by RC Boldt
All of the desks are staggered with a few feet separating each, close enough so that we can openly have discussions. There are times when this desk arrangement works out well; it fosters and encourages comraderie.
However, in times like this, it also seems to boost—as is often the case with Kane—shit talking episodes.
“You seem more tense than usual, boss man. You know what you need, right?”
I stare at him, my eyes growing squinty. Where the hell is he going with this?
Tossing a brief glance over to Noelle before refocusing on me, he said, “You need a good massage.”
What. The. Fuck?
My face must say it all because he throws his head back in a loud laugh. “Oh, Fos, darlin’. Don’t tell me you’ve never had a good massage before.” Kane’s expression is one of faux concern.
I cut him a look. “Oh, I’ve had a good massage, all right.”
“Guys. Please.” Noelle chimes in from her desk, not even glancing up from her work. “I just had breakfast. I don’t need to hear this.”
Before I can spout off the usual comment, Kane turns in her direction. “Now, now, Ms. Davis. You should know I, a southern gentleman and all, wasn’t trying to place any insinuation on my question.” Eyeing me, he adds, “I leave all that up to Kavanaugh here.”
“Lord knows he’s good at it,” comes her muttered response.
“That’s not all I’m good at, Davis.” I wait for her head to snap up and give me the look where her eyes appear as though flames will erupt from them. For those lips, those full lips painted a deep red hue this morning, to press thin moments before she spouts off some acerbic response.
I am a sick fucker because, well, all that? It makes me horny as hell. I get off on our little back and forths. It makes me want to shoo out whoever else might be in the office with us, lock the damn door, shove her onto my desk, and have my way with her. To peel her pencil skirt down over those curvy hips of hers and see what she’s wearing beneath it. Because that skirt? It shows no panty lines whatsoever.
Yeah, I looked.
But I can’t do any of that. Any of it. Ever. From the start, I could tell Noelle wasn’t the kind of woman who I normally dealt with. She practically screams “attachment”. She’s the epitome of the white picket fence kind of woman.
And me? I’m the furthest thing from white picket fences. I sure as hell don’t do attachments. To be honest, I wouldn’t even call what I do with women “dating.” I make sure they know what the score is. Three time’s the charm. I don’t go any further than three “dates.” I keep it simple because I’m not that guy—the one who’s going to put a ring on it and wait for you at the end of the aisle.
During the rare times I’m alone, I can’t lie. I think about her. I think about Noelle Davis and what it would be like if I were that guy. If I were good enough for her. If I didn’t have a past haunting me.
That ship has sailed, though. So every time those thoughts—fucking fantasies, really—run through my mind, I savor them for the briefest moment before shutting them down.
What draws me back from my musings is the fact that Noelle doesn’t respond to my comment, the one dripping with insinuation. She says absolutely nothing. Peering over at her, inspecting her further, I notice the tiny crease between her brows is more pronounced.
Come to think of it, I’ve also noticed her having that same look when her phone vibrates with an incoming call. Calls, which she promptly ignores. Which means something’s up. And that something has me concerned because as much as she and I go back and forth, as much as I know she doesn’t care for me, I don’t deal well when people I’m responsible for need help.
Okay, so I’m not actually responsible for Noelle, exactly. But she’s my employee, and I’d feel the same urge to help Lee if she needed it. I wouldn’t feel the urge to fuck Lee until she forgot her name, however. Nope. That thought actually made my buddy down below shrink a bit.
Something’s going on with Noelle, and I need to find out what it is. It’s selfish as hell, but I feel like I need our banter more now than ever. Especially because I haven’t heard from Hendy in far too long.
I of all people know how it is when you’re deployed, get orders for a mission, and you’re dropped in the middle of a fucking desert chock-full of bad dudes who’d give their left nut to kill you and take your head as a trophy. There’s always radio silence going along with that. I know that. But that damn Al Alam News broadcast over six months ago didn’t sit well with me.
At all.
We are getting reports of explosions in an area known to be a stronghold of ISIS in the Helmand Province. These militants have declared they are holding a United States Special Forces officer captive. They are demanding eight hundred million dollars in exchange for the man. We have reached out, but U.S. officials have declined to comment at this time.
Great fucking news, right? When this came across the ticker at the bottom of one of the four televisions mounted high on the east-facing wall of the office, my stomach felt like it plummeted to the ground. Because the Helmand Province? SEALs are pretty damn familiar with it. Too familiar. It’s the equivalent of Disney World for terrorists.
Hendy’s always been known to be the one who had that crazy sixth sense shit when we were on a mission. If he told you he had “a feeling” we needed to pack some extra ammo, you fucking packed extra ammo. And you’d end up using it, saving either your own ass or someone else’s ass in the process. Eerie as shit, but Hendy was always spot-on.
The other side of him, when he wasn’t in serious SEAL mode, is the Hendy most know and adore. He’s the life of the party, the joker, the flirt, the ladies’ man. Doesn’t seem like he’s got a care in the world.
But whenever we were out on a mission, you’d better believe he was the guy I wanted watching my six. Without any hesitation whatsoever.
And now, Hendy was either being held captive, being tortured by those evil fuckers, or… Or he was dead. And while Hendy might be the one with a serious badass and spot-on sixth sense, everyone in any branch of the Special Forces has some sort of gut instinct. And you learn to hone it, to listen to it.
And mine was screaming. Had been screaming for the past few months.
Hendy was alive. There’s no way he was dead. I felt it deep down. That feeling was deeper, more powerful than the logical part of my brain which screamed he was dead. Yeah, I sound crazy as shit, I know. But it’s something I can’t explain. I just have this feeling.
Which is both good and bad. The good part is obvious. The bad part means he’s being held captive and tortured. Those fuckers cut you, beat you, starve you, put you out in the desert heat that’s beyond brutal—which means not only is there heat exhaustion to deal with, but your entire body gets thrown out of whack when your electrolytes are off-balance. Shit, we had guys in BUD/S training back in the day who either had seizures or started acting all sorts of fucked up from being exhausted and not eating when we got the opportunity to do so.
And right when I’m thinking all of this, it’s like the Gods want to punish me. Because on one of the television monitors, the one playing the BBC News, they interrupt the current newscaster for “Breaking News.”
In a press release just received from the United States government, it has been confirmed that a Special Forces unit has been ambushed in the Helmand Province of Iraq and only bodies were recovered. They are dismissing the reports from ISIS that they have a Special Forces officer captive. Families of the fallen have been informed.
Photos flash across the screen. Shaw Dempsey’s face stares out at me. Fuck. Shaw was a good man. The other three guys I didn’t know very well as they’d joined the Team after I had left.
And even though I knew it was coming, I can’t withhold the groan of anguish when his name and photograph are displayed on the screen.
“Goddamn it, Hendy.” My words come out as more of a whisper. Grinding my palms into my eyes, I abruptly shove my chair back, nearly tipping it over in
my haste to stand.
I need air. The room feels like it’s closing in. I can’t take it. I can’t do—
“Go.” Kane’s softly uttered word—more of a command—is spoken with understanding. “I’ve got this. Just do what you need to do, man.” There’s compassion in his eyes because he knows what it’s like. All too well.
Grabbing my keys from my desk, sliding on my sunglasses, I pocket my phone before I stalk over to the door without another word. Ignoring the weight of Noelle’s gaze as I pass by her desk.
And barely make it inside my truck before what little composure I managed to hold on to finally crumbles.
Chapter Two
Noelle
My gaze collides with Kane’s as soon as Foster leaves the office.
“Is he,” I hesitate, “going to be all right?”
Kane’s eyes study me for a long moment, the Texan’s expression sober and unlike his usual jovial demeanor. Finally, his eyes move to the same monitor that had been the bearer of bad news. His lips curl inward. “I sure as hell hope so.”
Yeah. So do I. Because, although I’ve been distracted since my stupid past is trying its damndest to catch up to me, what happened just moments ago sticks out in my mind. The way Foster’s face fell only to have the most desolately shuttered expression come across it. The way his expression closed off made my chest tighten with worry.
I can handle Foster Kavanaugh giving me shit while I gave it right back. But this? An obviously hurting Foster Kavanaugh is completely uncharted territory, and I have no idea how to handle it.
A few months ago, we all heard the news report of ISIS claiming to have a Special Forces member held captive. I witnessed his frustration and worry at not knowing his friend’s whereabouts and it had been in that brief moment we had the faintest truce.
Moments like that one, along with those when I see the look in his eyes when he gazes at his sister, Laney, and witnesses how happy she is with her husband, Zach, is when I remember he has another side to him. A softer one not many get to see.
A part of me wishes I were a person who could elicit that softer side of him. But I know it’s safer this way. I’m safer this way, keeping him at a distance with the way we interact.
“You planning on coming clean any time soon, darlin’?” My head jerks up at Kane’s words, his southern drawl as thick as ever, eyes studying me with unnerving intensity.
Immediate unease sets in. “Come clean?” Please, don’t bring up what I think you’re about to bring up. Please. Just. Don’t.
Lowering his head slightly with one eyebrow raised, he says, “You know what I’m talking about, Davis.” Gesturing with his head toward where my cell phone normally sits on my desk, where now there’s a vacant spot. I’ve gotten so sick of it flashing and distracting me that I’ve stowed it in my desk’s bottom drawer, along with my purse. “Those calls you keep ignoring.”
I try to hold his stare. But, you see, the thing with working amidst individuals who have been trained to pick up on every little nuance that normally goes unnoticed by the average person? It sucks. It’s like spending eight plus hours a day with the Oracle in that movie, The Matrix. You know, where she tells him not to worry about the vase, then he says, “What vase?”, and promptly knocks over a vase of flowers, shattering it. Creepy, right?
Well, imagine that times three. I don’t really include Foster or Lee in that because I haven’t ever felt the weight of their eyes on me, haven’t felt as though they were looking through me, looking into my head, and were able to read my thoughts.
But with Kane, Doc, and Miller? Total Oracle moments. I swear, if you asked them, I wouldn’t be surprised if they were able to tell you my blood type. Just by looking at me.
Letting out a long sigh, I rub my temples in an attempt to ease the stress from my situation. From the drama I thought I’d managed to leave behind. “I don’t want to talk about it, Kane.”
“You’ll come to us if you need us, right?”
My smile is weak but genuine. “I will.” Maybe, I think, which really translates to maybe not. Because I really don’t want anyone else being dragged into my crap.
“No maybe about it.” See what I mean? Creepy, damn mind readers. “You’ll come to us,” he pauses and his next word sounds more like a command. “Right?” And I hear the underlying threat beneath it. Or else you’ll feel our wrath.
“Fine,” I say on an exhale.
He winks at me, and I wonder, for the millionth time, how it is that I have no attraction toward him. Kane is seriously hot. He’s built like a brick shithouse.
Okay, I don’t actually know what that means, but it sounds pretty powerful, right? I mean, he’s tall, over six feet and broad chested. His blond hair is short, tousled, and I often wonder if it’s natural or if he artfully styles it himself. Kane’s funny, fun to be around, and pretty much a jovial kind of guy. Sure, he tosses out the “darlin’s” faster than a Pez candy dispenser, but anyone can easily see that deep down he’s a good guy.
With that said, he’s also not someone I want to piss off. Not like anyone wakes up in the morning and thinks, I feel like pissing off a former Green Beret today. But, really. I wouldn’t ever want to cross this dude. I’m pretty sure he walks out of his house each morning and all the insects and animals scatter to get out of his way. You know, the opposite of the Snow White effect. There won’t be any cute little birdies flocking to him to perch on his shoulders and arms.
A bald eagle, maybe. But sweet, little birdies? Hells, no.
“So, what do we do?” I question him as he stares thoughtfully at the television monitor on the wall for a moment before answering.
“Nothing yet, Davis.” Turning to me, he softly repeats, “Nothing yet.”
And hell if I don’t feel pretty damn useless at that moment.
Chapter Three
Foster
I unlock the door to my house and disarm the alarm system; the clinking of Harley’s nails on the hardwood floors alerts me to his presence as I toe off my shoes onto the mat in the entryway.
My Belgian Malinois is fully trained, courtesy of a place down in southeastern Florida that thoroughly trains their dogs in preparation to place them in homes of former Veterans, blind individuals, and others in need of service dogs. Harley has helped me out over the years—far too many times to count. I sometimes feel as though he has a bit of Hendy in him; he will somehow sense it and nudge me with his wet nose to rouse me from a nightmare before it gets too intense. He knows when I feel anxiety, is so in tune with my emotions it’s often eerie when he knows before I do that I’m going to need him, need his comfort.
Case in point, as soon as I set my keys, sunglasses, and phone down on the counter, he is right by my side, tail not wagging, eyes intently watching me.
“Got some bad news, buddy,” I tell him, my throat tight as I walk over to the large leather couch in the living room. Dropping down onto it, I rest my forearms on my knees, back slumped and he comes to sit on the floor between my legs. Leaning down closer to him, he nudges my cheek with his nose.
“I don’t want to believe it, boy. Can’t believe it, you know?” My voice is thick, and I fail at blinking back the tears, watching as they drop down onto his dark fur. “Hendy can’t be gone, can he?” I move back a bit, gazing into Harley’s deep, soulful eyes. “Crazy that I—a guy without a soul—am crying, right?” My humorless laugh sounds hollow to my own ears. I stare at the wall, lost in thought, while Harley walks off to exit through the backdoor to the porch leading to the small fenced in section of yard. His collar holds a sensor which opens the doggie door, letting him come and go as he pleases when I’m gone.
It’s odd he should disappear at that particular moment, but, hey, maybe he has his own business to take care of. When he approaches me less than a minute later, I look down at his nudging of my hand to see that he has brought me something. A toy. But it’s not just any toy; it’s the toy Hendy had brought him the last time he’d come to visit.
The thing is, this isn’t Harley’s favorite toy. Sure, he plays with it, but this is one of those freaky moments where my dog somehow knows. He knows—remembered—Hendy had given him that toy, knows who I was talking about.
My dog isn’t the type to go crazy, licking people up and down when he meets them, either. There are only two people he absolutely loves “kissing”: my sister, Laney, and, of course, Hendy.
So, as I sit on my couch, fucking tears trailing down my cheeks like the biggest pansy that ever was, my dog hands me the same toy Hendy had given him. Like a sign of something.
And it’s then that I realize two things:
One, I have the best fucking dog in the world.
And two, there is no way in hell I am going to believe Hendy is dead until I see the body for myself.
* * *
“What’s wrong, baby?”
Let’s get one thing straight. I hate being called “baby.” Hate it. And this chick? I should have fucking known better than to get messed up with her. But I was looking for a quick distraction. A somewhat enjoyable one.
She failed me in both areas. Or I failed her—however it should be stated. So what the hell am I doing? I was on a streak here for a bit where I kept to myself. Because I want … her. But after today, I felt like I needed an outlet and when she’d texted me, looking for a good time, I figured, what the hell? It would only be “round two” after all. But nothing happened. It’s like I was dead from the waist down. And that sure as shit hasn’t happened before.
I’ll admit it. I’m a bit—okay, a lot—of a manwhore. And I often gloss over it because I don’t want anyone else seeing beneath it to the real reason I do this. Because, sometimes, in those brief moments when a woman grasps me, wraps her arms around me, when I feel the softness of her skin, feel the warmth of it, I think, Damn, this is what I wish I could have all the time. A woman to hold me.
