Blue_SEAL Team Alpha Page 7

  He jerked awake, grabbing her wrist faster than she expected a man waking up would be able to. He blinked at her, his face a snarling mass as if he had to defend himself.

  “You were having a nightmare. Let go of me,” she demanded, her voice low, yanking at her wrist, but he easily held on. Then he abruptly let her go.

  “Leave me the hell alone,” he growled, then turned his body toward the window and promptly gave her the cold shoulder.

  Jeez, rude. She had half a mind to tell him off right here and now, but she was too damn tired. The accident with the hose, the travel time, and her sorrow at the deaths of fellow sailors had taken their toll. She was asleep several minutes after she closed her eyes.

  The next thing she knew, she was being jostled out of the gray reaches of sleep as the surly jerk at the window was moving past her. But it was his deep voice that brought her fully awake. He mumbled something, and she was sure it wasn’t “sorry.”

  Her ire rising a bit, she waited until he was in the aisle and then started to gather her own belongings. Something knocked her bent head, and she gritted her teeth as she looked up and saw him work his way down the aisle.

  “Of all the nerve. So damn rude,” she whispered. Then she spied the duffel. He served? Warrior? Hmm, that made her pause. His back was really tense, and so were those broad shoulders. She reached up into the overhead bin and grabbed her own duffel. She navigated the narrow aisle, still muttering under her breath, seething.

  Things didn’t get any better with him. He cut her off at the baggage claim, so she had to wait for one more revolution around the conveyor. She marched out of the area, looking for him, but he was walking briskly down the corridor. As she emerged from the terminal, he was heading toward a cab.

  She increased her pace and caught him by the arm. He whirled, and she said,” You know, common courtesy goes a long way. Get a clue, pal!”

  He stepped back, snatching his hand from her tight grip. In one smooth movement, he removed the sunglasses, folding one of the bows and tucking it in the V of his shirt. Charlie’s heart nearly stalled out. There was something about the way he looked in the deepest part of his eyes that made her insides knot up. There was pain, sadness, and a weary bitterness that sat on him like a shield.

  Warrior eyes.

  Suddenly, the part of herself that was raw and damaged, the part of herself that had suddenly demanded to be dealt with, stirred. No! She pushed back at it. She might not have actually dealt with everything, but she had a delicate balance that she maintained so she could get through each and every day. She didn’t need some rude, but undeniably handsome stranger stirring that all up.

  Reaching up, he pushed off the hoodie. Feeling almost disoriented, her hands tight on her bags, she was momentarily distracted by the scent of him. Clean, delicious, and warm.

  His eyes, thickly lashed and startlingly blue, slammed into her. There was no other way to describe the impact of all that pent-up energy. Charlie closed her eyes, trying to quell the sudden frenzy in her chest. Taking a fortifying breath, she glared at him.

  He wet his lips, and her eyes were drawn there. She took a breath. What a seductive mouth with his full lips, both bottom and top, the upper one forming a tantalizing bow. His face was lean in a way that told her he was recovering from something, but his arms and wide chest held plenty of muscle. He had the kind of looks that carried off that buzz cut with the hint of a widow’s peak in the center of his hairline. There were circles under his eyes, and it was clear from his ashen face and pinched look, he was heavily hung over.

  He shook off whatever had run through him, and it was as if he pulled a cloak around himself. He took a breath, then said, “Woman up, babe.” A mocking smirk was on his face. “The world is filled with assholes,” he said low and gruff. It brought her out of her fanciful thoughts.

  Woman up? Babe? She stiffened as he turned away and headed for the open door of the cab. Without thinking about what she was doing, she darted in front of him and slid neatly inside. Before the attendant closed the door, she said, “Of all the ways to tell someone to fuck off, fuck off is still my fave. Have a great day.”

  The door slammed, and she watched his face. A slight smile curved his mouth, the blue of his eyes intensifying as he lost a little bit of that pinched look.

  He’s damaged…like you.

  Could he be the key?

  The thought came to her unbidden from a certainty that was as solid as the ground beneath her feet.

  Suddenly she wanted to flee, and she wanted to tie him up.

  There was something about him that would look so good bound. Maybe it was that flexing muscle or the shape of his body or his overbearing alpha attitude, under her direction, switching to submissive, because he had the courage and the…confidence born out of trust. Maybe it was because there was something killing him from the inside out. Something that she could help to heal by getting closer to him in the space her bondage work allowed her to create. Not that she had ever found it while trussed up in the ropes. She had thought that tying up a man would give her the release she could never seem to reach. She hadn’t known why. She expected it would happen, but instead she only experienced frustrating results.

  Shibari meant “to tie” in Japanese. It was considered an art form and at its core was an art of erotic spirituality. The rigging formed a safe space for a person to let go of everything. The shapes of the ropes created geometric patterns and silhouettes that contrasted against the natural curve of the body.

  She had become a master because she was looking for something that she hadn’t found.

  Experiencing a strange flutter at that unexpected thought, Charlie clenched and unclenched her hands, recognizing the flutter as nothing more than her female reaction to him.

  He was truly, forcefully beautiful, in a raw, untamed and brooding manner, in a way that Charlie had never before known a man could be, outside of art and fiction. Descriptors simply didn’t do him justice. He was like a ruined angel crowned with golden brown hair and eyes the color of the ocean.

  The whole encounter left her breathless. As those shadows chased across his face, she had found there was a slim, intense sympathy for him. Maybe he wasn’t an asshole; maybe he was one of the warriors who had come back shattered. All she could think was that she wanted to know if his pain was like hers, if he was feeling more like a sculpture with cracked pieces, or if he had taken everything he was and stuffed it down so deep, he wasn’t sure of himself anymore.

  As the cab pulled away from the curb, she turned to look back at him.

  Damn…her craving intensified.

  She so needed to rope him.

  * * *

  Gulf of Aden Somewhere near the coast of Somalia

  Scarecrow sat in the stern of the stealth assault craft along with his teammates and Robin “Hood” Ballentine, the shaggy-haired navy corpsman filling in for Blue from Team Seven. His boyish face was angular, but there was nothing except dangerous experience in his eyes. They all knew Hood and had worked with him on the recent mission.

  He was still raw from seeing Blue’s most private and peaceful room trashed like that, as if he’d seen into his troubled soul. Scarecrow’s behavior sat on him like lead—ashamed lead. He had been angry at what had been done to Blue, so what had he done? He’d taken it out on the man. Instead of supporting him, instead of giving him a shoulder to lean on, Scarecrow had socked him in the jaw. He sighed, and his gut twisted up.

  Now Blue had been banished and left alone to handle something so difficult. Scarecrow was genuinely worried for him. They were brothers, and he would never forget that fact again.

  He saw the stolen battleship off in the distance. They would be inserting into the ocean and swimming to it, disarming the pirates and taking the ship.

  Ruckus was directing the mission, and Cowboy was taking point on this one. Everything was going smoothly until they climbed the ladder to the destroyer. As Hollywood hit the deck, there was a shout from their right.
They piled on up, moving fast, but gunfire erupted, and all hell broke loose.

  So much for the freaking plan. It looked like it was going to be a firefight. Knowing Kid, he would want an advantage of height. Scarecrow saw him move at a crawl to a ladder and take out the guy on top with a roll and expertly placed shot. Then he was scampering up that ladder and going prone on top.

  Scarecrow kept his focus on the enemy he was assaulting and one eye on Kid. There was something…off about the whole damn thing. Definitely not one of their smoothest ops. Then Kid, in his wisdom, decided to move, and someone stepped out of the shadows. Using the butt end of his weapon, he cracked Kid in the skull. Kid went down hard, and the bastard rolled him off the upper deck toward the churning sea below with his boot. For a heart-stopping minute, he hung suspended, then he disappeared over the side.

  Wicked took the guy out as the pirates pressed their attack and bullets flew everywhere.

  Several guys had seen what had happened, their reactions clear. Without hesitation, Scarecrow set his weapon down. “Crow!” Wicked yelled, but there was no way Scarecrow could do anything else. There was no way he was letting Kid die.

  Cowboy growled for a report through the comm, then Scarecrow vaulted the rail as someone relayed that Kid was overboard. He barely had time to adjust to the rapid fall, not unlike jumping from a plane, but with a much shorter duration. He hit the water feet first and immediately clawed for the surface. He pushed back the frantic panic that tore at him. Where was he?

  So many things went through his head, not the least of all his family. If something happened to him, his mom and dad… He thought of that connection, far away…so far away, when he wasn’t this man soaked to the skin, his brothers struggling with their own lives. Back in Red River Parish, he was just Arlo Porter, but here he was a highly trained operative. His parents would be on their own, and that crushed his heart. They needed him, but his country was also counting on him. Paige Wilder was counting on him. Kid was counting on him and that team still up on the decks, taking the warship was counting on him.

  This was what he did, what he was made to do.

  It was dark, and Kid was dressed in black, but where SEALs usually cursed the moonlight, Scarecrow was thankful and searched the waves for his teammate. Finally, he spotted him and swam strongly to him. Kid was face down, and Scarecrow brought him upright, keeping him that way while he treaded water.

  “Scarecrow! Kid! Report!”

  “I’ve got him. He’s out but breathing. We need immediate pickup.”

  Hours later, with the pirates subdued and the ship now in SEAL possession, Kid huddled under a blanket in his chair, a bruise on his temple, his usual banter silent. No one spoke. The op could have gone so wrong.

  They were in the ready room aboard the USS Joshua Stanton, and when Ruckus entered the room, everyone sat up straighter.

  “What the hell went on out there?” he shouted, his usual composure gone. It wasn’t lost on Scarecrow that it was fear masked as anger that drove him. He yelled for a long time, and the team took it on the chin, every man feeling not only the bad op, but the absence of Blue.

  They flew home, weary, feeling like whipped dogs. There was again no chatter, no roughhousing, no togetherness as each of them felt that isolation to their bones.

  When they touched down, his teammates met up with their significant others, but Scarecrow only felt that emptiness when he looked around. Paige held her husband for a long, long time, and Scarecrow couldn’t look away as he blinked rapidly to make these feelings go away.

  Big, bad SEALs didn’t get choked up over a tough, disaster of a mission.

  Then she let Kid go, and she searched the tarmac. When she spotted Scarecrow, she started for him. By the time she got to him, she was running, and she slammed into him, her arms going around his neck. With a soft kiss to his cheek, she whispered, “Thank you, Arlo.”

  Ah, hell, why did she have to call him Arlo?

  Maybe someday there would be a woman like Dana Cooper, Paige Wilder, Kia McGraw or Alyssa St. James in his future. Maybe he could find one of the strong ones, too.

  She let him go and went back to Kid, and they left arm in arm.

  Everything was off, like they were all out of step. It wasn’t too much of a stretch to realize it was because Blue wasn’t with them.

  Their brotherhood had been tested, and Scarecrow couldn’t shake the feeling that they had failed.

  * * *

  Naval Diving and Salvage Training Center Panama City, Florida

  Charlie decided to live in Millville, a community that hugged Watson Bayou and was east of Downtown, named for the paper manufacturing and shipbuilding center that had flourished for decades. Situated by Watson Bayou Waterfront Park and the 3rd Street retail, dining, and entertainment district, it gave Charlie a beautiful place to do her month-long class and enjoy herself. Her condo was located at Watson’s Marina where boats rolled on their moors and the breathtaking view of St. Andrews Bay was just a glance away.

  She never liked to be in the barracks. There were few women, and the emptiness kept her awake. As soon as she unpacked and settled her belongings into the dresser, she took a cab to the car rental place and obtained a vehicle.

  She wanted to see some of the area, maybe take day trips when she wasn’t training, and go to the beach anytime she could manage it. She especially wanted to go to the beach.

  Money had never been an issue. Her family…she paused with a catch at her heart…had been wealthy. But now she was alone with all of it.

  The navy was her future now. It had been some time since she’d been a green recruit and attended her first diving class. Her instructor had been strict, no nonsense and graduated her at the top of the class with her pick of assignments.

  It hadn’t really mattered to her back then. She just wanted to challenge the ocean, hit back at the way she’d been wounded, show it she wasn’t afraid.

  But as a more seasoned diver, the ocean, though still dangerous, posed a lesser threat than it had in the past.

  She was glad she had arrived two weeks early. It gave her a chance to get settled and check into “X” Division where she get a head start, maintain her physical training every morning and acclimate to the humidity of Panama City. Plus, she could help out where she might be needed. NDSTC’s large training facilities supported modern classroom for academic programs, lab areas for “hands-on” equipment training, a large pool for physical training and basic scuba skills and three indoor training tanks. There were also three PVA’s or Pressure Vessel Assemblies, sophisticated multi-lock chambers for deep qualification diving.

  After reporting to the school the next morning, her assignment was to the dive locker and was located at the swimming pool. She inventoried all the scuba gear and tools. She saw the students in training, filled the scuba bottles with air, and heard students getting chewed out by instructors.

  She spent the rest of her day food shopping, enjoying a meal at one of the quaint cafés while enjoying the sunset, then some hardcore reading of her manual and turning in early.

  She was raring to go in the morning and got up before the alarm and had a light breakfast. When she hit the school, the energy of the place infused her.

  It was invigorating to be part of this community with the love for their job, enthusiasm in sharing their knowledge and producing the best divers in the world. She was proud to serve alongside them.

  She pushed PT as hard as she could. She wasn’t going to be evaluated until she officially started school, so this gave her an opportunity to really test herself.

  She was working at filling a line of scuba tanks when she heard, “I need some gear.”

  The deepness of his voice filled her up as if he were the one who had his hand on the air tank. She froze, then pivoted. Sure enough, it was the jerk from the plane. He didn’t look much better than he had the two days before. It was also clear he still had his “fuck the world” attitude.

  She turned to find him sta
nding there in nothing but swim trunks.

  Slammed hard by all that smooth, curving muscle, she stared for a moment.

  Man, she hadn’t realized how tall he was, how big. Wide shoulders tapered down to a lean waist. His hands were long and well-shaped, and there was defense in his almost deceptively casual stance, a stance that was nothing but a ruse. His lethal vibe and too careless demeanor shot home to her he had no regard for danger and now, even in this benign place, he was locked and loaded for it.

  Women were passing, sliding appreciative glances toward him. But she saw something more than beauty, saw the unhappiness in him, saw that his set expression was a mask.

  He was no longer looking at her. His lashes were lowered, his face as silent and withdrawn as carved marble. Gradually his breathing changed, grew deeper, slower, something she could feel but not hear. As it altered, he altered: he still seemed powerful and solid, and yet the aesthetic purity of his features gave him an unreal aspect, like something from an artist’s dream of absolute and flawless force. In the burst of sudden sunlight from the windows, his hair was lit with gold, red, and a thousand subtler tints.

  He shifted, his pain even more clear to her as if she were feeling what he felt.

  “Come on, tadpole. You had no problem telling me off when you stole my cab at the airport. Use your words.”

  She frowned. “I didn’t steal your cab. I commandeered it because you were being just as unpleasant as you are now. Shocker.”

  “Commandeered?” He chuckled and looked away as if it had totally caught him off guard. The momentary break in his brooding face, transformed it for a split second, and she found she wanted more of those type of expressions. “Maybe I should call you admiral instead of tadpole?” His expression did a three-sixty back to brooding, and he glanced back at the pool as if he needed to be somewhere, his profile taut.

  “Whatever you like. What can I get you?”