by Jodi Watters
“It’s not the new pussy making me crazy, Mrs. Coleson! It’s the old pussy!”
The air buzzed in the silence that followed their outburst. Not a hint of noise sounded anywhere in the suite, and Ash swore under his breath, knowing every ugly word had just been aired for the entire office.
“Okay, then. This is going about as well as I expected.” She looked away, patting her hair as she composed herself. The sun-kissed waves curled down around her shoulders, the strands a stark contrast against the black dress. “I hear you gave Trey an earful. In return, he declined my proposal for national distribution, wasting months of planning and preparation, not to mention jeopardizing my reputation, if not my entire career in this industry. And all because you played the scorned husband card. I hope you’re happy.”
He grinned, knowing she’d prepared that little speech ahead of time. “Scorned husband sounds a bit melodramatic, don’t you think?”
“How about scary soldier who can kill you a hundred different ways with one hand tied behind his back?”
“You forgot blindfolded.” He stood to his full height, and her gaze narrowed in warning. “And it’d be more accurate, sure. But that’s not how it went down.”
“How’d it go down then? How does someone who wants absolutely nothing to do with my place of employment, or me in general, throw his weight around and wipe out a deal months in the making?”
“My want was never in question.” He took the few steps toward her, testing the limits of his armor. Tracing a silky lock of hair, he tucked it behind her ear and cupped her cheek. If she took a breath, there was no sign of it. “Seems it still isn’t.”
Touching her was a mistake. Inhaling the intoxicating blend of coconut and vanilla, the scent he’d forever associate with his soulmate, was a mistake.
Grazing her forehead with the softest of kisses, aligning his deprived body against her lush curves, was an epic mistake.
“I’ve missed you. So goddamn much.” His confession was guttural, torn from a wounded place he’d gotten good at ignoring, and he closed his eyes to the sins of the past. “What happened to us? We were gonna make it. Two against everyone else.”
“Two became three.” Her shoulders sank on a shuddering exhale. “Then one.”
“Aw, Livvy.” He ran a finger along her hairline, desperate to obliterate the source of her pain. Problem was, that source was the man in the mirror. “I’m so fucking sorry. Give me a chance to fix it. Let me make it better.”
“That’s about four years too late.” Stepping back, she severed their connection.
It was astonishing how easily she dismissed him, still strong and independent to the core. Those virtues were two of many that had him under her spell within minutes of meeting, knowing she could hold her own while he was away. And Jesus, had he been away. It was a wonder she’d recognized him when he did show up, managing a rare day away from The Unit. On many of those sporadic occasions, he hadn’t recognized himself.
“Why the interference, Ash? I want an answer.”
“And I want my wife, Liv, but as you can see”—he held out his arms—“I’m shit out of luck in that department. But when some dickhead calls me for permission to get into your pants, you’ll have to forgive me the need to remind him that we’re still legally wed.”
“That’s it? That’s all you said to him?”
He shrugged. “I tried not to be too graphic when describing the violence I would rain down upon him if he didn’t lay off my wife, but I guess I got carried away.”
Her pink lips twitched, fighting a grin. “Mr. Tough Guy, huh? Did that make you feel better?”
“Yeah, it did. He practically pissed himself. It was damn entertaining.”
She couldn’t hold back, her cover girl smile lighting up the office, along with his entire being. The woman he’d fallen in fast, crazy love with was still in there. Somewhere.
And then, as quickly as it came, her smile disappeared. “Marshall has requested your presence. I have no idea what’s come over him, but apparently he thinks you care. I think he’s delusional.”
“You’re right. That old man is a crazy son of a bitch if he thinks I’m gonna hop to for him.”
“That’s what I told him. Excuse the salty language, but I think my exact words were something along the lines of, ‘Asher Coleson doesn’t give a flying fuck about anyone but himself.’” Looking smug, she winked at him. “I learned that life lesson the hard way. But y’all can fight it out without me as a referee. I have wine to sell.”
“Liv, darlin’,” he drawled, happy to play her blame game. “Stop with the sucker punches. As I recall, you told me to leave. In no uncertain terms.”
“Ash, honey,” she mimicked, riding high on four years of anger that might take him a century to tear down. “As I recall, you were already gone.”
He had no come back. It was the stone-cold truth.
Turning back toward the window, he braced himself against the pain as she opened his office door and calmly walked away, leaving him in ruins for the second time in his life.
The call came before he found the will to move from the window. Before the aftermath of her visit could be properly assessed and compartmentalized to the back of his brain.
Less than an hour after Liv’s dramatic departure, the team was on a plane bound for Mogadishu, Ash leading the pack.
That was seven days ago.
Could’ve been seven months or seven hours, considering his state of mind. He’d been running high on nothing but sheer adrenaline and the burning desire to see her again. Sparring with Liv was always fun. Almost as fun as fucking her. Almost as fun as loving her.
Gathered in the conference room, he was a spectator as Sam debriefed the group on their mission, both satisfied they’d met their objective—recovering the traumatized woman before she ceased to exist. Timely, given her critical condition at retrieval. Bloodied, bruised, and unable to stand, she’d latched onto Sam like he was an angel of mercy wearing desert camouflage and a state of the art brain bucket. Ash’s partially exposed face was the last thing on earth her captors ever saw, and he’d walked away pleased he’d never fired his weapon.
There were times when a 7-inch carbon blade so sharp it could slice through cold butter was your greatest ally, and Ash was BFF’s with his. It was quieter than the suppressor on his modified M-4 assault rifle or the .45 caliber strapped to his belt, but the cleanup was a bitch.
The team was ready for some downtime after the intense mission, flanked by twenty-hour flights each way, and oddly enough, so was he. Thanks to a renewed pep in his step, the dread that usually dogged him when it came time to go home was suspiciously absent.
It was amazing how your attitude improved when you had a reason for living.
Anxious to wrap it up, the guys had been clock-watching for a half hour, aware of the three women who’d recently arrived but waited respectfully in the lobby.
Nolan and Beck were thick as thieves, both retired Navy SEALs rather than dyed in the wool Army like the rest of them, but of the two, only Beck had a serious significant other: Hope Coleson, Ash’s little sister. A bitter pill he was still choking down.
Grady was a serial dater looking for Mrs. Right, Nolan was all about Miss Right Now, Mike and Carrie celebrated double-digit anniversaries and upped the population on the regular, and Sam was head over heels for Ali.
That left Ash the odd man out when it came time to declare a relationship status.
It wasn’t anybody’s business what he did on the side. A private life was exactly that. But now that Liv had made her presence known, he’d been getting the hairy eyeball from Sam and inquisitive looks from the rest. His junkyard dog bark wasn’t going to hunt much longer.
Sam wrapped things up with a verbal pat on the back for each man, then stretched out in his chair, pinning Ash with a pointed stare.
“Can we let these slackers go or do you have anything enlightening to add over there?”
Five faces stared
at him, waiting to get their gossip on.
“Yeah, before the curiosity kills one of you, I have something to address.” Shifting on the sill, he stretched his neck muscles. “The woman who came here last week is my—”
His what? Wife seemed an overstatement, despite the accuracy. World, maybe? His had certainly revolved around her when The Unit allowed, but that seemed too poetic, not to mention emasculating. In reality, Liv was his past. And, as of seven days ago, his present.
But his future? Stamp that yet to be determined.
“Her name is Olivia,” he said instead. “And yes, as Carrie plainly stated, she’s my wife. We’ve been married for six years.”
Well before he’d retired from The Unit and started Scorpio Securities.
Sam’s mood visibly shifted, his fingers tapping the armrest. Scorpio was three-years-old. And a wife was a helluva secret to keep from somebody you had a legal partnership with, particularly in the form of a business netting seven figures a year.
But putting an age on it told the group what Ash was unwilling to say out loud. This was no sham. No one-night stand gone horribly wrong when the condom broke. No weekend bender in Vegas that started with Jell-O shots and ended in a tacky wedding chapel a block off the strip.
It had been a lightning-fast courtship, there was no doubt.
But it had also been the real deal, meet me at the altar, promise to forsake all others till death did us part, kind of marriage.
A few of those vows held up. A few hadn’t lasted long at all.
“I’m not elaborating beyond that,” he continued, the men waiting for more. “Except to say, I know what you’re all thinking, and to make it crystal clear, I’ll be blunt. I don’t cheat on her. I think we’re done here now.”
Whether they believed him or not, Ash didn’t know, but they were too loyal to question him on the truthfulness of his statement anyway.
Grady broke the tension. “Ah, a chronic masturbator, huh? That explains a lot. The bad moods. Surly attitude. Crazy insane work ethic.” His dimpled grin was infectious as he tore open the first of three granola bars clutched in his fist, eating half in one bite. “No worries, sir. We’ve all been there, haven’t we, boys?”
“A little arm cardio never hurt anybody,” Mike chirped in. “That’s what Carrie tells me. I just know it never gets anybody knocked up, and that’s all the incentive I need.”
“Speak for yourselves. I have options,” Nolan said, zipping up his range bag after a quick check of the contents. “You can’t paint yourself into a corner where it’s either one specific woman or yourself. It’s too much power for her to have. My junk is equal opportunity, non-exclusive property.”
“Jesus, I hope you’ve had all your shots.” Sam shook his head, gesturing for him to open the door. “You do any more slutting around and you’re gonna catch your death.”
“Did someone say slut?” Carrie asked, walking into the room with a pregnant Ali Gleeson right behind. “Because this woman clearly had sex recently. I’d bet more than once, too.”
“Guilty as charged,” Ali declared with a laugh, hugging Sam as tightly as possible given the protruding belly between them. “I’m a total hussy when it comes to this man. Can’t say no to anything.”
“Even freaky stuff?” Carrie gasped, a hand over her mouth. “Do tell.”
“Ladies, please, keep it clean,” Grady interrupted. “People are trying to eat here.”
Nolan elbowed him. “Shut up, dude. It was starting to get good.”
“Where are my children?” Mike asked, looking for his three sons, all under the age of five. “Their bedtime isn’t for another hour.”
“With your mother. We have tonight and most of tomorrow alone.” Kissing him, Carrie pointed at Sam and Ali, seven months along with their first. “If all goes well, that will happen to us tonight. And you better make sure it’s a girl this time. I’m not pushing a bowling ball out of my vagina for another boy.”
“Jesus!” Grady and Nolan chorused in unison, covering their ears in horror.
“Hey, maybe there’ll be another baby crawling around here soon,” she said, looking Ash’s way. “Wouldn’t it be nice if you and Sam had kids close in age? They can go to school together and be best friends. We could set up a daycare in the extra conference room.”
“No, we couldn’t,” Ash shot back, contemplating a sprint to the parking lot. Anything to put an end to this conversation.
Hope strode in at that exact moment, stopping dead in her tracks and saving his ass in the process.
“Hi, pretty girl,” Carrie said, ignoring his scowl. “We’re talking about getting pregnant. Do you want in on this? I asked Ash if we could have our own daycare, and he said he’ll think about it.”
Hope’s wide-eyed gaze landed on Ali’s belly before darting to Beck. “Do not let me drink the water in this place.”
“Honey, don’t drink it,” he said, serious as the day was long. “Don’t fucking drink it.”
“You don’t want me to drink it?” she asked with a pout, dropping down into his lap. “But maybe someday I’ll wanna drink it.”
“Someday, yeah. Not today.” Beck glanced cautiously at Ash. “And you know we’re saving ourselves for marriage. I don’t wanna be murdered in my sleep today, either.”
“Oh, right,” she agreed, catching on. Her chastising voice sounded phony as she kissed his cheek. “No lovin’ for you, buddy.”
Just as Ash felt his ears start to bleed, she hopped up and moved in his direction. Her hug didn’t feel as awkward as it used to. “I heard about Olivia’s visit, Ash, and I’m so happy for you. You two belong together.”
Accurately assuming Beck was the source of the leak, he glared at the former SEAL and got a helpless shrug in return. Hope was a category five hurricane disguised in a petite package. She’d swept up the struggling sailor and, through an iron will and tough love, righted his ship.
“Not sure what the hell you’re so happy about,” Ash replied. “Nothing’s changed.”
End of subject.
Tugging on her ponytail, he shooed her back toward Beck. “What’s with the braids? You look like you’re ten.”
She had messy French braids circling the top of her head like a halo, meeting a bushy ponytail in back. Reaching up, she tightened the band. “Do you like it?”
Her question was for Beck, and he nodded, ignoring Ash’s death stare. “Reminds me of a naughty cheerleader looking to get laid.”
“Rah-rah, baby. Let’s go home and sis-boom-bah.” Grabbing his hand, she hoisted him from the chair, giving Ash a glare of her own. “You had him for seven days. Now I get him for the next two, no matter what you say. I hope you fed him his Wheaties. It’s time for some mattress Olympics.”
“Christ, I don’t need the goddamn details,” Ash muttered, waving them out the door. “Just take him and go.”
“For the love of God,” Grady shouted after them, “practice safe sex.”
Signaling his own exit with a dismissive nod, Ash escaped to his office across the hall, the ambient glow from idle computer monitors the only light in the room.
This was his usual MO. Stick to the perimeter, watch from the sidelines, go it alone. He spent more time in this sterile office than he did his warm, cozy condo, where touches of Liv were everywhere.
The candle she’d been burning the day before everything changed, still sitting on the kitchen counter, the flowery scent long dissipated.
The grocery list she’d been making, her scrolling handwriting like fine calligraphy, stuck to the refrigerator under a wine cork magnet.
The dog-eared paperback on the nightstand, spine cracked and pages tagged, her bible for months. She’d never left the house without slipping the book into her purse, every spare minute spent studying it. She’d asked him to read it, too, tucking a new copy into the front pocket of his duffel during a brief visit home.
With a long kiss goodbye, he’d agreed.
Another promise he’d broken.
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Staring out the window, he scrubbed a hand over his face, wondering for the hundredth time why he hadn’t read the goddamn book when she wanted. Instead, he’d read it after. When it didn’t matter. As personal punishment, he’d memorized each chapter, as if a quiz would follow. As if a hands-on, real-time event was still in the cards.
Ash spent hours reading that book. Reading and drinking and punching walls. And leaking from the eyes.
The truth was, being at home hurt. Then and now.
The leather sofa adjacent to his desk had been his bed many a night since Scorpio’s inception. Sleep came sooner when there wasn’t an empty spot next to you in the bed your wife picked out. The quiet was less deafening when you weren’t ignoring the contents behind a secondary bedroom door.
On the nights he decided to face his failure head on, he’d drive home on autopilot, loneliness along for the ride.
When they’d first set up shop—and the wound from losing Liv was fresh and bleeding—he worked nonstop, using his contacts in every branch of the military to build their client list. He took jobs from all corners of the globe, welcoming the distraction.
When there was no assignment to occupy him, he’d found another way to survive.
During those desolate months after The Unit, when the book was memorized and the reality of life without her seemed an unbearable fate, Ash reduced his existence to three steps.
Work. Gym. Sleep. In that exact order.
The first day had gone well, with twelve hours spent buried in work, followed by four in the gym. His blistering CrossFit routine left puddles of sweat on the mat, guaranteeing him six hours of dreamless shut-eye.
That’s when he’d added a fourth step. Repeat.
It was a damn fine system, too, and working like a charm until seven days ago.
White light flooded the office, and he whipped around, swearing at the intruder. “Christ, you’re gonna get yourself fucking shot.”
“You’ve gone soft in retirement.” Sam set a bottle of Gentleman Jack on the desk. “You used to hear footsteps a quarter of a mile away.”