by Tawny Weber
“Okay. Just, you know, don’t get your hopes up too high,” Ava warned before heading for the locker room.
She knew there was no point in saying more than that. Any lecture she offered would fall on deaf ears. But she knew for a fact that men didn’t change. But women did, as Ava had proven. All it’d taken was a hideous bout of depression, a couple of exercise classes and a pulled muscle to completely change her life.
Spinning had led to kettlebells, which led to yoga, then to weight lifting. Next thing she knew, she was teaching kickboxing, certified in Pilates and attending weeklong training camps in exercise instruction. One of those camps had hooked her on the benefits of massage for training the body, inspiring her to get licensed. Now, after another year of training, she’d added a rehabilitation massage certification to her roster.
Not bad for a woman who, until the age of twenty, had been convinced that the sum total of her ambitions were to hold the crown of socialite princess, to be a perfect wife and to always look pretty.
Thank God she’d escaped that life. It would have been pure hell.
* * *
ESCAPE COULD ONLY last for so long.
Experience and familiarity got Elijah through the team debriefing without a problem, but by the time they got to his individual round, he was feeling raw.
But, again, experience and familiarity got him through.
Still, he was damned glad to hear, “Dismissed, Prescott.”
Gut churning and his throat hot from keeping his voice at an even keel, Elijah nodded to the two Naval Intelligence officers and Admiral Cree. He offered his salute, turned on his heel and strode out. And he didn’t breathe fully until he’d cleared the room.
“You okay? Damn, Prescott, you look rough.”
Ignoring that, Elijah nodded to the ensign manning the desk and continued into the hallway. He wasn’t surprised when Jarrett joined him, matching his pace as they passed both military and civilian personnel until they’d reached the end of the hall.
“Debriefing can be rough, but I’ve never seen you come out looking this worn. Seriously,” Jarrett said, sounding concerned, “are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Like Jarrett, Elijah stopped at the double doors. The sun filtered through the small windows, dust motes dancing between them. “I finished debriefing. I’m cleared.”
“Hey, I just wanted to give you a heads-up.” Jarrett made a show of glancing to the left, then to the right before leaning closer. “Watch your six.”
“Why? Someone coming down on my ass?”
“I’m hearing a lot of buzz. Worry, doubts, that sort of thing. Some are saying Poseidon is, and I quote, a ‘fancy-ass clique rallying around a loser in the name of protecting their own.’” Jarrett rolled his eyes as if to say it was ridiculous. But if it was ridiculous, why bother with the warning? “Just wanted you to know.”
Elijah met Jarrett’s frown with a look of calm. Not because that’s how he was feeling—hell, no. The warning, on top of a brutal debriefing, had his gut twisted with a miserable sort of fury. But there was no point confirming the gossip that he was a mess. “I’m good,” he lied.
“I know you’re clean, Prescott. I just want to make sure you watch your back. People get ugly when they’re under suspicion.” Jarrett snapped his teeth together, his eyes worried. “You don’t need more dirt thrown your way. Not after everything you’ve been through. So if you need anything, I’m here for you.”
His own jaw tight enough to snap his teeth off, Elijah nodded. “Yes, sir. But Commander Savino is my commanding officer, and I report to him.” Elijah pulled his cap out of his back pocket and tugged it onto his head. “If there are any issues, I’m sure I’ll hear it from him.”
“If he’s brought into it,” Jarrett said quietly, stepping forward until the tips of his boots knocked against Elijah’s. “Someone wants Poseidon brought down. How long can Savino stop that? People higher up are watching. It’s making everyone nervous. They’re wondering who’s involved, who’s clean and who’s not.”
“Are they looking at me?” Elijah asked.
“They’re looking at everyone. You roomed with Ramsey. You’ve had some shit going on, and your psych eval says you have reason to resent the Navy. Some people worry about serving with a guy with your issues. And then there’s the question of who really sold the chemical formula. Do you think everyone believes it was some dead guy?” Jarrett shook his head, as if disgusted by the chatter. “Just watch your back.”
Elijah refused to reply. All he could do was nod. Then, shoulders stiff, he watched the captain shove through the doors and saunter away. He wished like hell he could claim the man was full of crap. But Elijah had seen the looks.
The warning was legit.
* * *
TWO DAYS LATER, Elijah strode down the hallway toward Savino’s office. He didn’t know if he was making the right choice. He just knew he couldn’t make a different one.
So when he strode through the door, his chin was high, his eyes direct and his expression clear.
His commander was at his desk, papers stacked in two neat piles on the dingy metal surface. Elijah wouldn’t mind the rank, but damned if he’d want the paperwork that went with it.
“Reporting as ordered, sir.”
“You want to explain this?” Savino invited, lifting one of the papers from the stack on the left.
His face blank, Elijah looked from his commander to the paper the man held and back again. It seemed pretty self-explanatory to him. But he knew Savino wasn’t asking him to clarify the request for leave. He wanted to know why. He wanted details; he wanted insights. As always, he wanted every damned thing.
Savino was a hard-ass. He was a tough commander, a man with a wicked sense of humor held under tight control and razor-sharp lines in the sand when it came to right and wrong. He was the first man to reach out his hand and the last to walk away.
He was a friend.
They’d trained together. They’d sat watch in a cave over a village beset by terrorists together. They’d gotten drunk together. They’d been through a million experiences in the near-decade they’d known each other.
So Elijah couldn’t hold back. “I’m not one hundred percent. I thought I was, pushed the medics to release me and ignored their concerns,” he said quietly. Then, in case Savino suspected he meant the head shrink as well as the physicians, he drummed his fingertips over his thigh. “I’d rather take a few weeks’ leave before I do irreparable damage.”
He knew that excuse would hold. His medical records said as much. But Savino knew him too well. So the question was, would he accept face value or would he push for the truth?
“And this has nothing to do with the heap of crap chickenshit gossips are trying to pile on you?”
Had he thought that wouldn’t get back to Savino? Elijah almost smiled. “Someone wants to take down Poseidon,” he said, sidestepping. “They’re using the convenience of gossip to accelerate that mission.”
“That doesn’t answer my question. Do you believe that anyone on the team doesn’t trust you? Do you believe anyone thinks you’re dirty?”
Yeah. He did believe that. “I believe there are some that might have questions,” he said carefully instead. “Since our job is not to follow blindly but to think outside the box, I don’t blame them for wondering.”
Savino frowned, but simply folded his hands on his desk instead of saying anything.
“At the very least, they’ve got to wonder why I hadn’t seen anything. Why I didn’t realize that Ramsey was dirty, that he was a psychotic traitor with a taste for greed and a hard-on to take down Poseidon.” Elijah rubbed his hand over his face, feeling stained, as if he’d never be clean. “I served with him and Adams. I partied with them. I roomed with them for eight fucking months. How could I miss something that ugly?”
>
“By that train of thought, you’d think I should have realized it, too,” Savino countered quietly, looking tired. “I served with Ramsey myself. I trained him, commanded him. Hell, Rembrandt, I signed his fucking DEVGRU recommendation.”
Knowing Savino’s use of the word fucking was permission to fall out, Elijah dropped to the empty chair in front of the desk, his boots clunking against the metal.
“I can’t get past it,” Elijah admitted. “The weight of it. The feeling of failure.”
“You’re going to have to. You’ve got enough weighing you down already. Don’t haul someone else’s crap, too.”
Made sense. Elijah knew it made sense. He’d told himself the same thing already, hadn’t he? But he’d seen the expressions on some people’s faces. He’d read the question in their eyes, the wondering. Was he in league with Ramsey? Was that how he’d survived the explosion? Did they think he’d missed that sniper last week because he’d meant to? That he’d fallen back on the command not to fire, had used it as an excuse to let his partner take a bullet? The questions swirled, ugly and sharp, scraping at his composure, tearing at his resolve.
“I need a break. I need to get away from it all,” Elijah murmured, finally meeting Savino’s eyes. “I thought I was ready to come back. I’m not.”
“I could order a psych eval, another round of physical therapy,” Savino said. “That’s what I should do. For your own good and for the good of the team.”
“You could. But I’m hoping you won’t. I just need a break. A real break. Away.”
A dumb-ass move, his brain warned.
Walking away now would only add fuel to Jarrett’s insinuations. To those who thought him guilty, it’d look like a retreat. Even to himself—who knew he was clean—it would feel like he was running.
“You’d be smarter to stay on base, take light duty until you’re ready to face fire again,” Savino advised, reading Elijah’s mind with his usual savvy.
“Yeah. I know.” He’d been going on eight months without leave when he’d been blown to hell. After that had been a couple of months in and out of the base hospital, a month easing back into training. For the last year he’d lived and breathed the Navy, SEAL Team 7, Poseidon.
Once he’d thrived on immersing himself in this world.
Now?
He didn’t know if he could live or breathe it any longer. He didn’t know how much longer he could before he simply cracked. And what would be revealed through the fractured pieces could break him beyond repair.
Savino must have seen some hint of that on his face because he rubbed a hand over his hair and sighed. “Okay. Yeah. I’ll green-light leave. But three weeks. No more.” Not a man to waste time, he snagged the request for leave again and scrawled his signature.
But he didn’t hand it over. “I’m temporarily relieving you from active duty, but as long as Operation Fuck Up is in effect, you’re still serving Poseidon. Clear?”
In other words, until they’d determined once and for all if Ramsey was dead or not, every member of Poseidon was on alert. “Is there something you want me working on while I’m away?”
Savino tapped his fingers on the desk once. Twice. After a third rat-a-tat-tat, he opened a drawer and pulled out a sheet of paper. “Codes, log-ins to access certain files that need to be decrypted. You going to have access to a secured computer where you’re going?”
“I’ll make sure of it,” Elijah promised, knowing as he reached for the paper that Savino was giving him more than an assignment.
He was handing over his trust. A show of faith that damn near changed Elijah’s mind about getting away.
Damn near. But not quite.
“Where will you go?”
Elijah hesitated, then shrugged. “Not sure yet. Just... Away.”
“You need somewhere to chill? My place in Monterey is sitting there empty.”
God. Elijah gritted his teeth against the wave of guilt pounding over him. “Thanks, but I think your castle is a little out of my league.” Trying on a grin, Elijah rolled his eyes at the idea of a middle-class guy like him chugging beer in that glass tower of a place that Savino called his home away from base.
“I expect you back here in three weeks. Excuses won’t be tolerated.”
“Yes, sir.” No problem. He could figure out the rest of his life in three weeks. Elijah headed for the door.
“Rembrandt?”
Hand on the knob and escape just a twist away, Elijah looked over his shoulder.
“You need anything, you let me know.” Savino’s brow creased for a moment, the shield dropping to show his concern. “Anything. We’re a team. We’re here for you.”
Not trusting his voice, Elijah nodded on his way out the door. Maybe that was the problem. They were a team. They were there for him. But did they trust him to be there for them?
Did he—could he—trust himself? No.
That was the bottom line.
Elijah couldn’t trust himself—or ask anyone else to—when his entire world was crashing down around him. His life—starting with his mind—was simply falling apart.
Until he figured it out, until he fixed whatever in the hell was going on, he simply had to accept the hard truth.
His life sucked.
CHAPTER FOUR
JEREMY PRESCOTT HAD been a man of great responsibility, deep pride and a quirky sense of humor. When he’d died, he’d left behind a devastated family, a tidy nest egg and a few special bequests to his only son, Elijah. Among them were sage bits of advice, mostly in the form of clichés handed down with a wink and a smile; the responsibility for an emotionally fragile widow with a propensity for drama outmatched only by her gift for nagging; and a cherry ’53 Corvette.
Chevrolet’s first attempt at what would become an icon. The red body was a rough testament to fiberglass, the white leather interior almost flawless with some wear and tear along the edges of the driver’s seat. Granted, at ten years old, Elijah had been too young to drive—hell, his feet had barely reached the pedals—but nobody challenged his right to the car. For a while, especially when he’d been deployed overseas, he’d kept the vehicle garaged at his mother’s. But two years ago a friend had convinced him to live a little, to bring it down to Coronado, take it out for a ride once in a while.
Given the cost of gas, he’d often joked that cruising the car was his guilty pleasure. The pleasure was dimming as he was cruising past hour seven on the drive from Coronado to his hometown of Yountville. Nestled in the heart of the gorgeous Napa Valley, the charming town was known for its fine dining, with restaurants like the French Laundry pulling in locals and tourists alike. Less well-known was the meddling prowess of the Prescott women. Elijah’s mother and sisters specialized in forming, sharing and debating their opinions on the lives of others. He loved them all, but damn, the idea of facing that after a long drive while his body ached was a lot to take.
So when he came up on the exit to Napa, he debated for all of two seconds whether to continue another handful of miles to his mom’s before pulling off the freeway and heading to his cousin’s instead. He’d rather bunk on Mack’s couch, eat wheat germ and drink lemongrass. Parking the ’Vette in the gravel lot behind a three-story building, he leaned one arm on the steering wheel and contemplated the gym his cousin had built.
Scarred gray stucco walls were framed in crisp white. Through the wall of plate glass fronting the building chrome flashed, highlighting row after row of cardio equipment. Treadmills, ellipticals, rowers and spin bikes were filled with bodies.
He knew they were positioned there to give the exercisers a view as much as they were to advertise the gym, and he wondered if Mack still seeded the machines with ringers. A handful of men and women who sweated for free and made it look as if they’d built those perfectly sculpted bodies on those machines,
luring in the gullible to think that three twenty-minute sessions each week would give them the same.
Mack Prescott was a canny businessman.
When Elijah stepped into the gym, he could see that canniness was paying off. Hard rock pumped out a heavy beat and instead of the sweat he was used to at the base gym, the air was fresh with something that smelled like clean air.
About thirty of the forty cardio machines were occupied, with the same number of people on strength equipment or using free weights. There were two more rooms enclosed in glass, one filled with women in spandex and the other empty.
Even through the milling, sweating and grunting bodies—and the temptation of those spandex-draped babes, Elijah only had eyes for one person. He grinned when he saw the guy manning the desk next to what appeared to be locker rooms.
At six-two and SEAL fit, Elijah wasn’t a small man. Standing tall at six-four and a comfortable 230 of muscle, Mack Prescott lived by the motto that fitness was king. And it ruled his body with an iron fist. Bald as an eight ball and just as crazy, Mack had spent his early twenties on the fitness circuit, competing and collecting trophies that paid ode to his ripped body. Seven years ago, he’d decided to turn his expertise to training others and opened a gym. Something Elijah appreciated on so many levels.
A wide grin spread over his homely face when Mack saw Elijah weaving his way through the gym rats.
“Well, if it ain’t my favorite sailor. Elijah, how the hell are you doing, man?” Not waiting for an answer, Mack grabbed Elijah close and smothered him tight enough to make a man grateful for good deodorant. “You just passing through?”
“I’m on leave,” Elijah mumbled into Mack’s armpit. “Needed some time to rest and recoup.”
As if testing that assessment, Mack gripped Elijah’s shoulders and pushed him out arm’s distance for an inspection. If his scowl was any indication, he didn’t much like what he saw.