Beau (In the Company of Snipers Book 18)

by Irish Winters

  But instead of lashing her with a belligerent, ‘Fuck off!’ like he usually did when caught shirtless, Beau let her see a glimpse of his miserable life. They weren’t exactly best friends. Might never be more than what they were at this moment, but considering what she’d revealed about her mother, he figured she had a right to know what made him tick. Another survivor might understand.

  “My father was a mean old bastard. Used to take a strap to me.” All the damned time.

  “My God, Beau, why?”

  “Because he could.” His gaze drifted to her slender fingers clutching the white sheet like a last line of defense. Her hands were clean. Not even a broken nail. No calluses either. Just the way a lady’s hands should be. Untouched by the dirt of the world. So unlike his.

  “Talk to me,” she said as she let the sheet go and reached for him.

  That single response meant the world to Beau. Her guard was down. He would’ve pulled back. Should have. No one as pure as McKenna should ever hear what he’d lived through. But he was weary of holding onto the evil of his past. It was time to let someone in. Might as well be someone who cared. Might as well be now.

  Carefully, he accepted that tender hand. But that was as far as Beau could make himself go. She didn’t need more ugliness in her life, not after last night. Swallowing hard, he changed his mind. “Forget about it. I’ve moved on.”

  She cocked her head, her pretty green eyes still puffy and red, but—Jesus, he couldn’t name the emotion glimmering there. It wasn’t love, that was for damned sure. But whatever it was, it was just as scary.

  “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” she said evenly, not a hint of pressure in her tone as she intertwined her fingers with his.

  He cleared his throat. “Nothing to tell.”

  “Okay then,” she said as she settled beside him and tugged him until he joined her.

  Turning her onto her right side, mostly because he couldn’t handle the soft light in her gaze, he aligned his body with hers, her back to his chest, then pinched his thumb to his bandaged fingers to grip the sheet and tug it up over them both. He draped his left arm over her, making sure to keep his bandaged mitt high on her shoulder. That ought to be elevated enough.

  If he hadn’t been injured, Beau would’ve taken the chance and cupped her breast. But now wasn’t the time, and he plain wasn’t capable of cupping anything at the moment. Hell, between all the gauze wrapping Kelsey had so carefully reapplied, and the pain meds Libby had shot him up with, he couldn’t have felt McKenna’s breast in his hand anyway, a true tragedy. If that moment ever came, he wanted every last tactile sensation that a soft and sweet miracle like that had to offer.

  Begrudgingly, he now understood he had to let his reattached finger heal or he’d lose it. He also understood that Maverick was a decent guy after all. He was plenty capable of holding the line. It was okay to rest easy. It might even be time for Beau to change his thinking.

  Besides, McKenna didn’t need some guy groping her. Lying in bed with her like this was about him finally wising up and holding onto the one good thing in his life. It was about him admitting he was as fucked up as they came, but that he could change. That he would. That he needed McKenna as much, maybe more, than she needed him. He might even tell her. Later.

  Because, Maverick was right. Beau was chicken, and he knew it. The ire he’d harbored all his life had made him plenty tough and mean. The violence and fury he’d carried like a flaming shield into combat, gave others second thoughts about starting anything with him. Which was what he’d always wanted, that invisible demarcation that dared anyone to step too close or think he was their friend. He wasn’t. He’d meant every ‘Fuck off!’ he’d ever roared.

  But that carefully honed anger had also made him weak. It kept him safe, and it had surely earned him one helluva badass rep. But it left him isolated. Shut off from the rough and tumble camaraderie he’d witnessed between other special operators.

  Because of the resentment he’d lived with during his childhood, his first course of action was always to lash out. Push back. Make damned sure that no one came too close. He hit first every damned time, and he hit hard. One look at the perpetual sneer on his ugly face, and most people tended to give him a wide berth. And they should.

  Until that moment in the barn… Until that big, little filly entered his world like a long-legged gift fresh from heaven. Breathtaking, that was what it was. Jesus, he’d almost cried. That little horse was so pure. So perfect and clean. Like AJ.

  Since he’d lost his little sister, Beau thought of himself first, every time. He’d had to. That was how he’d survived all these years. Wasn’t anyone on this whole mother-effin’ planet looking out for him. But now he knew. He wasn’t the important one. Neither was Montego. She might think she was, and for a while, Beau had believed the lie.

  But Catalina-Fuckin’-Montego was nothing more than an ugly speed bump on the road of life. Soon he’d mow her down, and she’d be roadkill, and years from now, no one would care how she’d died—which she most certainly would. But every child and baby that McKenna treated, every mother and father whose fears she’d calmed in the dark nights when their babies were sick, would surely remember Dr. Fitzgerald.

  Because she was the important one in this nightmare, and by hell, she would live the rest of her life in peace. Beau would make sure of that, too.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  She closed her eyes, so thankful for the warm wall of manly muscle at her back. For the heavy arm around her. When Beau’s nose ended up in her hair, she didn’t care that her locks needed to be shampooed and brushed. Nothing mattered but being safe inside the circle of his arms.

  “You think I’m a gingerbread cookie?” she asked, needing to ease the tension that had grown between them when she’d called him on his scars. She shouldn’t have drawn attention to them, but the obvious stripes on his shoulders and back were shocking. There were so many, and some were thick, as if his skin had been laid open and never stitched closed. As if he’d been whipped and left untreated. She knew scars and those were not from combat.

  The blanket moved as he shrugged. “It was the first thing that came to my mind. Stupid, huh?”

  “Not stupid at all. In fact, it was sweet. But why gingerbread?” McKenna had no intention of letting this go. Even as tired as she was, her heart called out to help him. She just needed a different angle. Beau wasn’t a man to confront head-on. He’d never accept a handout, so she wouldn’t give him one. But a hand up was something else.

  He answered with another shrug. “Gino’s bakery was only a block away from where I, umm, lived. Used to wait outside the window every morning, waiting while he and his wife loaded the displays. At Christmas, they always had rows of little gingerbread men decorated in red and green frosting.”

  “Ah, so you’re a gingerbread connoisseur,” she said, loving the feel of his strong arm on her shoulder.

  “Nah. Never tasted one.”

  That was unexpected. “Why not? That was what you waited for, wasn’t it?”

  He let out a big puff of air that sent a strand of her hair over her forehead. “That didn’t mean I ever got one. Gino didn’t like us kids hanging around his place. Said we scared off paying customers and made him look bad.”

  “Aw, so he shooed you off?” How could an adult do that to little kids? What would it hurt to give away a few cookies?

  “I wish. More like he shot us with rock salt. Peppered our asses the few times he hit us.”

  “He didn’t!”

  Beau’s chin bumped the side of her head when he nodded. “Oh, yeah. I didn’t exactly grow up in a high-class neighborhood like you did.”

  “Where’s home?”

  “Las Vegas, northeast of the strip in what they call the Cultural Corridor because the mayor won’t let them put Shithole on the map.”

  McKenna squirmed around while Beau lifted his injured hand until she faced him.
“You were in a gang?” she asked as she combed her fingers over his ear through his thick, lush hair, thrilled at the softness of it.

  He closed his eyes at her touch, reminding her of a big jungle cat, one who very much needed to be petted. “The kids I ran around with weren’t gang material. We were young. Too much trouble.”

  Her brows crinkled. “How young were you?”

  He gave her what she now recognized as his go-to for anything he didn’t want to answer. A noncommittal shrug. “I don’t know. Young. What’s it matter?”

  McKenna cupped the back of his head and pulled it to her forehead. “Because I care about you, Beau. You might not know that, but it’s true. How old?”

  He shrugged again but a soft light softened those hard as flint windows to his soul. “Seven and a half,” he admitted begrudgingly.

  That couldn’t be right. Little kids didn’t run wild on city streets, did they? “Seven and a half?”

  His chin lifted like he needed to defend himself. “Yeah. So?”

  “Where was your mom? Your dad?” Don’t tell me you were alone at that age.

  The shades went down, and the bars came up. He shrugged. Which meant he wasn’t ready to share. She’d suspected someone in his past life had broken him, leaving him guarded and scarred. But she’d imagined he’d come from humble beginnings, maybe a single parent home, not that he’d had no family at all. And never in her wildest imaginations could she see a child of seven alone on the streets. Her heart hurt. But okay then. Now that she was calm, thanks to her reluctant hero, it was his turn. McKenna began to assess what she really knew about Beau.

  Former Army Ranger. Hispanic descent. Good-looking was the greatest understatement of them all. Deep tawny skin as if his tan had a tan. Thick chested. Built like an ox. Light on his feet. Well over six feet tall. Wide. Stubborn as all get out. She assigned those traits positive marks.

  Into the negative column went: Hostile. Defensive. Hot-tempered. Insubordinate. Non-compliant. Argumentative. Possibly scarred for life, both inside and out. Yet none of those seemingly negative traits screamed that he was cruel. Beau wasn’t the type to deliberately go out of his way to hurt anyone. He just demanded that the world get out of his way and give him his space.

  When she’d first met him in Kelsey’s kitchen, he’d been injured and weak by the time she’d arrived. Yet he’d tried valiantly to give Alex what details he could remember. Yes, the tough guy had barked a lot, especially when she’d administered the numbing shots to what was left of his poor finger. But beneath that badass veneer and his prolific f-bombs, she’d detected a hard man coming undone. He’d been disoriented and scared, which made sense. Most military members thought themselves invincible until they were shot, knifed, or—someone hacked off their finger.

  Mortality’s bitter wake-up call tended to shock guys who thought they were Superman. That was when the real person, the frightened little kid behind the adult male mask, appeared. Beau was no different. Tougher than most, maybe. Edgy and ready to fight the world, definitely. But also hiding a world of hurt behind that macho mask.

  Those scars he carried were frightening evidence of past brutality. Not only was he hiding behind them, but he wielded them like a shield in his fight against the world. He used the energy from all that latent anger like an electrically charged force field to keep everyone out of his way.

  She’d seen this specific type of survival mechanism before in adopted children from other countries. Not all nations treated their castoffs well. Some only warehoused their unwanted babies in state-run facilities that could never in a million years pass U.S. health codes. But she’d also seen the same survival skills displayed by children who’d endured child abuse. It was a clear case of dissociation, the defensive reflex of a child who’d never known affection or a parent’s gentle touch. How sad.

  Yes, she’d had her own childhood monster to deal with, but she’d also had her dad. Who did Beau have? Anyone?

  She traced a finger from his chin to his earlobe, needing to calm that frightened little boy who’d grown into one frightening mass of lean muscle and temperamental attitude. “Have you ever blacked out?” Blackouts were another indicator of dissociation. The mind could only compensate for so much abuse before it gave up and turned off.

  He scrunched his shoulder, which impacted his injured hand, a hand she wanted kept as elevated and as immobile as possible. He should be in the hospital, but that was a battle she wouldn’t attempt. Not now. Not yet. She had to tame this surly beast first. Yet he had effectively deflected another question, a definite admission that he had blacked out in the past. Okay then. She’d asked enough for now. “Have you ever been to Belize?”

  He huffed through his nostrils. “Been in the jungle west of there, why?”

  “Just wondering if you’ve ever relaxed enough to take a real vacation.”

  A gruff grunt answered. “You want to? Go there, I mean?”

  “I do, but I’m not confident enough to travel by myself, especially to foreign countries. And I’m directionally challenged. I’d probably get lost the first day I arrived and never be seen again.”

  “I’d go with you. You know. For company. If you wanted to.”

  There it was, yet another defense mechanism. An offer of companionship with an escape clause.

  “But would you take me dancing?” she asked, pushing his limits. “On the beach? Under the stars?”

  “I don’t dance.” Exactly what she thought he would say. “But I’d try. For you.”

  That was unexpected. McKenna met his gaze then. Her heart stalled at the feral intensity gleaming down at her. This was a man hovering on the verge of yet another scary new world. Intimacy. Truly opening up. How she wanted him to kiss her. Not just kiss her but...

  He just had surgery.

  Still…

  In a raw, feral way, he was so pretty to look at, it hurt. Fire pooled hot and low in her belly, where it had no business pooling after what she’d barely survived. But she wanted Beau Jennings like she’d wanted no man before. His mouth. His body. His heart.

  “We should get some sleep,” he growled.

  “Okay,” she whispered, breathing hard, another way of telling him she was his for the taking if he’d only take that first step. If he’d only let her in.

  Their hearts pounded a fierce jungle beat of desire in the chasm of uncertainty between them. Until he pressed his mouth to her forehead and said, “Just you wait.” Right before he cupped her head and pulled her back under his chin. Nothing more.

  Shivering at what could’ve happened, McKenna swallowed her silly expectations even as she eased one hand around his waist and let her fingertips rub circles on that poor back.

  Just you wait.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “Where is he? Which room?” Alex had no patience for agents who committed sins of omission.

  “He’s asleep,” Maverick growled. “Let him be.”

  Not what Alex expected. He cocked an irritated, get-the-hell-out-of-my-way glare over his shoulder at the guy who only the day before hadn’t wanted Junior Agent Beau Jennings in his house. Why the hell was Maverick defending him now? “Excuse me?”

  “He just got back to bed. He’s running on empty. Let him rest, damn it.”

  Alex backtracked up the hall from Maverick’s guest room. “What’d he do now?”

  “Nothing, Boss. He helped me with Gorgeous. Damned foal wouldn’t drop all night, but then Beau…” Maverick scraped one hand over his head. “I gave her some medicine and I made him stay and help me until she foaled, all right? That’s all.”

  But it wasn’t all. Alex could tell. “What?” he snapped.

  “He means to end Montego, Boss. I thought he was just being a selfish prick, leaving McKenna like he nearly did, but he’s not. He’s the biggest asshole I’ve ever met, but he’s also madder than any guy come back from service I’ve ever seen. He’s pissed at you and me, but…” There went t
hat hand again. “Boss. I don’t know how to say it but… it’s like he’s me all over again.”

  The taut cords in Maverick’s neck belied his raging emotions. “I was him not long ago. Right before I quit The TEAM, I was wound as tight as Beau is today. You don’t know this, but I meant to end myself when I walked out on you. I had nothing left to live for. Least I didn’t think I did then. Trust me. I wasn’t headed for Wyoming. This” —he gestured at the rustically styled home around him— “just happened.”

  Suicide? Really? Maverick couldn’t have shocked Alex more.

  Yet he stood there glaring, his lips thin and his eyes as dark as Hell warmed over. “China saved my life. China and her horses. Kyrie. X and Z.” His Adam’s apple bobbed like he had something caught in his throat. “Beau doesn’t know it, but I think he needs us more than he realizes. You. Me. Hell, he might just need our wives and our kids, too. He needs The TEAM. I don’t know what happened to him or when everything in his life turned to shit, but if you know, tell me.”

  Alex drew in a steadying breath. If he’d suspected for one second how low Maverick had been that day… That he’d quit with the intention of killing himself... I never should’ve let him out of my sight.

  Chastened, Alex jerked his chin at the couch. Now was not the time for belligerence. “Sit,” he ordered quietly.

  Maverick took the far end but settled at the edge of it like he was ready to run.

  “All I know is what I’ve just uncovered from his military records and what Mother’s found from the state of Nevada. It’s public knowledge, so I can tell you. Beau’s got enough U.S. Army commendations to wallpaper my office. But he’s got a few disciplinary actions against him, too, one in particular that will land him in federal prison. He should’ve had the guts to tell me he was one of the six Rangers who went into Nangarhar Province, Afghanistan, after the Syrian terrorist, Abdul Salim. Beau was the only one who lived to talk about it. That should’ve been in his personnel records, damn it.”