Badd Ass

by Jasinda Wilder

  "Comfortingly domestic, in a bizarre and unfamiliar sort of way?"

  "Exactly."

  She sat up. "I may look like the picture of confidence and cool, collected, adult rationality, but inside, my heart is going like this..." she patted her chest over her heart in a quick rhythm. "And I'm not at all cool or collected."

  I sat on the bed beside her, pressed her hand over my heart; her hand was warm and smooth and soft. "Feel that?" My heart was hammering like drum. "You're not the only one, babe."

  She gazed up at me, her hand still on my heart. "Why are we being so weird about this? We're just sleeping."

  "I know. I was wondering the same thing. It's stupid for me to be nervous about this, but I am." I laughed. "Put me in the back of an airplane with a backpack and a rifle, about to drop thirty thousand feet and attack a bunch of bad guys who'd love to kill me...and my heart will be steady as a rock. Not so much as a single missed beat. But this? Going to bed with a woman I've already slept with, a woman I like more than anyone I've ever met in my life, and I'm--I'm like a boy about to kiss a girl for the first time."

  She laughed and sank against me, putting her arms around my waist and her cheek to my chest. "How do you always know what to say to reassure me?"

  I could only shrug, my breath stolen by the soft, sweet tenderness of Mara with her arms around me, nuzzling against me, whispering to me. Feeling like she belonged here.

  She just held on for a long moment, and then stood up, taking the makeup remover and toothbrush. "Be right back."

  I snagged my cell out of my jeans pocket and plugged it in, then reclined in the bed, pulling up my text thread with Bast.

  Me: You up?

  Him: Yeah. What's up?

  Me: Random question, and you can't get up in my shit about it. How'd you know you wanted to be with Dru? Like, that it was a real thing with her?

  Him: That hot medic, huh?

  Me: The boys have been talking? Gonna have to beat some ass.

  Him: Nah, I saw you take off with her at the wedding.

  Me: So? How'd you know, with Dru?

  Him: I fucking hate that I'm saying this, but...you just know, man.

  Me: That's a shitty answer.

  Him: I know. I'm sorry. But it's the real answer. If you can't make yourself let her go, then you know. If the idea of her leaving and never coming back makes you crazy, then you know.

  Me: So let's say, hypothetically, that I'm about to sleep, JUST sleep with her, and my heart is pounding and my hands are shaking worse than before my first combat drop?

  Him: Then I'd say you probably know.

  Me: So what do I do?

  Him: How the hell should I know? Don't let her go? Figure it out. If you can earn a bronze star, you can figure out what to do about a woman you're hung up on.

  Me: How'd you hear about that?

  Him: Why, is it a secret?

  Me: I just don't talk about it.

  Him: Marco?

  Me: Yeah.

  Him. Sorry.

  Me: I told Mara about Marco.

  Him. Damn.

  Me: I know.

  Him: You'll figure it out, and if not, we'll be here for you, bro. Now, I'm gonna go back to sleep with my wife.

  Me: Why didn't you tell me I woke you up?

  Him: Because you're my brother and you wouldn't text me at 5:45 in the morning if it wasn't important.

  Me: Well thanks.

  Him: NP. Later.

  Me: Later.

  It was weird texting Bast--he'd been kind of a caveman when it came to technology of all kinds, as in he hadn't had a cell phone, computer, game console, nothing. The first thing Dru had done when she moved in was instruct him in no uncertain terms to "go get a cell phone and learn how to fucking text, you goddamn Luddite." Dru could and did curse like a sailor, and having been a sailor myself, that's saying something impressive.

  I set the phone aside as Mara came in, her hair brushed, face clean of makeup, eyes flicking around, fingers plucking at the hem of the T-shirt. I tossed aside the blankets and held out my arm; Mara hesitated at the foot of the bed for a few moments, and then climbed toward me, slid her feet under the blankets, and nestled her head against my chest. My arm curled around her waist and palmed her thigh, her hand fluttered around before coming rest on my chest, under my chin; we were both stiff for several minutes, until I laughed, reached out to shut off the lamp, and tugged her more fully against me, sliding lower in the bed.

  Gradually, we both relaxed.

  "This is...really nice, actually," I said, feeling sleep finally tug at me.

  "Mmm," she answered, her voice muzzy. "The nicest. I'm glad I thought of it." I heard the sleepy grin in her voice.

  "Yeah, well, you're pretty damn smart."

  "I have all the best ideas."

  "Sure do."

  Silence, then, for a long time. I was on the verge of sleep when I heard her speak again. "Zane?"

  "Hmmm?"

  "I get nightmares a lot, still, and disoriented, sometimes. If I wake up and I'm crazy--"

  I pressed a kiss to the top of her head; I hadn't thought about it, it had just happened automatically. "I do too. If it happens, we'll deal."

  She made a quiet, innocent little humming noise in her throat in response, and then nuzzled closer to me, her whole body curled around and draped over mine, my arms wrapped around her. I could smell her hair, the faint odor of toothpaste, and just...Mara.

  I've never fallen asleep so fast in my life.

  She never woke up with a nightmare.

  I woke up slowly, gradually. Sunlight streamed into the bedroom from my window, seagulls cawed loudly...and a woman snored softly.

  I blinked my eyes open and glanced down--Mara was facing away, body curled into a comma, blond hair tangled and messy and draped over her face, obscuring her features. She was pressed back against me, back to my chest, thighs against mine, ass nestled against my hips.

  Her mouth was partially open, a soft, feminine snore snuffling out every few breaths--and that was, possibly, the most adorable sound I'd ever heard. My heart clenched, squeezed, skipped half a dozen beats, and then started up again, pounding and hammering.

  I didn't deserve this. Not her, not this peace--

  Deep, deep, deep down, that was the fear that plagued me.

  That was the reason my heart was pounding so hard I felt it slamming against my ribs. That was the reason I'd frozen, my hand on her hip, my nose in her hair--I was scared to death I wasn't good enough, that I didn't know how to be a guy she could stay for. Not saying it was easy for Bast and Dru, but neither of them had watched best friends die bloody, violent, pointless deaths. Neither of them had fought off dozens of insurgents alone, standing over the body of their blood brother. Yeah, I got a fucking stupid bronze star--people expected me to flash it around and swagger like a cocky badass because I got a medal. Sweet, great, I'm proud of it; I am, too, in a way. But I'm also ashamed of it. Marco died. He took a bullet, just inches away from me. I see his eyes go glassy in my nightmares, a hole in his forehead. He fucking died, and I went apeshit, and got a stupid piece of bronze for it. Marco is still dead, and his kid is still without his daddy, and that bronze star won't bring him back. Worse yet is that I'm not really supposed to talk about how I got the star, or that have it at all, because we were on a covert mission, and the only reason I got it is because my actions saved the rest of my team and the extract crew. I didn't do what I did for honor or glory or for the extract team or even the rest of the guys...I did it to avenge Marco.

  Deep down, I feel gnawing, acidic guilt and shame: Marco should have lived. He should be on a ranch in Tennessee, playing with his baby boy and riding horses with his wife. Not in a box six feet under the Tennessee soil. I shouldn't be here. It should be me in that box, covered in the Stars and Stripes.

  That's the fear. That's the insecurity. I'm a Navy SEAL. I'm hardcore, I'm tough, I've got a lot of skills, I know I'm good looking, I'm good in bed, and I'm loya
l as hell to my brothers. But way deep down, there's that insecurity, the knowledge that it should have been me that died instead of Marco, but it wasn't and now I'm here, alive, with an amazing, incredible, gorgeous, sweet, sexy, smart woman in my bed, snuggled in my arms, one who understands the invisible scars combat leaves, the survivor's guilt. She gets it. We don't have to talk about it to know we both get it.

  I don't fucking deserve her.

  The thought finally hits, finally moves through me in so many words. I don't deserve happiness with a woman like Mara Quinn. I let my best friend die. I let his wife and son suffer. I lived, and he died, and that's a fucked up amount of unfairness I can't make right. But how do you make yourself feel worthy? No one would understand if I said anything about this. Not even Mara--she gets combat, she gets the nightmares and flashbacks and all that, but survivor's guilt? I don't think she can understand that. I know the term for what I'm going through, but that doesn't help me fix it, that doesn't make it easier for me to go through it, and doesn't give me the tools to address the problem.

  Marco should be alive right now, not me; that's a truth I can't shake. God, how can I ever be good enough for a woman like Mara when I shouldn't even be alive? I should be in a box six feet under. My brothers should be the ones with the folded flag stowed away somewhere, not Annalisa Campo.

  I don't know what to do. I'm here, in my bed with Mara in my arms, and I don't feel good enough. I'm not enough--I wasn't enough to save Marco, to keep my best friend alive, and I'm not enough now for Mara. But...I can't let her go.

  I don't deserve her, but I don't know how to let go.

  She stirred in my arms, stretching and groaning, spine arching. And then she froze, breath catching, her hand sliding along my forearm, as if she was disoriented and confused as to where she was and who she was in bed with.

  "It's me, Mara," I whispered, leaning close, lips to her ear. "You're in bed with me. You're safe."

  She stayed tense and frozen for a moment, and then gradually began to relax, muscles softening, breathing resuming. She wiggled back against me, twisted her head sideways. Her hand slid up to cup the back of my head, pulling me toward her.

  "I've never enjoyed waking up so much before," she murmured. "Normally, I'd have been disoriented for a lot longer."

  "Waking up with you in my bed...I can't think of anything better," I whispered, the guilt and the feelings of inadequacy still powerful inside me, but not enough to erase or minimize the potency of what it feels like to have this woman in my arms.

  She pulled me closer, touched her lips to mine, softly, hesitantly, her eyes open and wide and searching mine from centimeters away. "No? You can't think of even one thing that might better?"

  And then Mara pressed up into the kiss. Claimed my mouth as hers. The kiss was gentility personified, tenderness and silk and heat and drowning sweetness and beauty. I groaned as we kissed, my palm grazing up her thigh and under her shirt to explore the warmth and softness of her flesh. She reached down behind herself and tugged at my shorts, helping me kick them off, leaving me naked under the blankets, her ass grinding against my throbbing, aching, hard-as-iron erection.

  "Mara..." I breathed, palming her breast.

  She just hummed hungrily in response, claimed another kiss, a hotter one, a harder one, a deeper, fiercer kiss. She used one hand to peel her shirt off, and then slipped her hand between our bodies again. She grasped my cock, angled me between her thighs, shifted her hips, and then I was sliding into her silky wet heat, snug and perfect. Bare and beautiful. She whimpered against my lips and rolled her hips, taking me deeper, and her hand clutched at my ass, pulled at me, silently begging me. Whimpered again as I pushed against her, thrusting deeper, and then she was kissing me, and the kiss was something I've never experienced before; a delirious, drowning hypnotism.

  An expanding, all-consuming, white-hot, heart-throbbing glory.

  Enveloped by Mara, subsumed within her.

  Surrounded by her warmth and softness and heat, our movements in perfect unison, exchanging breath and driving our kiss higher and hotter.

  I felt her hand slip between her thighs to circle at herself wildly, her other hand on my ass, clawing deep into the flesh and muscle, pulling at me, encouraging me to move harder and faster and deeper. Her mouth on mine, her lips moving, her tongue seeking. Her soft breast in my hand, her hair spread out in a tangled golden cascade.

  Lost in her.

  Buried in her.

  Kissing, moving, joining.

  I felt her twitch and heard her groan, tasted her whimpers on my lips, felt her clamp down around me as she shattered in my arms, and I let go with her, poured myself into her, kissing her through our mutual concussive luxuriating release. I groaned and writhed and breathed her name and devoured her, sucked her breath into my lungs and reveled in the way she gasped my name a thousand desperate times.

  When we finished, we were gasping in synch and sweating together, still joined.

  I moved to pull out, and she shook her head, holding me in place. "Just...stay with me. Just like this."

  "Okay."

  And so I do.

  We fall back asleep together, joined like that.

  And, like Bast said I would...

  I just...know.

  Chapter 11

  Mara

  The week passed in a blur. Zane and I spent every waking moment together whenever Zane wasn't working. Even when he was behind the bar, more often than not, I'd be parked in the booth closest to the service bar, sipping beer and catching up on all the reading I'd been meaning to do. My TBR list had gotten kind of out of control--my Kindle library was filled with books I'd purchased and had meant to read but had never gotten around to. So, for the six or eight hours that Zane worked behind the bar or on the floor, I caught up on reading and let myself get a little tipsy.

  Xavier would bring me food, whatever he felt like making, and one of Zane's other brothers would scoot into the booth with me now and then and chat me up. I met all of his brothers except Bast, who was still on his honeymoon.

  Brock was sharp-witted and sweet and a great conversationalist, and possibly the most absurdly beautiful human being I'd ever met-- think young Paul Newman--that was Brock, tall and lean and effortlessly smooth, with rich silky brown hair neatly parted and swept to one side, a few strands always in his eyes, a brilliant, dazzling smile and warm brown eyes.

  Baxter was the complete opposite, rough around the edges, blunt, hysterical, vulgar, but still sweet, and sexy in his own way--bulky, brawny, heavy with massive muscles, physically intimidating and yet easy and fun to be around; Bax was nearly as tall as Brock, but half as broad and very muscular, with the same dazzling white grin and brown eyes, although Bax's gaze was always on the move, and glittering with humor. His hair was the same rich brown as Zane's, but Bax kept his clipped close on the sides and long and messy up top, wavy and tangled in a permanent just-fucked look.

  When Bax slipped into the booth the first time, he did so affecting a dramatic limp. I snickered as he grabbed his thigh and pretended to have to haul his leg in after him, as if his entire leg was game.

  "Oh, stop," I said, laughing. "It wasn't that bad of an injury."

  He faked a shocked expression. "I'm barely able to walk, doc. I may never be the same again."

  I rolled my eyes. "Oh, please. It was, what, thirty stitches? You'll be fine."

  "Thirty-one, actually, and I've got orders from the doctor to take it easy for a while." He lifted his chin at me. "I never got a chance to properly thank you, though. You jumped in and saved the day, and possibly my football career. So...thanks."

  I shrugged. "I was a combat medic. It's second nature."

  "Still, thank you."

  I smiled at him. "Of course, Bax." A moment of silence passes between us. "So, for real though, will the injury affect your career?"

  He shrugged. "Probably not. I'm staying in Ketchikan for at least the year, so I'm not sure what I'm going to do about football
long term, anyway. But physically, I'll be okay. It'll take time to heal, but time is one thing I've got, I guess." He stayed to chat with me for a few more minutes and then left, and I was alone in the booth again...at least until the next twins slid in.

  The twins were a force of nature. Like all the Badd brothers, they were tall, standing six-three, but the twins were built more like Brock, Xavier, and Lucian, tall and lean rather than tall and built like Greek gods. Canaan had shoulder length hair, the same rich brown as all the brothers. When he was working, Canaan kept his hair in a ponytail, but the rest of the time he left it down and loose, usually hanging in his eyes and half-obscuring his features. Corin was edgy, more hipster-punk-rock star, he wore his hair with buzzed sides and the long, wavy top dyed neon blue at the tips. Canaan wore a beard, which made him look a little older, while Corin was clean-shaven. They both had the same vivid brown Badd eyes, and had a tendency to finish each other's sentences and speak in unison.

  They dressed like rock stars, too, even while working, with tight, low-slung jeans stuffed into half-unlaced combat boots and obscure band concert T-shirts, full sleeve tattoos, lots of heavy silver rings, pierced ears, and Canaan had a ring through the center of his lower lip while Corin had a septum piercing and gauged earlobes.

  They never showed up alone, always together, and they were fiercely energetic, voluble, prone to rapid-fire, back-and-forth spats of wildly eclectic conversation. They'd bicker over best 70s-era bassists, and weird indie art movies and then get into an argument over Britney versus Madonna versus Beyonce, all within the space of fifteen minutes, and you just had to kind of try to keep up.

  Lucian was the hardest to read and, for me, the most impossible to understand. Taciturn would be a generous term, and that's putting it lightly. He spent as much time in my booth that week as the rest of the brothers, but he was silent for the most part, content to sip beer and share cheesy french fries and read his book while I read mine. I once got him to list his five favorite books: The Foundation Trilogy by Isaac Asimov--he counted that as a single favorite rather than three books; A Brief History of Time by Stephen Hawking, Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury; A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway; and Jubal Sackett by Louis L'Amour. I'd asked him what his favorite book was, and he'd stared over my shoulder in thought for a solid five minutes, and then listed those books in that order, with no explanation, and then had gone back to reading an Anne Rice novel.