Devon glanced over at Shane as he guided the woman to the bar, his hand resting lightly at the small of her back. They leaned against the counter and stood intimately close together while they ordered.
She was about to turn away when she saw Shane dart his eyes toward Matt, a look of frustration tightening his lips.
Ah. Devon hid a smile under the guise of a huge yawn. The woman, the dancing, it was all for show. Shane was trying his damndest to push Matt’s buttons and provoke a reaction, any reaction.
She aimed a kick at Matt’s shin. “Well, like it or not, you’re here now and so is he. Instead of crying in your root beer, why don’t you go talk to him?”
“What?” Matt straightened indignantly, and then he paused, smirking. “You’re blunt as fuck. I like it.” He shrugged. “Maybe I’m not ready. Maybe I’m only hanging around to find out if it really is over. Screw him.”
Over? Matt’s yearning for Shane radiated off him in waves, and if Shane’s body language and searching glances were any indication, that longing was fully reciprocated. With a disgusted huff, she snapped, “Wow, you really are ridiculous and stubborn. Someone’s gotta make the first move here, so why not you? Get your head out of your ass and go talk to your man.”
Matt glared at her. “I said when I’m ready,” he growled. “Now leave me alone.” He grabbed up his root beer and stalked away.
“Idiot,” Devon called after him, laughing when he flipped her off.
“Everything all right?”
Devon whirled around to see Rhys smiling down at her. Damn. He was wearing a black T-shirt, the soft fabric hugging his broad shoulders and emphasizing his long, lean torso. His jeans were tight in all the right places; his freckles and full, sensuous lips creating an oh-so-delicious mix of boyishness and sex appeal.
“Uh, yeah, everything’s fine,” she mumbled, those butterflies taking flight again.
Across the way, Matt had propped himself against the bar not far from Shane and the woman.
“A lot of the guys think those two are together.” Rhys’s tone was so offhand and casual that Devon choked on her soda.
“What?” she wheezed, coughing into her little cocktail napkin. “Who’s together?”
“Matt and Shane.”
Devon’s mind raced. Shane had come out as gay, but Matt had not, so she had to tread carefully. “Um—”
“Aaron went through BUD/S with them,” Rhys mumbled around a huge handful of peanuts he’d just stuffed in his mouth. “Said it was really obvious, the way they looked at each other, spent so much time together, all that. One of those secrets everyone knows but pretends they don’t.”
Oh, man. Should I warn Matt?
“Would the guys care if they are?”
Rhys snorted. “I think the only thing SEALs care about is whether or not you pulled your weight on your boat crew. They don’t care who you fuck or how you fuck them, as long as you’re squared away at work.”
Devon let out the breath she’d been holding. “Well, good. It’s none of our business, but good.”
“Yeah.” Rhys washed his peanuts down with his beer, still watching Matt. “He looks like an angry, lovesick puppy, doesn’t he?”
He really does. Poor guy.
Just then the music changed to a popular country line dance, and with a squeal, the woman put down her drink, grabbed Shane’s hand and dragged him onto the dance floor.
Rhys nudged her with his elbow, his eyes alight with challenge. “Shall we?”
“Oh, God, I have two left feet,” Devon protested, but she gamely followed him out there, and soon they were all moving in unison, tapping their toes, sliding, thumbs hooked in their front pockets. Rhys was fairly graceful for such a tall man, but Shane was a disaster. He bumped into people right and left, stepped on feet, his sheepish “I’m sorry” ringing out over and over again.
By the end of the song, even Matt was laughing at him, the tension eased for the moment.
Devon waved her hand in front of her sweaty, flushed face. “I need some air.”
Outside in the courtyard, the Arizona evening was balmy, the summer heat broken at last. People were sprawled about the conversation pits, and Devon headed with Rhys to the only available seat, a small couch. They sank down onto it, Rhys slinging his arm along the back to make room for her.
“You’re a good dancer,” he said, grinning. “Hidden talents.”
“Not really, but that was fun.”
Devon tried not think about how good Rhys smelled, tried not to look at the hint of skin revealed by his hiked-up T-shirt, the way his jeans pulled tight across his lap...
Stop it. He’s not ready for anything like that.
A server stopped to ask if they wanted something to drink. They both declined, and as she turned to hurry away, her boot heel caught on a rough patch of concrete, sending her tray of empty glasses crashing to the ground.
“Whoa.” Rhys patted Devon’s shoulder when she flinched, his big hand warm through the thin material of her blouse. “Can we get a warning next time? Combat vets here.”
Her laugh was a little shaky. “Seriously. I jump at loud noises all the time. It’s embarrassing.”
“Me, too.” Rhys’s hand lingered for just the briefest of instants before he returned it to the back of the couch. “There’s a reason I go grocery shopping in the middle of the night.”
Devon nodded, her skin still tingling from his touch. “Trash on the side of the road? Forget it. I don’t know how many times I’ve swerved and almost hit the car next to me.”
“I could tell you used to drive convoy by the way you followed Matt that night. Right on his bumper, moving when he did.” Rhys gave a mock shudder. “Scared the shit out of me on those downgrades.”
Chuckling, Devon stretched her legs out in front of her and crossed them at the ankle. “Yeah, I heard about it from him afterward, too. Said he had a headache from the glare of my headlights right on his ass.”
“You do what you gotta do, right?” They both fell silent, and then Rhys shook his head. “I can’t imagine the stress and hypervigilance it takes to drive in a convoy.”
“I don’t think it ever leaves you, either. I pretty much scare anyone who rides with me these days.”
“Yeah, well, don’t worry. I can take it.” Rhys’s eyes were warm with understanding as they looked into hers. “You know I’d ride with you anytime.”
They smiled at each other just as a flash went off, and Devon blinked through the spots dancing in front of her vision only to see Aaron waggling his phone at them. “My wife wants pictures so she can put faces to the names. Thanks, guys!” Shooting them an irrepressible grin, he moved on.
“His wife, Sarah, is something else,” Rhys said in an amused voice. “She and Lani—” He broke off.
“They’re friends?”
“Yeah. It’s been hard on all of us, because as much as you try not to put the people you care about in the middle of a breakup, well, it’s almost impossible not to.”
“I’m sorry.” She didn’t know what else to say.
“It is what it is.” He gave a toneless chuckle. “And it actually feels pretty good to not be so pathetic for a change. Who knew?”
“I definitely know what it’s like to take some control back. It does feel good.”
“If only I can keep it up.”
“Well, how about this? If you ever want to text her, text me instead. I’ll talk you out of it.” Devon was sort of half joking, but Rhys brightened immediately.
“That’s a great idea! What’s your number?” He dug his phone out of his pocket, and with a few quick flicks of his thumbs, Rhys entered her number in his contacts, then slung his arm along the back of the love seat again. “Thanks, Devon,” he said quietly. “I really do appreciate the support.”
“Anytime.”
They both tilted their heads back and stared up at the sky, until at last Rhys suggested they go back inside to find the guys.
At this hour, the bar was packed, the dance
floor crowded. Most of the SEALs were gathered around the pool table, money stacked up on the edge as they made their bets.
Devon watched the rowdy shoot-out for a few minutes, then excused herself to use the bathroom. When she emerged, there was a small group of civilian men crammed in the hallway right outside, talking loudly, their lower lips stuffed with dip. When she politely murmured, “Excuse me,” none of them moved, just turned their heads to stare her up and down.
Swallowing hard, Devon repeated herself, a little louder this time. Her heart was tripping a mile a minute, her face growing hot. “I said, excuse me,” she said for the third time. “Please move.”
Finally one guy angled to the side just the slightest bit, smirking. He waved his hand toward the narrow path between the bodies. “Be my guest, sweetheart.”
Gritting her teeth, Devon tried to edge through, and as she did, the man closed the gap, trapping her between himself and the man behind her. “Whoops,” he cackled. “Not quite enough room.”
Devon was done with politeness. “Get off me,” she snarled. “Now.”
All the guy did was laugh. “Nah, we kinda like this sandwich.” He pushed his hips against her, his boozy breath wafting in her face. “Be nice to us, honey. C’mon.”
Devon slammed her fist right into his gut.
He stumbled back, bent double and wheezing, eyes wide with shock. The guy behind her made a choked exclamation and raised his hands defensively when she whirled on him.
“I didn’t do nothing,” he declared. It was a lie; Devon had felt his hand on her ass. She jabbed a finger in his face, vicious satisfaction going through her when he flinched.
“Shut the fuck up.”
The first man straightened, one arm wrapped around his middle. “Slut,” he spat. “You’re nothin’ but a—”
Without missing a beat, Devon grabbed twin handfuls of his shirt, planted her feet and slung him headfirst out of the hallway and into the bar. He went sprawling on his stomach right at the feet of the SEALs, who’d abandoned their pool game and were watching silently, arms crossed over their chests.
The other guy who’d groped her melted away in the opposite direction.
Smudge stomped his boot on the back of the fallen man’s neck when he tried to rise. “You okay, Ms. Lowe?” he rumbled. “This dude bothering you?”
“Not anymore.” Devon wiped her hands on her pants, stepped over the man and walked toward the entrance to the bar, her head held high. Inside she was shaking, old memories of helplessness, of confusion, of fear, welling up to burn their way from her chest into her throat.
“Did you say no? Did you tell them to stop? Why not, Ms. Lowe?”
As she pushed through the door, she realized all the guys were right on her heels.
Nobody spoke while she gathered herself together, and finally, with a chorus of quiet “Hooyahs” they left the bar behind.
Back in her room, Devon leaned against the door and let the hot tears come. Her phone vibrated in her pocket, startling her. She pulled it out with trembling fingers. It was Rhys.
You okay?
Yeah. At least, I will be.
You’re strong as fuck, Devon. Don’t ever forget that.
Devon rolled her eyes.
Convoy driver, slayer of douchebags. Yep, that’s me.
This princess can definitely save herself. But we’re here if you need us. Night.
A jolt of realization straightened Devon’s spine, along with a welcome surge of satisfaction. She had saved herself, hadn’t she? The SEALs, and Rhys, had been right there, but they hadn’t interfered. They must have recognized—one warrior to another—that this was her fight and hers alone.
But they’d still had her back.
Devon smiled. Teammates.
Chapter Eight
It was already hot on the tarmac.
Devon joined the guys in doing the “bag drag” toward the back of the huge C-17, its ramp yawning open like a huge, gaping mouth. Once on board, the loadmaster took whatever they didn’t want to keep with them and tied it down.
“Okay, we’re flying straight to Fort Bragg,” Lieutenant Bradley announced, “where we’ll meet up with the other Robin Sage role-players. From what I understand, we’re gonna play mercenaries trying to stop a guerrilla force from staging a coup against the ‘government,’ which the Special Forces wannabes need to try and make happen. Good times.”
Some growls of anticipation from the guys.
“Let’s go!”
The briefing over, everyone claimed a patch of airplane floor for their own. Devon picked a semiprivate space between two of the pallets and spread out her woobie, a thick Army poncho-slash-blanket that she always carried with her on work trips.
“Mind some company?”
She glanced up to see Rhys grinning down at her, one ginger eyebrow raised in inquiry.
“That looks way more comfortable than what I have to sit on.” He held up a tan blanket, saying mournfully, “Such a thin, sad little thing.”
“Ah.” Devon pretended to consider it. “I don’t usually share my woobie, but in this case, I’ll make an exception.”
“Thanks, buddy.” He lowered himself down, and with a fist bump, they stretched out, heads pillowed on their rucks.
The huge engines rumbled to life, and several minutes later, they were airborne. Rhys dozed off right away, so Devon turned on her side to watch him sleep.
His mouth was slack, his head lolling with the motion of the plane. Freckled hands were linked together loosely over his flat stomach, long legs crossed at the ankle. Devon had to fight the urge to brush her fingertips over his forehead, surprised by how much she wanted to touch him.
Don’t you ever learn?
Flopping onto her back again, Devon let out a grunt, furious with herself. She’d already made that same mistake once, and it’d come within a hair’s breadth of costing her everything.
“What’re you thinking about?”
Rhys’s voice next to her ear startled her, and Devon jumped. “Ah, crap.”
“Sorry.” He sounded amused as he pushed to his elbow. “I thought I heard you sigh.”
Devon was a terrible liar, so she decided to tell a half-truth.
“I was actually thinking about that first night I met you. You know, when I puked all over your boots.”
“Oh, my God.” Rhys’s laughter was deep, and rich. “No worries. I’m just glad it didn’t come out the other end.”
“What?” Devon gasped. “That’s happened?”
“Not to me, thank fuck. But the body reacts to stress in all sorts of strange ways. I’ve been with guys who find themselves with an uncontrollable urge to take a dump, even during a firefight. A little puke doesn’t bother me, especially not when you consider the fact I’ve had to sit in a hide for hours inches away from some other dude’s steaming pile of shit.”
Gagging, Devon groaned, “Ewww,” the disgust tempered with admiration at Rhys’s knack for saying just the right thing to ease her mind. In truth, combat wasn’t glamorous, or fun, and SEALs weren’t sexy killing machines. They were men with human fears, and bodies that sometimes betrayed them in the most inconvenient and embarrassing of ways.
A sudden memory made Devon clap her hand to her mouth to cover her squeak. Rhys looked at her, curiosity quirking his lips. “Do share.”
“I can’t.” Devon’s cheeks were on fire. “No, I can’t.”
“C’mon.” Rhys nudged her foot with his. “I can take it.”
Of course he could; he was a medic. Devon let out a breath, in equal parts horrified and amused that she was about to say this. “Once when we were convoying from Kandahar to a couple of the remote outposts to deliver supplies, we didn’t stop for maybe eight hours. I, um, bled all over the seat. It covered the back of me from my knees up past my waist. The motor pool guy said the Humvee looked like a crime scene.”
She cringed, but all Rhys did was nod. “Was it during the full summer?”
“One h
undred thirty degrees.”
“Well, there you go. Heat thins the blood. I’m sure that wasn’t the first time the motor pool guy saw that from the women. No biggie.”
And suddenly, it wasn’t, thanks to Rhys’s matter-of-fact tone. Now that she thought about it, the guy hadn’t seemed disgusted or upset, just resigned to having to do some extra work replacing the seat.
A knot in her stomach loosened as at least one embarrassing memory was put to rest.
She sat up and crossed her legs, her knee only inches from Rhys’s chest, so close she could feel his warmth. “Why did you leave that first SEAL platoon? The one we were on together?”
“Because I was always just a temporary augment. I went back to my regular PJ squadron after that.”
“Ah.” Devon traced her finger over the camouflage pattern of her woobie.
“Why?”
Because now that I know you better, I wonder if things would’ve turned out differently for me if you’d been there. If I’d had your friendship and support like this.
She realized he was still waiting for an answer. “Because I never really got a chance to thank you for this.” Reaching into one of the poncho’s cavernous pockets, Devon pulled out the black-and-white shemagh he’d given her on that trail so long ago.
His eyes widening, Rhys took it from her and turned it over in his hands. “Wow. I can’t believe you still have this.”
“Oh, that thing’s gotten me through a lot of dust storms, and the smell of poo cans, and too much sunlight.”
The fabric was faded now, but Devon still counted it as one of her most cherished possessions. Not so much because of the man who’d given it to her, not back then, at least, but because of what that act had represented—kindness, a little bit of empathy, a way to help her without diminishing the effort she was making in front of the SEALs.
“I could give you a newer one—” Rhys began, and with a yelp, she tried to snatch it away.
“Nope. Want this one.” She tugged on it. “Mine.”
Rhys tugged back, and when she leaned forward, he wrapped it around her neck once, twice, his knuckles just brushing her jaw. “There,” he said huskily. “All yours.”
Keeping a Warrior Page 10
