Badass - The Complete Series: A Billionaire Military Romance

by Leslie Johnson

  I grin at her. “We’ll need to get you ambidextrous so you don’t throw like a girl.”

  She snarls and then kind of wiggles her way to a standing position on the other side of the bed. “I’m going to rinse off in the shower. I’m sticky … everywhere.”

  I can’t stop it. “Okay, squirt. Let me know if you need some help.”

  She narrows her eyes at me and shuts the bathroom door hard behind her.

  Stepping close to the door, I listen to make sure she’s okay. There’s a trickle of water, the flush of a toilet and then the shower turns on. So far so good.

  I grab our bag of food, probably cold now and head over to the little microwave to zap it back to life before picking up the iPad and scrolling through for more news. I nearly toss the damn thing when I learn they’re calling Captain Fink’s murder a home invasion gone wrong.

  I shake my head. What the hell is going on?

  A few minutes later, she’s out of the shower and I step by the door to listen again. She seems to be doing okay. Damn, she’s tough. And independent. I wonder if she’s ever let anyone do anything for her.

  The door opens and she pokes her head out. “Do you mind helping me with the sling? And I think I got the back bandage wet.”

  Stepping behind her, I inhale her fresh scent and change the bandages on both sides. She’s sweating again by the time I help her slip a camisole on, and pull pajama bottoms up her legs. I check my watch. Time for her medicine.

  “I got us some open face roast beef sandwiches and mashed potatoes for dinner. Think your stomach can handle something solid? I got more soup just in case.”

  “Mmm. That sounds really good. Mashed potatoes are one of my favorite foods.”

  A short while later, she’s blinking sleepily at me, lifting her hand to stifle a yawn. She ate quite a bit, more than I thought she would, then instantly regrets it, holding a hand to her weak stomach.

  Standing, I pull her to the bathroom and squirt toothpaste on a brush for her, and dump her medicine in her hand. I add some Phenergan for her stomach and to help her sleep a bit more, then close the door to give her a little privacy. While she brushes and uses the bathroom, I turn down the covers of the second bed.

  She walks in, sees what I’m doing and blushes to her roots. I grin at her. “Can’t let my sweetheart sleep in the wet spot.” I can’t believe it when she flips me off.

  When I have her tucked in, she lifts a hand to my shoulder, tracing a trio of scars. “Thank you for taking care of me today. You’re like a MacGyver slash Rambo slash Terminator all rolled up into one.” Then she grins. “With a lot of Fabio sprinkled on top.”

  I pull the sheet up to her neck, tucking her in tight. “Fabio, huh? Maybe I should get a long-haired wig for my next disguise.”

  “Yes! You’d look hot on the cover of a romance novel.”

  Leaning down, I kiss her. Then stand and walk to the other bed. I pull down the blankets on the dry side, then look up when she asks, “What are you doing?”

  “Sleeping over here. Letting you rest.”

  Her eyebrows draw together. “Don’t. Stay with me. Here. At least until I fall asleep. Please.”

  “You sure? I normally like to be left alone when I’m hurting.”

  She scowls. “The Golden Rule sucks hairy ass sometimes.”

  That gets my attention. “It’s the Golden Rule? How does it suck ass?”

  “Hairy ass,” she corrects me, her eyes closing then looking up at me again. “I think it creates problems, especially between men and women because we already think so differently to start with.” The meds must really be kicking in. Her voice is beginning to slur. “The rule says to treat others as we wish to be treated. So when you hurt, you want to be left alone. Then you treat me like I want the same. I don’t.”

  Humoring her, I sit on her bed and pull off the prosthetic before crawling in bed with her. She groans and turns toward me, her good arm still tight against her chest. “Better?” I ask and she smiles sleepily and blinks, her face inches from mine.

  “You don’t have to stay here if you’re worried about a nightmare,” she tells me softly, her breath warm and minty against my face. “You need to get some sleep too.”

  I’ve avoided looking at the bruises on her wrists all day. Now she’s talking about my problem like it’s an issue easily solved. Maybe I should look into that new therapy. The thought of never getting to sleep with her is not something I want to think about.

  “Just stay with me a few minutes. I’ll be asleep soon. And I want to ask you something.”

  Shit.

  In my experience, anything that comes after that isn’t good. I inhale. “Okay…”

  “Will you tell me the truth about something?” she asks, her eyes darker now.

  “Depends on the question,” I respond, trying to lighten the mood I could feel deepening around us.

  She doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t smile. Her eyes don’t leave mine. “When we were on that patio this morning…” her voice grows thick and she coughs, clearing it, “…when the red light was on your chest. When you saw it there, you didn’t move.” A tear trickles from the corner of her eye. “You looked up and you looked…” her face crumples and I watch her fight the emotion back, “You looked … relieved.”

  I know exactly what she’s talking about. That moment when I knew the pain of living in this world—with my failures, with her leaving in two days, of my having hurt her during the night—would be over.

  “I…” I don’t know what to say.

  “Don’t lie to me, Link. I was there. I saw it.”

  I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. It’s easier to talk to her that way. She already sees too much of me. Sees inside me. “Yes. Everything felt hopeless.”

  “And now?” she asks, her voice still sounding strangled.

  I turn back onto my side, facing her again and lift my hand to wrap her curls around my fingers.

  She waits. Not pressing. Just giving me the time I need.

  I don’t need much. Because the answer is clear. The answer is in front of me.

  “Now…” I swallow, feeling the emotion too. “Now, I have something to live for.”

  I lay with her until her breathing slows into the steady in and out rhythm of sleep. Slowly, I ease from the bed, and grab the cane, picking up the iPad on the way to the other bed.

  Nothing new on the explosion this morning.

  Nothing new on Captain Fink.

  I enter search terms to discover new killings, but don’t find anything. Of course, not every death makes the front-page news.

  Opening a new tab, I do a new search, trying to see if there’s any new news on the Syria set-up and see a couple of conspiracy theory reports popping up. I read them all. Some believe the operation was set-up by the president in order to silence operatives who know too much. Some think the Secretary of State was simply cleaning house in order to replace us with robo-soldiers. Others believe China paid ISIS to cripple the US military. Four blame the CIA.

  A few theorists have connected some dots between the Syria mission and the deaths of soldiers in the following weeks. I pay more attention to those, but still don’t learn anything solid. I bookmark them. When I get to my cabin in Colorado, I’ll have access to more advanced search equipment. Right now, I’ve got to get some sleep.

  We’ll be on the road at least twelve hours tomorrow. I need to switch cars. It pisses me off that I don’t have enough cash or access to cash to buy something, even used. I have more money than any one person would ever need, but none of it does me any good right now.

  I have money in my safe in the cabin. I’ll wire another car at the Vegas airport tomorrow, then ditch it once we’re at the cabin. I’ll buy something new with one of my other identifications and get that burden off my back.

  Sitting up, I turn off the light, but not before checking on Grace. She’s sleeping peacefully now. I wish I could touch her, wrap around her warm body. Comfort her as she comf
orts me.

  I can’t.

  Cursing, I settle onto my pillow and let the worries of the day fade into the oblivion of sleep.

  Chapter 6 – Grace

  Sitting on the side of my bed watching him twist and turn in his is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. He’s dreaming again and I can’t go to him. First, I don’t have the strength right now to keep him from hurting himself or hurting me. But that isn’t what concerns me most. More importantly, I don’t want to witness the look in his eyes when he wakes to find a new set of bruises on my skin. The blame he’ll automatically assume.

  So I wait.

  I watch.

  I listen to the groans and the urgent cries that leave his mouth in random moments.

  “Sami! No!”

  I wonder who Sami is. What he means to Link, and why he continues to torture him in his sleep. I’ve heard the name often over the past month.

  Darren.

  Julie.

  Hulk.

  Mike.

  Anna.

  Me.

  So many names he dreams about. So many people he tries to mentally save. So many cries of despair. So many roars of hate. So many tears.

  “Run!”

  He rolls to his side, curling into a ball, his hands over his face.

  “Link!” I say his name sharply again, trying to penetrate the war he’s fighting within himself. “Take Sami to the safe place.”

  I don’t know if this line will work because Link won’t talk about Sami, and he won’t talk about the dreams he has about him. Since it looks like I’ll be staying with him for a while, I need to force the subject soon.

  Glancing at the clock, I realize this nightmare is reaching the half hour mark. It’s nearly four in the morning now. I’ve been researching dreaming and in particular, lucid dreaming and things to do before one falls asleep. Research claims there are actions people can take that might lessen the episodes and duration of bad dreams.

  But Link won’t talk about it. He only rolls his eyes and calls it ‘psycho babble.’

  “Go, Sami. Go!” He’s on his back again, his hands raised in the air.

  I try again. “Sami’s running to safety, Link. See him. He’s almost there. Look, he made it.”

  Link lowers his hands to his chest.

  I watch.

  I wait.

  I listen to his breathing grow softer. A minute passes. Then another. Then he turns on his side and his face twists in pain. “Watch out, Darren!”

  I sigh and continue my vigil.

  Another half hour passes before he snaps himself awake, sitting bolt upright in the bed. I nearly yelp at the suddenness of it all, but manage to stay silent. I quickly lie back down, pretending to be asleep, but watch him through a slit in my eye as he shakes off the confusion, rubs his hands over his face, and reaches for the cane to stand.

  He’s naked.

  Beautiful.

  Even without his leg and even with all of the scars, he’s perfect in so many ways. His muscular back tapering into the sculpted cheeks of his ass. He drops the cane on the bed and stretches, raising his hands toward the ceiling. He balances perfectly and I smile, so proud of my participation in his recovery. All the hours I forced him to practice turning and hopping on his biological leg has paid off. He’s mastered it.

  Without the use of the cane, he turns and looks toward me. “You can stop playing possum now,” he says with a playful tone.

  I smile. “Was just enjoying the view,” I say and push myself into a sitting position, gritting my teeth. I made a promise to myself earlier. I wouldn’t moan or cry a single time today.

  If he can survive all he’s been through, I can survive a hole through my shoulder with more dignity and class than I’ve managed so far.

  But holy hell. It hurts like damnation’s fire.

  Days two and three following an injury are almost always worse, pain wise. Perhaps I should make that promise to myself tomorrow.

  Standing, I walk into the bathroom to pee and clutch my stomach as it rattles out a gurgle, my intestines twisting around on each other. Dang it. It’s still messed up.

  I shouldn’t have eaten so much last night. I knew better, but it tasted so good. And I was starving. Absolutely so hungry that I probably could have eaten the cow the roast beef was taken from.

  My stomach rattles again and I sit on the toilet, wishing for some of that Poo-Pourri stuff I’d seen so cleverly advertised on YouTube. I wonder if they sell it at Wal-Mart.

  “You okay in there?”

  “Fine!” I yelp and flush to cover the horrible noise I’m making.

  He laughs through the thin door. “Sure?”

  “Go away!”

  Why can’t this be like a romance novel where the heroine never has to take a shit, shave her legs or worry about bad breath?

  Speaking of legs, I look down at mine and cringe. Yoga pants it is.

  Three mercy flushes later, I’m finally able to stand. I turn on the shower, hoping it will somehow absorb all the smell.

  A knock on the door. “Grace, I really need to piss.”

  “Go outside,” I yell at him, waving my hand through the air. I search through my toiletries, desperately looking for something aerosol.

  Nothing.

  He knocks again. “Grace, it’s okay. I’ve bunked with hundreds of men who haven’t showered in days, remember? Nothing can be that bad.”

  Sighing deep and long, I unlock the door and he bursts in. “Sweet Jesus,” he mutters, giving me a ‘how the hell did you manage that’ look before turning to the toilet, peeing and escaping the room, not stopping long enough to wash his hands.

  I sigh.

  Dignity.

  Class.

  Right.

  Twenty minutes later, I feel brave enough to step out of the bathroom, holding my chin up high.

  He’s on the iPad again, searching, scrolling. He looks up at me and grins. “Hi, stinky.”

  I huff and stomp over to the bag my clothes are in, ignoring his rumbling laughter behind me. Yanking out some black pants, a white tank and a thin, blue zip-up jacket, I march my way into the bathroom. “Did you forget to buy me some underwear on purpose?” I ask grumpily over my shoulder.

  His laughter is mostly cut off when I slam the door, then I’m faced with the prospect of getting dressed alone. I shrug out of the robe, holding my arm against my chest. I’d taken off the sling for the shower. Somehow, I manage to step into the pants and pull them up. I’m sweating again before I accomplish that feat.

  He knocks. “Need some help?”

  “Not from you!” I yell back.

  Then I stand there, looking in the mirror, the tank in my hand. I can do this. I shake it out and pull it over my head, immediately realizing I’d poked my head through the armhole.

  I growl at my reflection in the mirror.

  “Coming in,” he says, and I watch the lock thingy turn in the handle. I narrow my eyes at him as the door opens a crack. He gets sight of me and presses his lips together. Without a word, he walks in, pulls the tank off and helps me get into it correctly, then he eases the jacket on me and zips it up before getting me back into the sling.

  Watching his big hands touch me so tenderly, the anger and embarrassment melt away. “Thank you,” I say and turn to him, running a hand through his rumpled hair.

  He leans forward to kiss me. “You’re welcome. We leave in ten minutes, okay?”

  Nodding, I leave him to shower and do my best to pitch in and get us ready for the next leg of our escape.

  Chapter 7 – Duffy

  As I hotwire another vehicle from the Las Vegas airport, I silently promise to compensate all these people once this damn mess is over. This Grand Cherokee belongs to an elderly couple who had enough luggage with them to look like they’d be gone for six weeks. I give them a mental ‘sorry’ as I yank the transmission into reverse and head over to the Tahoe to transfer everything over.

  I don’t take a deep breath until we
hit the 15-North and I set the cruise control to two miles over the limit. If I don’t set cruise, I know my foot will get heavy. I don’t need to get pulled over for a fucking ticket.

  Glancing down at my left hand, I tap the unfamiliar band circling my ring finger on the steering wheel. I look over at Grace and watch her looking down at the matching one on her hand, her thumb twisting it in circles.

  Before we left the hotel this morning, I had held her to me in a long hug. Then, I pulled the rings from my pocket. She’d gasped when she saw them, then looked up at me in confusion.

  “I’ve been thinking. We need a cover story in case we’re stopped along the way.”

  She had inhaled and licked her lips, understanding dawning over her expression. “Okay.”

  “The mustache won’t stick any longer, you’ll be happy to know, so I’ll be Greg Southern for this trip and you’ll be—”

  “Marcia?” she’d interrupted, laughing.

  I’d poked her in the stomach. “Thought you were more of a Jan or Cindy.”

  She straightened. “So who am I?”

  “You’ll be my wife, Gladys,” I’d said, trying to keep a straight face.

  She’d frowned at me and her bottom lip puffed out. “Gladys? Can I be something exotic like Gabrielle?”

  I’d lifted her hand and slipped the ring on her finger. “Gabrielle, will you be my wife?”

  We had stood there, just looking at each other. I saw the wish in her eyes and I felt the wish in my heart. She licked her lips again before saying, “Yes.”

  Then she’d taken the other ring from me and slipped it on my finger before closing her eyes and saying, “And they all lived happily ever after. Amen.”

  Turning my attention back to the road, I give myself a moment to think about someday, then mentally shake myself back to reality.

  Lived.

  Happily.

  I realize either of those words are more than I could wish for. Together, they seem like an impossibility.

  Grace’s stomach growls and she quickly places a hand over it, turning to look out the window.