Issued (Navy Seals of Little Creek Book 1)

by Paris Wynters

  “Thank you.” Taya slips past me and climbs up the stairs, retreating to her room.

  I stare at the empty stairway for several long moments after the click of her door closing, lost in my own thoughts. What are her reasons for being here?

  Chapter Four

  Taya

  Nothing like tossing and turning the entire night. Again. What I wouldn’t give for the wail of ambulance sirens or the high-pitched squeal of a train. I never thought loud, obnoxious sounds would be comforting. What I wouldn’t give to be back in my own bed, or look out my window at the city alive with lights, like someone had taken a handful of glitter and thrown it as far as the eye could see. I even miss the fearless pigeons who beg worse than dogs. Never in a million years did I ever think I’d miss those flying rats.

  My heart sinks. Lingering on the thought of home only reminds me of the fact I no longer have one of my own. Or a family. And returning to Maspeth is not an option. I’m not sure if it will ever be. The parks, the handball courts, the bodega . . . they all remind me of my father. And they will all remind me that I am alone.

  Maybe I should’ve gone away to college instead of staying local, not to mention living in my childhood home. Maybe if I had, leaving New York wouldn’t be so hard. Maybe I wouldn’t be seeking the comfort familiarity brings—and the safety net it offers.

  I stare at the ceiling and dig my fingers into the blanket. I’m here now, in Virginia Beach. To start a new life. Build a new family. Wallowing in the past won’t help me achieve either of those things.

  My gaze drifts to the bed and I wince. Neither will hiding in my room all day with this god-awful eyesore. I kick off my blanket, my lips twisting in a wry grin. God, this blanket is seriously awful looking, but man, is it soft. And warm. It gets the job done. Basically, I just have to refrain from looking at it for too long.

  I run my fingers through my hair. My scalp is greasy and this humidity is causing my roots to gunk up quicker than normal. Guess Jim isn’t the only thing I have to get used to, living here. My stomach knots in confusion at the thought of him. He’s guarded and rigid, yet seemingly caring enough to decorate this room for me—he failed, obviously, but the fact that he tried makes me wonder what other layers he has.

  I roll off the mattress and stretch when I stand. Might as well shower and start my day. The stillness of the empty house is almost haunting, but at least Jim’s out. There’s nothing like having a grown man snarl so loud when he needs the bathroom that the door rattles. Maybe he only has one layer: intense.

  I step into the bathroom, toes flinching as they touch the chilled ceramic floor. I turn the polished chrome shower handle, releasing thousands of lukewarm drops. Steam fills the room and fogs the mirror as I strip out of my pajamas, anxious to let the hot water soak my skin. But I freeze as soon as my foot lands inside the ceramic tub.

  No shampoo.

  Or conditioner.

  I backtrack and open the cabinet under the sink. Nothing. Wrapping a towel around my body, I step into the hall and make my way over to the linen closet. Empty. What the hell does this man wash his hair with?

  Groaning, I stomp back into the bathroom and flick off the shower. So much for the luxury of clean hair. Ugh, I should’ve grabbed shampoo when I bought the pancakes the other day. But who doesn’t have shampoo? Like deodorant and lotion, I get. But shampoo?

  Returning to my room, I throw on a pair of yoga pants and top. I might as well go to the supermarket now. I grab the ever-growing shopping list off my desk and head downstairs.

  Grabbing a pen from the counter, I quickly scribble shampoo and conditioner on the list. How the hell am I going to get everything back on my bike? At least New York has an extensive subway system, making grocery shopping easy.

  I bring the pen to my mouth, but stop before it reaches my lips. I’m a chewer. All of my pens and pencils back home had jagged tips. But this is not my pen. And it isn’t my house.

  I put the pen down with a clang and grab my helmet off the side counter. Now to find the spare key. Of course, Jim didn’t leave it on the counter like he said. Did he even remember to leave it?

  The front door creaks open just as I round the corner into the foyer. Jim doesn’t notice me right away. His head hangs, his shoulders heavy, as he takes off his shoes, keys dangling in his hand. He slowly lifts his eyes to me.

  I point to the keys. “Can I borrow those?”

  He looks at them and then back to me. “Left the spare next to the coffeepot.”

  The one morning I didn’t bother drinking coffee. Figures. I must look like such an ass. Clearing my throat, I tuck the shopping list into the side pocket of my yoga pants. “I’m going to the store to pick up some stuff. You need anything?”

  “Yeah, a few things. I’ll take you.” His voice is soft, a whisper almost, as he starts putting his shoes back on.

  “You don’t have to.” My eyes dance over his slumping body. Something isn’t right. “You okay?”

  He looks up and searches my face a bit. “Just a headache.”

  From the looks of it, more like another migraine. And while I understand how bad the sharp head pain sucks, the grouchiness side effect is one I can do without. Especially after two days of not sleeping.

  He opens the front door and once I’m out of the house and the door is locked, we head down the walkway to the truck. Jim’s feet drag along the asphalt driveway and he reaches out, grabbing the tailgate when he stumbles.

  “I know how to handle a larger vehicle. My father used to own a truck similar to yours.” I rest my hand gently on his shoulder, letting him know I’m close by if he needs me. “I can drive.”

  “Fine.” He sighs as he hands me the keys, his hand clammy.

  My mouth falls open. That was easy. Too easy. I expected some resistance or maybe a little rebellion from the man. My brows knit together as I watch him make his way to the passenger door. Being married to a SEAL was supposed to be safe, but after our conversation that threats do exist—even to me as his wife—I’m beginning to wonder what I’ve gotten myself into. And worse—what I might have gotten him into.

  We should be okay. My dad is dead. Any lingering evidence was turned over to the police department. No reason for me to be on Marco’s or Santoro’s radar any longer. Hell, even if Marco wanted to find me—which, why would he?—he’d have a tough time since the military is very protective of their members’ information.

  My teeth sink into the flesh of my cheek when the truck shakes as Jim gets in and falls heavily on the passenger seat. Despite all of my logic, the back of my neck prickles. What if instead of moving forward I just sidestepped to being in a different kind of danger with a man who currently doesn’t seem to be able to even protect himself, let alone protect me? Should I tell Jim about Santoro and Marco?

  My mouth goes dry at the thought. I hadn’t updated my IPP application about the change in my circumstances. What if my dad’s death were grounds for disqualification? I shiver. Things with my new husband might be a little awkward so far, but at least I had a place to live. A chance at a new life.

  Before I even consider saying anything to Jim, I need to be sure I’m safe in the program. The thought of yet another major life upheaval makes me want to crawl in a hole and never come out.

  Ugh. I’m making a mountain out of a molehill. Jim’s injuries are probably temporary and I’m probably safe. Yeah, I’m just overreacting. I take a deep breath and hop in myself, the truck barely budging, and settle into the seat.

  “Jesus, you’re a freaking giraffe,” I say, pulling the driver seat forward.

  His lips quirk up as he fastens his seat belt. “Not my fault you got wiener-dog legs.”

  “Wiener dog? Really?” I turn the key and the engine roars to life. “I’ll have you know I’m five foot seven.”

  “You sure about that?”

  I turn my head over my shoulder as I back out, hiding my smile.

  The road stretches out in front of us, the white lines beaming i
n the sun. Jim’s eyes are fixated straight ahead. He’s pale, his hands limp on his thighs. Is it because of the headache? Or because of me? My heart thumps painfully in my chest.

  He inhales, leaning back in his seat and closing his eyes, and I turn my attention back to the road.

  “Blinker.” His sharp tone startles me as it cuts through the silent cabin. Jim points to the turn up ahead, which isn’t for another half a mile. He shifts in his seat, spine snapping straight. “Left blinker.”

  Of course, he’s a back-seat driver. I comply and harshly grab the steering wheel again. As much as his comments grate on my nerves, this is his truck and he’s looking so vulnerable, so I take a deep breath and keep any snarky rebuttal to myself.

  “Careful of that black sedan.” He nods to the right of the fork we’re about to reach.

  “I saw him.” Stopping at the red, I wipe my sweaty right palm on my pants before moving it to the gear shift.

  I reach for the radio. Maybe some music will distract him from pointing out things as if I’m a new driver. I push the black button and the harsh, high-pitched sound of pedal steel fills the car. I sway my head to the rhythm and mouth the words to “She’s Actin’ Single.” I love this song.

  “You know Gary Steward?” The renewed interest in his voice makes the blood rush hot through my veins.

  I smile, but don’t turn to look at him.

  “Never figured you listened to country.”

  “You’d be surprised.” I let out a little puff of air and try to suppress the smile that tugs on the corners of my mouth when his knee begins jerking up and down in time with the base drums of the song. Good. He’s feeling better.

  Pressing on the break, I turn the truck into the parking lot. Yes, front-row parking. I jump out of the truck and straighten my clothes a little. Jim heads off and grabs a cart, leaning over it to support some of his weight. He follows as I run around picking fruits and grains. He occasionally grabs something off the shelves and throws it into the cart. I stop in front of the hygiene section and my cheeks heat instantly.

  This is awkward.

  My ears burn as I reach for the tampons with shaky hands and bury it deep into the cart, under the pack of toilet paper. I swiftly turn around and make my way down the aisle. I peek at him over my shoulder, pretending to look for stuff. He doesn’t seem too frazzled. More like bored, as he absentmindedly scans the rows of products.

  “Jim.” A tall man wearing a baseball cap with a bone-frog symbol on it nods at him in passing.

  “Mike.” Jim matches his tone and throws him a smile. I know that smile—tight lipped, brows furrowed, head tilted slightly to the right. He has given me a few of those. It’s his fake smile.

  Jim heads down the cleaning supply aisle, grabbing a gallon of floor cleaner. He spins the bottle around, reading the label. Ingredients lists are worse than procedure lists for science class experiments.

  I’d love to blame Jim’s apparent label dissection on his OCD, but my father did the same thing. Ugh, how many shopping trips took hours because Dad and I had to argue over the quality of name brand versus generic? Not to mention most of those items have the same exact ingredients but because one carries a particular name, the product costs more.

  I’d do anything to have him here right now. Arguing with me over Charmin versus store-label toilet paper.

  The pain catches me off guard, stealing my breath and making me lean over the cart and squeeze the handle until my knuckles go white.

  I wait a few seconds for the sensation to pass before I turn down the next row and force myself to focus on shopping. I grab a family-sized box of Lucky Charms off the shelf. Nothing like empty calorie marshmallows to satisfy my sweet tooth. Jim pulls up with the cart, running his hand through his hair and down his neck. I go to add my box of cereal to the cart and pause. “Holy crap.”

  He shrugs. “I like Oreos.”

  Like is an understatement. Five packages of double-stuffed cookies are crammed into the cart.

  “Though, I shouldn’t really be judging because . . .” I shake my box of Lucky Charms a couple of times and then pose with it. “Magically delicious.”

  “You sing along to Willie Nelson with that mouth?”

  “Right after I take a hit of that marshmallow goodness.” I sniff at the box. He shakes his head and his mouth creases as he tries to hold back a smile. I place the cereal box on top of the other shopping with theatrical caution and we walk to the register side by side.

  Jim pulls his wallet out from his back pocket and I grab his forearm. “I’ll pay. You only got a couple of things.”

  “No, I got it.” He hands his credit card to the cashier and I squeeze past him to start bagging the groceries.

  After loading everything into the back seat of the truck, Jim walks to the passenger side again. I chew the inside of my cheek. His headache should’ve dissipated by now. Maybe he’s got a concussion.

  By the time I climb into the truck, Jim has the glove compartment open and takes an envelope out. He fishes out a debit card and hands it to me. My name is etched across the bottom.

  “This isn’t necessary. I’m no dependa.” I throw the card onto the armrest console and start the car. I may have lost everything, may have quit my job to get away from New York, but I still want to keep my dignity. The same way Dad worked extra shifts to pay bills insurance wouldn’t cover when Mom got sick. “I lived at home to pay off my college loans and still paid my dad rent. I’m not here to try to fleece you.” My shoulders stiffen. Our family paid our own way, even if we had to eat ramen for dinner for a month.

  “Listen, I’m sorry about that.” He faces straight ahead as he takes the card and flips it around in his hands. “This is different. The military has some strict guidelines when it comes to finances. It’s a bit difficult to understand. Hell, it’s difficult to explain too. Having a . . . someone . . . depending on me—”

  “A dependent.” I shift to face him. Might as well call a spade a spade.

  “Yes, for lack of a better term. Having a dependent means my pay increases so that I’m able to support you. Financially. As my wife.”

  “Right . . .” My voice trails off as I get stuck on that one word.

  Wife.

  He meets my gaze. “Brass is really anal about it, but to be fair, they have to be. They’re just trying to protect the families. Give them benefits. In case something happens, you know?” He looks down at his lap and massages his legs with his hands.

  Something already happened to him. Something that is causing the dizziness and migraines. But what? Do I even want to know? And what if it’s . . . permanent? I take a moment to collect myself before speaking. “Makes sense.”

  He rolls his eyes, then smiles. A genuine smile, none of that snarky, fake stuff. It’s nice. Sweet even. “You didn’t finish reading through the contract.”

  I quirk a brow at him. How the hell did he know that?

  “Don’t give me that look. The acronym-laden lingo in the finances section made my head spin. So if it makes sense to you, either you’re a fucking genius with a military past I don’t know about or you haven’t gotten to that section yet.”

  I giggle as I reach into my bag and get my wallet out. I gently take the debit card from Jim’s hand, our fingers brushing. His skin is rough, yet warm. I want to linger in the soft touch, but don’t. I place the card in my wallet and put my bag on the floor. Our ride home is quiet, but this time a comfortable quiet. A peaceful quiet that brings a calmness long forgotten. Maybe this marriage might actually work.

  Chapter Five

  Jim

  After spending the entire afternoon training a new batch of rancid-smelling guys hoping to become SEALs, I welcome the soft sugary aroma teasing my nose as I twirl the inviting treat between my fingers one last time before popping it into my mouth. A satisfactory crunch lingers in my ears, rich chocolate overwhelming my taste buds. Damn, I’ve never tasted a better Oreo.

  Shoving another cookie into my mouth
, I return to my laptop. What is the military’s obsession with PowerPoint? If I knew part of my job would entail inserting audio files into slides I would’ve paid more attention in high school computer class. But the slideshow isn’t the worst part. I have to give a presentation to a bunch of dumbasses who aren’t even gonna make it through Hell Week.

  My fingers hover over the keyboard, but the white of the screen starts drowning out the letters that blink in and out of focus. I straighten my spine, close my eyes and breathe in deep. A stinging pressure behind my forehead and left eye makes itself known.

  There goes my evening. My brain obviously has other plans for me tonight.

  The headaches have been coming more frequently lately. I lock my fingers behind my neck and start massaging the base of my skull, breathing deep to force oxygen into my lungs, but it doesn’t help. My head gets heavier by the second. Maybe I should finally fill my prescription since ibuprofen doesn’t cause a dent in the pain on those very rare occasions I resorted to needing some extra help to get through the day.

  No.

  No prescription pills.

  Hate taking meds. Always have, even over-the-counter stuff like ibuprofen or cold medicine. And with the prescription migraine drugs, I’d be walking around in a fog all day. Or look like a drooling fucking zombie.

  Fucking pills are just a crutch, a Band-Aid. Ones that could lead to addiction. Not going down that road. I’ve got this.

  The headaches will go away. I’m okay.

  But maybe . . .

  I push myself off the couch and take a few steps toward the center of the room. I can’t believe I’m about to do this. My teammate, Lucas Craiger, swears yoga will help. Granted, his mother is a yogi. But desperate times call for desperate measures.

  Leaning over with my palms splayed on the cool wood floor, I plant the soles of my feet firmly and lift the rest of my body to create an inverted “V.” Downward dog, I think Craiger called it. More like ‘ass in the air like you just don’t care’ pose. Can this be any more awkward?