.”
“You’re having dinner with Lauren?” Gage’s firm jaw twitched. “The two of you?” He leaned over the table. “Alone?”
“Of course,” Frankie lied. “She has something she wants to discuss with me in private so we’re going to order Chinese take-out, rent a movie and have a relaxing evening.”
Quinton began to cough. Beside him, Damon was speechless with shock, leering at her like she’d morphed fangs and needed blood to survive.
* * * *
Gage felt like the top of his head was about to fly off. Lesbian? Was Frankie thinking about starting a relationship with Lauren? He stared down at his empty soup bowl and saw his raw reflection. Hell, maybe he needed to call that shrink after all. At this rate he would be a raving lunatic before the week was out.
Guarding the Coast Page 4