Because of You: A Loveswept Contemporary Military Romance

by Jessica Scott

  Nicole nodded. “Laura wants to know if you’ve got a list of—oh my God.” Her eyes filled, spilling tears down her cheeks almost instantly. She staggered and Jen caught her before she fell. Together she and Laura guided her to a chair. “No. Don’t get on a plane. I’ll call Mom. I’ll be there tomorrow … I’m not freaking out, damn it. I’m coming. So don’t argue … I love you, too.”

  Nicole flipped her phone shut and stared at it for a long moment. When she moved, it was like she snapped back, ready for action. “I’ve got to go. Vic’s hurt. He’s in Landstuhl in Germany.”

  “I’ll drive you to the airport,” Laura said. “What happened?”

  “He wouldn’t tell me, but he’s heading in for surgery.” She shook her head in response to Laura’s offer. “Everyone needs you here. My mom will help get me on a flight.” Laura pulled Nicole close and for one brief sliver of time, she lost her strength again, breaking down with a quiet sob. Jen rubbed her back, biting back her own sadness to be strong for her friend.

  After a moment, Nicole straightened, but her lips quivered as she struggled to pull everything back inside. “I gotta go.”

  Jen wanted to say something, anything that could offer her friend comfort. But before she could think of the right words, Nicole was gone. She looked at Laura. “How does she do that?”

  Laura smiled sadly. “She’s married to Carponti. I imagine that takes a different kind of strength.” She took a deep breath. “We’ve got work to do.”

  She was right, but that didn’t make anything easier about today. Today was personal. It always hurt bringing the wounded home, but this? Knowing some of the wives in the waiting area made this so much worse.

  The wait was the hardest part. Jen hated seeing the wives and mothers and fathers lingering in the lobby, waiting for the ambulances that would bring their loved ones from the airfield to the hospital. The chalks from the airfields, the convoy of ambulances and police escorts, were always rushed and urgent. It was critical to keep control of the chaos as the soldiers arrived and were processed.

  A little boy, no more than four years old, was crying for his breakfast, leaning against his mother, who was huge with a new pregnancy. He’d jammed his fist in his mouth, and his eyes were bright with tears as he sobbed quietly. Jen knelt in front of the little boy’s mother, who looked panicked and exhausted all at once. “Can he have a Nutri-Grain bar?”

  The mother nodded, relief sparkling in her red and swollen eyes. The boy wasn’t the only one stressed out. Jen squeezed her hand briefly. “What’s your husband’s name?” Tears mingled with fidgeting and the air hung thick with the tension of the unknown.

  “Caspers. Private John Caspers,” she whispered, and the urgent hope in her voice broke Jen’s heart.

  “John is scheduled for immediate surgery.”

  Mrs. Caspers’s face fell and she held on to her son as he chewed on the blueberry bar. “Will he be okay?”

  She wanted to say yes. Oh, God, how she wanted to say yes and give Mrs. Caspers the certainty she yearned for. “I don’t know. We’ll do our best.”

  Tears leaked out as Mrs. Caspers rested one hand on her belly, the other clutching her son.

  Releasing a tense breath, Jen turned toward Laura, the calm in the eye of the storm. She was handing out baskets of basic personal hygiene items to family members for their soldiers, who would arrive in borrowed clothes at best or tattered uniforms at worst. She’d been on the phone constantly since she’d arrived at the hospital, making arrangements at the Fisher House and other lodging facilities for families who’d just arrived and needed somewhere to stay.

  Jen’s hands clenched around her clipboard as she glanced at her watch. She released a breath and focused on something she could control. “How many families have been notified?”

  Laura checked her list, frustration creasing between her brows. “All but the families of the two who haven’t been identified. I mean really? We’re seven years into two damn wars and we still can’t manifest wounded soldiers properly? How hard is it to count soldiers when they’re all high on painkillers?”

  “Any word from Trent?”

  “Not a damn thing.”

  Jen wished she could have ignored the biting hurt beneath Laura’s words. But she didn’t have time to even offer sympathy, because that very minute the ambulances pulled into the drop-off area in front of the emergency room. Conversation froze as Laura shuffled the waiting families back, clearing a path for medical personnel.

  Two men climbed out of the second ambulance under their own steam. Jen’s throat tightened as their wives, both looking no older than high school seniors, rushed up to them. One of the men had his arm wrapped in a bandage that was six inches too short. The other sank into a wheelchair almost instantly, but not before his wife nearly knocked him over.

  One of the nurses guiding a gurney shouted, bringing everyone’s attention to the wounded soldier under her care. “Blood pressure’s dropping over here!”

  Jen raced to the side of the gurney. Blood seeped through a bandage on the kid’s thigh. He couldn’t have been more than nineteen years old. The kid’s screams echoed through the waiting room.

  They needed to stop the bleeding or he’d be dead in minutes.

  Jen rushed over, applying pressure in the middle of the choreographed movements of the emergency team. She ran with them, keeping her hands pressed to the wound until the trauma team took over and they pushed through the automatic doors that swung wide to let them through.

  “Got it from here, Jen. Thanks.” The dark-eyed surgeon met her gaze. “Go wash your hands.”

  She held her hands up. Blood smeared over her palms. Reality crashed over her. Blood. Exposure.

  Jen walked toward the stainless-steel sinks but turned when the door to the OR swung wide and two nurses maneuvered another gurney back to the operating room. She froze, stunned into absolute silence.

  Shane.

  He was wrapped tightly in grey thermal blankets. An IV bag hung from a solitary stainless-steel pole, the tube ending at the juncture of plastic, tape, and black tattoos. Thick straps snaked around his torso, hips, and legs, securing him to the gurney. Jen couldn’t see if he was breathing on his own or not. The medics wheeled him back to surgery as Jen just stared, unable to resolve this image with the man she remembered.

  Her heart bled for him as the door closed behind the second surgical team.

  Oh shit. Laura. Jen quickly washed her hands and rushed back to the emergency room waiting area. Laura was no longer calm. Tears streamed down her friend’s face and her breath came in quick, short gasps. “You saw him?”

  Jen nodded, her own heart breaking even as she folded Laura into her arms. For once, her friend wasn’t the strong one. Jen didn’t have the right to be upset. Shane wasn’t hers; she shouldn’t care enough to cry for a man she barely knew.

  So how could she explain the tears spilling down her own cheeks?

  * * *

  Something shifted, like plastic sliding against linoleum, and Shane had the sudden sensation of being watched. The feeling pulled at him, urging him out of the haze of the drugs and the pain of his memories. From somewhere far away, an echo of something burned his skin.

  The morphine that deadened everything inside of him made thinking difficult. He closed his eyes, wishing he could drown out the buzzing in his head and sink back to sleep. Sleep was good. Nothing burned when he was asleep.

  Her face was fuzzy, but he could make out the vague shape of a woman. No … Anyone but her.

  Shane turned his face away, denial tearing at this soul. She couldn’t be here. Not now.

  “Shane? Can you hear me?”

  He groaned and covered his face. At least he attempted to. His right arm was too heavy to lift. He squinted hard and saw the fuzzy outline of a cast.

  Shit.

  He started taking inventory of his available body parts. At least the ones that would respond. He couldn’t feel a thing from his waist down and he damn s
ure wasn’t about to look. He was horrified that he might see an empty space where his legs should be.

  Shane dragged his good hand over his face and pulled himself out of the despair that threatened to pull him back under. He blinked several times, trying to clear his vision. Disappointment threatened to choke him.

  “Shane?”

  Jen stood at the edge of his bed, near his hip. Her image kept fading in and out of clarity but during a single moment of lucidity, he saw what he’d been afraid of written across her face. Great. Fucking sympathy. Just what he wanted.

  “The fixators holding your legs together are going to hurt for a while.” Her voice was soft, like a pillow after a hard day. “You need to tell us so we can stay ahead of the pain.”

  Fury sparked to life inside of him, crashing through the haze of drugs. “Do I look like I’m in fucking pain?”

  He was used to the way his men reacted to his temper. But Jen? She simply folded her arms over her chest and stood near that damned sheet, watching. Waiting.

  “You don’t have to be an asshole.”

  Shane couldn’t look at her. Not again. He couldn’t bring himself to look up at her and see pity staring back at him. “I’m fine.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  He turned his face away, unwilling to look into those dark eyes and see the remains of himself reflected back at him. He heard the tink of glass against a tray, and something hot crawled up his arm. Fuck, more drugs. Which meant sleep. It was a reprieve from the incessant dreams of fire burning around his platoon while Shane could do nothing but watch his men burn. He didn’t deserve the reprieve. The pain was his punishment for fucking up and getting hurt.

  The drug slithered through his veins, wrapping around his brain like a warm blanket fresh from the dryer. He hated it. He didn’t want to feel, didn’t want to think. He just wanted to drop into that hollow morphine cloud and sink straight to hell where he belonged.

  Maybe then the burning failure in his heart would stop bleeding out.

  Chapter 6

  Four days had passed since Shane had arrived. Four days of silence and avoided looks and hostile body language. He barely ate. She wasn’t sure if he slept. But the silent treatment he’d offered her didn’t match the reports from the rest of the nurses. The reports of violent outbursts. Of thrown medical equipment. But whenever she was in the room, she’d been treated to nothing but stone silence. So when Jen heard a loud crash from her perch at the nurses’ station, she knew exactly where it came from. She rushed toward the noise, doing her best not to outright run. She shoved the door to Shane’s room open as the crash cart slammed into the stainless-steel sink. Blood welled from the open IV puncture wound and dripped down his arm.

  Shane’s face was contorted, a battle between determination and pain tearing across his hard features. The veins in his forearm bulged against his black tattoos as he tried to maneuver himself into the overturned wheelchair wedged beneath the bed rail.

  “Shane!”

  Silence hung heavy and thick as he froze. He lifted his gaze. I’m not nice. She hadn’t believed him when he’d told her that. Holy crap, had she been wrong.

  The muscles in Shane’s neck corded tight. For a moment, she was sure he would ignore her and drag himself farther out of the bed. Time hung suspended. His jaw pulsed and he gripped the rail as a wave of pain shuddered through his body.

  “Don’t touch me.”

  Jen took a deep breath and approached the bed. “Let me help you.”

  She edged closer to the wheelchair, standing close enough that if he lashed out at her, he’d easily connect. His fist balled on the chair and though she hated herself for it, she flinched. Wounded or not, if Shane hit her, she wouldn’t be getting up.

  “Please, Shane. Let me help you.”

  His arm shook. He didn’t look at her, but he finally nodded. Just a quick jerk of his chin, but it was enough. She stepped closer, wedging herself beneath his good arm. “On three. One.” He braced against her, using his casted hand to awkwardly grip her shoulder. “Two.” She planted her hands on his ribs and chest. “Three.”

  Together they pushed, rotating Shane back into the bed. Silence hung in the room like a day-old corpse. She picked up the chair and moved it out of the way. Then she gathered up bandages and a fresh IV.

  The threat of violence and risk of injury safely past, her hands shook in a delayed reaction to the fear. She sucked in a deep breath and steadied herself.

  Finally she turned, and what she saw stunned her. His hand covered his face and she could see the strain in the lines of his neck and forearms. Her heart ached to see him hurting so badly. He still didn’t respond. Her fingers trembled, but still she reached for him. He jerked when her fingers brushed his skin. She applied a gentle pressure, and drew his arm away from his face. He surprised her when he didn’t resist her, didn’t pull away. Pain echoed in every spasm of his muscles. She applied pressure on the former IV site, cleaning the blood with her free hand. Once the bleeding slowed, she wrapped medical tape around his elbow, securing the bandage in place. She finished cleaning the blood from his arm, then prepared a new IV.

  He didn’t move. He was absolutely still as she worked. She felt his gaze burning into her.

  “What hurts?”

  He looked out the window, his jaw pulsing as he ground his teeth. “Everything.” His voice broke over the whisper. He massaged his temples with his thumb and index finger. “I don’t want any more damn drugs and I want this fucking tube out of my dick.”

  “We can’t take the catheter out because you’ve got seventeen stitches holding your guts inside of you. So unless you feel like picking your spleen up off the floor because you want to be stupid, the quote fucking tube stays.”

  He glared at her then, but remained silent. She swallowed and stepped closer to the bed. “There’s no shame in using the drugs to get through this. They’re a tool, like anything else a doctor uses.”

  “I can’t think.” He scrubbed his palm against the new beard covering his jaw. “I don’t trust myself on them.”

  She rested her hip against the rail. He looked away and Jen saw a hint of despair replace the anger and pain in his face. The shift was so sudden, so without warning, and so utterly heartbreaking that tears sparked behind her eyes.

  “Fine.” His sudden acquiescence surprised her.

  “I’ll be right back.” He didn’t acknowledge her statement but she squeezed his hand before she left anyway.

  She’d never seen him in so much pain, not even when he’d first arrived. The strain in his voice hurt. She injected the drug quickly into his IV, then she reached for his hand. He didn’t pull away. She stroked his knuckles until his fist was no longer tense. Then she threaded her fingers with his and waited in the silence with him, his big, rough hand resting in hers.

  The tension eased back as the narcotic took hold, binding to the pain. The lines around his mouth relaxed, and his neck muscles visibly loosened. His fingers stayed linked with hers, though, strong and steady. She looked down at that hand she held and wondered at her fascination with this man who was capable of such naked determination.

  “Better?” she asked. He nodded slowly and squeezed her fingers lightly before unthreading his hand from hers. “How’s your head?”

  “It’s killing me.” He rubbed his forehead between his eyes. There was no force behind his words. None of the violence that had been there just moments before. Was he giving up? She didn’t need him climbing out of bed on his own, but this? This was somehow worse. She blinked rapidly then poked him in his chest, in the soft flesh between his pec and his shoulder. He turned his face quickly and scowled at her.

  “Hurting yourself isn’t the way to get out of the hospital.”

  A slow flush crawled up his neck and Jen almost took a step backward, anticipating an outburst. Almost.

  Shane didn’t explode. Instead, his words came out quiet, the anger behind them barely concealed.

  “You have no
idea what it’s like to sit here and not be able to do anything for yourself. So don’t talk to me about healing when I’m just another warehoused GI.”

  “You’re hurt. You need help. ”

  His eyes flashed and he leaned up, getting right into her face. His voice was a low growl, deep in his throat. “I don’t want help. I don’t need your help. I want to get fixed and get back to Iraq.”

  She jammed her finger into his chest again. “You do need help, you’re just too stubborn to accept that the invincible Shane Garrison needs it. It’s not the end of the world.”

  “This is your idea of help?” He slammed his fist against the rail of the bed. “Keep it and get the fuck out!”

  She didn’t argue with him. She’d lost the one tattered edge of momentum she’d had. She left, and felt his rage burning holes in her back as she shut the door quietly behind her.

  * * *

  Jen’s hands shook and she balled them into fists until her nails bit into the skin. That had gone well. If by well, she meant utter failure. She closed her eyes as she calmed down, trying to remember how she’d felt when she’d been heaving on the bathroom floor after chemo. Thank God she’d had Laura. Her friend had cleaned up the mess and helped her into bed. And she’d stayed by her side all night.

  Just like Shane, Jen hadn’t wanted to hear that she needed help. Laura had stuck with her through those terrible times, even though she had been eight months pregnant with her second child and Trent had again been deployed. Jen had protested, but Laura had stuck. And when Jen’s brother had served her with legal papers contesting their grandmother’s will, Laura had still stuck.

  Jen pushed away from the door of Shane’s room, and the unpleasant walk down memory lane. Just then, Laura walked down the hall, like she was walking out of Jen’s memories. She looked exhausted and was carrying a large, colorful tote that doubled as a purse. Shane’s injury had capped off a month filled with bad news. Laura looked tired and Jen knew she wasn’t doing well. No one was. The Surge was taking its toll on all of them.