Issued (Navy Seals of Little Creek Book 1)

by Paris Wynters

Hell yeah, I’m avoiding it. I’d rather talk to Jim than talk about him to Inara.

  I lift my phone, waving it in a universal sign as the phone rings. “I’m going to hang back a bit and take this call.”

  She nods with annoyance and continues on, giving me some much-needed space and privacy, but slow enough to maintain visual contact.

  I bite the bullet and tap the green button. “Hello?” I don’t hear anything. Maybe he butt-dialed me. “Jim? You there?”

  “Yeah, sorry. I, um, I don’t mean to interrupt, but I can’t find a USB drive I need.” He sounds irritated, and I can just imagine him ripping his hair out that his thumb drive wasn’t in the exact place he had left it.

  I smile, even though he can’t see it. “It’s okay. Where’d you leave it?”

  “I thought it was in my bag. I need it to finish a report. Wanted to call and check if you’d seen it, before I took a trip home to look.” There’s shuffling on the line as if he’s lifting every piece of paper known to man to search under them.

  “Will you stop making so much noise?”

  The rustling stills, and Jim sighs.

  Inara looks back at me before she turns left behind a tree. She waves at me, and I wave back with a groan.

  “What’s wrong, Taya?” His tone is concerned. “What got you so scared at the party?”

  Crap.

  Think Taya, think.

  I shake my head, hoping to jar some explanation, aka, a lie, which might be hiding in my brain. “I just . . . it was what Captain Redding said. I’d forgotten about you being forced into the program. And I’ve been trying to make this marriage work. Kind of reminded me it’s only temporary.”

  Not exactly a lie, but fuck, I kinda hit below the belt with that one.

  The line is silent for a minute. A very long minute. When Jim continues not to speak, I do. “I’m sorry you can’t find your thumb drive. I didn’t see anything when I grabbed my keys.”

  Jim’s breath comes in heavy. “I—hope I didn’t do anything to make you leave.”

  “Can we talk about it later?”

  “Sure. I just . . . it’s your home, too, and I wanted to make sure you knew I’d never do anything to chase you out.”

  Your home. He had definitely just said that. Do I say thank you? Did he really mean to say that? I want to speak, but the words won’t come out.

  “See you when you get home.”

  Home. He did it again.

  “See you soon.” I disconnect the call and tuck my phone back into my pocket. I brush some burs from my pants and hitch my pack higher on my shoulder before hurrying to catch up to the group.

  Near the summit, everyone mills around the team leader, Patrick. When I reach the group, Inara slings a companionable arm across my shoulders. “We’re working in pairs today. So, what do you say, partner? Ready to take our relationship to the next level?”

  I flutter my lashes and lower my voice to match her whispers. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Patrick drones on about the precautions we’ll be taking for the climb down. In this exercise, Inara is a victim trapped on the cliff wall, while I lower down with the litter and help her get into it. Inara and I joke about her backstory for falling over the edge of the cliff in the first place as she is strapped in. She waffles between being a high stargazer or a dude bro with a GoPro and a YouTube channel.

  Inara wipes a line of sweat from her brow while she is lowered down. As I stand on the ledge of the cliff and mentally prepare myself to scale down the length of it, I’m reminded of something Dad said to me when I first started out.

  “If you keep pushing your limits, one day you’re going to find them.”

  He didn’t like the idea of me being involved in search and rescue. Not because he thought it was embarrassing, like my stepmom, but because he was convinced I would take unnecessary risks and get myself hurt or killed. I never blamed him. Not after what he’d gone through when my mom died.

  But search and rescue is different. Saving someone else is the closest I’ll ever be to my Dad again. I just wish I could have found a way to tell him that while he wanted to keep me safe, I wanted to help those who needed someone to save them. That I want to protect other families from going through what we went through.

  Shaking my head, I take a deep breath and plant my feet right at the edge, working my butt low until my device and brake hand are near the lip, then I swoop clear in a short bound.

  I continue to rappel in one steady flow, slow and calculated, rather than continuing to bound. There’s no room for sloppy behavior.

  I’m a third of the way down the cliff and almost to Inara when shards of rock and debris rain down as the line hitches, and a sharp crack sends chills down my spine. It happens too quickly to scream. One moment, the ropes are like steel beneath my hands, but the next moment, my heart is in my stomach and I’m falling. The backup Prusik hitch catches, but I slam into the side of the cliff. A second snap cuts through the air accompanied by pain blossoming through my body. I manage to turn in time to vomit down onto the ground below as I swing over the ravine.

  What just happened? Did my rigging break? How is that even possible? I’d watched and helped set the entire thing up. It had been solid before my descent. There was no reason for it to give out on me. I turn my head back up to the edge of the cliff. People are yelling instructions as they start to pull me up. I fight, and lose, the battle with my stomach and vomit into the treetops below again.

  By the time I’m lowered onto solid ground, I’m light-headed and feverish. I wish my arm would go numb, but agony travels back and forth along my nerve endings and twists around my mind. I can’t escape it.

  “Can you move?” The steadiness of Inara’s voice is soothing. I was right earlier. Her natural competence and that cherub face really are comforting in a crisis. Even if she’s a goofball, I’m grateful to know that we’ll be working together.

  Per instruction and experience, I don’t try to sit up. The damage has made itself known, and I fight back another wave of nausea. I have a massive headache, but the agony in my arm is my one and only cause for concern.

  I blink rapidly, fighting the urge to cry. “I’m pretty sure I broke my arm.”

  Though she’s careful, there’s no getting around the shockwaves even the lightest touch causes. “Let’s get this set, and I’ll drive you to the hospital.”

  The pain is my arm is rivaled only by the shame and embarrassment that fills me. And Jim, please God don’t let them call him. I don’t need him pointing out my failure. I know I messed up. I must have. There’s no other explanation for why my rigging snapped apart so easily.

  I couldn’t save my dad but that doesn’t stop me from blaming myself for his death, and today I’d nearly gotten myself killed. If I’d managed to get to Inara before the rigging gave out, things would’ve been much worse. The tears come but their fall has less to do with the pain in my arm and more to do with the hot mess my life has become.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jim

  The television casts a comforting glow throughout the living room, and I sink deeper into the couch. It’s been at least eighteen hours since Taya left, and I never thought I’d miss being at work so much. Hours of enforced solitude aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. Bear and Marge are having date night, and only God knows what Craiger and Martinez are up to.

  I haven’t sunk low enough to call those two knuckleheads for company, so for the last few hours, I’ve been binging on ’80s and ’90s sci-fi. Not that I mind. I fucking love ’80s movies. I’d grown up on this shit.

  Popcorn sticks in my throat when I swallow too fast, the twin beams of approaching headlights startling me. Who the hell is pulling into my driveway? After coughing the piece up, I straighten on the couch and place the popcorn bowl on the cushion, preparing to hoist myself up. But before I can get up to investigate, keys jingle and the front door clicks open.

  Taya.

  The hinges on the closet door in t
he foyer squeak and I tense, heart pounding in my ears. What if she comes in and says she wants to quit the program, that she came back to collect her things? The idea brings something ugly and desperate squirming to life in the center of my chest.

  Some of the tension drains away when the car backs out of the driveway. If she plans on leaving, it’s not tonight and that gives me time to apologize. Time to make up for being such an asshat.

  My chest tightens once again. What if she goes straight to her room, avoiding any further interaction with me?

  But a few seconds later, Taya stands in the archway entrance of the living room in an oversized Edmonton Oilers sweatshirt and leggings. Who knew she was a hockey fan? Or maybe it isn’t her sweatshirt. The thing could fit me.

  She hesitates, like she’s waiting for something. When I don’t move, she sighs and turns away.

  “Wait! Do you want to watch this movie with me?”

  Desperate. That’s how I sound. A real turn-on. No wonder she ran away.

  “A movie sounds great right now.” She glances at the TV and her face lights up. “Ice Pirates? Nice choice. Do . . .” She clears her throat and tries again. “Mind if I join you on the couch?”

  Yes, of course I want her to sit with me. Hell, I want to know if she enjoyed last night as much as I did. I want to ask if she ran because she regrets having sex with me, or if she was afraid of something else. And most of all, I want for her to know she is safe with me.

  I also want to ask her if she’s on birth control, if she’s upset with me. Well, she and I would have that in common, because there’s no way I am going to be a father, raising a version 2.0 of my own shitty self. I wouldn’t want that for anyone.

  “Knock yourself out.”

  She’s stiff in the way she moves around the couch, hesitation where confidence usually resides, an awkwardness replacing her grace. A bright green color peeks out from beneath the sleeve of the sweatshirt when she leans on the armrest to navigate around the coffee table, and I lunge forward, reaching for her when she struggles to sit.

  Taya pauses halfway down and shoots me a death glare, complete with puckered lips and narrowed eyes. “I can sit on my own, thank you very much.”

  My jaw clenches, molars grinding, as I pulverize the popcorn in my hand. I suck in a deep breath, trying to chase away the shadows of fear threatening to engulf me as I lean back onto the couch. “What happened to your arm?”

  Taya stares at the television, rolls up her sleeves and reaches over with one hand to steal some of the popcorn from the bowl nestled in my lap as she settles onto the couch.

  Our hands brush, and I want to grab her—shake her—anything to get her to look at me and tell me what I know she’s hiding. I can read her better than she thinks.

  A few pieces of popcorn overflow from her fist, and she scoops the offending kernels off her cast with her tongue.

  My heart is racing, and the taste of copper is heavy on my tongue. She’s hurt, and not knowing how or why is pushing my sanity over the edge.

  “Taya.”

  She rolls her eyes, grimacing when she reaches for another handful of popcorn with her uninjured arm. I can’t help but notice she doesn’t wait until she’s done with her first mouthful before shoving in another. Both cheeks expand like a chipmunk’s, and I stare her down while she does her best to chew as slowly as possible.

  “Mmph pheff.”

  “What was that?” Maintaining eye contact, I move the bowl out of her immediate reach when she stretches for it once more. Bruises on her skin stretch beyond the cast. My lips tighten. My muscles bunch, straining the seams of my shirt. “Taya?”

  Unable to hold my gaze, she turns back to the television. “I fell.”

  “Elaborate.”

  Her head whips sideways. “What?”

  “Fell how? Where?”

  She doesn’t answer at first, and the only thing keeping the silence from growing heavy is the movie. She forces out a self-deprecating chuckle. “Inara and I stopped at a CrossFit gym. I was doing box jumps, and I slipped. My guess is the janitor got a little overzealous with the floor wax.”

  Liar.

  CrossFit gyms don’t wax their floors. Most use rubber flooring. I take in a deep breath and count to ten while I plan out what to say next to get her to tell me the truth. But she pales like when we fought over the burnt pancakes.

  Pales like the day the arrival of my friends left her shaking and terrified.

  “Did someone hurt you?”

  Her eyes widen and she sucks in a sharp breath, immediately choking on popcorn. I wait patiently for the coughing fit to pass, content to sit there all night, if need be. When she finally settles, she shakes her head. “Why would you say that?”

  “Just the way you freaked out the other night at the party.”

  “I told you and Marge what happened.” Her expression crumbles and she sags in her seat. “Well, maybe not all of it. Some of the wives at the table were being nasty. Marge shut them up, but it got to me. Especially since I couldn’t defend myself because I didn’t know who their husbands were, and I didn’t want to negatively affect your job.”

  I reach out and press a hand against her thigh. “Wish you would have told me sooner, but glad Marge was there. Dealing with certain wives is a skill you’ll need to learn. Some can be quite brutal, almost as if they get off on it.”

  Taya laughs, but it lacks amusement. The lines of strain around her mouth and at the corner of her eyes make my heart ache. I’m not the cause of her pain and I don’t intend on adding to it by questioning her further. A broken arm hurts like a bitch. I wedge the popcorn between us, so she can reach it without straining and turn back to the movie, pointing a finger toward the screen. “This is my favorite part.”

  “The part where they’re being castrated? That’s a shocker.”

  My lips quirk. “Pretend castration.”

  Taya barks out a laugh. “I love the look on their faces, personally.”

  “Exactly. The whole thing is so nonchalant.”

  We watch for a beat or two, the sight of the princess issuing her not-so-subtle ultimatum bringing a genuine smile to my face. “I used to have a thing for Mary Crosby. Hell, I still have a thing for Mary Crosby.”

  “Didn’t she play on Dallas?”

  “She basically made the show.”

  “Wow. That’s quite a claim.”

  I knock her hand aside when she makes a grab for more popcorn, and one of my brows raise. The woman who shot J.R. made television history.

  “And by ‘claim,’ I mean ‘an accurate and astute observation.’” The corner of her mouth lifts in an almost-smile when I release my buttery hostage. “Tell me more about your obsession with Ms. Crosby.”

  “Mrs. Brodka,” I correct absently. “And it’s not an obsession. I just appreciate the classics.”

  “Are we talking about the movie or the actress?”

  My face heats when she lets loose a bark of laugher. “I was talking about the movie. It’s a good movie. Sue me.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir, sweetheart. They don’t make space operas like they used to.”

  I hesitate before sticking my big toe down the rabbit hole. “Have you ever seen Firefly?”

  “I’m sorry? I’m alive and breathing, aren’t I? When I think about cinematic tragedies, canceling Firefly is right up there with the remake of Total Recall and the existence of Jurassic sharks.”

  “Sharknado haunts my dreams.”

  “I saw the movie and it left me feeling personally disrespected. You know there’s a movie called Aliens vs. Avatars?”

  Settling deeper into the couch, Taya leans her head against my shoulder. The remnants of a grin linger around her mouth, and I want to lean in and kiss the vestiges away. My throat tightens. The weekend has not been kind, but for now, everything in my world is good and right. Is it wrong to want the feeling to last?

  Dumbass.

  Taya spends the next few minutes explaining which sci-
fi movies she believes should be classified as acts of terrorism. I don’t always agree, but listening to the animated way she shreds plotlines and decimates directors and actors alike makes me wary of disagreeing. Her face lights up and she actively involves her hands the more passionate she becomes, and I can’t bring myself to look away. It’s as if I’ve been placed under some sort of spell and the world is moving in molasses around me while my heart races along. Listening to the sound of Taya’s voice is more satisfying than any ocean wave I can imagine. Righter than any curve I could master on my bike.

  The credits scroll across the screen, darkening the room. Taya angles her body to face me, one knee propped on the couch and her head canted sideways on the cushions. I mimicked her position at some point, and the intimacy of being face to face, separated by only a handful of inches further stirs up emotions that have been building, but that I don’t want to examine too closely because they are new and terrifying. They feel like soap bubbles. Swimming in iridescent color and too fragile to live, and that the slightest prod will make them burst.

  “Katniss has nothing on my emee, though.” Taya rolls her eyes, waving a dismissive hand in the air.

  “Huh?”

  “With the bow and arrow.” Taya searches my face, concern etched in her features. “You okay?”

  My fingers tug at the extra material around the leg of my Wranglers. Shit. She probably thinks I zoned out from my TBI. “Yeah, fine. So, your grandmother was a professional archer?”

  “In a way. Archery and horsemanship are part of Mongolian culture. Did you know many of the warriors in Genghis Khan’s army were women? Though, according to my grandfather, I inherited more of my father’s side than my mother’s. Of course, the comment was made after I accidentally shot him in the foot with an arrow.”

  I laugh so hard, my head whips backward. “Let me guess, your father’s side can’t cook, either.”

  Taya gently kicks me in the thigh, the corners of her lips curling up. I grab hold of her, so she can’t pull away, and rest her foot in my lap. When her smile fades around the edges and she clears her throat, I worry I might have screwed things up somehow without even trying.