Full Throttle

by Julie Ann Walker

  “It’s an Army Ranger slogan,” he told her, reaching over to give her a friendly nudge. The place where his elbow gently connected with her upper arm was suddenly hypersensitive. “Makes me seem tougher than I really am.”

  “I seriously doubt that.” In the last few days, and more specifically, in the last few hours, he’d proved to be the toughest sonofagun she’d ever met, which just made him that much harder to resist. I mean, what woman wouldn’t want to throw herself into the arms of a man who was a real-life doctor turned soldier—and when the moment called for it—turned sex god?

  Ride me…

  Those two simple words echoed through her head until goose bumps erupted over every inch of her flesh. When she raked in a deep breath, she fancied she could smell the rain on his skin, the gun black he used to clean his weapon, and the lingering hint of the open road mixed with the jungle’s wet foliage.

  Shaking her head to scatter her thoughts, she pointed to the edges of the black tattoo on his back. It peeked from the armholes and the collar of his tank top, giving her intriguing hints of what might lie beneath. “And that one?” she asked.

  For a moment he regarded her quietly, his eyes like lasers cutting through the dim light inside the hut. Outside, the rain continued to pound. Inside, her heart did the same, clattering against her ribs like the wooden wind chimes she’d installed in a tree back at the DC Botanic Garden. Something in his face made her eyebrows pinch together.

  “You don’t have to show me,” she hastily added, “if you don’t w-w-w…”

  Her words stuttered to a stop because he reached over his head, grabbed a handful of wet, army-green cotton in a fist, and whipped his tank top off. Tossing it aside, it landed on the floor of the hut with a gentle splat.

  Sweet son of a monkey’s uncle…

  The man was just so…pretty. And, no, there was no other way to describe him. Because his skin was impossibly smooth and tan. His shoulders were impossibly wide and muscled. His pecs were impossibly defined around his flat, brown nipples. His stomach was impossibly corded and ripped. And then there was that line of black hair…trailing from his navel down into his camouflage cargo pants.

  In short, he should not have wasted time on a medical degree or in Army Ranger training. Instead, he should have been a Calvin Klein underwear model. Either that or the subject for anatomy textbooks.

  Even the raised white ridge of scar tissue cutting across his bicep and the jagged red line of skin puckered on his flank didn’t seem to detract from the overall…well…prettiness of him. Although she’d already learned her lesson about using that word in conjunction with any of his body parts.

  She bit her tongue when he turned to show her the monster tattoo stretching across his broad back from shoulder to shoulder and from below his neck to the small of his waist. Of course, with the thing clamped between her teeth, it was a wonder she didn’t chew it clean off. Because the ink was equal parts fascinating and terrifying.

  In deep, impenetrable black, a screaming skull with the coils of a fat serpent slithering from its gaping mouth sat atop two crossed machine guns. An Army Ranger cap had been drawn onto the bony skull, Carlos’s battalion number scrawled across a tattered patch above the bill. A huge knife seemed to skewer the skeletal face under its chin. And surrounding it all was a set of intricately drawn angel’s wings. They worked to soften and offset the harshness of the skull and weapons. And the feathers…they looked so real she would not have been shocked had they fluttered in the breeze drifting in under the flap of burlap covering the door to the hut. Again in Spanish, winding beneath the whole thing, was a string of beautifully scrolled words.

  “Wh-what does it say?” she asked. Her voice sounded like she’d been swallowing cactus needles. But she was so riveted, so…moved by the artwork, it was a wonder she could speak at all.

  “Rangers lead the way,” he told her, glancing over his shoulder.

  And, yes, she’d known when he joined the Army eight years ago that he wouldn’t be content to stay back behind the front lines. She’d known even then that when he decided to leave the green lawns of Georgetown behind, he was doing so with every intention of jumping into the fray and leading the way.

  How she’d wanted to save him from all of that. How she tried to save him from all of that.

  When she forced her gaze away from the intricate details of his tattoo, she discovered his eyes on her, his expression unreadable. She tilted her head, wondering what he was thinking. But then he flexed his shoulders and the wings along his back seeming to expand. She couldn’t help herself.

  Lifting her hand, she ran a tentative finger over one of those elaborate feathers. His tough, smooth flesh quivered beneath her touch, and she was keenly aware of how warm he was. How solid. How…near.

  Suddenly, it was as if all the air had been sucked from the room. She couldn’t draw a breath.

  “You hate it, don’t you?” he asked quietly, turning so they were once again face-to-face, stretching his long legs out in front of him and crossing them at the ankles. He planted his hands behind him, leaning back. His expression was hard, his black eyes flinty.

  “Hate it?” she managed to suck in enough oxygen to ask. “Hate what? Your tattoo?”

  He nodded, a muscle ticking beneath the stubble of his jaw.

  “H-how could I hate it, Carlos? It’s beautiful. And fierce. Just like you.”

  And there she’d gone again. Basically telling him he was pretty…

  But this time he didn’t call her on it. His Adam’s apple bobbed in the column of his throat as he sat there, watching her with hooded eyes. When he finally did speak, his voice barely audible above the rumble of thunder overhead, his words bewildered her. “It shows how different we are.”

  Wha? “What do you mean?” Different how? Besides the obvious, of course. Because he was strong and brave and beautiful. And she was weak and cowardly and…well…on a good day she could maybe pass for cute.

  “You’re the well-to-do politician’s daughter who went to private schools and summer camps. And I’m the son of immigrants who barely had two pennies to rub together. I bet the men you date aren’t covered in tattoos.”

  She frowned, shaking her head. “First of all, I rarely date. Being the president’s daughter tends to draw out the crazies or the power-hungry. And I could do without either in my life, thank you very much. And secondly, what’s this all about, Carlos?”

  “It’s about the day of Rosa’s funeral when I came to your hotel room,” he ground out, quickly glancing down at the mat beneath them. She’d seen something that was heartrendingly close to pain in his eyes in that split second before he turned away. “It’s about me needing you, and you rejecting me and sending me packing.”

  The silence that followed that announcement was so loud it was almost deafening. And Abby’s throat was instantly sore, thick with unshed tears.

  He’d needed her? Big, tough, beautiful Carlos Soto had needed her?

  The memory of that soul-sucking day flashed through her mind…

  “Abby!”

  The sound of her name and the pounding of a heavy fist on the hotel door had her scampering from atop the bed where she’d been sprawled for the last hour, crying her eyes out until all her mascara had run onto the pristine white pillowcase. Wiping one hand under her nose and the other beneath her leaking eyes, she straightened the lines of her black dress—which she planned to burn at the first opportunity—and glanced around the room looking for…what? Escape? Did she think it was possible to grow a set of wings and fly from the tenth floor window?

  She stilled, her breath sawing from her lungs as she looked past the balcony doors and into the bright, unwavering sun of the Miami afternoon. The thought held a speck, the tiniest, smallest, oh-so-infinitesimal kernel of temptation. If she jumped, it would all be over. She wouldn’t have to live with the terrible knowledge that a woman she’d grown to love like a sister was dead. If she jumped, she wouldn’t have to open that door and l
ie straight to the hurting, anguished face of the man she’d come to adore with all her broken, shattered heart. If she jumped—

  “Abby! Dios! Tell them it’s okay to let me in!” Carlos’s voice thundered again, making her flinch, making her realize how scary and how cowardly her thoughts had become. Of course she couldn’t jump. Jumping solved nothing. Jumping didn’t turn back time or lift Rosa from the grave. It didn’t change the fact that the coffin they’d lowered into the cold, dark ground beside the final resting places of Rosa’s parents had been mostly empty; a symbolic gesture more than an actual vessel for Rosa’s scant earthly remains. Holy hell, it was all so horrific. So horrific and so unbearable. But maybe if she opened that door and told Carlos the truth—

  You can’t tell him the truth. Her father’s voice rang inside her pounding skull. It won’t do anybody any good, and it could possibly do my chances of election a whole lot of bad.

  “Come on, Mitchell,” she could hear Carlos cajole. “You know me. You know I—”

  “Miss Thompson,” Agent Mitchell called through the door, his low voice booming like a bass drum and abrading her already frayed nerves. In that moment, she couldn’t help but wish all of this, the agents, the stupid election, the awful destruction a nineteen-year-old college student could cause with one ill-timed text, would just go away. “I can have him escorted from the premises if you—”

  “No!” she screamed, racing across the room. “Don’t do that!” She threw open the door.

  And then, there he was. Carlos. So smart. So sweet. So handsome in his suit and undone tie. So…everything a young girl dreamed about.

  For months she’d hoped he would see her as more than the slightly troublesome, sometimes funny teenager who hung on his sister’s every word. For months she’d wished he would see her as the kind of full-grown woman she’d been desperately trying to become. The kind of woman worthy of the attention of someone like him.

  But now she thanked her lucky stars he’d never come to think of her as anything more than a kid, his twin sister’s sarcastic little protégé. Because if he felt for her even half of what she felt for him, it would make the lie she’d agreed to tell just that much more terrible.

  “Abby.” He pushed passed the two men in black suits and shoulder holsters positioned on either side of her hotel door. Years… If her father won the election, she would have to suffer years more—at least four and possibly eight—of this complete and utter lack of privacy.

  For a moment, she considered throwing it all away. If she confessed to Carlos, if she confessed to the world, perhaps her father wouldn’t win and then everything, her life, could go back to normal. She’d never wanted any of this anyway…

  For a second, the idea, the temptation, took hold, making her heart race with the possibilities. But in the next breath, she knew she couldn’t ruin her father’s dream, destroy everything he’d worked for his entire life. It wouldn’t be fair to him. It wouldn’t be fair to her mother, who’d spent long, exhausting hours on the campaign trail, giving speeches and living on greasy roadside food. It wouldn’t be fair to Caroline, who was riding on their father’s coattails to possibly win a seat in the House of Representatives.

  “I didn’t know where else to go,” Carlos said as she nodded to her security detail and closed the door. “With our parents gone—” He suddenly stopped and ran a hand back through his hair, choking. That sound…that defeated sound coming from the throat of a man who’d always seemed invincible, had tears welling and spilling freely down her cheeks. Her chest burned like she’d swallowed a handful of poison sumac. “Thank the good Madre Maria they didn’t live long enough to see this day. To see her…empty,” he husked the words, “casket lowered into the ground.”

  To keep from reaching out to him, she gripped her hands so tightly in front of her that her short nails threatened to draw blood. Touching him was out of the question. She had no right.

  “None of our friends loved her like you did.” He turned to her, his brilliant black eyes full of tears. “That’s why I had to come. Because you’re the only one who can understand what I’m—”

  A sob cut him off before he could finish. And that’s when he reached for her. Dear God! He pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her as he laid his cheek atop her head and cried. Carlos was crying! She could feel his hot tears seeping into her hair, feel his big body shake with the enormity of his grief. And how long had she waited to be taken into his embrace? How long had she dreamed of holding him close and placing her head against his chest?

  But it was never meant to be like this. Never like this…

  “Carlos.” She tried to pull back even though it was the last thing she wanted. If she were to die right here, wrapped up in him, it would be fine by her. In fact, a part of her wished for it. Then the pain would stop. “I can’t—”

  His arms tightened, keeping her close. Oh, the glorious torture of it. Of breathing him in. Of hearing his heart hammer so solidly against her ear. Of knowing that he’d shove her away in a nanosecond if he knew what—

  “I’m dropping out,” he confessed. “I’m joining the Army. I need to make sure those—”

  “No.” This time she was successful in pushing out of his arms. “Carlos, no! You’re a doctor! A wonderful doctor. Don’t throw that away. Rosa”—the woman’s name stuck in her throat as if she’d tried to swallow a whole grapefruit in one gulp—“wouldn’t want you to—”

  “It’s done.” He wiped a hand under his nose. His tan face was splotchy from crying, the whites of his eyes an angry, heartrending red. “I need an outlet for all this violence inside me.”

  She grabbed his forearms in a desperate grip. “We’re at war! You could be killed!” The thought was untenable. Intolerable.

  “Come here.” He reached for her again. “Hold me, Abby.”

  She wrenched herself from his grip, her heart beating frantically. She could maybe—the jury was still out—live with Rosa’s blood on her hands. But Carlos’s? No. No! “Call the dean,” she begged him. “He’ll let you back into the program. He’ll let you finish your rotations, and—”

  “My decision is made,” he told her. “Now, come here. I want you to—”

  “No, Carlos.”

  He lifted a brow, shaking his head in confusion. “What? I don’t underst—”

  “I need you to…to go. I have to…” Call her father or…or the dean. Something! She shook her head, begging him with her eyes.

  His chin jerked back a second before his expression hardened. “I see.”

  Did he?

  “Okay, then…” He swallowed, his throat seeming to have trouble with the maneuver. “So, I guess I…I guess I’ll be seeing you.”

  “What?” Why did that sound like a final farewell? “Wait! I—”

  When he turned to her, the smile on his face was the saddest thing she’d ever seen. It hit her with the force of a wrecking ball and she nearly doubled over with the impact of it. “I do understand, Abby,” he assured her. “But even though…” he trailed off, swallowing again as he reached for the door. “Just…if you ever need me…don’t hesitate to call, okay?”

  And then, just like that, he was gone. Never to be seen again until a few days ago. Though he’d always remained a constant in her thoughts, in her heart, in her life, seeing as how that was the deal she’d struck with her father. You promise to keep an eye on Carlos and let me know of any change in his circumstances, and I promise to keep living the lie.

  And, oh! How she’d hated her father for tossing Carlos out of the frying pan of the Rangers once his stint with the Army was up and into the fire of Black Knights Inc. She’d threatened to go to Carlos and tell him the truth, but her father had assured her it had been Carlos’s decision. He could have finished medical school. He could have joined the Secret Service. He’d chosen the Black Knights. Chosen them of his own free will because that’s the life he apparently wanted. And so she’d held her tongue. Again.

  When she lifted her
eyes to his now, it took everything she had to stop her hot tears from spilling over her lower lids. Despite the warm, humid air inside the hut, she was cold. Cold through and through. Down to her bones. Down to her soul.

  “I didn’t reject you that day,” she whispered, shivering. “I swear I didn’t. I sent you away because I had to call my father, call the dean, call whoever would listen to me and whoever might have the power to persuade you not to join the Army.”

  His brows pulled together, his frown smoothing away his dimple. “So that’s why they both tried to talk me down? I always wondered why either of them would take an interest in me.”

  “But nothing would dissuade you.” She shook her head. “You were so stubborn. So determined.”

  “I was hungry for retribution,” he admitted. “I wanted to make those cowardly hijos de putas who killed my sister—and all the other evil men in the world—pay for what they’d done.”

  “And have you?” she asked, searching his face, not allowing herself to focus on the fact that she herself fell into the category of one of those cowardly hijos de putas. “Did the battles in Fallujah or Lashkagar or Sangin or all the missions you’ve been on with the Black Knights quench your thirst for vengeance?”

  He tilted his head. It was strange that, at a time like this, she should notice the crystalline drop of water that hung from the lobe of his left ear. It slowly coalesced and fell to the mat and she found herself watching its journey. Then her gaze was riveted to his face when, with narrowed eyes, he asked, “How do you know about those battles? Those missions?”

  And shit on stick. She’d just outed herself. “I—” She had to stop and take a deep breath. There were those smells again, the rain on his skin, the gun black. “I made my father promise to keep tabs on you. I made him promise to tell me when something important happened in your life.”

  For a moment, he didn’t move, simply continued to watch her with searching intensity. Then he jerked his chin in a nod. “Well that explains the look on your face back in the jungle when I asked how you knew about the Black Knights,” he said, his stern expression sliding into one of contemplation. “But why? Why would you do that?”