One Night With a Hero

by Laura Kaye

“Why not?” she asked. “She’s really pretty. I love her pink highlights. Don’t you think she’s pretty?”

  Actually, she’s drop-dead gorgeous. Even if he never would’ve guessed he’d find a woman with pink-striped hair, piercings, and multiple tattoos attractive. “I guess. Whatever. Why are you trying to fix me up, anyway?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just, you’re home for a while and in one place for once… I just want you to be happy. That’s all.”

  “Well, I appreciate that, Aly. I do. But I don’t need to date to be happy.”

  “Okay, that’s true. But why not date?”

  The waiter delivered their food and interrupted their conversation. Brady breathed in the savory spices and hoped it would stay interrupted.

  “Yeah, Brady, why not?” Marco asked, amusement coloring his voice as he built a steak fajita.

  Brady glared at him. Words shot out of his mouth before he thought them through. “Hey, Marco? How’s your therapy going?” He knew he’d just donned his asshole hat, but if this was the way Marco wanted to go, two could play the game.

  His friend scowled. “I don’t know. How’s yours going?”

  Tension gripped Brady’s shoulders and filled the space between him and his best friend. He had confided in Marco the real reason he’d been sent stateside earlier in the summer, so his friend knew his chain of command was making him seek counseling for his so-called anger management problems before they’d put him up for E-6.

  But Alyssa didn’t know. And he didn’t want her to. Which Marco fucking knew.

  “Wait, you’re in therapy?” Alyssa asked.

  “PT,” Brady lied. “My shoulder’s been giving me problems.” He hated deceiving his sister, of all people, but she didn’t need to be saddled with his bullshit, not when she’d finally found a little corner of happiness. And he didn’t want to disappoint her by cuing her in to how much like their father he’d become. Hell, without the Special Forces, without the outlet of the rigorous training and punishing schedule the job entailed, who knows what he would’ve become.

  “Oh, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. And, if you guys must know,” he said, switching the subject back to dating to get off the freaking lie, “I have no interest in dating because I have no intention of ever marrying. So there’s no point.”

  Alyssa gaped at him. “Like never never?”

  “Is there any other kind?”

  “But why wouldn’t you want to get married?”

  He swallowed a bite of his carne asada, losing more of his appetite the longer this conversation dragged on. “Just because. For you guys, it’s great. But it’s not for me.” He rubbed his forehead, a killer headache coming on. “Can we just drop it?”

  When they got back to his house, Marco pounced on him the minute Alyssa went upstairs to use the bathroom. “What is going on with you?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Much as Brady hated it, he really needed them to leave before he lost his temper. He needed a bone-pounding run to beat the asshole out of himself and screw his throbbing head back on straight.

  “You’ve been irritable all day, and since when do you use my therapy against me? You know how I feel about that shit.”

  Brady knew he was in the wrong there. And he knew exactly how Marco felt about everything he’d been through this past year—the attack on his unit, which he believed to be his fault, the deaths of three of their guys, the medical discharge, and the permanent disabilities with which he was still dealing. But that didn’t cool the red-hot rage boiling up inside Brady. “Yeah, and since when do you betray a confidence?”

  Marco tugged a hand through his dark hair. “Dammit. I shouldn’t have. You’re right. And I’m sorry. But that doesn’t negate that something’s up with you.”

  “Just drop it. Okay?”

  Marco laid a hand on his shoulder. “Is this no-marriage bullshit because of your—”

  Brady threw Marco’s arm off him. “When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it, Vieri. Got it? Jesus.” He scrubbed his hands over his face.

  Marco’s gaze cut hard right. Brady’s followed. Alyssa was standing just where the stairs cleared the wall, watching them.

  “Do I want to know?” she asked as she quietly stepped the rest of the way down.

  “No,” both men said, exchanging a glance. The one thing they’d always agreed on was protecting Alyssa. No matter what.

  They said their good-byes, awkwardness choking the air between them, and Brady didn’t even walk them out. The echo of the front door closing behind them still rang in the air as he took the stairs two at a time. Despite his headache, he changed into his running gear and raced out into the humid air of the early evening.

  He glared at Joss’s door as he passed her house, not because he was angry with her, but because he wanted to go knock on it so damn bad. Take her in his arms. Lose himself in her body.

  And he resented the hell out of that feeling.

  Because she deserved better than that. Better than him. So he looked away and broke into a full-out run.

  Chapter Seven

  By midday on Sunday, Joss had driven herself crazy with a laundry list of maybes. Maybe she shouldn’t have hung around for a conversation with his family. Maybe he was just having a bad day. Maybe he never wanted to talk to her again. After a half-hour call with Christina debating the merits of simply confronting him and asking where they stood, she had just about convinced herself to do it. After all, as neighbors it wasn’t like she could avoid him for the next year or two, and she didn’t want that kind of stress and game-playing in her life even if she could. She’d rather just hear the brutal truth, know where she stood, and get about the unhappy business of picking up the pieces.

  Joss gave herself one last mental pep talk, slipped on some flip-flops, and after what might’ve been a nerve-borne out-of-body experience, found herself standing in front of his dark green door. She lifted the brass hanger and knocked three times.

  No answer.

  She knocked again.

  After a few moments, Joss peered over her shoulder to confirm his truck was there.

  Waiting another minute, she finally knocked one last time, then crossed her arms and waited some more.

  Muffled noises sounded from the other side of the door. It eased open.

  Brady braced a hand against the jamb and lifted his face. His skin was somehow gray and flushed at the same time.

  Her semi-planned speech went right out the window. “Oh, my God. What’s wrong?”

  “You should go, Joss,” he said, though he slurred her name so it came out as “Josh.” “I’m dying and I don’t want you to catch it.”

  “Geez, Brady. I’m so sorry. Is it the flu? Are you throwing up?”

  “Yes. Maybe the flu. I dunno.” He sagged against the edge of the door.

  “Do you have any medicine or crackers or anything?”

  He shook his head and winced.

  “Come here,” she said, half stepping into the tiny foyer with him. She pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. “You’re burning up. Okay, let me in.”

  “Josh—”

  “No arguing. I know what it’s like to get sick and not have anyone to help. And you have a friend here willing to give you a hand. Okay?”

  “Okay,” he whispered.

  “Now, lie dow— Oh.” He didn’t have a couch. In fact, he didn’t have anything. “Holy crap, you weren’t kidding, were you?” she said. But he had a bed—she remembered him saying he’d had a mattress delivered. “Go upstairs and get in bed. I’ll be back in half an hour with some supplies.”

  He nodded. “’Kay.” He shuffled to the steps. Each slow, heavy lift of his legs appeared to deplete what little energy he had.

  She unlocked his door and closed it behind her, then dashed next door for her keys and purse. Forty minutes later, she’d returned with everything she could think of to help him feel better. She unloaded the groceries onto his k
itchen counter and put the cold things away in the refrigerator and freezer. Wow. What a freaking guy. The total contents of his fridge included an open case of beer and a pizza box.

  And, good call on the plastic bowls, cups and utensils, because all his drawers and cabinets were empty.

  She gathered the Tylenol, Pepto-Bismol, crackers and ginger ale and went upstairs. Tiptoeing into his room, she hoped she didn’t wake him if he’d fallen asleep, but when a floorboard creaked under her step, he turned bleary eyes to look at her. “Hey,” he said, voice gravelly.

  “Hey.” She tried to ignore the fact that he’d removed his T-shirt and lay there in only a pair of shorts, unbuttoned at the waist. He’d probably pulled them on to answer the door. “I got you some stuff.”

  “Don’t want you to get sick.”

  “I won’t. I never get sick.” She touched his head again. His skin literally felt as if it could burn hers, he was so hot. “Let’s get some Tylenol into you and bring this fever down.” She wrestled with the child-safety cap, plastic seal, and ginormous wad of cotton and fished out two pills. “Take these,” she said, handing him the medicine and a ginger ale to wash it down.

  He pushed onto one elbow and did as he was told.

  “Did you get sick again while I was gone?”

  He shook his head and took another cautious sip of soda.

  “Do you want to try some crackers?”

  “Better not, yet.”

  “Okay.” She stroked her hand over his forehead. His hair was damp with feverish sweat. “Be right back.”

  In his bathroom, she couldn’t find a washcloth, but at least there was a hand towel. She soaked it in cool water and wrung it out, then returned to Brady. He’d collapsed back onto the pillow.

  “This is going to be cold, Brady, but we have to get this fever down.”

  He gave a nod. She laid the towel over his forehead and pressed its length against his ears and neck. He sucked in a harsh breath through his teeth.

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  His eyelids sagged and finally closed.

  Joss slipped across to her house and retrieved the thermometer, then on a whim she grabbed her book, too.

  “I thought I’d dreamed you,” he said when she leaned over him a few minutes later.

  She smiled. “Nope. I’m here. And I want to take your temp. Open up.” His eyes fell closed while the instrument beeped and the numbers climbed. This was really bad. She removed it from his mouth when it was done.

  “What’s the verdict, doc? Will I live?”

  Ah, there was the smart-ass she knew and…liked. “It’s 103.4, Brady. If this doesn’t go down, we should get you to a doctor.”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  “Just rest. We’ll check again in a while.”

  “Thank you,” he whispered, his eyes rolling for a moment before falling shut.

  She pulled his door mostly closed, debated for a moment, then turned on the hall light and took a seat on the top step. If his fever got any higher, he was going to be in some serious trouble. She didn’t want to leave him.

  It took a few minutes to get comfortable—or as comfortable as she could get sitting on hardwood steps—but after a while her book sucked her in and she didn’t notice her butt going numb anymore.

  Joss wasn’t sure how long had passed when Brady came stumbling out of his bedroom.

  “Hey,” he rasped.

  She stood and tried not to stare at the miles of bare, muscled skin. “Hey. Any better?”

  He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Gimme a minute.” He disappeared into the bathroom and Joss prayed she didn’t hear him throwing up again. Not because she couldn’t stomach it—she worked with kids, for goodness’ sake, so she’d dealt with her fair share of bodily fluids. She just wanted him to get better.

  The door opened a few minutes later and Brady leaned against the jamb, dark circles marring the skin under his dull eyes, forehead furrowed in pain. “No puke. Yay.”

  She chuckled. “Want a Popsicle?”

  His eyes went wide. “Aw, yeah.”

  “Go get in bed.” She went downstairs and grabbed three. One for herself, two for him, just in case he was up for it. When she’d returned to his room, he was sitting up against a stack of pillows. “Temperature first, Popsicles second.”

  She handed him the thermometer. He patted the mattress beside him, indicating she should sit, so she took a seat next to his knees while they waited. The reading came back at 101.9.

  “Better, but still not great. Fluids will help. Red, orange, or purple?”

  “Red. Obviously.”

  She unwrapped and passed it to him. She chose the grape.

  He moaned as he sucked on it.

  Joss bit down on the smart-ass remarks flitting through her brain and settled on feeling satisfied she could help him, even a little.

  “This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten,” he said.

  “Glad you like it. I slaved all day.”

  He swallowed a frozen chunk he’d bitten off. “When we’re done, wanna have sex?”

  Joss gaped at him. He waggled his eyebrows, and she burst out laughing. “You’re such an ass.”

  Brady grinned and opened the orange Popsicle. He tipped it to her before giving it a lick.

  “Do you think you could try some chicken noodle?”

  He grimaced. “Let’s see how these go first. I hate puking.” He finished his seconds and slid down against the pillows. “You don’t have to stay, you know.”

  “I just don’t think you should be alone yet. You were at almost 104 earlier. That’s into the scary range.”

  He nodded and turned onto his side. “Sleep more,” he said, his voice already fading.

  Joss took the opportunity of him sleeping to pop back over to her own house and make a quick sandwich. It wasn’t like she could forage at Brady’s place. Then she resumed her watch at the top of his steps to read her book and keep vigil.

  An hour later, Brady was hunched over the toilet, throwing up a dribble of orange and dry heaving so hard Joss’s stomach hurt for him. Finally, he flushed. “You should go. Get sick, too.”

  “Stop trying to chase me away,” she said gently. “I’m staying as long as you need me.” She trailed him into his room. Perched on the edge of his bed, she said, “Let’s check your temp again.” She slipped it from his mouth when it beeped. “Man. One-oh-two.”

  He stroked a finger against her knee. “Thank you.”

  “No biggie. Take these.” She handed him more Tylenol and the ginger ale. “Just sip enough to get the pills down.” His body had warmed the towel she’d given him earlier, so she soaked it in cool water again and settled it on his head and neck.

  “I mean it. Above and beyond.”

  She shrugged. “It’s what anyone would do.”

  “No, it’s not, Joss. It’s not.”

  “Shh. Sleep now and kick this thing’s ass.”

  The corner of his lip quirked up. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She settled on the step again, her back none too happy about it. Before long, she finished her book. Outside the bathroom window, the evening light dimmed into twilight.

  Brady opened his door and gave her a small smile. “All that furniture I just bought isn’t doing you a bit of good, is it? Sorry.”

  His words resurrected the awkwardness she’d felt yesterday, so she just shook her head. “How you doing?”

  “Maybe better. I’m gonna shower. Would you mind making me some soup?”

  She smiled. “Not at all. Still have a fever?”

  “Might be gone. Feel me.”

  She heaved herself off the step and rolled her eyes when he weakly grinned. “You’re a mess, you know that?” She pressed her hand to his forehead, then cheek. “Definitely cooler. I don’t think it’s gone though. Shower’ll help.”

  He disappeared into the bathroom.

  Joss made a quick trip to her place to eat another sandwich, heat up the chicken noodle, and
grab a tray, then returned to his house and arranged a spread of things to take up to him—soup, a fresh ginger ale, and some cinnamon applesauce.

  She carried everything upstairs and settled the tray on his bed. Footsteps sounded behind her and she turned.

  Brady stood in the doorway, water droplets on his bare chest, hand fisted at the hip holding a towel in place.

  Just…wow. Even sick he was gorgeous. Abs ridged. Chest solid. Shoulders mounds of banded muscle. “Sorry,” she said, cutting her gaze back to the tray. “I’ll just…” She thumbed over her shoulder.

  “Stay right where you are,” he said, a hint of amusement in his voice. “And I’ll make myself decent.”

  “Er, okay.” He’s sick he’s sick he’s sick, she chanted to distract herself from the fact that he was getting naked five feet from her. The rustle and slide of fabric sounded loud in the room.

  “Smells good,” he said coming up behind her. He propped the pillows up again and sat against them wearing only a pair of gym shorts. “Have you eaten?”

  Joss nodded. “I got a sandwich.”

  Brady grabbed the thermometer, took his temperature, and handed it to her when it finished. His temp was 100.4. “I think I’ll live.”

  “Good.” She passed him the bowl of soup and a napkin. Then yawned so big her jaw cracked.

  “I’m sorry I’ve kept you here all day.” He took a sip of broth.

  She waved his apology away. “You didn’t. I offered.”

  They sat in silence for a few moments. “Can I ask you a question?” he finally asked.

  Joss braced her hands back against the bed. “Sure.”

  “What’s your real name?”

  Wasn’t expecting that. She sighed. It probably wasn’t easy for a guy like him to appear weak in front of someone else, especially a lover. Former lover. Whatever. So Joss decided to lay herself a little bare, too. Not her usual MO, but then none of this was, was it? “It’s Jocelyn.”

  He took another spoonful of broth, mostly avoiding the noodles, carrots, and chunks of chicken. “And why were you uncomfortable telling me that before?”

  She glanced down at her lap and released a long breath. “Because, to keep you from using it, I would’ve had to tell you I don’t like the name. And to explain why, I would’ve had to tell you how the staff at the children’s home where I grew up insisted on calling me that despite me repeatedly stating my preference for the nickname, which is one of the few things I can definitively remember of my mother—that she called me Joss.” She lifted her gaze to Brady. “She died when I was six. And we didn’t have any other family.”