The Asset

by Anna del Mar

  “I could do that,” he said tentatively.

  “I also need you to control your temper,” I said. “You’re moody and you’ve got a short fuse. You snap faster than a rubber band. I don’t like it. It frightens me.”

  “Do you think I enjoy being angry?”

  “It’s hard to be around you when you want to snarl and roar all the time.”

  “Hell.” He slumped. “Is it that bad?”

  I shrugged. I’d gotten through to him, but I’d also hurt his feelings.

  “I could try, I guess.” He massaged his thigh. “I never did have a lot of patience, and these days I’m down to zero. What’s your other condition?”

  “No more questions about me. Past, present or future.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re driving me crazy.”

  He smirked, a shrewd half smile “Do you want to know what I think?”

  “Not really.”

  “You’re an illegal alien. You’re terrified you’re going to get deported.”

  I flashed him my nastiest look.

  “I swear, I won’t tell anyone.”

  “I’m not an illegal alien,” I said. “I was born in the USA and I’m going to die here if I can manage it.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  He frowned. “So if you’re not an illegal alien, what’s your problem?”

  “You’re my problem.”

  “Me?”

  “If this is going to work out, you’ve got to promise me—no more questions. Period.” I went mum as the gunny returned to the bedroom.

  “That was your CO on the line,” she said. “He was pleased to learn that I found you. He suggested we could wipe the slate clean if you agree to fix your mess.”

  “See?” I smiled at Ash. “All is not lost.”

  “So,” the gunny said. “Where were we? Ah, yes, you star-crossed lovers were trying to convince me that the two of you were a pair.”

  “Well, did we?” I asked.

  “Oh, come on.” The gunny looked mighty skeptical. “You’re gutsy, but you’re a lousy liar. How long have you two been dating?”

  “Not long,” I said. “It just happened, very fast.”

  “Is that true, sir?”

  “It was instant, really,” Ash muttered.

  “Gunny,” I said, “this is probably the only conflict-free accommodation for all involved.”

  The woman’s jaw set like a brick. “Are you threatening me?”

  “Me? Gosh, no, no way, never.” I smiled sweetly. “I have nothing but the utmost respect for the very difficult job you do. But imagine what people would say around here if they heard that a wounded war hero had been sent back to the hospital or thrown in the brig because he wanted to heal at home.”

  “What do we have here?” The gunny sneered. “A tiger in disguise?”

  “Wow.” Ash glanced at me with genuine admiration. “She’s good.”

  “Much better than you, sir.” The gunny contemplated her options for a moment. “The role of caregiver is demanding. Frankly, Ms. Stuart, I don’t know if you’ve got the mettle for it.”

  If there was one thing that riled me at this point in my life, it was someone thinking that I was powerless, inept or incompetent.

  “The major arrived here in a sorry state and look at him now,” I said. “The infection is a lot better. I’d say I’ve done the job.”

  “Is that so, sir?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He actually smirked. “She’s got a gift for rehabbing animals.”

  It was my turn to roll my eyes.

  “All wounded marines are heroes in my book,” the gunny said, “but not all of them are agreeable. Major Hunter here might be less agreeable than most.”

  “No kidding,” I said.

  The gunny’s stare narrowed on me. “Are you doing this to get the stipend?”

  “What stipend?”

  “There’s a stipend,” she said, “for civilians who care for service personnel.”

  “No,” I said automatically. “I don’t want any stipend.”

  “By the looks of this place, you could use a few extra bucks.” The gunny pulled up a document on her screen and handed me the tablet, along with a stylus. “It’s not much, but it’s something.”

  “No, thanks.” I refused the tablet. “That won’t be necessary.”

  Ash started. “You might as well take the money.”

  “I don’t want it,” I said firmly. “It’s fine as it is.”

  “If you don’t want me to put in a subsidy request, that’s fine,” the gunny said. “But you still have to fill out the forms in order to register as an official caregiver.”

  My name on a government document. Great. I needed that like I needed a bullet to the brain. But it was too late to backtrack now. I filled out the forms and penned my signature.

  “You’ll also need to complete the online caregiver education program by the end of the month,” she said. “It’s optional for most people, but in this case, I need some serious CYA.”

  “CYA?”

  “Cover your ass,” Ash said. “Standard protocol for bureaucratic shit shifters.”

  “Hilarious.” The gunny didn’t smile. “Major Hunter, sir, consider yourself a very lucky marine. If I were in your boots, I’d suck up to Ms. Stuart here. If she’s willing to vouch for you, then the least you can do is follow her instructions. You could also try to clean up, shave, get a haircut and stop howling at the moon. And if I catch a whiff of insubordination, negligence, or if you miss any of your appointments, it’s back to the hospital. Do you understand, sir?”

  Ash glared. I elbowed him and he muttered an insincere, “Yes, ma’am.”

  The gunny closed her documents and powered down her tablet. The realization of what I’d just done smacked me like a slap to the face.

  “Um, Gunny?” I said. “Before you go, one last question?”

  “Yes?”

  I dodged Ash’s stare. “How long do you think that the major will need an ‘official’ caretaker—I mean caregiver?”

  “Until he’s better, of course. Until he gets his medical release.”

  “And...well...who determines when that is?”

  The gunny removed her glasses and looked me in the eye. “In this case, I do.”

  Shucks.

  Ash’s face turned to granite. “I don’t know about this.”

  “Too late.” The gunny tucked her tablet under her arm and stood up. “Ms. Stuart, good luck to you.”

  The expression on the woman’s face transformed. Gone was the bulldog frown, in was the Cheshire cat smile. I hadn’t bullied Gunny Watkins into doing what I wanted. Quite the contrary, she was the tiger in disguise. She’d maneuvered both Ash and I into doing something that neither one of us would’ve agreed to do under any other circumstance. And now I was stuck with Ash and he was stuck with me.

  Chapter Four

  It was very cold in my room when I woke up. The tiny fireplace in the bedroom had long since been walled off and the cottage’s ancient furnace worked only sporadically. I had to remember to do something about that, although what, I wasn’t sure. The furnace was too old to be repaired and Silas Ford didn’t have a dime to his name to fix up the cottage. And to think it was only the beginning of September.

  I was almost afraid to get out from under the covers. Exhausted from working at the bar until late last night, the notion of staying in bed a little longer tempted me; but my animals would start the breakfast ruckus anytime and I had a lot to do, including following up on Gunny Watkins’s list.

  With a groan, I dragged my butt out of bed, slipped into a pair of yoga pants and piled an extra layer on top of my tank top before I s
huffled to the bathroom. God, I looked worn-out. Dark smudges underscored my eyes. Not that it helped much, but I washed my face, brushed my teeth and combed my shoulder-length bob into a semblance of order. My artificially blackened hair struck a harsh contrast against my skin, making me look sickly, gothic or both. My pale roots were showing.

  I went to stoke the fire in Ash’s room, but when I tiptoed to the door, I found it ajar. I peeked in. A robust fire already burned in the hearth. Ash looked very different from the drifter who’d showed up at my door. Not only had his health and pallor improved, but he’d shaved, transforming his features from shabby chic to contemporary elegant. He had a wide face, a straight nose and a nicely defined mouth. His grandmother had always said he was a handsome kid. She hadn’t been boasting.

  Metallica blared from his earphones. Wearing only a pair of sweats, he did sit-ups on the braided carpet, crisp, fast, picture-perfect sit-ups that might have split me in half or killed me on the spot. His wide shoulders and his abs revealed little need for such rigorous exercise, even though he didn’t look like a bodybuilder or a punk on steroids. His body came across as balanced, flexible and resilient, despite the scars and even after several months in the hospital.

  Dear God. Men like him shouldn’t be allowed to go shirtless. Or maybe they should be required to go shirtless all the time?

  “Good morning,” he said, startling me.

  “Oh, hi,” I said, blushing like a tween.

  Standing there, enduring Ash’s scrutiny as he continued to exercise, my skin flushed, my pulse raced and my belly fluttered. And I don’t mean fluttered as if I had a couple of butterflies in there—no—nothing like that, nothing soft, benign or pure. I mean fluttered, as if a rabble of migratory butterflies numbering in the millions had overtaken my body with lust all the way to the cellular level.

  What the heck was wrong with me?

  I disguised my reaction by petting Neil, who greeted me with a doggy smile and a wagging tail. I avoided Ash’s stare, afraid of partial brain failure. My eyes wandered the room as I tried to focus my attention on anything that wasn’t a physical part of Ashton Hunter, like the IV bag. He’d rigged it on the bedpost so that he could exercise with the needle in his arm.

  “Do you think that’s such a hot idea?” I said.

  “What?” he said, without missing a beat.

  “Exercising so hard when you’re still hooked up to an IV?”

  “I can’t stand the bed anymore,” he said. “I’ve got to move.”

  “You’re supposed to be resting.”

  “Only a few more to go.”

  I tore my eyes away from the human sit-up machine and took in the room. He’d settled in for sure, organizing his belongings with military precision. His backpack and gear hung from the pegs on the wall. A pull-up bar was wedged on the door above my head. A formidable-looking rifle hung on an improvised rack by the window.

  I approached the window cautiously. “What’s this?”

  “That’s my personal MK11 Sniper rifle,” he said, coming to a stop and resting his elbows on his knees. “I had it locked in the truck. Don’t worry, I didn’t steal it from the navy or anything like that. I own it, permit and all.”

  “Do you think the Taliban will attack today?”

  “Not the Taliban.”

  Did he know? Had he figured out my secrets? For a second, I was sure he had. My stomach plummeted to my feet. My blood turned into iced water. Then he smirked.

  “Rent and protection,” he said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Rent and protection.” He pulled himself up from the floor and hopped gracefully on his uninjured foot. “That’s why I’m here. Right? That’s the deal you put on the table.”

  “Protection?”

  “Protection. Mountain lion, remember?” He lifted his arms over his head and stretched like a lion himself.

  “Oh, yeah, sure, I remember.” Why couldn’t I think straight? “Okay, protect away. I’m off to feed the crew.”

  “Wait.” He grabbed the IV, hopped to the window and hung the bag on the curtain rod. He picked up the rifle and, putting his eye to the scope, swept it in a slow arc as he scanned the hills and the woods. “Let me do some recon. Give me a sec.”

  “Fine,” I said, “but if you spot the mountain lion and it’s like, really far away, chasing butterflies or doing something harmless, don’t shoot. If it’s not endangering my animals, I don’t want you to kill it. Promise? It deserves to live too.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Rules of engagement: I shoot only if it threatens you or your animals. Otherwise, the son of a bitch can live forever.”

  “Good.”

  Eye on the scope, he swept the grounds again while I stood over him, keenly aware of his proximity. I breathed in his scent, heated iron, boiling water and something darker and slightly spicy that enticed my senses and discombobulated my body.

  This had to stop. Now.

  “I sure hope that mountain lion stays out of your way,” I said.

  “Sometimes you’ve got to make shitty choices.”

  I had a feeling we weren’t talking about mountain lions anymore. “Must be really hard to make choices like that for a living.”

  “It comes down to some simple facts, really.” The lines between his eyes deepened as his eyes narrowed when he slowed down to scour a distant thicket of trees. “It’s whether you want to make your own decisions or play someone else’s game; whether they’re gonna kill your guys or you’re gonna to kill the ones who want to kill your guys. The rest is just bullshit.”

  I seized the chance to snoop. “So you were a sniper with the Marines?”

  “Sometimes,” he said cryptically.

  “Did you ever regret one of your kills?”

  “That’s a hard-ass question.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  He glanced at me then put his eye back to the scope. “Are you sure about that?”

  The flush on my face confirmed my guilt. “I better go.”

  “Stand by,” he said, scanning the far hills. “For someone who doesn’t like to answer questions, you’ve got a wicked double standard.”

  “Forget I asked.”

  “I could, but I think I won’t.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “There was this one time,” he said, one eye shut, the other squinting against the scope. “It was a while back. We were doing over watches for the Marines. This woman steps out of a mosque tugging this kid by the hand. The kid is crying. I can see them clearly through my scope. My marines are coming around the corner and the woman sets an intercept course. My spotter is like, ‘She’s got a kid,’ but I track her with the scope, and the kid is still crying, and my guys are about to meet her in ninety seconds...”

  I couldn’t even imagine the pressure of a situation like that. “And?”

  “She pulls out an AK-47 from under her burka. I get a glimpse of the bulk beneath her robes and some wires. It’s not an easy shot or a done deal at over two thousand yards. It’s got to be final, you see, or else she’ll have time to pull the wire. My marines, they’re less than ten yards around the corner.”

  I nibbled on my pinkie nail. “What did you do?”

  “So I light her up and take her down. My spotter is like ‘What did you do?’ He never saw the AK-47 or the bulk under the burka, and he’s losing it. He thinks I just killed a woman for no reason at all. That’s the moment when I regret pulling the trigger. Did I really see what I saw? Did I kill an innocent woman?”

  Holy Mother.

  “Lia?” Ash stared at my hand. “You’re going to draw blood if you keep biting your nail.”

  I pulled my finger from my mouth and clasped my hands together. “What happened?”

  “Through
the scope, I see the marine’s advance element checking out the kill,” he said. “Sure enough, she’s wired with enough explosives to take out the entire unit. The news comes over the radio. The kid’s not even hers. She stole him from another woman and she was going to use him as a shield and blow him up too.”

  “God.”

  “That’s what I said too—well—I added a few choice words. My spotter, he went home stateside after that.”

  “And you?”

  “I didn’t like killing that woman and yet I can’t say I regret it. She killed herself with her actions. It was either her or my guys. But I made my decision and I get to live with it.”

  He looked up from his scope. “Are you horrified?”

  “No.”

  “No?” The split eyebrow came up. “Lots of people would find tons of material for moral and ethical commentary in that story.”

  “Not me,” I said. “I wish life was different, but beyond opinions, perspectives and politics, there are some evil people in this world.”

  “Some would call you judgmental and self-righteous,” he pointed out.

  “Sure,” I said. “That’s because they haven’t suffered at the hands of evil, or because they don’t know anyone who has, or because they don’t understand that evil can look cool, nice and even trendy sometimes.”

  He flashed me a curious glance. “But you do.”

  “I do what?”

  “You understand evil quite well,” he said. “Why is that?”

  The memories slammed me all at once. The darkness lunged at me like a hungry beast. I battled it back, rejecting the gloom and suppressing my emotions behind the wall I’d built in my mind. Steady. Breathe. Cope. I was getting better at this. My stomach roiled, but I managed to keep it together.

  “Are you okay?” Ash eyed me with concern. “You’re looking a little shaky on your feet.”

  “Me?” I let out a manufactured titter. “Nah. I’m good. What were we talking about?”

  He frowned. “Evil and why you understand it so well?”

  Crap.

  I cleared my throat. “I guess I’m just a realist. At the end of the day, your guys went home to their parents, wives and kids. That’s what matters to me.”