by Bridget Lang
He would schedule the appointment, and this time he wouldn’t touch her, he promised himself. He sure as fuck wasn’t going to be crying to her about his feelings either though. He’d go and get cleared for duty. Nothing more, and certainly nothing less.
The following afternoon, Dean swung into a gas station to gas up his bike when he spotted Maria, James’s widow. She was across the parking lot trying to put air in the tires of her old suburban. She had a baby attached to her hip, her second youngest had unbuckled and was trying to climb out of the car while her oldest, who was only around five years old, cried her heart out in the back seat. Maria looked nothing like the young, confident woman he’d known. She looked haggard and worn, with hard lines around her mouth and eyes that spoke of hard living or grief rather than age. In her case, Dean knew, it was grief.
Remorse swamped him. Guilt at not bringing his best friend home to his family. Guilt at not helping with the children whose father he’d failed to bring home. Dean had promised Maria at the funeral that he would be by to help out, but every time he thought of making good on his promise, pain and remorse choked him. He tried to rationalize his behavior by telling himself that it would just hurt Maria to see him. That his presence would only be reminding her of what she’d lost, but even he hadn’t believed his own lies.
He could go over there now, talk to her. It would be easy to grab the baby for a moment while she filled the tires with air, or to sooth her daughter’s tears.
He didn’t though.
With guilt churning in his gut and the ashy taste of regret on his tongue, Dean refastened his helmet and rode home.
He sat alone in the dark that night. He’d given up on a shot glass after a while and was drinking his whiskey straight from the bottle. The bitter, burning liquid did nothing to numb his pain. Perhaps, Dean thought, that was because numbness was a relief that he was unworthy of. That didn’t mean he couldn’t try for oblivion though. He swallowed from the bottle again and again until finally he passed out in a hazy, anguish-filled stupor.
Even passed out cold, James haunted his dreams, but not the James he’d known. Dead, lifeless eyes stared at him accusingly as James asked him with bloodied lips again and again why he’d made Maria a widow.
Nothing would allow Dean to run from his demons, for now they took the form of nightmares ghosting through his head until the blessed light of dawn could pull him back into the waking nightmare and the guilt that was slowly eating him from the inside out.
Chapter Six
Ava found herself going through Dean’s case file again on her lunch break, even though she knew it would be better to use the time to unwind, or to review the files for one of the men coming to see her for their appointments that afternoon.
She didn’t know why she bothered pulling the thing, really. She practically had it memorized word for word. Dean Mitchell was a highly decorated SEAL with an impeccable record. He’d been on numerous black ops that were outlined. All of them violent, bloody affairs, but usually the bleeding was done by the enemy.
That certainly hadn’t been the case with Dean’s last mission.
Dean’s sniper team had been in position to take out a lower profile target, a terrorist who was killed as a matter of opportunity rather than for his political or tactical significance. Dean had cautioned them that going that far into the heart of the terrorist compound would be no easy thing, but his chain of command had insisted. After a successful kill, his team was ambushed.
They fought and held their position on the rooftop they were holed up on, but by the time his team had been extracted only two men were still alive. That in itself wouldn’t have been surprising, considering the odds against them.
It was the rest of the story that Ava found odd. The reasoning behind the mission didn’t make sense, first of all. Why travel into the heart of enemy territory for a seemingly worthless target? Ava knew that the answer to that could be a result of doctored files, changed to hide sensitive information. The damning evidence was the .556 caliber round that had been found in James’s skull, a different sized round than the AK-47’s their enemies typically preferred. That, too, might be written off. While every effort was made to keep US weapons from falling into enemy hands, it was, from time to time, an unfortunate reality.
It was the words of a dead man, though, that had led his commanding officers to question Dean’s stability. Before dying in transit, his team member’s last words had been, “Mitchell took him down.” While most had written off the statement, assuming that he’d been referring to their target, the origin of the round that had ended James left a nagging question in the minds of some. Did the .556 caliber round that had been found in James’s skull come from Dean Mitchell’s weapon? Had Dean truly been overrun, or had he betrayed them, at the cost of his best friend’s life?
Because there was no one but Dean left to ask what had really happened that day, no formal charges had been filed. Rather than accusing him of anything, the chain of command had decided to honor his previously spotless record by first finding out whether or not he was mentally stable.
Ava’s job should be an easy one, but Dean was being so damned uncooperative…and the evidence itself was pretty damning. Even as Ava mentally shied away from the idea that she might have made love to a killer in a darkened parking lot, she couldn’t help but wonder…
Was it possible that Dean Mitchell was insane?
Chapter Seven
Dean had kept his promise to himself and scheduled another appointment with Ava knowing that he’d keep conversation away from what had happened on his last tour, away from anything else that might make him look vulnerable, and he’d most certainly keep his hands off of her.
So it was that he found himself in the waiting room once again mentally shoring up his defenses before he began another session of ‘the healing’, as he’d come to refer to it. As long as she didn’t see him upset, he reasoned, she would quickly realize that he was fine. He would answer her questions this time, he promised himself. It was obvious the stubborn beauty wasn’t going to clear him if he didn’t.
He smiled to himself when she called him by his first name rather than his rank and last name, wondering if she even realized she’d done it. He rose and strode across the room into her office.
“I’m ready, Doc. Let the healing begin.”
He didn’t miss the momentary tightening of her lips before her features became concerned but professional. Her ‘head shrinking mask’ he teased her.
She responded in a calm, even tone, “At some point you’re going to have to take this seriously Dean, or I’ll never be able to clear you for duty.”
Dean bristled internally. Though some part of him realized that he’d been telling himself the same thing out in the waiting room, he couldn’t help feeling like she’d issued a challenge…or a threat even. Now if only he could remind his raging hormones that he wasn’t happy with her at the moment…
He kept his face deliberately blank—two could play the game—and said, “Okay, Doc… serious it is. Shoot. What do you want to talk about?”
Surprised satisfaction flitted across her face before she answered, “I need you to tell me what happened the day James died.”
“I think you just summed it up pretty good yourself. He died. Next?”
“We have to talk about this, Dean. Give me something more. What do you remember?”
In a cold voice he recounted his official statement word for word. He knew that it was part of his file, knew that saying the words would give her nothing more than she already had… then she could clear him and he could go back to work, problem solved. She waited patiently, though the look on her face told him she knew exactly what he was doing. She was silent, and that silence eventually drove him to speak again.
“Fine. There was smoke, noise and blood. Worst day of my life to date, though being forced to come in here and get my head shrunk rates a close second.” Though he’d meant to be flippant, pain had lanced through him at
the thought of James’s blood staining the ground, the life fading from his eyes—Damn. He didn’t need this shit.
He looked over at Ava and the compassion in her eyes made something inside him snap. He stood and walked toward her, then crouched before her. He smiled without mirth when his closeness made her flinch.
“Gosh, Ava. I feel so much better already.” He broke off with a harsh laugh when she hesitantly reached toward him. “What do you know about a man dying anyway, Doc, laying in a puddle of his own blood?”
He saw the raw pain that flashed in her eyes, but the same self-destructive streak that led him to drive away everyone else—everyone but James— had him pressing on anyway.
“I can see why you’re concerned. Enough to drive a man crazy, right?”
He leaned in so close that he could feel Ava’s breath falling feather soft against his lips.
“Do you want to know what’s driving me crazy?” She didn’t answer, but he could see her eyes dilating as his nearness brought her arousal. “Not being inside your sweet pussy right now.”
She was still, and with a smirk, Dean sauntered back to his seat.
“I think you need to leave now, Petty Officer. Come back when you’re ready to actually talk this through. Until then, don’t waste my time.”
Dean felt like an ass as soon as the moment had passed. She’d been trying to drag up painful memories—forgivable considering that it was her job— and he’d reacted with condescension and anger. And, if that flash of pain on her face was any indication, he’d dug up some painful memories for her as well.
Yes, he was a first rate dickhead. But then, he’d known that all along.
He pushed the guilt into the back of his mind. It was a drop compared to the sea of regret he was drowning in. He sauntered out the front doors and sped off on his bike, intent on going straight home to do a couple shots, just to take the edge off.
Maybe he would apologize at his next appointment…if he decided to make another.
Chapter Eight
Ava watched Dean’s large, heavily-muscled form as he left her office. She shouldn’t have let him get her riled up like that. She understood that he was lashing out to defend himself, not out of a desire to hurt her. And in truth that wasn’t really why she’d asked him to leave.
He had gotten under her skin like no one else had ever been able to. It wasn’t just the ‘dark and dangerous’ thing he had going on. As a military brat, she’d been raised around handsome, dangerous men. She’d thought herself immune to their charms. Why, then, could she not be in the same room with Dean without wanting to tear his clothes off?
She had to be professional about this. Not only was Dean the first case she’d been handed to evaluate here, he was also obviously a man close to his breaking point. And if he crashed and burned, a part of her heart would die right along with him. She had to try harder to save him. She took a few deep, calming breaths before picking up the phone to call his commander.
Ava found herself seated across the desk from Dean’s CO, a distinguished looking man, probably in his mid-forties, slightly graying at the temples, who seemed battle-hardened but still good and true at his core. Though it was humbling, Ava explained to him that she hadn’t been able to get through to Dean at all. His brisk nod told Ava that her words came as no surprise.
“I’d be more worried about him if you had gotten him to open up so quickly, Ma’am. Petty Officer Mitchell isn’t the type to let anyone close…Not even those he served with overseas, except for James Mills. And they’d been thick as thieves since they were children from what I understand, even lived in the same foster homes from time to time.” Though there was no emotion in his gruff, no-nonsense voice, something in his eyes, when he raised them to meet hers, let Ava know that the man truly cared about Dean’s wellbeing.
“Dean is a good man. Takes his job seriously and follows orders. A military man through and through.”
His commander couldn’t see Dean in the role of traitor or murderer, and neither could Ava. “The man’s hard, but he’s not a man who takes joy in killing, and he’s sure as hell not a traitor. If he was, James Mills is the only soul in the world that he wouldn’t turn on.
“The higher-ups want the investigation, so they’ll have it. Me? I just want to make sure that Mitchell’s okay. You can’t go on the types of missions my men do if you aren’t up to the task mentally. That would break him for sure.”
Ava nodded thoughtfully before replying, “Thank you for the insights. I hadn’t realized that he and James were that close… I can’t promise I’ll be able to get through to him, but I promise I won’t clear him until I’m sure he’s ready to return to duty.”
“That’s all I can ask then.”
Ava mulled over the conversation on her way home that evening. Maybe, she thought, it would take more than a calm, structured office visit to get through to Dean. The emotional walls he’d built between himself and the rest of the world were thick, high and strong…and by all accounts the only person he’d ever let inside those walls, now lay in an early grave.
Though it certainly crossed lines she’d never thought to cross before, Ava was considering using Dean’s attraction to her to catch him off guard and try to get under his defenses. It was an unusual approach, and just skirted the line of ethical behavior, but something told Ava that it might be the only way she could save Dean from himself. And Ava would be damned if she’d give up without using every available weapon in her arsenal.
Unfortunately, doing what Ava was considering doing would mean that she’d have to let Dean inside her own defenses, and something told her that once she let him inside, he’d have power to hurt her like no one ever had before.
Chapter Nine
Dean was sitting on his couch in a dimly lit living room cleaning his 9mm Beretta when the knock came at his door. There was only a single lamp turned on, both because the light still stung his eyes—an after effect of overindulging the night before—and because darkness suited his mood.
It was easier somehow in the dark to ignore the world outside. He could almost pretend nothing had changed, that the last few months had never happened…almost. A couple shots might do even more to kill the pain, but it was early in the day yet. He would wait until late afternoon at least.
He didn’t really need to clean the pistol, but the easy, practiced motions of the action, a ritual repeated hundreds of times before, soothed something inside him.
What did it say about him that he had only cold, hard steel that had been forged for violence to turn to when he was at his lowest…well, that was another thought best pushed back into the recesses of his mind. They were piling up back there, back in the corner that housed a childhood of abuse and violence, followed by an adulthood of the same- even if the violence by his own hands had always been for the right reasons.
Does being a monster on the government’s leash make me any less of a monster?
When the knock came, he was both relieved and wary—relieved to have a distraction to pull him from his dark thoughts, and wary because there was no one left who would visit him for companionship. James had been the only one, and now he was dead.
Dean shook off the thought as he went to answer the door. Then he wished to hell that he hadn’t.
There stood Maria, looking worn and fragile with a cardboard box clutched to her chest. He could see in her pinched brow and in her haunted but compassionate eyes that she was worried about him. He wished the worry on her face could help him to feel something besides regret and rage.
“What do you need, Maria?” The words came out hard and clipped. Fuck, she didn’t deserve that. It wasn’t her fault that looking at his dead friend’s wife had his insides torn to shreds. Christ, he was an asshole.
Her mouth tightened momentarily, but she didn’t return his tone. “I just brought some things over that you might want. Some things that were James’s, but I think he would want you to have them. Some pictures of the two of you, a few old home mo
vies…I had them boxed up and ready, thought I would give you the box next time you stopped by, but you never came.” He could hear the accusation in her voice, barely restrained though she tried to hide it.
“I was going to Maria, I swear. I just…” Couldn’t stand the thought of looking you in the eye. “…didn’t get around to it.”
Then he saw her anger rise to the surface. Somehow the righteous fury in her eyes made him feel better. He deserved it.
“Couldn’t find the time, Dean? That’s just…fucking rotten.” The curse word fell heavy and flat from her lips. She was a gentle woman, not given to swearing or insults. “I can’t think of a single time my husband didn’t drop everything for you the second you needed him, didn’t come rushing when you called.”
She shoved the box at his chest and left with a rushed, angry gait. Her anger did nothing to rid him of the guilt that plagued his every waking moment though. It was only a fraction of what he deserved, a few paltry drops when he deserved a storm of retribution to cover him, surround him, fill his lungs...
With wooden steps he shuffled to the kitchen and upended the entire box into the garbage can. Somehow the sound of it hitting the bottom of the pail was a knife twisting in his gut.
How long he would have stood there, staring into space, he wasn’t sure, because another knock sounded at the door. Probably Maria, come back to give him another piece of her mind. God knew he deserved that and more.
It took a second for him to realize that it was not Maria, but Ava standing on his front step. When he said nothing to welcome her, she breezed past him into the living room like she had every right to be there. Dean was too emotionally exhausted to care one way or another at the intrusion. Ava froze when she saw the gun.
“Cleaning your gun, I see.” She tried to convey a light, mildly curious tone, but even she could detect the slight tremor in her own voice.
