Depends On Who's Asking (SWAT Generation 2.0 Book 12)

by Lani Lynn Vale

  With three weeks of people bringing food to me, it would be kind of nice that they brought me stuff that wasn’t good. That way I could say that I literally had no choice.

  “Hopefully their food selection off the room service menu is better,” he grumbled, actually looking kind of pissed.

  I snatched up the snack cakes, Little Debbie Christmas Trees, my absolute favorite, and walked toward where he had his arms crossed over his chest while looking out over the lake.

  A lake that I still had no idea where it’d come from.

  “Do you think that the lake has always been there?” I asked curiously. “Because seriously, I’ve never seen it before. And I think that I would notice a lake in the middle of my town.”

  I turned and studied the lake.

  • • •

  SAINT

  “Looks new,” I said. “Do you see all that red dirt around the edges? They added the grass and all, but the red dirt around the edges of the water indicates that it’s new and not an established pond.”

  “Hmmm,” she said. “I guess I didn’t notice that. Red dirt is just so normal here that it makes sense for it to be there.”

  I leaned my shoulder up against the doorframe, then reached forward to open the balcony door.

  As the door opened, I looked left and right to see what was on either side of me out of habit before stepping fully out.

  “That’s such a cop thing to do,” she teased as she came out onto the balcony with me.

  “Maybe,” I admitted. “But I’ve been doing it for much longer than that.”

  She frowned and looked up at me.

  “You have?” she asked. “Were you in the military?”

  “I was,” I admitted. “But even before that.”

  I then cursed myself inwardly for saying that, because I knew the next question out of her mouth before she’d even put voice to it.

  “Now I sense a story,” she said as she studied me carefully. “Why’s that?”

  I grinned at her. “I’m not ready to talk about it.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Maybe over the next three weeks you’ll enlighten me,” she murmured as she walked to the Adirondack chair that was farthest away from the open door and took a seat. “Now, tell me about what branch of the military you were in.”

  Her order in the form of a question made me inwardly amused.

  Outwardly, I appeared as if I was blasé on the matter.

  “Marines,” I said. “For eight years before I moved to Kilgore.”

  She eyed me. “Where did you live before Kilgore and the Marines? Or is that off-limits, too?”

  Her teasing amused me.

  I chose to answer her because I liked that she cared enough to ask.

  Being a Marine was a big part of my life. It was what shaped me into the man I was today.

  That, and a really fucked-up childhood.

  “I was born in Arkansas,” I answered. “We moved to California a little after I turned one, then Arizona. After that, we moved back to Arkansas, then Washington, DC.”

  “Wow,” she said. “You’ve lived a little bit everywhere.”

  “Everywhere but the east coast,” I agreed. “And I went into the Marines at the age of eighteen. I was in there for eight years before I got out. Got my peace officer’s license and bounced around a few areas as I tried to find where I wanted to be.”

  “And Kilgore?” she questioned. “What’s so good about it?”

  “Kilgore was actually a temporary thing,” I said. “A stop but not an ending. But I found once I moved here that I really liked the location. The pace, I guess you would say. It’s slow, not too exciting, and everyone here is honestly kind of laid-back. Not too intense. Something that I really enjoy.”

  “So you’ve made it your home,” she said. “You’re going to stay here a while?”

  I crossed my left leg over my right knee and leaned farther back in the chair as I crossed my arms over my chest and thought about her question.

  “If you’d have asked me that a year ago before I got on the SWAT team, I would’ve had a different answer for you,” I admitted. “But then I got onto the SWAT team, found a place for myself, and I think I just might stay a while.”

  I was kind of an outsider, though. A lot of the men had known each other growing up, if even from a distance. And others had found a way to wiggle into the tight-knit group.

  Me, on the other hand? I was just plain introverted.

  I went to mandatory meetings and parties.

  I talked to the boys when they addressed me.

  But mostly, I was a loner and enjoyed my own company. When I was bothered, I found myself more annoyed than accepting, and even if the guys on the SWAT team were nice, I still had to force myself to join in on their fun at times.

  That had a lot to do with how I grew up, though.

  When I was growing up, every single person that spoke to me, be it man, woman or child, always, and I do mean always, had an ulterior motive. Make friends with him, joke around with the kid. His father’s the president. It would be good to have an in with me, to get closer to the president.

  I couldn’t tell you how many women came on to me when I was eighteen, too. Just because they knew that if they ended up ‘catching’ me, things would go great for them because of who my dad was.

  Honestly, I hadn’t trusted a single woman ever.

  Except for when it came to the particular girl that was now sitting in her seat facing me.

  She flipped her hair back over her shoulder and stared at me with her light blue eyes. Light blue eyes that had the power to make me want to gaze into them and sing sonnets.

  Not that I knew sonnets.

  But for Carolina? I might just be willing to learn how.

  CHAPTER 4

  Not slim. Kinda shady.

  -T-shirt

  CAROLINA

  Quarantine- Hour Eight

  We sat outside and talked for what felt like hours, but only ended up being about forty-five minutes.

  But it was the best forty-five minutes that I’d had in a very long time.

  I’d done a lot of studying of Saint Nicholson for the last year.

  At every single party that I’d attended, I’d watched him, studying him like a mouse would a giant predatory cat.

  Saint had intrigued me since the moment I’d first set eyes on him that night a year ago when someone had tried to pull me over. Someone that had impersonated a police officer. When I’d gotten suspicious, I’d called my dad who’d immediately called it in.

  That night I’d seen him after the almost-shooting?

  I’d been in awe of him.

  Saint was incredibly tall—way taller than my five-foot-three-inch frame—and towered over me.

  That night, he’d been dripping blood from his arm, I’d done nothing but stare at those muscular forearms surrounding the cut—trying valiantly not to stare at the way his skin splayed open and dripped blood—and had noted how strong he looked. How capable. How yummy he was with that soft, creamy looking skin with bits and pieces of tattoos peeking out around his sleeves and collar. Until the slice, that was.

  My eyes had drifted from his sexy forearm to his bulging bicep.

  That night he’d been decked out in all black. Black tactical pants, black boots that came over the top of those pants. A black t-shirt with a black Kevlar vest holding various tools and weapons hanging from it. The sleeve with the wound had been cut off by someone—to evaluate the wound, I was guessing.

  But I remember, the most noticeable thing of all, had been the thigh holster on his leg.

  It’d been black, too, of course.

  But the thigh holster had gone around his leg up high, right under the crease of his hip, and had velcroed together there causing the fabric around his crotch to bunch up.

  It’d also velcroed lower around his thigh, about midway to his knee.

  But there’d been something about it that was so erotic. The way that his package looked bu
lging and inviting.

  I’d stared at it for a solid minute before my dad had said something to distract me.

  That day I hadn’t seen his eyes, the color of his hair, or the expression on his face.

  It’d been too dark.

  But I’d made it a point since I’d hastily met him to stalk him, and I’d learned a few things.

  Saint Nicholson didn’t come to many parties unless he was forced to.

  Saint Nicholson had emerald green eyes, brown curly hair, and wore glasses upon occasion when either he was tired or it was a windy day.

  Like right now.

  With him about to go to bed, I’d watched him take his contacts out over by the minibar and put them into a contact container he’d gotten in the toiletries kit.

  Now, he had on his own glasses. The ones that I’d seen him wear a total of eight times since I’d met him a year ago.

  And oh, boy.

  What those glasses did to me.

  Then there were those curls.

  He’d just come out of the shower.

  I’d admit that I did take a glance over the top of the curtain a time or two, and I’d been enraptured with what I could see.

  The very top of his shoulders, starting at the tips of his muscular traps.

  But I’d watched as he’d gotten into the shower.

  The striptease show of him stripping out of his clothes?

  Not seeing was even worse than actually seeing.

  My imagination had gone absolutely wild.

  And when he’d stepped into the clear shower stall and had dipped his head to let the water wet his hair? I’d moaned when those curls that I’d always wanted to sink my fingers into disappeared.

  But now? They were back.

  His hair was slightly damp, but the curls were there, coming back with a vengeance.

  “Your turn,” he said as he made his way over to the box that we’d deemed as his for the clothes that someone had brought.

  They really should’ve spent a little more time with furniture in here before they’d just tossed us in here. I guess that I should be happy that they’d given us a bed and a table.

  He had a towel wrapped around his hips, and one over his shoulders. There wasn’t much skin showing, but dammit all to hell, there was enough.

  “Cool,” I said, trying to keep my eyes averted.

  I made my way to the bathroom and didn’t bother closing the door.

  There A, wasn’t one. And B, I didn’t think it would help seeing as half the wall was missing and he was able to see over if he really wanted to.

  I looked mournfully at the clothes that I was given earlier after our rigorous decontamination, then thought about all the clothes that were in my box that still had fresh tags.

  Fresh tags meant that they hadn’t been washed. And them not being washed meant that they’d be itchy.

  And I didn’t do itchy.

  Not at all.

  I had a tactile/sensory problem. One that meant that I didn’t do tags. I didn’t do itchy shirts. I didn’t do pants that were anything but soft.

  Oh, and don’t even get me started on socks.

  I had to buy the expensive ones from Bomba because those were the only ones that stayed where they were put, didn’t bother me seam-wise over the toe box, and were soft as a baby’s ass.

  Mourning my socks, then deciding that was stupid since I wouldn’t technically be needing socks over the next three weeks, I turned on the shower and tried not to think about the naked man that was in it minutes before me.

  I quickly realized that in my haste to get in the shower I’d forgotten the shampoo and conditioner, as well as the soap on the counter outside the shower.

  Looking at the white sheet, I decided to go ahead and get out and nab it.

  Which I did.

  I would’ve gotten back in, too, but the moment that I turned, my feet went out from under me and all of a sudden I was staring up at the ceiling.

  What a nice ceiling it was, too.

  “Are you okay?” Saint’s deep voice said from somewhere on the other side of the sheet.

  I swallowed my pride and stood up, tossing the bottles and soap into the shower.

  “I forgot the shampoo and stuff that your butler got me,” I said. “And I think that the floor is really hard.”

  There was a long moment of silence that stretched out for too long, so I got into the shower and ducked back under the spray.

  I was halfway through my shower, conditioner now sitting in my hair, when I heard, “I put a towel down beside the shower. Don’t worry, I didn’t look. And I don’t have a butler.”

  I licked my lips and opened my eyes to see that there was, indeed, a towel down.

  And I hadn’t seen nor heard him come into the room with me.

  But the thought of him looking at me while I was in here made shivers of desire ratchet through me.

  However, my obvious inattention to what I was doing meant that I wasn’t paying attention to where the conditioner was in my hair. Meaning, it slid down my forehead and straight into my eye, burning the holy living hell out of it seconds later.

  “Ahhh!” I cried, hastily rinsing off my eye.

  “What?” I heard him call again over the dull roar of the shower.

  “I got conditioner in my eye,” I whined.

  There was another long pause then, “I can’t really help with that. I’m sorry.”

  Amused by his words, I finished rinsing out my eye, then decided that tomorrow I was going to have to ask his butler or the CDC fairy for some razors.

  As I stepped out, I was smiling when I saw the rack of towels.

  Grabbing one off the bar, I wrapped it around myself and turned to survey the wall where the mirror should be.

  “There’s no mirror,” I grumbled.

  “That’s why I took my contacts out over by the minibar,” came his reply.

  I looked around at the walls and decided that I would have to wait until I was dressed to do anything else.

  Not that I could do anything else.

  I had no hairdryer. No hair products. No moisturizing cream.

  Hell, I didn’t even have deodorant.

  Though, they’d sent Saint enough for way more than a month.

  I’d have to use his.

  “I forgot my clothes,” I found myself saying. “Not that I really want to put them on.”

  “Why don’t you want to put them on?” he questioned.

  I thought about not explaining, but then decided, fuck it.

  I had no shame.

  “I don’t do uncomfortable,” I admitted. “If it’s not soft and comfy, I’m not wearing it. And the thought of having to put on those unwashed clothes makes me want to hyperventilate.”

  I came out of the bathroom then to see him leaned back on the bed, his head and upper body propped up by all of the massive pillows that decorated the bed.

  He was also wearing a pair of sweatpants and nothing else.

  And what I saw on his chest nearly brought me down to my knees.

  He had chest hair.

  Quite a bit of it, actually.

  Not like Sasquatch amount chest hair, but a generous smattering amount that totally worked for him. I’d never thought of myself being a chest hair girl before, but I realized for Saint, I just might become one.

  “You can wear one of my shirts,” he suggested. “At least to sleep in. I tried that long-sleeved one on while you were in the shower, and it’s actually not half bad.”

  I licked my lips, because that was actually a really good idea.

  Spotting the long-sleeved shirt he’d spoken about, I picked it up and threw it over my shoulder.

  Then I went to my box and started to go through it for some underwear.

  Grabbing the first pair I saw, I scrunched them up in my hand and walked back to the bathroom where I quickly dressed behind the sheet.

  All the while, I felt completely exposed.

  That, and I felt like his eyes
were on me.

  But I still didn’t think he could see anything.

  Maybe he was just looking?

  I didn’t know.

  But by the time I was done and walking back out of the ‘bathroom’ it was with my cheeks so hot that they felt like they were on fire.

  And only once I’d turned the light out and headed toward the bed did I realize that I was going to have to sleep next to him all night.

  Logically, I’d known that we were going to have to.

  Also, logically, I knew that likely he didn’t have any feelings for me whatsoever. Not like I had for him.

  Which meant that sleeping next to him should be doable.

  It was a big bed. We wouldn’t have any problems at all.

  At least, that was what I kept telling myself.

  Moving to where I knew the bed to be since all the lights were out, I held my hands out in front of me, stopping once I felt the upright post of the bed.

  I shifted my hands lower and started to feel the bed so that I could climb into it.

  When I found the corner of the mattress, I hiked my knee up and planted it into the soft sheets and started to climb up, only to realize once I was hovering half on, half off, that the side I was getting into was where Saint was already laying.

  Shit!

  “Move over,” I urged, not wanting to move for fear that I’d fall flat on top of him.

  “No,” came his rumbled reply.

  I growled. “Why not?”

  “Door’s on this side,” he said, sounding gruff. “Sorry, honey, but I’ll be sleeping on this side. Even if you have to walk farther to the bathroom. Just climb over.”

  His ‘just climb over’ was punctuated with him reaching down and wrapping his arm around my waist, dragging me up his body, and then easily rolling me over onto the unoccupied part of the bed.

  I sat there, breathlessly, as I tried to process what just happened.

  For a single instant in time, I’d been lying on top of him.

  I also could’ve sworn that I’d felt something distinctly erect while I’d been there.

  Biting my lip and feeling what felt like a band of heat along my back where his arm had been for a few short seconds, I slowly crawled under the covers and tried to settle.