Twisting my neck from side to side to chase away the ever-present crick, my gaze falls to the floor. Maybe this pose wasn’t the best idea. Nothing like noticing how the wood is more cinnamon to my right and paler in the region under my hands. Time to call Bear’s cousin again and get the floors refinished. Guy did a decent-enough job when I hired him six years ago. Well, decent by my standards. Maybe he can come the next time we are sent to training.
My stomach hardens. Wishful thinking. If the migraines don’t get better, I’m not going anywhere. Scrunching up my face, I try to remain calm, but too many things are crammed in my head, which feels like it’s stuffed with cotton. Memories from my time in Afghanistan, issues at work, my assigned wife.
I close my eyes and try to quiet my mind. Concentrating on my breathing, I inhale slowly through my nose and exhale through my mouth. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. With each breath, my muscles relax, the throbbing in my skull lessening.
“Never would have taken you for the yoga type.”
My eyelids snap open only to find Taya standing in the archway staring at me. Her eyes are scrunched together as if she is concentrating to make sense of something, and the left side of her bottom lip rests between her teeth.
I recognize that look. Hell, I’m sure I’ve had the same expression on my face at one time. She’s checking me out. I shoot upright and spin around, banging my shin into the coffee table. The blood that pooled in my head during the pose, rushes to my cheeks.
Taya stifles a laugh but doesn’t blush or glance away. Instead, she runs her gaze over me, a distinct spark of interest lighting her eyes.
I walk back to my previous spot on the couch and sit, willing the heat to drain out of my face. When was the last time I blushed? Fucking hell. “Thought you’d gone to bed.”
She huffs. “I couldn’t fall asleep. Guess I’m too used to the noise of the city. Here, I’ve just been tossing and turning almost every night. Never thought silence could be quite this loud.”
“Too much silence can be overwhelming.”
“It’s just not home.” She rocks on her heel a little, toes wiggling to keep her balance. She tilts her head back, running a hand over the archway before scratching at the paint with her fingernail.
Massaging my temples, I take a second before responding. “Had the same issue when I first got deployed. Changing environments is always a struggle in the beginning.”
She hums in agreement and turns toward the hallway. “You want anything from the kitchen?”
My eyes follow her. “A glass of water.”
The clangs coming from the kitchen cause my heel to bounce against the floor a mile a minute. Getting used to living with someone again isn’t coming as easy as I thought it would. Hell, I’ve lived with my bunch of morons in tight quarters overseas. But my house is my safe space. Especially during recovery. But now someone else is here, and the privacy I crave—the privacy I need—is nonexistent. Rubbing my brows, I release an exasperated sigh.
Taya walks back into the living room, holding a bowl in one hand and my glass of water in the other. She puts the glass down in front of me—and she actually uses a coaster—before she takes a seat on the other couch. I mutter “Thanks,” then pick the glass up to take a couple of small sips.
I gaze over to Taya, who is now curled up with the bowl of cereal balancing on her knees. Her hair is pulled into a high ponytail, which sways forward as she leans in to bring a spoonful of cereal and milk up to her mouth. When she goes to scoop up more cereal, she moves the spoon around in the bowl, pushing the marshmallows out of the way and only allowing grains floating in the milk to glide on the spoon.
I stifle a laugh as I return my half-empty glass of water to the table.
Taya’s head jerks up and she swallows hard. “I’m just trying to get the boring stuff out of the way first. Not my fault they refuse to make marshmallows-only boxes. It’s what the people want. Even Cap’n Crunch offers the ‘All Berries’ cereal. But Lucky Charms? Nope.”
She scrunches her small nose up, eyes focused on the bowl, searching around and then the left side of her mouth stretches into a crooked smile and her eyebrow raises. She leans back into the couch and takes a big, confident spoonful of marshmallows. She chews them slowly, with her eyes closed, the inside corners of her eyebrows lifted up.
“How was your day?” she asks, in between bites.
“Fine.” I tap my fingers on my knee.
“The humidity was out of control today.” She sighs and shakes her head. “The weather report shows it’s only going to get worse in the coming days.”
I nod in acknowledgment and reach down to wipe some dust off my computer keys.
“Were you working on something?” She takes the spoon out of her mouth and points to my laptop with it.
“Yes.”
She brings the bowl to her lips and gulps down the remaining milk before reaching across the table to grab a magazine. She places it in front of her and puts her empty bowl on top. “So, yoga?”
“A team member suggested I try it. Said it helps with the headaches. Between being in the sun all day, not sleeping much, and the computer screen poking at my brain, I’d figured, why not give it a try.” I close my laptop.
Taya pushes a strand of hair not in her ponytail behind her ear. “Computers certainly put a strain on the eyes. Did it help?”
“A little.”
She nibbles her lip while she watches me, like she’s trying to make a decision. Then, she rises from the couch and walks toward me. “Here, let me try something for your headache.”
Alarmed by her approach, I rear back in my chair. “What? No! I’m fine. I don’t need any help.”
She glares at me before taking another determined step. “Learned a technique when I had to go to physical therapy once. I used to do this for my dad all the time when he came home stressed from work.”
Her voice wavers at the end and sorrow fills her eyes. My protest dies in my throat. I might not want this marriage, but that doesn’t mean I have to be a total asshole. “Fine. But hurry up. I’ve got work to do.”
Not the most gracious of acceptances, but she’ll have to take what she can get.
Her expression brightens, and she walks until she’s standing behind me. She’s standing so close, the sweet floral scent of her shampoo tickles my nose, and then her soft, warm hands gently land on the back of my neck. My body responds by sending blood rushing below my waistband. My hands clench the armrests. Please, just get this over with already.
Her fingers slide up my neck, until they nestle on either side of the muscled columns and just beneath my skull. “Take a deep breath.”
I comply, hoping that focusing on my breathing will distract my dick.
“Now, exhale.”
When I do, her fingers exert an upward pressure, deep into my neck. I flinch. It’s uncomfortable as hell. At least for the first second or two. But as time passes, the pressure that fills my head like helium in a balloon eases and I inhale a ragged breath.
“That’s it,” she says, adjusting her positioning. She waits until I breathe a few more times before applying the pressure again, in a slightly different spot.
She repeats this cycle one more time. Before I know it, she’s stepped away. I immediately miss the warmth of her hands.
“So? Any better?”
I blink. Holy shit. My headache is still there, but it’s more bearable now. I roll my shoulders and groan. “Yes. Better.” I turn to look at her and offer a faint smile. “Thank you. You must have magic hands.”
She grins back and wiggles her fingers at me. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
She freezes the moment the words come out of her mouth. Her eyes go wide with shock. Meanwhile, my gaze wanders to her hands while my dick throbs once more at the lurid fantasies her teasing words conjured. I clear my throat.
No. Not awkward at all.
When she darts for the safety of the couch, I grab the remote to turn the TV on. Anything
to kill the mood. Law & Order is on, one of those late-night marathons they do every weekday. The perfect antidote to lust.
“Oh good, it’s one of the older episodes.” Without looking at me, she settles herself more and moves the bowl out of the way with her hand to get a better view of the screen. It slides on the shiny cover of the magazine and tilts, one side of it touching the table. “Mike Logan is my all-time favorite character on this show.”
I grunt and stand from the couch, snap up the bowl and wipe the table with the back of my hand before carrying it into the kitchen. I don’t care about the show. I just want some peace while I’m doing my work and my body’s reaction to her touch offered me anything but. I tighten my grip around the sponge, the foam spilling from between my fingers. I clean up her dish, and run my wet hands over my face, pressing on my temples with my thumbs before remembering that my head feels better. I use the little kitchen towel to dry my hands, and walk back to the living room, hoping that by some miracle, she will have puffed up to her room. But sure enough, she is still there. Right where I left her.
I drop down on the couch and turn my laptop back on to continue my work. I turn the TV volume down a bit and look over at her. The blue light of the TV reflects on the wet surface of her eyes and her eyelids droop until they are fully closed. She remains unflinching, even when loud gunshots and sirens wail through the speakers.
The back of my neck prickles. Are these the kind of sounds she fell asleep to back home? I count at least three different explosions, four shootings and a handful of screaming matches coming from the TV. She manages to sleep through all of them. I mean, I know her dad is a police officer and that she’s from New York City. I’ve never been there and don’t want to draw conclusions, but maybe it is as noisy and busy as television makes it out to be.
The background noise of the TV isn’t as annoying as I’d thought it’d be. The act of blocking it out allows me to focus on the task at hand. Compartmentalizing is something I am used to. Had to do lots of it when deployed. And after I got back. It’s the only way to get through stuff. Cutting them into sections, shoving the bad ones deep into a dark corner of my mind, and placing all my attention at what needs to be done.
My fingers move swiftly over the keyboard, and I’m done with the presentation in record time. The show is still going. I sneak a peek at Taya. She is fast asleep, shoulders rising and falling rhythmically. Peacefulness on her pretty face.
Pretty?
Yeah, with those large doe eyes, the hint of olive in her skin tone, and thick brown hair, she is very pretty. Stunning, actually, even in a plain, threadbare, gray T-shirt and not a trace of makeup. Her cheekbones are particularly impressive. Perfectly rounded and high on her face. My gaze falls to her lips. They are thin and rosy and delicate. I swallow hard when my mind drifts to wondering what they would feel like against my own lips.
I stand and physically shake myself to chase away the thought, before walking over to grab the throw blanket that her feet have already found their way under and covering her with it. It’s hot as hell during the day, but the temperature has been dropping quite a bit at night. She’ll get cold like this. Last thing I want is having her sniffling and leaving her germ-infested tissues everywhere.
I pick up the remote control, and the tip of my finger hovers over the plastic of the red power button. But I don’t push it. This ridiculous show is the closest she can get to home. I won’t take it away from her, as much as leaving the TV on will eat up at my insides. And my electric bill.
I clutch the glass tight in my hand and shuffle to the kitchen. Taya is getting under my skin, and I don’t like it one bit.
Chapter Six
Taya
I grasp the thick blue mug, three fingers poking through the stubby handle, and inch it toward my face. I squint my eyes, contemplating whether or not to drink the inky-black liquid. I can smell the stale bitterness as I bring it closer to my lips. It’s tasteless, as expected, but the smoothness calms my soul with every horrible sip. The smoldering Colombian brew swirls around my tongue. I finally decide to swallow and warm vapors ooze down my throat.
Tossing the throw blanket over my legs, I lean against the side of the bay window, inhaling the steam rising from the mug like mist off a lake. A chill crawls up my spine as a cold dampness seeps into every crack of the house. Virginia Beach weather lacks any sort of consistency in March. While yesterday, I could ride in a tank top, today is in the low fifties and overcast. As gray clouds pass above an even grayer sky, I just want to curl up and read a book.
Taking another sip of coffee, I admire the scene outside. The meticulously manicured grass of the backyard, the perfectly aligned PVC fence, the hedges trimmed at impeccable angles. The sun pokes through a pocket in the clouds, and a ray of light comes to focus on the ground. Come here, come here. As if it heard my plea, the sunshine travels toward the nook, warming me through the window. I lean my head back and soak up the temporary heat.
Dust motes float across my eyes, the light refracting off each particle. The warmth on my skin brings me back to the other day in the kitchen. There had been an unexpected electricity in Jim’s touch the other day. I can’t quite put a name to it.
“Ouch.” I look down to see I’ve managed to rub my wedding ring, pinching the sensitive skin between my fingers. Stupid hands. I lean my head back and groan. Why am I thinking about this? Jim was forced into the program. No way does he plan on staying past the annulment deadline. If only he’d volunteered, then I wouldn’t have to worry about where I’ll be in a year. And if I’ll be back in Maspeth, constantly looking over my shoulder.
I inhale deeply, then exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
Most of the week, Jim’s hardly been home, working long hours, so when I woke up this morning, the house was empty. Quiet. Again.
Before he left to go to work three nights ago, he gave me a crash course about his life and what that means for me now that we’re married. He informed me he isn’t just in the Navy, which his application already told me, but that he is a SEAL. He explained how his schedule is inconsistent, he could vanish for work at any minute, and he ran through all the security and secrecy aspects of what that meant for me. He called it OPSEC. Pretty much, keep my mouth shut.
I set my coffee aside when another chill consumes me, and I yank my blanket up to my chest. I’ll never have a family again and every time a sliver of annoyance glints in Jim’s eyes, the knife twists a little deeper, reminding me this marriage has an expiration date.
My stomach somersaults and the bitter black coffee creeps its way up my throat. Oh my God, was Jim dating someone when I was assigned to him? Was he forced to give someone up? How much of his life did the program—did I—really upset?
And what if Jim finds out I barely have clothes and a minimal amount of cash? I sit up and remove the blanket from my legs, the temperature in the room seeming to get warmer with every passing second. Nope. He’s already so obviously put out by my intrusion into his perfectly organized little world. He doesn’t need to know about the fire, or what led me to accept the offer to join the program. That knowledge would only add more stress to our fragile relationship, and we definitely don’t need that. He didn’t need that. Especially since the knowledge of my past might get us both kicked out of the program.
I reach past my coffee for the laptop sitting on the kitchen table. Inhaling, I click open the web browser, and my fingertips punch at the keys. It’s time to stop analyzing my husband and find work. While it’s entirely possible Jim might be a kind man and help me out if I tell him about the fire, I don’t need his charity. Or pity, for that matter.
After punching in my username and password on the job search site, I scroll through the newest postings. If only I could have continued working for UBM Technologies. I miss my former job. My former clients. I spent five years working for and managing most of their computer securities companies. I loved when my projects succeeded. And it wasn’t about the money. Of course, that was a great bonus
. But watching something I worked hard on come together? Priceless.
But I didn’t want to leave any tracks for Marco or Santoro to find. So I quit. Then I used whatever money I had to pay off any bills lingering, pulled out the remaining cash, and closed my bank account before disappearing down to Virginia Beach.
My index finger slides effortlessly over the touchpad, scrolling through openings. Long minutes seem to pass—at least that’s what the second hand on the clock adjacent to me says. “This is pointless.”
I wish my dad had never joined the task force to take down Santoro. I’d still be living at home and he’d still be alive. I shiver and my chest tightens. Sour bile sears my tongue. My heart is beating too fast, as if I’m being chased, and my throat closes. If only I had known then Marco was involved. Things might be different. My father might still be alive.
I remembered that day all too vividly. I’d been cooking when the doorbell rang. That should have been my first clue that something was wrong. Lyons never used the bell. He always walked in because he had a key to my place. And so did Marco. Those were my last moments of blissful ignorance. Right up until I’d opened the door to reveal Lyons standing there, shoulders hunched, eyes downcast in a way that wasn’t at all like my friend. The smile on my face had died the instant he refused to look me in the eye.
Lifting my hands as if I could ward off the news, I knew, before the words left his mouth. Your dad was shot during a random robbery. He didn’t make it. Then the world went silent, as if I’d been dropped into a sensory deprivation tank.
Keys jingle in the lock and I jump, nearly spilling my coffee all over my laptop while my heart pounds against my ribs. The momentary fear abates when Jim’s cough echoes through the foyer. I hurry to compose myself before my husband steps into the kitchen. I suck in a deep breath and exhale slowly, flashing a smile in his direction when he comes into the room.
Jim prowls toward me. His shirt is in his hand and his bare chest is coated in a fine sheen of sweat. My fake smile vanishes and lips part at the sight of all his naked skin. His movements are slow and deliberate. Lean, corded arms swing back and forth as he comes closer.
Issued (Navy Seals of Little Creek Book 1) Page 5