Issued (Navy Seals of Little Creek Book 1)

by Paris Wynters

  No, no, no.

  I reach for the phone, but it dings, and she pulls it back, tapping at the screen again.

  Her face twists into a scowl, her eyes shooting up to meet mine. There’s a slight tremble in her chin. “When were you going to tell me you got cleared?”

  “I planned on telling you after we ate.”

  Taya hurls the phone at me and makes a beeline for the trail. I snatch my phone from the ground and tap the screen. Fucking Bear. Why can’t he just keep his mouth shut? With a snarl, I race down the path. My feet pound on the loose dirt until I make it to the bikes. “Taya, wait.”

  Taya pulls her helmet on, then spins toward me. “I’m your wife and this is the second time I’m the last to know what is going on. That’s not right. I shouldn’t be finding out what is happening in your life, especially when it affects me as well, from other people.”

  I clench my jaw. She’s not wrong, damn it, but also, where does she get off giving me shit about hiding things? “Just like I shouldn’t have to wait weeks to find out about how you really broke your damn arm! And what about that scrapbook in your closet, Taya? Is it right that you keep something that’s obviously so important to you hidden away?”

  She flinches, and something flickers across her face. Guilt? Sorrow? I can’t tell, but I feel like an ass. She’s still hiding things from me but, Christ, it’s not like I’ve been completely on the up and up with her, either. Clearly we both have more work to do. I shove my hand into my hair and sigh. “Look, why don’t we both take a deep breath and—”

  The revving of her engine drowns out the rest of my sentence, and with a squeal of her tires, she’s headed back toward the main road.

  Fuck.

  I kick the dirt, sending a slew of pebbles flying. And her words, goddammit, her words ripped my heart in two. Besides the deployments and the stress that comes with the risk that one day I might not come home, Taya will have to deal with the fact she won’t be privy to a lot about my life in the military, information my teammates will know.

  I grind my molars and snatch my own helmet from my bike. I’m not leaving the military and that one decision could very well upend everything Taya and I have built this far. Christ, when will I ever learn that my life is meant to be lived alone?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Taya

  The dishwasher door slams shut with a resounding thunk. Jim’s been gone for a week, one full week, and the house is so empty without him. Regret sits awkwardly in my chest, putting pressure on tender places inside of me. I readjust my shoulders to ease the ache, but it doesn’t help. If only we’d had a chance to talk before he left.

  Why did I let my anger get the best of me and take off on my bike like that? We’re married. We’re supposed to work things out. But no, I’d bailed, and being the stubborn ass that I am, came home hours later only to find a note on the kitchen counter my husband, saying that he got put on a training assignment and would be gone.

  If only I could talk to him for a few minutes and apologize. But no. Radio silence so far. Which leaves me with far too much time to beat myself up over the things I said back at the park . . . and didn’t say.

  My cell phone rings and I curl my hand around the device, praying Marge isn’t about to cancel her plan to stop by briefly before picking up her youngest daughter. I really could use a friendly, yet stern, shoulder to lean on. I accept the call without bothering to check the caller ID. “Hello?”

  “Taya?”

  I close my eyes and squeeze the phone. Oh, thank God. Jim’s voice is nirvana to my ears. “Jim? Is everything okay?’

  “All’s good. How about you?”

  “Great, I’m doing great!” I cringe. I sound like I’m fifteen, and I doubt I’m fooling anyone with my forced cheerfulness. This is stupid. I need to start being honest. “Look, it’s been tough, but also, I really am okay. I have work and Marge and Inara . . . it’s just . . .”

  “It’s just . . .” Jim prods.

  Oh, screw it. “I miss you and I hate the way we left things.”

  Jim clears his throat. “Don’t get long to talk, but I want to apologize. You were right, and I’m sorry. You should have been the first person I told about being cleared to return to active duty.”

  I grip the phone tightly in my hand and curl up in the window seat and close my eyes. “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have flown off the handle like that, or run away. We can hash it out when you get home? Come up with a plan to do better next time?”

  “Yeah. I’d like that. And I miss you too.”

  My heart warms and hope unfurls inside me. Right up until I hear Tony’s voice in the background.

  “Oh baby, I miss you too,” he yells, in a high falsetto. “Why don’t you tell her the little souvenir you’ve got planned for her . . . that’ll really make her—”

  He’s cut off by some loud crashing sound. “Jim?” No response. “Jim?”

  “I’m here.”

  My eyes narrow as my husband returns to the line, sounding a little out of breath. “What’s going on over there?”

  “The usual. Trying to beat some sense into Martinez.”

  “Hey, I heard that!” Tony yells in the background.

  I roll my eyes and smile at their antics. “So, what’s this about a souvenir?”

  There’s a deeper muffled voice in the background now. “Uh, hang on a sec.” About five seconds pass before Jim returns to the line. “Sorry, but gotta go now.”

  Disappointment dulls my smile, but I swallow it, knowing better than to burden Jim with the negative emotion. He’d called. That’s what matters. I’m grateful for what I can get. “See you when you get back.”

  “Bye, Taya.”

  The line goes dead, so I set my phone down and stare out the window. I don’t move again until the doorbell rings. I spring up and head to the front door, sighing with relief at the sight of Marge. She gives me a quick hug before following me into the kitchen.

  I plop down into the chair next to Marge and let out a heartfelt sigh. Marge rests her hand on top of mine. “I understand how you feel. Nothing is worse for me than when Papa Bear is out of the house, and it doesn’t get any easier.”

  “You call him Papa Bear?” The moniker fits, but it’s jarring to hear someone as imposing as Bear being referred to like a character from a children’s book.

  Marge grins. “Only behind his back.”

  I laugh, and it is much needed. Jim’s schedule is crazy. He can be gone at base for hours or days at a time with no consistency. But I wasn’t prepared for him to be gone in the blink of an eye without warning, and not know where he was going. Between the ride home from the park to Jim walking into the house, he’d gotten orders to leave for training. He barely had time to get ready. He couldn’t tell me exactly when he’d be back, only that it would be roughly two weeks, but could be extended.

  And we had no time to discuss what happened. No processing what it all meant.

  Marge takes a sip of her tea, then places it back down on the counter of the island. “I must say the house looks more homey than the last time I was in it. Jim has always asked me to stop by and check on things when the team is deployed.”

  My toes curl and uncurl in my sneakers as if rubbing them against the inner soles would provide me with comfort. “Is it always going to be like this? Them taking off without warning?”

  Marge sighs, her silence speaking volumes.

  At least I’m not alone in this. While I have Inara, she doesn’t really understand what I’m going through. Thank God for Marge. Having someone who’s gone through this and is still going through it makes the scenario a bit more bearable. But I can’t even imagine how it must be for her daughter. “How’s Leslie?”

  Marge leans back in her chair. “She’s with Lucas’s ex-wife. Leslie and their son are friends. Plus, she got bored at home without her usual targets to play with. Thank God, Lucas remained friendly with his ex-wife; otherwise, I have no idea what I’d do with Leslie somet
imes.”

  I chuckle. “No piggybacks from Mommy?”

  Marge sips her tea. “Are you kidding? My piggybacks are the preschooler’s equivalent of a declaration of war. I’m too slow, too short, and too out of shape. Last time I offered, she fell to the ground and played dead until I went away.”

  I have to cover my mouth to stifle my bark of laughter. “That’s one way of getting out of social obligations. Maybe I’ll give it a try.”

  “It figures you’d approve. After all, your husband is the one who taught her how to play possum.”

  Imagining Jim, large and expressionless, teaching four-year-old Leslie to drop dead to avoid confrontation has me doubling over. He was so good with her that day at Bear and Marge’s barbecue. He’d probably make an amazing father one day. My cheeks heat at the thought.

  Marge cocks her head to the side, her gaze sharpens and her smile dims around the edges. “How are you really doing with all of this?”

  “Better, now that he called.”

  Marge brightens at this bit of news. “He did? When?”

  “Just before you came over. I can’t believe how great it was to hear his voice. Even if the call only lasted a few minutes . . . and I had to share him with freaking Tony.”

  Marge rolls her eyes. “I’ve never known anyone who needs a wife to whip their ass into shape more than that idiot.”

  “It’s still hard though. Harder than I thought it would be.”

  Taking another sip of her tea, Marge sits back and stirs the amber liquid with her straw. “Jim has a good heart. Wants the best for those he cares about.”

  “I know.” My pulse is pounding in my ears.

  Placing her hand on my forearm, she squeezes lightly. “The trainings and deployments can be hard, so if you need anything, anything at all, I’m here. You don’t have to figure it out alone.”

  “Thank you, I appreciate that. Maybe next time, he can tell me about it sooner.” My voice is weak, my hands twisting the material of my sweatshirt.

  Marge shrugs matter-of-factly. “They can’t always tell us what goes on, where they go, or even when they’ll be back. It’s part of their lives we have to accept.”

  I sigh. “Basically, you’re telling me to suck it up and quit being such a wimp.”

  Over a sip of tea, Marge’s eyes twinkle. “Honey, cut yourself some slack. The first time is always tough, and you guys didn’t have the most conventional start, either.”

  I should cut myself some slack. I mean, there’s no doubt in my mind that I can do this. I’m the daughter of a cop. I’ve dealt with some pretty harsh stuff.

  It’s just nice to know I’m not alone in my struggle.

  Marge’s phone vibrates and she glances at the screen. “Time to go pick up Leslie.”

  We stand and I walk Marge over to the door. I’m thankful for her visit and her friendship. While I had some inkling of what to expect being married to someone in the military, there are aspects of it I wasn’t prepared for, at least not emotionally.

  I steel my shoulders. I might not have been prepared, but I can learn. If Jim needs me to be a rock, then dammit, I’ll be the most solid, indestructible stone I know how to be. There’s just a little bit of a learning curve while I toughen up my soft spots.

  As she pulls away and I head back up the driveway, my eyes catch sight of mail sitting in the bed of Jim’s truck. Odd. Though maybe in his haste, he put it down to get something from the cab and forgot to grab it afterward. Reaching in, I collect the myriad of envelopes and circulars, then go inside.

  Flinging the mail onto the coffee table, I drop down onto the couch. My hands drag down my face, a frustrated whimper echoing through the room. I miss Jim and I hate not being able to talk to him—another lovely aspect of his job. This sucks.

  I rummage through the stack of mail, most of which is junk advertisements with the occasional bill for things that aren’t set up on autopay, like our landscaping account. I snort. Jim pays for the weekly service, yet gripes about what they do wrong every time they leave. The lines on the lawn aren’t straight. The guys moved one of the stones out of place. Blades of grass weren’t completely swept up from the walkway. My husband is definitely a person I would not want to have as a client.

  A square manila envelope catches my eye and I pull it from the pile. The yellow is dirty and the paper wrinkled. How long has this been sitting in Jim’s truck? The name on the return address belongs to the ISP company. Finally!

  My breath catches and my pulse races like a Formula One car.

  Did Jim find this? Did he try to open it?

  And while I worry about the answers to those questions, the information contained on the DVD is what I crave. So, I leap up off the couch, tearing into the envelope and head upstairs to my room. This is it. Please, oh please, let there be something to put Santoro behind bars. Let me be able to put this whole thing behind me once and for all. Surely if the criminal responsible for my dad’s death is in jail, my omission on the IPP form will no longer matter.

  I drop down into the chair at the desk in my room, flip open my laptop and insert the disc into the external drive. Clicking on the folder, I draw back in horror at the images on the screen. I’ve been around death. I’ve seen violence. But this is different. It’s casual, cruel, and without rhyme or reason. I swallow bile and work my way through each file.

  There are dozens of jpegs, some just as gruesome as the first. The others are of Santoro. I click onto another image. It’s a receipt, dated back to Christmas last year, for a motorcycle plastics kit. While I’d gotten Dad a new coat for the holidays, he’d bought me new plastics, even insisted on putting them on for me. But why would he save a digital copy of the receipt amongst files for his case?

  The last jpeg is grainy and blurred, almost as if someone took a picture of a picture. In it, Santoro is standing between two men, arms thrown over their shoulders and a large smile on his face.

  One of the other men has his hands jammed into the pockets of his leather jacket, his lips pressed into a tight line. My throat tightens as bile claws its way up my throat. Marco. There’s no denying he’s one of the other two men.

  I check the date, only to realize it was taken the day before Dad’s death. I squint and try to make out the third man’s face and my heart nearly stops. My body tenses, my eyes unblinking.

  The third man in the photo is the random robber responsible for my father’s death.

  Except it wasn’t random. And my former best friend was more involved than I first thought.

  Now I have potential proof that could put them all away.

  I’m so close to closing the door on my past so that I can fully open the door on my new life here in Virginia Beach.

  A life I pray will include Jim.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Jim

  I never expected to be proposing again. Hell, I didn’t think it would be happening now. Not after the argument Taya and I had before I left. The entire training, I just kept replaying the beginning of our day at Lake Lawson and those proposal ideas kept swarming my mind, and then during dinner one night, I mentioned to the guys how a part of me thought Taya would prefer a new motorcycle over an engagement ring. Craiger had to use the Heimlich on Bear, who choked on his food.

  Of course, Martinez almost gave everything away two weeks ago when I had finally gotten the opportunity to speak with Taya. I give the ring one last look before snapping the black box shut and nod at Terry. “It’s perfect. Thanks for doing this under such a tight schedule. You’re a lifesaver.”

  The thick-necked jeweler in a blue shirt and matching tie is built like a brick house. Not surprising, since he’s an ex-SEAL. A friend of a friend, who was more than happy to help me out on short notice by designing a ring from my vague notes I sent over a few days after my call with Taya. I’d worried right up until a few moments ago when I saw the end result. The diamond catches the light and sparkles like magic.

  “She’ll love it,” he says with a wink. />
  I think he’s right. Now the only thing I have to worry about is whether or not she’ll love me.

  I shake Terry’s hand, exit the shop and head to my car. It’s a nice day, so pedestrians dot the sidewalks while they enjoy leisurely afternoon strolls. I wish I had half the calm that they’re exuding.

  Once I unlock the door, I check my cell phone. Some of the tension eases from my neck. Okay, still on target to go pick up Taya and get to the restaurant on time. Being late for our first date since I returned home this morning is no way to kick off the new relationship I hope to establish with my wife.

  Less than forty-five minutes later, Taya’s in the car and we’re headed to dinner. A muscle twitches involuntarily at the corner of my right eye, my fingers tapping the steering wheel furiously as I stare out the windshield.

  God, I missed her. Two and a half weeks away from her and only getting to talk to her once for barely two minutes and once for a bit longer had been a special kind of hell I didn’t know existed. Especially when she monopolized the entire conversation trying to convince me that she can handle my life, that she spent time with Marge learning about what it’s like now that I can return to the field. But something’s still wrong.

  Of course, all three men are sworn to secrecy in case the night goes belly up and Taya turns me down. I don’t need Marge meddling. The darn woman might actually stalk the restaurant—with Bear—and record the entire event.

  Another quick glance at Taya only knots my stomach more. She is staring out the window, lips tight, hands folded in her lap. Like we aren’t heading to dinner but to prison. Even when I came home, something felt off. The way she hugged me, too tight with a small tremble in her body, made my gut shift.

  Bile creeps up my throat. Maybe asking her to marry me isn’t such a good idea. What if she agrees, then bails? The easiest time to leave—the time most realize this life really isn’t for them—would be while I’m deployed. But coming home to an empty house . . . it’d be better than finding her with another guy in my bed.