He hands one over and I fix it around the soldier’s thigh before applying a bandage. There’s not much more I can do for him in the field, so I grab my pack and move to the next soldier. He’s conscious. I patch him up and move to the next, and the next. There are burns, more shrapnel wounds than I can count, fractures, and bullets firing so close I can feel the heat of them tearing past.
I hand out green whistles for pain, doing everything I can even though it doesn’t feel enough.
It’s dark by the time we get the all clear. The medevac arrives and after our patients are secure, I jump on board and the big camouflaged beast lurches into the night sky. The rotor blades are loud, the whoomph, whoomph, whoomph filling the open cabin as it carries us back to base.
Someone hands me a bottle of water. I take it, rasping, “thanks,” before guzzling it down so fast it pours over my face and dribbles down my chin and neck. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. It comes away smeared with blood and dirt. I stare it, turning my palm over, watching as it slowly begins to shake. I look down. I’m covered in blood. The sticky, metallic substance coats my uniform, my body armour, every bit of exposed skin.
Jesus. Holy Mary Mother of God.
My head tips back against the seat behind me, my whole body beginning to shudder. A sob rises, the dam inside me ready to burst. I hold it back by the skin of my teeth.
“You okay?” someone yells.
I don’t open my eyes. I can’t. Not yet. But I give the thumbs-up.
Wood is there when we land, running across the tarmac with a gurney and a face filled with panic. A medical team follows behind, bearing more gurneys. I’ve never been more grateful to see his flapping limbs in all my life.
I stumble out of the Blackhawk, and he grabs both my arms in a vice-like grip, yelling into my face to be heard. “Are you okay?”
I manage a nod. “Fine!” But I choke on the word, and Wood seems to know I’m hanging on by my fingernails because he gives me a task. Something to focus on. I go back on autopilot while I help the injured soldiers out of the chopper, my teeth chattering as shock takes hold.
The wounded are shipped inside the hospital, and I follow behind, pushing through the doors behind Wood. I run through the list of injuries with the on-call doctor, swaying on my feet as I outline the treatment I implemented out in the field.
“Get Private Murphy out of here,” he says to Wood and looks at me. “You did good. Go get a shower and something to eat.”
But I have to go debrief first, so Wood walks me over.
“What the hell happened out there?”
I shake my head. “IED blast on the lead truck. It all happened so fast. I mean, you hear about them happening, but experiencing it …” I trail off, shaking my head again. “We got ambushed and stuck for hours waiting for extraction.” I check my watch. It’s four in the morning. Dawn will break soon on the longest night of my life.
We make our way to the debrief building, garnering plenty of stares along the way, including more than a few double-takes. News of our ambush is all over base. A camera flash comes from out of nowhere, blinding me.
I hold a hand to my eyes.
“Dude, what the fuck,” growls Wood. “You can’t do that.”
It’s one of the male foreign correspondents from Sydney, putting a documentary together for the BBC on the war in Afghanistan. I’ve seen him before, questioning one of the doctors in the hospital. “We won’t post it without permission.” I blink away the dots and find him walking backwards in front of us. “Tell us about the ambush, Murphy.”
“Are you for real?” I shake my head, hastening my stride. He keeps up with us. Wood tries tucking me into his side, protecting me from any more photos, but I’m tired and pissed off, and I know I need to handle this myself. I’m not here to hide while the big, strong men provide protection.
I grab the camera that hangs from the guy’s neck and yank it towards me, dragging him with it as we come to a halt. His nostrils twitch. It’s because I stink of sweat and blood and a whole lot of anger. “You wanna hear about the ambush?” My eyes narrow. “People died.” I try sounding harsh, but my voice cracks on the word. “The end. Go write your fucking story.”
I’m shoving him away when Corporal Marsh steps out of the debrief building. I straighten and give him a nod.
He nods in return and grips my shoulder for a quick moment. “Good job out there last night, Private. You saved a lot of lives,” he says before walking off.
It’s not until after the debriefing, when I’m alone in the shower, the water flowing brown and red as it circles the drain, that it all sinks in.
You saved a lot of lives.
You saved a lot of lives.
You saved a lot of lives.
My back slides down the shower wall as I sink beneath the spray, holding both palms against my head as I hold in the pained, heavy sob that threatens to escape.
I took a life last night. Maybe two. It somehow feels worse that I don’t know the count. I always thought I would be okay with it as long as it was in defence of my own life or others. Survival at its most basic. Yet I feel … exhilaration at being alive. And powerful. And sick. Because it also feels wrong. So utterly, unspeakably wrong.
My stomach heaves and I throw up water and bile until there’s nothing left. When I step out of the shower I’m wrung dry. My eyes are swollen with fatigue, my face cut and bruised, my chest red and purple from the force of the belt holding me in my seat. I stare at my face in the mirror. It looks foreign to my own eyes.
You’re a born fighter, Jamie. Prove it.
I take a deep, shuddering breath and it sends a stabbing pain down my chest.
I’m trying, goddammit. I’m trying.
I push all the emotion back down inside and dress in a fresh uniform. Orders are to eat before getting sleep, so I make my way to the mess hall. It’s five-thirty in the morning and the place is a hive of activity when I step inside—soldiers coming and going, laughing and talking, chef’s cooking, utensils scraping, and boots thumping across the floor. Even the dust particles swirl busily above my head, alive with the scent of combat.
Heads turn as I make my way to the chow line; they track my path as I collect a tray of scrambled eggs, beans, toast and coffee. I keep my head down, hiding my battered face and swollen eyes, but I feel them watching and hear their hushed voices. Members of my unit are already seated and eating breakfast. Instead of glares I get nods and a handful of greetings as I pass them.
Finding the last empty table available, my chair scrapes across the floor as I pull it out and take a seat. I pick up a piece of slightly burnt toast, take a bite, chew, and swallow.
I’ve never felt more alone than I do right now, never longed more for that spot by the fence with Bear, his voice deep and comforting. Instead I’m here—on the front line in one of the world’s most harsh and hostile environments—by choice.
My stomach churns but I force another bite of toast, chew, and swallow. I’m reaching for my coffee when a commotion comes from the building entrance. I turn my head, counting five soldiers, all of them large and bearded, their clothing filthy and rumpled. They look like wild beasts, as if they don’t belong inside mere structures made of timber and plaster.
I force myself to look away and focus on my plate, but I hear them. Their boots are heavy as they clomp between tables and chairs towards the chow line. I take a sip of coffee, but it’s impossible not to stare, my eyes tracking thick muscled limbs and low, rumbling voices. The noise rises, exposing laughter and teasing. They’ve returned from a mission. It’s obvious in their light-hearted banter and plates piled to the ceiling.
I see the first of the group turn with his tray from my peripheral vision. He starts towards my table. My eyes glue themselves to my plate, my body tensing, radiating fuck off vibes like gamma rays. The exact same ones I learnt how to use in high school with great success.
And yet he takes the seat opposite, his tray slapping down adjacent to
mine. I jolt at the sudden burst of noise as he sits with a thump and an audible sigh. Then I feel him looking at me, really looking at me, and I find myself reaching for my necklace. I wasn’t sure I’d wear it again after Bear left, but I was drawn to it constantly, until one day I made the effort to fix the little clasp. It felt good when I put it on. A comfort and reminder of who I was. Little Warrior. And I found myself unable to take it off.
I stop myself from reaching for the silver chain—I’m not supposed to be wearing jewellery. I reach for my mug instead, risking a peek at the soldier opposite me as I lift it to my lips.
His face is covered with dried sweat and dirt, his blond beard thick with it, so it takes me a moment to fully recognise him. When I do, my eyes widen in shock, my voice a croak. “Jake?”
After all this time. Here? Now?
There are more crinkles around his eyes now and a scar on his forehead. My gaze travels down his uniform. It’s worn and muddy, covering wide shoulders and thick biceps. The sleeves are rolled halfway up his forearms, baring tanned skin and scars.
I realise then that he and his team are SAS. Legendary creatures in the army. Deadly, like venomous snakes they hide in the grass, striking before you even know they’re there. They’re also notoriously slow to trust, and yet so fiercely loyal they would sooner lose their own life than betray you.
Jake clears his throat and my gaze shoots up from its inspection, meeting surprised green eyes. “Army girl.” He seems frozen to his chair, staring as if I’m an apparition.
My heart pounds like a jackhammer in my chest, but I try to keep cool. “You uh, come here often?”
His lips quirk beneath the beard, his voice deep and rusty. “That sounds like a line.”
“How can you tell?” I ask, my lips twitching.
He picks up a piece of buttered toast and tears off a huge bite with his perfect teeth. He grins at me before chewing. “My powers of observation are legendary around here.”
“Excuse me.” My lips form an outright smile. I can’t stop it from spreading across my face. “I didn’t realise I was seated in the company of a legend.”
“The important thing is that you know now.” The toast in Jake’s hand pauses halfway to his mouth. He lowers it to his plate, his gaze settling on the red cross attached to my uniform. “You’re a combat medic.” A frown mars his brow, and I know what he’s thinking.
The medic’s job is hardest of all. It’s not just seeing bodies torn apart by IEDs, people in agony covered in burns and open head wounds, it’s being the one who fights against the clock to treat them all. And after we finish a twenty-mile ruck and everyone gets to rest, I’m the one treating sprains and blisters and working twice as hard to earn the respect of the soldiers I work with because I’m a woman on the front line.
My knuckles whiten around the mug in my hand. “And you’re SAS.”
“I see my powers of observation are not exclusive.”
He’s so incredibly witty, while I feel incredibly uncool. Surely he can see how hard my heart is beating beneath my uniform? Heat is already pooling between my legs, remembering what he did to my body, how alive he made it feel.
My eyes drop to his hands. They’re wrapped around his knife and fork. Those hands gripped my naked hips, holding on tight as he thrust his cock inside me in the shower.
I take a shaky breath. This. Is. Not. Good.
The path my mind is travelling down right now is a forbidden one. You can’t get naked with your fellow soldier, even if it is for the good of morale. My morale. Obviously.
I shake my head internally. It might be best if I don’t look at him for a few minutes. It’ll give my body time to chill.
I drop my gaze to my plate.
“Jamie?”
I pick up a fork, feigning interest in my now cold eggs. “Mmm?”
“What happened to your face?”
I shovel in a large bite and grimace, staring at my food as if it’s about to make an escape from my plate. I speak around my mouthful. “IED.”
“Fuck.” His voice is harsh and low. “What about the rest of you? Are you hurt?”
After chewing a little, I swallow the horrid, cold lump of eggs. “Looks pretty much the same as my face.”
He curses a blue streak, and my eyes lift without permission. He’s looking at me, his gaze roaming over my face as if he can’t believe I’m actually here.
Another soldier takes the empty seat beside Jake, slapping down an overloaded breakfast tray. Jake rolls his eyes towards his comrade, a man filthier and more bearded than he is. “So, being a combat medic, you’d know how to treat a pain in the neck, then?”
“Fuck off, Tanner,” the big soldier mutters before shoving an entire piece of bacon in his mouth. He looks like a giant grizzly bear, one who wandered in from the wilds in search of food.
“That depends,” I say to Jake, setting down my fork and picking up my mug.
His brows rise with humour as he chews his toast. “On what?”
“On just how big this pain in your neck is.”
“It’s big. And hairy.” He winks at me, making us co-conspirators in his joke. “Stinks too, like a dead donkey. It’s also getting a little pudgy around the middle.”
The big soldier snorts and lifts the hem of his shirt, baring a thick set of washboard abs. Not a hint of pudge to be seen. “The only part you got right about any of that is that it’s big,” The man nods at me knowingly. “In all the ways that count.”
I set my coffee down before I spill it.
Jake gives him a look. “Don’t you have somewhere to be, Brooks?”
“Nope,” he gives his cheerful reply.
Jake shakes his head at me as if to say can you see what I have to deal with?
“I’d probably suggest some ibuprofen,” I tell him, lips twitching, “but I can see your pain appears rather … persistent.”
“You’re right,” Jake replies. “It’s definitely persistent. I may need something a little stronger.”
The soldier scowls. “I’m a persistent pain now, am I?” His eyes narrow on Jake. “That’s rich, coming from the asshole who makes our ears bleed with his shitty guitar playing skills.”
“You play guitar?”
“I do,” Jake says and cocks a brow. “I can teach you.”
“Oh good lord,” the big soldier beside him mutters before shoving another fork load of bacon in his mouth. He looks between the both of us while our table fills with more SAS soldiers. All of them ridiculously large. I feel like Frodo amongst the Fellowship of the Ring. “You two know each other?”
“Kyle Brooks, this is Jamie,” Jake says, introducing the two of us from across the table. “Jamie Murphy.”
Kyle’s knee jerks into the table and tips his coffee over. Hot liquid unloads all over his tray and half his plate. “Fuck,” he mutters, grabbing for his mug with another curse, his eyes darting to my face and back as he sops up the mess with a paper napkin. “And yes,” Jake continues as Kyle dumps his wet napkin on his tray. “We met a long time ago. Before Jamie joined the army.” His eyes heat on mine. “The night before she left for Kapooka, actually.”
My pulse speeds up and my hand clutches involuntarily at my necklace, the cool metal soothing.
Kyle’s gaze drops to the chain fisted in my hand, and I realise what I’ve done. I let it go, tucking it out of sight. His eyes shoot back to mine and he stares for a long uncomfortable moment, so long my face begins to burn.
I shift in my seat, brows wrinkling in confusion as his eyes slowly harden to stone. “You should probably take that thing off.”
My jaw tightens at his tone and his irritated expression, as if my female presence suddenly offends him. And I realise he’s one of those. One who can’t handle a delicate flower like me on the front line.
“Brooks.” Jake glares, but there’s surprise in his tone. “Don’t be an asshole.”
“No. It’s okay.” I shake my head, embarrassed at exposing my rookie error. I meant t
o put the necklace somewhere safe and forgot. “He’s right. I shouldn’t be wearing it.” We wear camouflage for a reason. The slightest glint of jewellery flashing from behind a crop of trees is all it takes to make me, and everyone around me, a target. I rise from my seat, bringing my tray with me. “I should go.”
“Wait.” Jake rises too, and my eyes traverse his wide shoulders and down. Then I realise I’m ogling and snap my gaze upward. “I’ll walk with you.”
“No!” I blurt out. He’s barely made a dent in his breakfast. “Stay. Eat.” My knuckles whiten on my tray, grateful there’s a table between us. If there wasn’t it was highly possible I might latch on like a monkey and do something wildly inappropriate. “I have to go and … heal some stuff.”
After returning my tray with its empty coffee mug and half-eaten breakfast, I step outside into the early morning light.
Heal some stuff? You suck, Jamie Murphy.
13
JAMIE
The air is fresh, the horizon a palette of pale blue, orange, and deep rose as I walk towards my sleeping quarters. I breathe in deep, hands in my pockets, heart racing as if I just completed a marathon.
Jake is here. Really here.
And I made a fool of myself. I couldn’t drag my eyes off him as if he were iced water and I’d just made a three-day trek through the sandy desert.
So pathetic, snarks the voice in my head.
Oh shut up, I tell it. I’m allowed to look. I never said anything about touching.
“Army girl. Wait up!”
My breath quickens as I stop and turn.
Jake is jogging towards me. I take a moment to appreciate the sight. He’s so blatantly masculine. So hard and roughened. But it suits him. It only makes him hotter. And remembering how that stubbled jaw scraped the insides of my thighs? Imagine it now with the beard covering his handsome face. I almost lick my lips.
He’s not fried chicken, Murphy.
God no. He’s way better than that.
The thought has my lips twitching.
Jake catches up and wraps his arms around me, lifting me. I gasp at the unexpected embrace as he twirls me around once before setting me back down. “I wanted to do that as soon as I realised it was you.” He doesn’t let go immediately. He holds me to him, breathing in the scent of my hair before releasing me.
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