For Love of Valor: A Bad Boy Military Romance

by Samantha Westlake

  "My leg." I wasn't going to tell Dirk about the nightmares, the voices, of course. "Pain meds ran out."

  "Leg?" Dirk glanced over at the limbs in question. "Dunno what you're complaining about, you still got them both."

  Before I could answer him, a nurse stepped out into the waiting area, cleared her throat. "Richard Stone!" she called out.

  With one last groan, I lifted myself up to my feet. The leg always seemed to hurt more in the morning, as if the pain had built up with nowhere to go during the night. "Have a good one, Dirk," I said as I headed for the nurse.

  "Yeah, same to you," the man said as I followed the nurse back to the doctor's office.

  I recognized the doctor in question, and my heart sank a few notches lower in my chest. Great. I'd gotten Mister Do-Gooder again. Mister Young and Energetic, Determined to Make A Difference. I much preferred to see some of the older docs, the ones who had been worn down by years of angry and injured vets, the ones who would just dash off their signature on a pain prescription and hustle me out of the office.

  No such luck this time, it seemed.

  "Ah, Mr. Stone," he greeted me as I sank thankfully down to sit on the examination bench in the small office. "Back for more pain pills, I'm guessing?"

  "That's right, doc," I answered. I remembered his name – Andy Kauffman – but I didn't feel like we needed to be on familiar terms. Just give me my scrip and let me go.

  Dr. Kauffman consulted my file, sitting open on the desk in front of him. "Although I notice that you were in here just a couple weeks ago. You received a one-month prescription. Back here a couple of weeks early, are we?"

  "Guess the pain was a bit stronger than before," I replied uncomfortably. "Took a few more pills to handle it. Now I'm out. All I need is a refill, and then I can get out of your hair-"

  But I could see that Dr. Kauffman wasn't buying it. The man leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest. "You know, Richard, I'm a little concerned for you," he said. "You've been on these meds for over a year, but there doesn't seem to be any improvement with the leg, or with the pain levels."

  "Of course not!" I burst out. I knew that it probably wasn't a good idea to explode on the doc, but my temper flared up before I could stop it and hold it back. "Doc, there's a damn piece of shrapnel in my leg! That's not going to heal after a year, or any amount of time. I'm stuck with this shit for the rest of my life, and if you're not going to give me the damn pills so that I can live with it-"

  "You don't need to keep coming here, Richard," Dr. Kauffman cut in, interrupting me. I was so surprised by this, I closed my mouth despite myself. "I've looked into you. You've got plenty of money – you come from quite the wealthy family, don't you? You could go to a private doctor and get whatever pain meds you wanted, instead of heading down here and sitting for a few hours in the VA clinic to get seen by an overworked and underpaid doctor like myself."

  He looked intently at me, waiting for an answer. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. "I guess I just like the feel of this place," I said, shrugging weakly. How could I explain to him that being a military man isn't something that just goes away? Sure, my family left me an eight-figure trust fund, but thinking about that just made me feel more alone. The money hadn't given me a family, not like the military had done.

  "Well, I have some bad news for you," Dr. Kauffman finally said, after a silence that stretched on for several seconds too long. "I'm not going to refill your pain prescription – at least, not right away. I have a different treatment I'd like to try."

  "I'm not letting you cut me open again, doc," I warned him.

  Dr. Kauffman chuckled. "Not quite what I had in mind," he said. "And to be honest, I don't think your problem is entirely physical."

  "Not physical? Doc, there's a chunk of metal inside-"

  He held up a hand to forestall me. "Yes, I know. But I suspect that, at least to some degree, this is psychosomatic."

  "Come again, doc?"

  "It's partially in your head," he clarified. He saw me open my mouth again, and quickly kept speaking. "I'm not saying that you're faking, Richard! But I do think that some counseling sessions might help. And there's a new psychiatrist in town, one who seems very competent. I'm going to refer you to her."

  "A psychiatrist?" Immediately, a picture of a pipe-smoking white-haired man popped into my head. I could practically hear him commanding me to lay back on his couch, talking with a thick German accent. "Not happening, doc."

  Dr. Kauffman chuckled. "Well, Richard, I'm putting a note in your file here that says not to prescribe you anything else until you've seen her," he commented lightly. "So even if you come back to see a different doctor instead of me, he'll see that note, and you won't get any more pills. And if Dr. Bisson can't help you, she's perfectly capable of renewing your prescription for you."

  Her? My mental picture of the white-bearded psychiatrist became a little jumbled when I tried to add a pair of tits. "Doc, I'm feeling more and more tempted to just get my hands on some pills by waving some money around," I warned.

  "And you are, of course, free to do so. But I'm still going to ask you, as a doctor who truly does care about you, Richard, to give Dr. Bisson a try." Dr. Kauffman leaned forward. "She comes from a military family, too, as I understand it," he added. "So she might be able to offer a better understanding of what you're facing than anyone else."

  I really didn't want to discuss what I might be facing, any of that darkness that lurked at the back of my mind. "All I'm facing is a bunch of shrapnel in my leg, and the pain that it causes," I said roughly. "And it sounds like we don't have anything else to discuss here, Doc."

  I stood up, but Dr. Kauffman also climbed to his feet, walking with me back out to the waiting area. "Mr. Stone," he called out after me.

  I looked back at him, and saw him holding out a sticky note to me. "Dr. Bisson's information," he said, as I took the note from him. "And I checked with her – she's got an appointment open this afternoon. Hurry over, and you can still get your pill prescription refilled before the pharmacy closes."

  For a moment, I really did think about just ignoring the suggestion, but my leg gave a warning twinge, suggesting that it had other ideas. "Fine," I groaned, stomping my way out of the VA clinic. "Just to get this over with."

  Dirk, still sitting in the waiting room, raised a hand in greeting as I passed him. I was already stewing in my own funk, however, and didn't bother acknowledging him. Stupid interfering doctor, trying to impose whatever he thought was best for me. Didn't he know that I just wanted to get my pills and get out, so that I could go back home, get away from these reminders of the military, of the life that I'd left behind outside of Fallujah?

  Behind me, Dr. Kauffman watched me exit. Only after the door swung closed did he finally remove his hands from his hips, turn and head back to his office. Once there, he closed the door, and then picked up the phone.

  "Hi, Linda," he said, once the person at the other end of the line picked up. "This is Andy Kauffman. Yes, over at the VA clinic. I have a patient that I've just sent your way, and I wanted to give you a heads-up about him."

  He paused for a second, listening to the response, and then chuckled. "No, nothing that dramatic," he assured her. "He's actually quite the striking fellow – tall, proud, just what you'd imagine for a retired military captain. Richard Stone, his name is. Wealthy, but still served four terms overseas. He got caught in an IED blast on the most recent, received an honorable discharge for medical reasons due to injury to his leg. But it's been nearly a year, now, and he still seems to be experiencing significant pain."

  Dr. Kauffman sighed for a minute, reaching up to rub his forehead. "In addition, I suspect that he has other problems, things that he's not telling me," he went on. "Given your expertise, I thought that you might be better at figuring out just how broken this soldier might be."

  Dr. Bisson said something at the other end of the line. "Yes, I know that you can handle him," Andy replied, chucklin
g. "Trust me, Linda, we went through the same medical classes, and I know that you're competent. More than that. There's a reason why I chose you for this referral – I think you can truly help this man. I just didn't want you to be caught off-guard by his..."

  He paused, searching for the right word. "...gruffness," he finally said, holding back a little smile at how appropriately the word fit. "And he might also wave money at you; don't say yes."

  He said a few more words and then hung up the phone, sitting at his desk and looking forward at the pile of files sitting in front of him. "Never enough time to help every veteran who needs it," he murmured sadly to himself.

  And then, after taking a deep breath, he stood up and headed back out to the nurses station, out to receive his next patient of the day.

  Chapter Three

  LINDA

  *

  I hung up the phone, looking down at it for a minute. Andy Kauffman. He'd always been nice enough, but I wouldn't have thought that he'd be considerate enough to call ahead and inform me of a new client headed my way unless...

  I felt my frown deepen, already starting to trace lines in my face. Unless this guy that was headed over was particularly difficult, and he was actually just foisting the poor guy off on me so that he didn't need to deal with the patient any longer.

  Great. Just what I needed.

  I moved my gaze from my phone to sweep around my little office. I really didn't want to use the word "shabby" to describe my surroundings, but I couldn't find any better synonyms. I'd gotten a good deal on the lease, and to be completely honest with myself, it was the most that I could afford – but it still didn't look great.

  I'd added some personal touches here and there, trying to brighten it up, but I felt like I was slapping paint on a pile of rubble. Yes, the picture of yellow daisies helped hide the hole that a previous tenant had apparently punched in the drywall, and the intricately woven, multicolored rug balanced out some of the institutional gray of the walls, but it still felt heavy and depressing.

  Perhaps not the best feeling that one wants to pick up in their psychiatrist's office, I considered with a grimace.

  But as I'd mentioned, this was the best that I could afford right now – and if I wanted to keep on making improvements to my surroundings, hell, even keep up on the lease, that meant that I needed clients. Clients like this Richard Stone, apparently now on his way over to my office in a fine temper.

  I looked down at my outfit, trying to brush wrinkles and creases out of the professional clothes. They still felt a bit odd on me; I kept looking down at myself and expecting to see doctor's scrubs, the day-to-day outfit that I'd worn throughout most of the last five years. These professional clothes, a high-necked blouse and gray slacks, seemed as if they belonged on a different person.

  "You can handle this, Linda," I told myself under my breath. "You've worked with some difficult clients when you were going through your residency, doing the training. You can handle doing it on your own. And hey, you'll get paid more for these ones!"

  The little pep talk did make me feel a little better. Still, I couldn't quite sit still, and I flitted up out of my seat, over to straighten the flowers in the vase on the windowsill. I'd picked them up just this morning, hoping that they'd bring me some good luck.

  I did have a new patient now – but it still remained to be seen whether this was good news or more trouble for me.

  Suddenly, I heard a knock at the door. My fingers, still wrapped around the vase of flowers, jerked a little – and the vase toppled over, towards me, splashing water right on my gray slacks!

  "Shit," I cursed under my breath as I scrambled to catch the vase before the rest of its contents spilled. Not the most lady-like language, but I'd become used to worse, ever since I was younger. Medical school certainly didn't help reduce the level of obscenities that I encountered in my daily life.

  "Dr. Bisson?" I turned, my hands still full of the flowers that I'd caught to keep them from spilling down on the ground, and saw a tall man peering into my office, having opened the door after knocking. "Am I in the right place?"

  Deep breath, Linda. I quickly stuffed the flowers back into the vase and turned to face the newcomer, taking a deep breath and putting back my shoulders. Project an image of confidence, and you'll truly be that way, I mentally told myself. Act like you're the one in control, because you are.

  Despite the water stain that I could feel spreading across my slacks, darkening the light gray fabric. Pretend that it doesn't look like you just pissed yourself, I thought with a faint tinge of craziness.

  "Yes, that's me," I announced, stepping forward and wiping off my right hand on the back of my slacks. I offered the hand out to the man, who took it with a slight look of bemusement on his face. "Dr. Linda Bisson. And I'm guessing that you are Richard Stone, correct?"

  "How did you-" the man looked suspicious for a second, but then his face cleared. "Ah, the doc called ahead, didn't he?"

  "Got it in one," I confirmed. "But don't fear – he said only nice things about you."

  "Yeah, somehow, I don't believe that." Richard stepped the rest of the way into my office, pushing the door shut behind him, and then looked around. "So now what?"

  Right. Take control of the situation, Linda. "Why don't you have a seat?" I suggested, nodding to the comfortable, low-slung leather armchairs that I'd placed in the middle of the room, not quite facing directly towards each other.

  "What, no couch where I lay down and pour out how my mother never loved me?" Richard moved over to one of the chairs, dropping down into it. He took the chair that faced towards the entrance of the room, I noticed. The more defensible position. A military habit, one that I knew well.

  "I'm not that kind of psychiatrist," I said, moving over into the other seat. Oh god, when I sat down, the water stain really looked like it had originated from my crotch. Perfect. I tried crossing my legs to hide it.

  "Yeah, well, I'm not that kind of patient, either." Richard had entered with a cane, I noticed, but he hadn't seemed to rely on it for support. He just carried it with him, and now leaned it against the side of his chair. "I'm just here because I need my damn prescription refilled, and the doc said that you're the only one who can do it."

  "And by 'the doc', you mean Dr. Kauffman?" I clarified.

  "Yeah. He's my doc at the VA."

  "And why do you need the pain pills?" I asked. I could already sense Richard closing up, walling me out and only sharing the information that he was forced to give up. Already, I knew, he wasn't going to be my most open patient.

  In answer, Richard tapped his right leg. "IED got me," he said. "Shrapnel in the bone, didn't all get cleaned out. Been hurting for a while, and the doc seems to think that it ought to be getting better by magic."

  As Richard spoke, I examined him, trying to get a clear first impression. He was tall, and in impressive shape despite apparently having an injury, I noted. He wore dark jeans and a hunter green shirt that strained over broad shoulders, clung tightly to muscled arms. His neck showed the tendons when he closed his jaw, suggesting that he didn't carry a single ounce of unnecessary fat on his body. His face was strong, almost a little too craggy and masculine to be typically handsome, with a hard jawline and a nose that showed a little crook where it had broken at some point in the past. He wore his black hair buzzed short – a soldier's haircut – but I saw little hints of gray at his temples. I guessed that he was somewhere in his late thirties, but he'd clearly had a life filled with hard work, sources of stress.

  And in his every movement, his every word, he screamed out that he had a military background. Even sitting in the chair across from me, he held his spine straight, not letting himself slump down against the chair's back. He spoke in slightly clipped words, snapping back to attention when he finished whatever he wanted to say. His eyes seemed to remain in almost constant motion, flicking over my shoulder to keep an eye on the door. Watching for enemies, I thought to myself. That never went away, it seeme
d, even after the soldiers were back on friendly soil.

  "How long ago was the injury?" I asked.

  Richard shrugged, looking a little annoyed at having to answer these questions. "About a year, year and a half ago," he said after a minute of consideration. "Spent a couple months in a field hospital, and then they decided that I wouldn't be getting better fast enough, and shipped me home."

  I nodded. "And this is home? Minnesota?"

  "Grew up here," he answered. "Parents are here. Brothers, too, now that they're also back from their tours."

  "They also served in the military?" I asked. "Older or younger?"

  "Younger, both of them. Yeah, we all serve. Always have, always will. Stone tradition." Richard looked like he wanted to say something more, but then stopped, his eyes flashing as he remembered where he was, who he was addressing. "Doesn't matter, though. The point is that I need some more meds, my prescription renewed, and I'm here so that you can do it."

  "You don't think that I might be able to help you at all?" I asked. If he was totally closed off to the idea of therapy at all, there wasn't much that I'd be able to do to change his mind. I'd learned that in my rotations; even if I wanted to help someone, they needed to be willing to let me help them.

  Richard shrugged, looking ill at ease. "Not big on the idea of someone poking around inside my head," he grunted. "Besides, if I wanted that, I could just pay some high-priced Hollywood dick to come ask me questions for a couple hundred bucks an hour."

  "Well, you haven't seen my rates yet," I joked, and for an instant, I thought that I might have seen the tiniest hint of a smile on Richard's face. If there was one, however, it vanished almost immediately, his face snapping back to that focused, slightly irritated expression that seemed to be his default.

  "But seriously," I went on, "I'm cheaper than what you'd pay anywhere else, and why not give it a try? There are worse things than spending a little while chatting with me, aren't there?"

  Before answering, Richard checked me out! I shouldn't have been surprised – this wasn't the first time that a client had ogled me, and I'd received plenty of lewd comments during my time in medical school. But never before had someone been quite so direct and nonchalant about it!