Issued (Navy Seals of Little Creek Book 1)

by Paris Wynters

  My jaw clamps tight against the tears blurring my eyes, and the force hurts my ears. Dad was a great cop and he would’ve been able to collect enough information on Santoro to have the bastard locked away for good. My stomach roils. If only I would’ve kept my mouth shut, he would still be alive.

  After the funeral, I found a box full of evidence hidden amongst my deceased mother’s belongings in Dad’s storage unit. And after I turned it over to Lyons, who worked in the 104th Precinct just like my father, I packed up whatever belongings survived the fire, changed my number, and disappeared to Virginia.

  Pain rips through my heart, so strong that I can barely suck in a breath. I turn on my side and tuck my knees to my chest. Tears flow down my cheeks. Marco and Santoro are still free to walk the streets while the only family I had left in the world lays under six feet of dirt. My chest heaves as I force air into my lungs to try to gain control, but it’s no use. A strained cry escapes my clogged throat and I let the tears stream freely until all that’s left within me is the coldness of the city I’d left behind.

  Chapter Three

  Jim

  The sharp, metallic bang snaps my attention to the rear of the truck. My hands ball into fists as air forcefully exits my nose. Why can’t people respect my stuff? Like gently closing the tailgate, not flinging it shut with all the herculean force one can muster. My blood pressure skyrockets, and I strangle the steering wheel. “You’re kiddin’ me, right?”

  Bear tilts his head forward as he climbs into the passenger seat, his eyes barely visible behind Oakley frames. “Check yourself, brotha.”

  I turn the key and my truck roars to life. My pulse pounds against my temples and I take a deep breath. I want to vent, let out how this whole situation, being stuck stateside and being treated by my superiors like I’m broken—useless—is bullshit, but I don’t want to say words I don’t mean.

  The sight of the manila envelope resting on the dashboard, its contents a prickling reminder of my current circumstances, jacks up my heart rate, and I think I might explode. So, I shift the truck into drive and head toward Little Creek’s base gate, barely able to keep driving under the speed limit. I slam my foot on the gas the moment we’re off base, and the truck’s exhaust thunders. The sound of freedom. But who am I kidding? No matter how fast I drive, there’s no escaping.

  Bear grips the grab handle as I whip the steering wheel to the left and skid onto Shore Drive. “Figured you’d take your sweet-ass time getting home.”

  “You know leaving a stranger—Taya—in my house unsupervised for the past twenty-four hours is driving me nuts. God only knows what she’s doing. If she’s moving things around. Or not putting things away in their proper places.”

  Bear curses under his breath when the tires squeal as we round another turn. “Marge’s gonna kill you if you flip us. And God help the new Mrs. Stephens. Hope he created her with enough tolerance to deal with your level of OCD.”

  Easing onto the brake, I inhale and count to ten, hoping to banish the tension from my body. Maybe focusing on something other than my current situation will work. “How are things with Hayden?”

  Bear groans at the mention of his oldest daughter’s name. “She’s still a stubborn pain in the ass.”

  “So, basically, a chip off the old block?”

  His nostrils flare as he draws in a deep breath. “Shut the hell up.”

  I fight back a grin. “Don’t snap at me. I’m not the one you’re mad at.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Cut the kid some slack. She’s just trying to find herself.” Hayden’s the only one, besides Marge, who can rattle the big guy.

  Bear’s knuckles pound against the center console. “That ‘kid’ is almost twenty years old. How much is there to find?”

  “So, you’re saying you had it together at that age?”

  Bear snorts. “I’d been deployed by her age and had been in my first gunfight in a country whose people were looking to kill me. Wasn’t much room after that for weird hair and dumb facial piercings.”

  Hayden is like a niece to me, and this whole situation between her and her father over her appearance doesn’t sit well. My own father would’ve used his fists, his belt, and even his words to remedy the situation—definitely not the controlled patience Bear exhibits. My best friend should be happy. His daughter is on the dean’s list. Who cares if she has gauges?

  But she’s not my kid. I doubt I would be a good father. Bile claws its way up my throat. Kids won’t ever be a part of my future.

  My fingers run along my jawline. I should shave tonight; my stubble is getting long, and I don’t need my commanding officer riding my ass about breaking regulations. Not after he appears to have saved my career. According to my C.O., being the first and only SEAL to participate—hell, pioneer—the military-wide Issued Partner Program is the only way to stay in the Navy. Taya’s the only way. The five-foot-seven firecracker who made my dick jump for joy the moment she pulled up on the Kawasaki green Ninja.

  I suck in a sharp breath at the memory of how she’d looked climbing off that bike and pulling the helmet off of her head, sweeping back her hair like the star of some teenage wet dream. I’m not supposed to be attracted to her, but the glimmer of compassion I witnessed in the way she tried to protect my feelings about the god-awful room decor only stoked the already burning embers of interest.

  “So, is the fact that you’re attracted to your temporary wife going to be a problem?” Bear waggles his brows, which remind me of flaming caterpillars. My best friend never holds back. Not during BUD/S. Not when he thought I was making the wrong decision marrying Raychel or when I fucked up in the Sandbox that one time, which ended with him taking a bullet in the ass.

  “I can keep my dick in my pants.” After six months overseas, in the middle of the desert, I’m accustomed to jerking off. Would it have been nice to get one last no-strings-attached, sinful night with a random woman before officially signing documents to be matched with Taya? Of course. Not that I’m a man-whore. But it’d be a mistake to have sex with my new wife since she’s only temporary. Sex would only complicate our time together, and complications are the last thing I need.

  My job depends on making this sham work for the next year. The job I’ve dedicated the last eighteen years of my life to. The one I’ve taken bullets for and buried friends because of. Which means, for the next 365 days—the time I promised my boss I would give toward this ridiculous program—my dick will have to continue being satisfied with the calloused skin of my left hand. Because cheating’s not an option. Never was and never will be. And having sex with Taya might cause her to have feelings, and as much as I don’t want to be married, I won’t intentionally play with someone’s emotions.

  I press on the brakes and stop at a red light just as another unwelcome image assails me. Raychel, dark eyes narrowed, as she packs her bags to leave me forever. What did you expect? You’re never home. You have no aspirations to move up in rank. And with the injuries, Christ, you’ll never make admiral. Did you think I planned on being just some SEAL’s wife forever?

  A brick sits in my stomach. The truck lurches forward and my hands clench the steering wheel. I’m barely a shattered version of my former self, plagued by headaches, dizziness, and a damn injured body.

  We pull up to the light blue Colonial, and Bear unbuckles his seat belt. “Taya’s not Raychel. Give her a chance.”

  “I don’t have to listen to your relationship advice. Contrary to what you believe, women see you as just an overgrown teddy bear. Your wife is the one we’re all afraid of.” I wave at Marge, who’s standing at the door.

  Bear’s caterpillar brows pinch together as he exits the truck, then swings the door shut. I drive off, smiling for the first time after spending almost twenty hours yelling at a bunch of turd nuggets in the NUG program, and goddamn, more than half of them are nowhere near ready to apply for BUD/S. And, of course, the other trainers had to ask me questions about my issued sp
ouse or give me shit for my participation in the program. I might as well have been one of the new guys.

  Pulling into my driveway, I take a couple of minutes for myself and attempt to fend off the incoming headache, even though I know it’s no use. They’re a part of my current medical condition, and since I refuse to take medication, I’ll just have to deal with the pain-in-the-ass cranial throbbing.

  After rubbing my temples for a minute, I grab the manila envelope off the dash, flip open the tab, and pull out the larger of the two gold bands. Lead by example. I kick my fluttering heart into place as I roll the ring between my fingers. Slipping it on, I exit the car and head toward the house. A small rumble forms in my throat midway up the gravel walk path. Damn gardeners. Using the toe of my boot, I adjust one of the rocks back to where it belongs.

  The fresh air does little to chase away the dull throb intensifying in my skull. Maybe I’ll take Taya to the store to return that admittedly god-awful blanket for a distraction, and she can pick out something she likes. I shake my head and close my eyes. Christ on a cracker, I should’ve opened the encasing before buying it.

  I walk into the house and head into the kitchen. The windows are open and a thin haze of smoke lingers. Taya stands in front of the microwave, hair in a frazzled ponytail. The curve of her ass peeks out from beneath the edge of powder-blue shorts, and I clear my throat, focusing instead on the steady rise of smoke pluming around her and the acrid bite of charred bread. “What happened?”

  Taya spins around and stumbles, almost dropping the plate of pancakes in her hand. Her eyes are wide, like a doe’s. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Again, what happened?” My fingers tap the tabletop as I await her answer.

  Her lean frame shrinks. Placing her breakfast on the island next to a glass of milk, she pulls out a chair. “I forgot about the first batch of pancakes in the microwave. And had set it too high.”

  With a fork, she piles too large of a helping of food into her mouth. Who the hell manages to burn pancakes in the microwave? And why did she use the microwave? I have all the ingredients needed to make them homemade.

  Dear God, please don’t tell me you sent a woman who can’t cook.

  She shovels another massive pile of food past her full lips. Lips that had my attention the moment she walked through the door. Her gaze bounces between the envelope and my finger. “What’s that?”

  “Copies of the paperwork.” I gently toss the envelope onto the marble countertop. “And your ring.”

  She chokes. I can’t blame her. Rings are a detail that had evaded me as well. Ours aren’t anything spectacular. Just plain gold wedding bands. Something I never wanted on my finger again.

  The cords in my neck twinge.

  Maybe a drink of water will help me relax. Halfway to the cupboard, my body goes rigid, throat tightening. Burnt crumbs, a plate with charred pancake stuck to the ceramic center, and a couple of utensils sit in the sink. A deep growl rumbles in my chest. This woman invades my home, makes it smell like crap, and leaves a mess. I try to bite back the words that want to spill forth, but each filthy utensil and crumb is equivalent to nails on a chalkboard, and the pain in my injured brain ratchets up in intensity, causing flashing spots to dance in my field of vision. “Is cleaning up after yourself a problem?”

  Every sinewy muscle in her body tenses up. “I’m going to clean it up. Figured soaking the dish would help the stuff come off quicker.”

  I turn too fast and the world spins. There’s a ringing in my ears and for one gut-wrenching moment, everything goes dark. My knees buckle and I sway sideways until a small, cool hand slinks under my arm while another lies delicately against the heat of my chest before I can hit the ground.

  Taya leads me over to the chair she just vacated, one palm a reassuring pressure against my chest while the other is now wrapped around my waist. “You should sit down.”

  The urge to sink into her is strong but I straighten and weave my hand between my waist and her arm to remove her grip on me.

  My stomach sours and churns when hurt and confusion flash across her features. But I didn’t ask for help. I don’t need it. I hate that she’s seeing me like this, all weak and shaky. Taya reaches out as I walk toward the kitchen island on unsteady legs and my jaw clenches. I turn to face her, intent on taking the focus off my weaknesses. “What was so important that you got distracted enough to burn microwavable pancakes? And where did you get them from?”

  Taya’s ears turn red, the color crawling down to her throat and chest. “It was an accident. And I went to the small market down the street. How the hell else do you think I got them? Do I look like some magical genie who can blink and poof pancakes here?” She snaps her fingers in front of my face and my mouth contorts in annoyance.

  The glass of milk rattles when my palm connects with the granite, and Taya’s hand recoils. “Just because you’re some lucky dependa who got into the program doesn’t mean you own this house. It’s mine. And I don’t care what some contract says.”

  Placing her hands on her hips, she fires right back. “I’m not some child you need to yell at because I made a mistake. And what the hell is a dependa?”

  “A woman who tricks some weak sap in the military into marrying them.” The words hiss through my clenched teeth.

  Raychel was the ultimate dependa.

  I wince. Thinking of her name is like summoning Voldemort.

  Taya’s fingers ball into fists at her side. “Trick into marrying you? I was assigned to you. I’m not sure who I’m being compared to, but you don’t know a thing about me. I’m not some dependa. I don’t need you. Or any poor sap in the military.”

  I stare unblinking, lips pressed tight.

  Her lips curl back in a sneer. “And why did you volunteer? Was it because your muscular six-foot-whatever physique isn’t enough to keep a woman once you start overreacting to simple mistakes?”

  “Six foot four. And I didn’t volunteer. I was forced into joining the program.” My heart hammers like it belongs to a rabbit running for its life, every nerve firing, causing an electrical hurricane to rampage through my body.

  Her mouth opens but nothing comes out. Her chest heaves and she blinks rapidly for a moment before she takes a deep breath. She grabs the plate of half-eaten pancakes and scoops them into the garbage. “I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. I’ll be more careful in the future.”

  A wave of nausea sweeps through me as the magnitude of what I’ve just done hits home. This woman—my wife—lost her appetite because of me. My breaths come so damn frantic, so shallow, I have to look down at my feet and try to center myself. Feel the ground below my boots. When she heads over to the sink, I cut her off, gently taking the plate from her. “I’ll clean up.”

  “It’s fine. It’s my mess.” But she lets me take the plate, her eyes cast down.

  “Taya, I’m sorry. You’re right, I overreacted.” My voice quivers and I reach out my hand, brushing a lone, dark brown strand of hair from her face with trembling fingers. I don’t want to be the kind of person who makes a woman afraid. I don’t want Taya to be scared of me. But my head—the injury—maybe it’s more than I can control.

  Taya looks up, her eyes glistening, a tear slipping free. She wipes away the salty droplet with the back of her thumb and raises her chin, no longer shying away from my gaze. “We both have our reasons for being here. So, how about you treat me as a roommate until we figure this out? I’ll follow whatever rules you want since it’s your house. And when the time for the annulment comes, I’ll leave.”

  The look on her face halts me. Strange how tears can spike a woman’s lashes and make her eyes seem so much brighter. I want nothing more than to dry those lingering trails away. How would she react if I gave into my impulse and leaned over to brush wet, trailing lips down her cheek and across her ripe lips? Would it ease the strain and sadness that wilted her mouth into a frown?

  Freak out. That’s what she’d do. Impulsivity is just another gif
t, courtesy of my brain injury.

  Instead, I fight off the urge and look her directly in the eye to show her I mean my next words. “I’m sorry. I’m a little OCD. Never officially diagnosed, but I definitely have a few of the quirks.”

  She huffs and her lips twitch at the corners.

  The tension in the room eases, only to be replaced by something different but no less devastating. After placing the dish in the sink, I turn back to her. “Having you here is going to take some getting used to, but it’s your home too. I’ll try and remember that.”

  My gut twists when she tenses at the word home. The same way I used to react when I was a kid and afraid to go home. Before my mind can continue coming up with reasons for her familiar reaction, she places a hand on my forearm, pulling my attention back to the conversation.

  “Living with you is new to me too.” She bites her lower lip, fingers tapping against her thigh. “Do you have a spare key? I had to leave the back door unlocked when I went to the market.”

  Fuck.

  “Yeah, I’ll get it for you.”

  We need to talk about precautions, especially since we live off base. She needs to be more careful. But the conversation will have to wait until tomorrow. She’ll have questions, some I won’t be able to answer.

  I reach past Taya and grab the envelope from the island. Her brow furrows and she shifts from one foot to the other, placing a lock of hair behind one ear. Pulling the small gold band from the confines of the envelope and tucking the yellow packet beneath one arm, I capture her hand before she can lower it fully.

  Her touch is like an iron brand, and I’m not sure if I want to let go or pull her close enough to burn us both. I compromise by slipping the ring onto her finger. Taya’s eyes widen and the atmosphere grows solemn.

  My thumb moves in slow, soothing circles across the back of her hand and I enjoy the sensation a little too much. The skin is soft and delicate compared to the calluses on her palms. When she pulls her hand gently from mine, I offer her the envelope. “Your copy of the contract.”