Bear stops at the painting hanging on the wall a few meters from Taya’s bedroom and runs his fingers along his beard. “Here’s a shining example of the shitty representation of expressionist art Stephens likes to decorate with.”
Martinez and Craiger ooh and awe politely, and I turn just enough to glare at the lot of them. I made that ‘shitty representation’ after a mandatory psych eval when I’d first returned to the States. I liked the way it turned out and since I was the only one living here, I hung it up, something that was purely mine and not something I shared with Raychel. But if Bear’s words are any indication, my one foray into drawing something other than stick figures and geometric shapes had fallen short with the general public.
The three men look at me, their expressions matching embodiments of innocence, and I try to speak as if my teeth aren’t practically glued together. “Are you going to critique every inch of my house?”
They all look at each other and after a silent exchange, nod.
My eye twitches again. “You realize this is why you never get past the living room when you come over?”
Bear grins, and Martinez shrugs, the epitome of disregard.
Craiger smiles. “That you know of.”
Too bad religion isn’t my thing anymore. I could really use a blessing from the Virgin Mother for patience. “If I knew of a foolproof way to get blood out of carpet, I swear to God—”
“You gotta learn how to relax.” Martinez squeezes the top of my trapezius as he steps around me to grip the doorknob. “This it? The little cutie’s domain?”
I scowl, reaching out to grip his wrist. A surge of pressure keeps him from opening it and stepping into the room but the action drains the expression from Martinez’s face.
The man can be dangerous when he wants to be. It’s why I enjoy working with him. He’s dependable in a fire fight and good company when he isn’t busy being an annoying asshole. You don’t lay hands on a brother unless there’s a reason for it, and Martinez likes physical contact less than most. I let him go with a slight dip of my head. “Her name is Taya.”
“Taya.” The word rumbles low in his throat as he enters her bedroom.
I step forward, a snarl on my lips. If they keep poking at me, I’m going to lose it. Bear grips me by the shoulder, pulling me up short. “Deep breaths. You know they don’t mean anything by it.”
I nod, but he waits a few extra seconds before releasing me.
Bear nudges me with his shoulder. “Get in, get out. No harm done.”
I walk inside without responding. I can justify it any way I like, but being inside of the guest bedroom feels strange now. The room smells like Taya. It reminds me of sandalwood and apples, the scent underscored with something musky and wholly female. It’s enough to make my mouth water. I try to fight it, but Craiger’s words make me wonder.
Does she taste as earthy and full-bodied as she smells? I turn away before the others notice how rigid the thought of tasting her makes me. I glance around. My guest room, a room that has always seemed unremarkable and cold, now radiates “Taya.” She’s everywhere from the books against one wall to the makeup and hair products cluttering the surface of my old desk. My fingers twitch at my sides, and I fight the urge to walk over and organize the area.
Martinez is scanning Taya’s things. “She has more of these Halo books than you do.” He walks toward the bookshelves.
I close my eyes and shake my head. They really are going to critique every corner of the place.
“It’s a strange squad. The best ones always are.” Craiger points at a T-shirt tossed across the chair in the corner.
I glance at the shirt and my eyes widen. “Admiral Parangosky. Nice.”
All three men look at me as if I’ve sprouted a second head and my eyes narrow.
“The Kilo-Five trilogy?” I ask, trying not to sound as horrified by their ignorance as I feel, and making a mental note not to talk to Taya about cleaning up her room.
“You are seriously the biggest geek.” Bear’s hand connects with my shoulder. “And it looks like you found your geek queen.”
Craiger picks up an eight-by-ten frame from one of the bookshelves and studies it for a moment before angling it in my direction. “Who do you think this is?”
The photo is of an elderly Asian woman standing on an outcropping, nothing but snow and clouds behind her. Her hair is a long black braid hanging over one shoulder and her furred hood and mittens.
“We’re not here to poke around her things. Put the picture back.”
Martinez walks up behind Craiger. “Looks Mongolian. See all the iron pendants—about two hundred—and the textile snakes attached to the leather coat. Plus, the equine details on the flat drum fit the shaman culture of the region.”
Both Bear and I turn to stare at him.
He throws up his hands, palms facing upward. “What? Some of us like to travel in between deployments. Excuse me for being three-dimensional.”
Bear angles his chin sideways, one eyebrow cocked.
Martinez acquiesces. “Fine. Two-dimensional.”
Craiger places the frame back, the tip of his tongue poking out from the corner of his mouth and his brow furrows. “You think they’re related? They sort of look alike.”
I stride over to the closet, and Bear whistles when I open the doors. “Is this all she owns? This is barely the essentials, even by military standards.”
Her lack of clothes makes the closet painfully bare. Simple tees and a couple of pairs of jeans rest on hangers. A black sweatshirt with neon pink lettering stating “Ridin’ Dirty” hangs in the corner. Even her shoe collection is pitiful, consisting of four pairs of sneakers. A complete contrast to Raychel, who loved nice things and being the center of attention.
I reach for the shoebox on the top shelf and wonder if Taya’s lack of clothes is by choice or if she simply has nothing to her name. If she’s down on her luck, it would explain her decision to join the program. I grab the box from its perch on the top shelf and step back, hating the idea of any person having so little.
A thump grabs my attention and I turn my head over my shoulder. Bear bends down to grab a scrapbook off the floor. He runs the tips of his fingers over the open pages with a couple of newspaper clippings taped to the pages. “Jim, check this out.”
The scrapbook is obviously Taya’s, as I made sure everything that belonged to Raychel was either thrown into a box for her to pick up or tossed in the trash. I take a couple of steps, but hesitate at first to take the book. Invading Taya’s privacy isn’t why I came into the room. Then I notice some of the headlines:
Officer Shot Down
Santoro Still At Large
Community Shaken by Grief
A fourth article is accompanied by a picture, a grainy black and white of a weeping woman dressed in all black. An older gentleman stands beside her, the arm across her shoulders. There’s something about the way the woman holds herself that’s familiar.
“Think that’s Taya?” Bear asks.
Taya’s father is a cop. Wouldn’t be out of the norm for her to have attended a funeral for a fallen officer. I step closer and scan the small lettering under the photograph, but no names are given. Quickly, I glance over the rest of the article. The officer, Thomas Byrne, was killed in the line of duty. “Article states the guy had a daughter, Irene. Must be her.”
The articles unsettle my stomach. Why would she be keeping this kind of stuff? I mean, I read the news. I’m aware about the rise in danger police officers face these days, stuck between criminals and communities that hate cops. Just the other day at work, the news broadcast was covering a story about two officers killed in the Bronx, shot to death in their squad car in broad daylight. And the boys in blue are just as tight as our brotherhood. But still doesn’t explain why Taya is collecting articles on these deaths.
I fight the urge to flip through more pages and grab the book to close it and replace it on a shelf, hoping I put it back in the right place before
Taya thinks I’m snooping. After the book is in place, I reach up and grab a shoebox from the top shelf and tuck it under one arm, then shut the closet door.
Craiger knocks into the side table next to the bed, causing a bottle of skin cream to fall to the ground and spill onto the floor. “Why do you need to vandalize my house?”
“Vandalize is a strong word,” Bear says, though there’s a smile on his face.
“What can I say? I’m a strong-language kind of guy.”
“Rated E for everyone?” Martinez asks as Craiger puts the bottle back in place and wipes up cream off the floor with a tissue.
I let out a huff of barely repressed humor. “Please. I get a T for ‘teen’ at least.”
“Throw in a few more F-bombs and a nipple and you could work yourself up to an M for mature,” Martinez pipes in, picking up a discarded pair of panties with a raised brow and aims them at me.
“I live for the day.” I snatch the impromptu slingshot from him and he winks. Unrepentant. I ball the silk in my fist and glare a hole in the back of Martinez’s head as he saunters out of the room.
When Bear comes closer, he shoves one of Taya’s comic books at me. “For the road. I figured it’s a better souvenir than her panties.”
Cursing, I toss the underwear back in the general direction Martinez found it. Bear’s booming laugh bounces down the hallway as he catches up with the other two.
She’s only been here for a short while, but already there’s a warmth to the room that was lacking before. The casual messiness is almost comforting even though the clutter gives me the chills. I shut the door and take a deep breath of apples and sandalwood lingering in the air.
A part of me wants it to disappear while the rest of me can’t seem to get enough.
Chapter Eight
Taya
I blink my tired eyes rapidly, trying to chase away the dryness. Nightmares about the fire and Marco wake me up, causing my mind to race, especially after the news about the latest killing in the Bronx. I recognized one of the officers. He worked with my father on the task force put together to take down Santoro.
Shortly after I moved back in with my dad, he told me he volunteered to join the task force put together to take down the crime boss. My apartment building was being turned into condos and while I hated the idea of returning home, it made financial sense since I was still paying off my college loans. I felt the universe brought me home for a reason, and I believed if I was by his side, nothing would happen to him. I was naïve and idealistic until reality spit in my face.
My lips press tight together. How could Marco betray him? Betray a man who was like a father to him? And for what . . . money, power? Lyons and I never found out the reason, not that I would ever accept it.
The rising sun teases warmth through the blinds’ thin barrier and I swing my legs out of the bed in a spill of blankets. God, I haven’t been running down here yet, which is a shame, considering my new proximity to the ocean. The fresh air should help clear my head, calm me down.
I strip down before putting on a pair of azure-blue compression shorts and a white running tank with a patriotic rabbit in the middle. Tossing my hair up into a quick ponytail, I make my way downstairs and grab my keys before heading out the door.
Instinct sends me into a smooth canting trot. Riding is freedom itself, but running pushes me like my bike can’t. It leaves me sore in a way that’s reminiscent of good, hard sex. Satisfaction that can only be garnered from pushing myself past my limits. Pleasure that comes from a hard climb and an implosion of endorphins and sweat-slick skin.
I run until everything that keeps me awake and hurting in the early hours of the morning washes away under a heavy fog of exhaustion. My feet pound the concrete of the boardwalk with all the elegance of a sack of wet cement. The graceful steps of ten miles earlier have long since disappeared. My rasping throat is parched. I should have brought a bottle of water, but the thought had been negligible compared to the need to get out of the house.
My head bobbles loosely from side to side with each footfall, and my run takes on a sway that threatens collapse.
I slow to a walk as the warm humidity wraps around me like a blanket, oppressive and oddly sticky. Thick, salty droplets flow down my face, dripping onto the concrete when I stop and lean my forearms against the aluminum railing. My head throbs with every heartbeat, my legs struggling to hold my weight. I close my eyes and focus on the ocean’s lullaby, breathing in its poignant, salty breath. Why haven’t I come out this way sooner? Five miles isn’t too far of a run—or a drive—to come and relax by the water.
As my breathing returns to normal, the pounding in my head subsides. I stand straight and fill my lungs full of the fresh, cool air blowing off the ocean. My legs are stiff, so I raise my right foot and clasp my ankle as my fingertips trail over the patch of numb, bumpy skin.
I remove my hand from my scar. I close my eyes tightly and try to drown out the images of Marco pulling me out of my burning house. The bastard started the fire, claimed it was to destroy some evidence my father had. Then had the balls to tell me he was trying to keep me safe.
My fingers curl into fists. He was so fucking good at covering up the start of the fire that the arson investigator couldn’t find any foul play. And my claims as to what he said, while taken seriously by the precinct, weren’t enough to arrest him, especially once the arson report came back claiming it was an electrical fire.
So much for taking a mental break from the past. I walk to a nearby ledge to stretch my quads and gaze out into the waves, watching the surfers, to keep my balance. I’ve always been in awe of the way people can ride waves the way I ride pavement.
I switch legs, and the river of sweat free flowing down the center of my back like rain on a window pane shifts its course. I drop my foot back down to the ground and clasp my hands together behind my back. While the stretch feels wonderful, the skin around my shoulders is tight. And my face. A slight stinging is present. It’s my fault for not wearing sunscreen. I walk to a bench overlooking the beach and sit, my body still needing time to recover before making the trek back home.
A red-and-blue surfboard in the water catches my attention. Its rider attacks the steep slope, projecting half of the board off the wave’s lip, and then drives it down toward the bottom of the wave without losing momentum. Awesome. The wind brings about a shiver as it cools my overly warm skin, but all of my attention is focused on the surfer. There’s grace in the way he arcs through the crescent-shaped waves. I can’t pick up much detail from where I stand, but his gray-and-blue shorts contrast sharply against the churning blue of the ocean.
Water clings to the muscular length of his arms and chest, and when the sunlight hits it just right, the droplets sparkle. Briefly, Mother Nature transforms him into a dancing Adonis sprinkled in starlight, and my insides clench hungrily while my mouth goes dry.
I don’t know how long I stand there watching him. Long enough for the sweat to cool. When Mr. Gray-and-Blue Board Shorts rides the wave in before jumping off the board into the water, I can’t help but feel as if the show ended far too soon. The surfer turns his board around and hops back on to paddle out to the next set of waves.
Shitballs.
Even from this distance, the gray-washed details of the dragon tattoo stand out. Jim. My pulse rate starts to jackhammer, and my legs clamp together as that wild ache for him returns. Seeing him, muscles bunching and body in confident motion leaves my knees weak. I roll my eyes and sigh.
Jim paddles harder as a large wave reaches him. Popping up to his feet, he carves through the water. He performs a bottom turn and when he reaches the crest of the wave, he gets the fins free just long enough to let the tail of the surfboard slide down the face of the wall of water.
My jaw drops, and the corners of my mouth turn up. The way he controls the board, the precision of each trick, the flex of each muscle. Breathtaking. I could sit here and watch him all day. I gulp, my throat dry from both the run and the
sight of my—err—husband.
With the board tucked under his arm, he jogs through the shallows of the water. He drives the blue-and-red board, the colors swirling to create a tribal design, into the sand. His head shakes, drops of water flying in all directions as they leave his dark brown hair. His palms run over his face and come to rest at the back of his head. His chest expands, and then every muscle goes rigid when he faces my direction.
The expression on his face is like those on marble statues. Vacant. Cold. Faintly superior. A low groan rumbles in the back of my throat when he tucks the surfboard under one arm and propels himself closer. Each step deliberate, hitting the sand with a domineering thunk.
My fingers snake around the railing as a throaty moan escapes my lips. I’m a hot mess. And now I’m practically dripping with need.
“Need something?” He stares into my eyes, unblinking, as if locked onto a target. Or fighting to keep from looking elsewhere. Like my traitorous nipples. I can feel the fuckers jutting out.
Hell, what do I say? Um, yeah, I need you between my legs. Uh, nope.
“Did you . . . lock yourself out?” He drops his board to the ground and steps forward, closing the distance between us until only the metal railing separates us, and my lungs halt midbreath.
“No. I went for a run. And I took a breather. You know how it is.” My gaze skates from his sinful mouth down the curves and ripples of his abs to—
Crap.
Unable to look away, I take in the bulge straining at the seam of his shorts and swallow tightly. God, could I fit that thing in my mouth?
“Yes.” He turns toward the ocean, away from me.
Did I just say that out loud? “Um. I’m sorry, what?”
“I said, yes . . . I know how that is. Do you surf?” A wicked grin is plastered on his face. He’s already OCD, and I don’t need him to tell me he’s a mind reader too.
“No. It’s not a big thing in New York. Neither are the waves for that matter. Unless you head east to Montauk. But the traffic is killer, even on a bike.” I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, trying to compose myself.
Issued (Navy Seals of Little Creek Book 1) Page 7