by Grey, Helen
Serving the Soldier
PART 1
By Helen Grey
Copyright © 2015 Helen Grey
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Book Description
This is Part 1 of "Serving the Soldier" – a five part Hot Alpha Military Romance Series by Helen Grey.
Twenty-six-year-old Angie Meadows knows her stuff. An experienced nurse who provides live-in care for homebound clients, she’s thrown off her game when she’s assigned to a young, hot, sexy Special Forces soldier on medical leave.
While Angie is confident she can do her job and help Jackson ‘Jax’ Andrews recuperate from his combat injuries, she’s not quite as confident she can ignore his great physique, his sexual charisma, or his flagrant habit of walking around naked.
Even when it’s discovered that Jax and his squadron may be the target of a terrorist sleeper cell, Angie takes her oath as a nurse seriously. She opts to stick around and care for this beautiful soldier, even if doing so puts her life in danger.
This book is intended for a mature audience, 18+ only.
Chapter 1
“Okay, okay. I’ll do it,” I said into the phone, feeling my forehead creasing into a frown. I had been hoping to take a short vacation, but it just never seemed to turn out right. Either I had the money but a full schedule, or I had some downtime but no money. I could never seem to find the perfect balance.
I loved being a home health care nurse, and often traveled to neighboring counties, even neighboring states on occasion. But to be honest, I had lately begun to wish I had just stayed at the hospital in Augusta. Steady hours, steady paycheck, knowing what was expected of me day in and day out. But no, I’d wanted to be brave and daring, and venture beyond my hometown and nearby Fort Gordon military reservation where my father was stationed. And where, by the way, he expected me to stay.
Dammit, I was twenty-eight years old. I needed to break away from the familiarity, the constancy, and the security that my parents offered at home and make an attempt to explore and experience life on my own.
Sure, Charleston wasn’t that far away from Augusta, barely three hours if you took the interstate through Columbia, even less if you drove a more direct route on one of the state highways. Still, in the last six months, I had rather enjoyed my independence. I’d found a small, cheap studio apartment north of downtown with easy access to the Savanna Highway, which was perfect since most of my clients were scattered along the banks of Charleston Harbor and surrounding neighborhoods.
“Give me the details,” I said to Nancy, my supervisor. I reached for the pad of paper and pen on the far side of the kitchen counter as I sat sipping my coffee, ready to take notes. I was a sap, plain and simple. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not naïve, at least I didn’t think so, but it was so hard for me to say no — to anything or anybody. No, I was a people pleaser, which often left me little time for myself or my own pursuits.
Yeah right… as if I had my own pursuits.
I didn’t have a steady boyfriend, or any hope of finding one. In my experience, most guys are little boys. I had standards and knew exactly how I wanted to be treated. In the past year, I had gone through three so-called boyfriends, one in Augusta that I had finally broken up with because, well, he turned out to be a jerk who had given me one excuse after another as to why he couldn’t find a job. More like didn’t want to find a job. As in he expected me to do all the work while he stayed at the apartment he shared with a roommate and played video games and drank beer.
The other two? Not as bad as the first, but nothing to write home about. I sighed. All water under the bridge, wasn’t it? None of those three guys had really captured what it was I was looking for in a guy, and I suppose that was my fault because I didn’t know exactly what I was looking for.
I suppose my father’s work ethic had instilled in me the desire to support myself, work hard, and find some stability in life. Being a military brat, I had grown up within a strict but loving household where old-fashioned values still guided my parents in their decisions. I didn’t think of myself as old-fashioned, but I suppose I did have some preconceived notions of what I wanted in a husband.
Someday.
Not today, not tomorrow, but someday. Someday, I wanted to find a guy who was passionate for his work, and of course, one who would love me with the same passion. Not cloying or bossy or jealous, but one who made time for me, listened to me, supported me—
“Are you listening?”
“Sorry, Nancy” I said, shaking myself out of my reverie. “Could you repeat that please?”
Nancy sighed the deep sigh of one heavily put upon. “You’ll be providing live-in care services for a man, but Angie, he’s quite a bit younger than you’re used to.”
“How young?” I asked with piqued interest. Most of the gentleman I took care of were in their seventies or older. One of my clients — a dear old man in his nineties who had lost most of his marbles due to Alzheimer’s — was nevertheless sharp as a tack when it came to beating me at dominoes.
“He’s in his thirties—”
“His thirties?” I interrupted, then cleared my throat. “Sorry, go ahead.”
“From what I understand, he’s active military and was injured in Afghanistan. Shrapnel from an IED or something. He fractured one lumbar vertebra and received severe muscle damage to his back and one side of his hip and thigh. He’s spent two weeks in the hospital. He’s recuperating at home now, was discharged about a week ago, and has been receiving regular physical therapy at the hospital.
“He’s supposed to be going to outpatient rehab, but he’s not shown up for his last two appointments. The surgical incision is still seeping, so he has a dressing over it. It will need daily attention, and you’ll need to daily chart the status of the other wounds and how they’re healing. Make sure you take accurate measurements of the wound edges.” She paused. “I’m warning you ahead of time, he’s been noncompliant with a number of issues regarding his treatment.”
“How noncompliant?”
“Well, let’s just say that getting him to take his medications can be quite a challenge. He’s on pain pills, antibiotics … he’s not following the schedule provided by the physical therapists, and while he should be in a wheelchair or using another mobility device, he’s insisting on getting up and walking.”
I thought about this. A live-in situation with a patient in his thirties, and a medically noncompliant one to boot? I wasn’t sure about this. In fact, it was a first for me. I didn’t have a problem with twenty-four hour live-in care. After all, I was a home health care nurse and had performed such services dozens of times, but never with such a young man.
“Let me explain, Angie,” Nancy said. “The man’s name is Jackson Andrews, but he prefers to be called Jax.”
“Jack?” I interrupted her, not sure if I heard her right.
“No, Jax. J-A-X. He was injured during his fourth combat deployment to the Middle East. One in Iraq, three in Afghanistan. He’s Army Delta Force.”
“Why isn’t he receiving care at Fort Bragg?” I asked. I knew the home base for Delta Force squadrons was in Fort Bragg, North Carolina. They operated under the oversight of Joint Special Operations Command or JSOC. I knew enough about the military to know the mindset. All of a sudden, the things Nancy had said about the client began to fall into place.
“He’s on medical leave, recuperating at a home in Hilton Head—”
“Hilton Head!” I interrupted again, surprise ringing in my voice. Everyone around here knew about Hilton Head, a resort community located on an island just off the banks of the Savanna River. It was a rich man’s getaway for sure, but to own a home on Hilton Head? “How does a guy from Delta Force afford to live there?”
“Not my place to ask, Angie,” Nancy gently scolded. “Maybe he’s got family, or a friend who’s letting him recuperate there. It doesn’t really matter, does it?”
I sighed, wishing I could back out of the job. I had a feeling that Jackson Andrews would prove to be quite a handful. “Oh great, so what you’re telling me is that he’s going to be a pain in the ass, is that it?”
Nancy laughed gently. “Give it a chance, Angie,” she said. “This is a private pay job—”
“No Tricare?” I asked, surprised and more than a little excited. Military medical and health insurance was provided by Tricare. I had provided care for a couple of older Vietnam vets since I arrived in Charleston and knew that squeezing money out of military or veterans benefits could be a long-term and headache-filled endeavor.
But private pay? I knew that the health care agency normally received the bulk of the payments for the care I provided, and it was not often that I made more than twenty-five to thirty dollars an hour. Still, when I took jobs privately, my fee for private duty nursing averaged fifty dollars plus an hour. And his care plan demanded round-the-clock care?
“His insurance is paying for his rehab,” Nancy continued. “I should warn you, Angie, he’s trying to get back up on its feet as soon as possible so he can rejoin his squadron.”
“Oh great,” I said, shaking my head. Military veterans could be the most stubborn patients, and that was merely from my experience dealing with the older ones. I could just imagine how much more difficult a younger, active duty soldier would prove to be, especially when he was hell bent on hurrying through his rehab.
“This is going to be a challenging job, Angie, no doubt about it,” Nancy admitted. “It might make you feel better to know that, in addition to the fee the agency will pay you, the client has offered you additional pay, depending on how you two get along for your private nighttime care. You’ll have to make private arrangements regarding your length of service.”
I listened in stunned dismay. Wasn’t that double dipping? Couldn’t I get into trouble?
“The agency has contracted two weeks with him for twelve-hour shifts from six o’clock in the morning until six o’clock in the evening. Mister Andrews has arranged to pay you privately for the six o’clock in the evening to the six o’clock in the morning shifts. After the initial two weeks, it will be up to him whether he retains our agency services for another stint. If he doesn’t want the agency, but wants you to stay on, that will be up to you. You can renegotiate at that point. Is that agreeable to you?”
I was surprised. It didn’t normally work this way, but if Nancy was telling me it was okay, I guess it was. The thought of making a bit of extra money was enticing. While I made enough money to live independently, it would be nice to tuck a little bit extra away in an emergency fund or save for a house someday. Or finally splurge on something for just me.
“Okay,” I finally sighed. “I guess I can give it a try. When do I start?”
“First thing tomorrow morning,” she said.
“But what about my other—”
“I’ve already arranged for another nurse to take over your current two clients.”
I quickly did the math in my head and knew I wouldn’t be losing any hours. In fact, I’d be gaining them by a lot. Still, I would be paying rent for an apartment I wasn’t staying in. That seemed silly, but if the job only lasted a couple of weeks, it made no sense to move. I wouldn’t have to spend money on groceries or gas to my other client’s houses, which would also save me some money.
“Okay,” I said. “Give me the address. I’ll be on his doorstep at six o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“Thanks, Angie,” Nancy said. “Log in and out on the phone like you usually do, but after six o’clock in the evening, you’ll be on your own payment schedule, so charge whatever you want.” She paused. “Angie, if you feel at all uncomfortable about the situation, I want you to let me know.”
I wondered about her comment. Why would I feel uncomfortable? Because the guy was younger? He had a back injury, so I doubted I would be in any danger from him physically. Then again, he was Delta Force. I shook my head. You’re being silly, I told myself. Well, he needed help, and I would damn well provide it for him. If I got even an inkling that the situation wasn’t on the up-and-up or if I felt uncomfortable, believe me, I’d be the first one to say something about it.
***
I pulled in front of the address Nancy had given me for Jackson Andrews’ home. All I could think was ‘Oh my God’. The directions had been a little complicated with numerous turns and I drove my small used Honda past numerous estates that must have cost well into the millions. With every estate, one larger than the next, my curiosity over my client increased.
He was staying at a residence located on the south end of Hilton Head, across Calibogue Sound. From my location on the road at the moment, I could see the edges of Bull and Daufuskie Islands across the harbor. Needless to say, I was impressed.
I parked in front of Jackson’s home, staring up in amazement. The home was situated on a high point overlooking Sea Pines Beach, with an immense and well maintained garden and lawn surrounding the home itself, offering a gorgeous view of Hilton Head, spread out below. I sat a moment in my car, appreciating the beauty, wondering what it would be like to have so much money.
I shook myself out of my state of awe and got out of the car, feeling self-conscious in my scrubs, no matter how well they fit my figure. Scrubs were scrubs, but until I knew what was expected of me, I didn’t want to overdress. I was a nurse, after all, so anybody expecting me would not be put off to find me wearing scrubs, or at least I hoped not.
I made my way from the circular driveway and walked along a granite stone pathway between well sculpted miniature King palms and other deciduous native flora toward the large granite patio. The home itself was gorgeous. It wasn’t modern in design, probably built in the 1950s, possibly earlier, not that I was an expert in architecture or anything. Still, it was solid and well-maintained.
The double-wide front doors were painted a lovely maroon that was welcoming and intimidating at the same time. The style of the home itself was not what I expected. I’d expected a traditional old-style Southern colonial, but this house actually looked like a ranch type construction, encompassing I don’t know how many square feet. The front side of the house boasted numerous plate glass windows of varying sizes. Two narrow windows draped with sheer white curtains stood on either side of the door.
I always felt a little nervous before meeting a client and certainly didn’t know what to expect here. I pressed the doorbell and waited nervously. In a matter of moments, I heard the door unlock and then open.
I stared. Oh my God. This is my client? The man who opened the door wore only a pair of swimming trunks. He was hot! Broad shoulders, narrow waist, gorgeous pecs and of course, six pack abs that invited my gaze to dip lower. I was proud of myself for resisting the urge. The guy was probably six-three or six-four, so my eyes were on level with his chest.
When I looked up, I felt a surprising tingle in my nipples. My pulse accelerated and I’m sure my blood pressure went up.
Odd, I’d never felt such a reaction to a guy before. Still, he oozed s-e-x. I idly wondered what it would be like to be kissed by such a handsome, well-built, and obviously fit, barring the wounds, guy. A strong face, the traditional army haircut framing the dark eyebrows, high cheekbones, a strong jaw line, and a nose that looked like it’d been broken a time or two.
His lips were typical lips, and at the moment, they weren’t smiling. In fact they were frowning
. I focused on them as he uttered two crisp words. “You’re late.”
I felt a moment of startled dismay, glanced down at my watch, and saw that it was two minutes past six o’clock in the morning. I glanced up at him and offered an embarrassed shrug and raised eyebrow. “Sorry about that, I was admiring the scenery.”
He said nothing, but gave me a look that swept from the top of my head to my toes and back again. His gaze left a blaze of fire everywhere his eyes went. For a second, I felt as if he was imagining me naked. What the hell? In my mind’s eye I tried to imagine him naked.
Shit.
I had never felt sexually attracted to any of my clients. Okay, so most of them were old, but still. No doubt about it. I felt an immediate attraction to this guy. This wasn’t good.
He stepped back, opening the door a little wider to allow me entry. I stepped in, looking up at him. “My name is Angie Meadows.” I offered my hand. He looked at it for a moment and then reached out to grasp it; shook gently, retrieved his hand and then backed up.
“Jackson Andrews. Call me Jax.”
He closed the door and stood unmoving. I glanced up at him again, again lifting an eyebrow, a nervous habit of mine, I’m afraid. Normally, I didn’t feel so awkward. Normally, I was familiar with taking charge, ensuring the client that I knew what I was doing, and was able to provide solid and firm direction as to what they should expect from me.
For some reason, maybe because of his age and his looks, I felt a little off balance and unsure. I attempted to break the silence, gesturing toward my car on the other side of the door. “I have a few things…”
His dark brown eyes continued to stare down at me as if assessing me and whether I was right for this job. For a second, I felt a brief surge of alarm that he would tell me I wasn’t going to work out. Maybe I wasn’t what he had expected. I had no way of knowing what that was, but perhaps after I got settled in we could sit down and get acquainted.
