by RC Boldt
“Friend, huh?” My head jerks up to see him smirking at me.
Rolling my eyes, I press the send button for the text and mutter, “It sounds less sketchy than saying I’m staying with my boss.”
“Noelle.” The way he says my name has me looking over at him in question. “You’re safe here. Nothing’s going to bother you.” Just as I open my mouth to respond, he interrupts with, “Not him.” Even softer, he adds, “And not me.”
My heart goes all gooey at his words and the earnest way he says them. Damn you, Foster Kavanaugh, and that freaking sweetness you keep locked up tight. Even though there’s something between us—some sort of awareness—he would never force himself on me. He would never push me into doing anything sexual with him.
Regardless of how much a part of me might want him to.
Chapter Eleven
Foster
It’s around three in the morning, and I’m sitting outside in a chair on my deck allowing the slightly cool breeze off the ocean to blow over me. Clad in only my black boxer briefs, I stare off into the darkness surrounding me. Harley’s been camped out, lying in wait outside Noelle’s bedroom door. The only time he left his spot was to come and nudge me awake a few minutes ago, to rouse me from what had been a disturbing dream about Hendy.
Moments like this are when I feel most conflicted. About myself. About life.
I realize there are many who hate war. Hell, it’s not like I’ve ever been a fan of it. I’m not—nor ever was—some sicko just itching to kill people in cold blood. That has to be the furthest thing from the truth. I love my country—even with its faults—and love what it represents. I loved being a part of—often playing a key role in—eliminating those who would cause harm to others. I loved playing a part in the seemingly never-ending war against evil and protecting the innocent.
But moments when I’m alone like this, I find myself wondering if I will ever manage to have a normal life. If I’m deserving of one. I’ve been a civilian for a few years now, but the weight of what I had to do while in uniform is heavy; heavy on my mind, my soul … and my heart.
I recall a conversation Hendy and I had a while back. Aside from my buddy Mac, Hendy was the only other person who’d actually sit down and have any serious heart-to-hearts with me. One night, while we were deployed and waiting around for the powers-that-be to give us the go-ahead for a mission, Hendy had found me in my spot where I liked to sit and just … be. Everyone else left me alone when I would sit there. Without any words exchanged, they just knew. I probably exuded what Laney refers to as my fuck off vibes.
Hendy was the only one brave enough or just didn’t give a shit about interrupting my time alone. The last time he’d joined me, sliding beside me as I sat on some large box that used to hold supplies, he slung his arm around me and whispered, “We’re finally alone, lover. I could barely hold in my excitement for this moment.” Then he licked the side of my face.
Fucker. He’s so disgusting and lewd, but you can’t help but love him. We all deal with war, with death, with the job we have to do, differently. Hendy was the one who used humor.
I’d wiped off his damn disgusting saliva, sending him a dark glare. It didn’t faze him, of course, and I remember him just coming out and saying it. No pretense whatsoever.
“It’s time, huh?” He was utterly serious, but that wasn’t what had caught my attention. It was the understanding in his tone. He knew I felt it was my time to leave the Teams.
With a sigh, I spoke in a hushed tone. “Yeah. I really think it is.”
Out of my peripheral vision, I saw him nod slowly, then look up at the sky above us that appeared as though someone tossed copious amounts of glitter into it, the stars sparkling bright.
“You’ve done more than your share to help rid the world of these goatfuckers,” he told me. “Problem is they seem to multiply faster than we can kill them.”
I huffed out a sound of disgust. “That’s the truth.”
“But you’ve done your part, Fos. You can leave here knowing you’ve saved lives, you’ve done good.”
We fell silent for a long moment before I posed the question.
“What about you? When do you think your time will be?”
He gave me a casual shrug as if he didn’t have a care in the world. But I knew the truth. I knew the Hendy not many come to know. Which is why he let out a sigh knowing he couldn’t—wouldn’t—bullshit me.
“A few times, I wondered if it was already time. We all know I don’t have any family, and I’ll be honest, the more I’m here, the more missions we go on, the more I think I’ll find my time ending here.” My throat grew thick at his words. “I’m okay with it, though,” he added softly. “Because I know I won’t be going out in anything less than a blaze of gunfire and glory.” He turned to me and I saw the slight wry grin on his face.
Because I know I won’t be going out in anything less than a blaze of gunfire and glory.
His words echoed in my dreams tonight before Harley woke me. I can’t help but wonder if he knew. If he knew what he was going to face over there. I wonder if he knew that he was going to die.
Stop, I berate myself. I can’t believe he’s gone. Not yet.
Suddenly, I sense someone’s presence. The sliding glass door quietly slides open, and I hear her whisper.
“You okay?”
My lips turn up at her question because here’s a woman who’s dealing with some serious shit and yet, she’s asking me if I’m okay.
Keeping my gaze straight ahead, I nod. “I’m good.” She doesn’t immediately step down onto the deck, hesitating. The smart part of me is willing her to turn back around, to stay on the other side of that closed door. To stay away from me. The selfish part of me wants her to come out and sit with me. To be near me so that I can feel her … goodness. It’s not smart, but I don’t usually tend to be smart when it comes to a certain curvaceous blonde.
“You want to join me?” I catch myself off guard by voicing this question. My tone is gravelly, and there’s a distinctive intimate quality to it. Damn it.
“Sure,” she says after a millisecond of hesitation, the sound of the door sliding closed behind her. When she drags the other chair over to set it beside me, I turn and … instantly falter. I hadn’t prepared myself to see her still wearing my shirt, blond hair slightly mussed from sleep, the ends curling up a bit. Even though my shirt is loose over her body, something runs through my veins; a mixture of want and something else—something far more dangerous. Something that feels a lot like affection.
Turning away, clenching my jaw, I stare sightlessly out into the darkness.
“My excuse is a bad dream.” Her voice is subdued, and I feel the weight of her eyes on me. “Yours?”
Rolling my lips inward, I don’t immediately answer.
“Same.”
Silence falls between us as we sit for a while with nothing but the sound of the waves crashing against the shoreline. And then it happens.
It takes everything in my power to restrain the jolt—the shudder of my body—because her hand slides over to grasp my own, resting on the arm of the chair, fingers entwining with mine. Like she knows how much I need a comforting touch in that moment.
Just as much as she does.
“Hey, Kavanaugh,” she whispers. “Have I told you yet today how grateful I am for your help?”
A tight smile forms. “Not yet, no.” Deep down, I don’t want her to be grateful or feel obligated. I want her to—well, what I want is what I shouldn’t.
“Well, I am.”
“Anytime, Davis,” I answer softly. “Anytime.”
We sit on my deck, holding hands, until about four a.m. at which time I gently slide my arms beneath Noelle’s slumped, sleeping form and carry her inside to lay her in bed. After pulling the comforter up over her, noting the lines of both exhaustion and worry on her face, I can’t resist running my index finger over the crease still between her eyebrows before I bend to dust a kiss over the same
spot.
“Sleep well. You’re safe here.” My whispered words appear to calm her, her face relaxing. As I take one more look at her, at my very own real-life version of Sleeping Beauty, I wish things were different.
Exiting her room, closing the door behind me, I get to work on laying the groundwork for slaying Noelle’s dragon. While I’m the furthest thing from being anyone’s Prince Charming, she’s the only woman who’s ever made me want to be—the only one who’s ever made me wish things were different.
She’s the only one who makes me wish for the impossible.
Chapter Twelve
Noelle
“Ready to roll?” Foster calls out as I’m finishing up in the bathroom, the door cracked about five inches.
“Yes, sir.” I’m attempting to maintain some modicum of our boundaries, of how we usually interact. But it’s beginning to feel … rusty. Especially after last night—or earlier this morning, I guess.
No clue as to how I was so brazen out there on his deck, reaching for his hand the way I did. But, in that moment, I sensed we were both feeling haunted, both needing comfort. As soon as I slid my hand into his, the most overwhelming feeling came over me. I felt safe merely holding Foster’s hand. I guess that’s what I can chalk falling asleep in the chair beside him, still holding his hand, up to.
The fact that he somehow carried me inside without waking me, that he tucked me into bed, pierces part of my heart.
“We’ve got to head in to the office,” his voice gets closer and I see his long, fingers curl around the door to push it open farther, “and get those contra—” His words cut off, and I turn after setting down my brush to look at him. His eyes are taking me in and his jaw appears to clench and unclench hard before he grumbles, “Damn Laney.” Turning, he tosses out an, “I’ll wait for you by the door,” before walking off.
Glancing down at the dress his sister loaned me, I’m confused, not understanding what made him get all moody. The dress is nothing out of the ordinary. Turning to face my reflection in the mirror again, I peruse my form. Laney’s dress is sleeveless, a shade of light blue and has some white swirly patterns on it. Nothing super fancy, nor does it look as though I’m about to go clubbing. Sure it’s a tad bit clingy material-wise, but still totally workplace appropriate.
Shrugging off the moment, I turn off the light, exiting the bathroom and grab my purse from the bedroom before heading down the hallway in search of Foster. Discovering him in the entryway, he’s standing with one hip propped against the front door, talking quietly on his cell phone.
Dressed in his usual work uniform of a dark blue polo with the TriShield Protection logo embroidered on it, tucked into a pair of pressed khaki pants and his manly work boots, he exudes every ounce of the I’m in charge persona. Nothing like his softer, more vulnerable persona from our deck encounter.
As I approach, bending slightly to slide on my heels, I hear him end his call with a groan. Straightening, I notice his expression is grim, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s heard more news about his friend Hendy.
“Ready, boss?”
With a short nod, he replies, “Ready.” He calls out down the hallway to Harley, “Gotta go to work. See you later, bud,” before tapping a few keys on the alarm system’s keypad.
Opening the door, he gestures for me to precede him. I step out and begin to descend the stairs of the house, hearing his footfalls behind me. Walking over to his truck, I wait until I hear the telltale beep, alerting me he has pressed his keyfob to automatically unlock the doors. As soon as my fingers grip the door handle, Foster’s hand presses over the window, fingers splayed, stopping me from opening the door.
He’s right behind me, and I can feel his body heat, see his reflection along with my own in the tinted passenger side window of the vehicle. Before I can question his actions, he dips his head slightly.
“You know my rules, Davis. I always open the doors.”
There’s no way in hell I can possibly restrain the shivers his husky words elicit. Releasing my grasp on the handle, I step to the side, putting distance between us as a part of me nearly whimpers at doing so. My eyes focus on his hand, his strong fingers, as he opens the door for me. I avoid meeting his eyes because I’m afraid he’ll see how hard I’m trying to resist throwing myself at him.
What is it about this man that makes me want to just say, To hell with it—To hell with my embargo on men? With the one man who couldn’t be worse for me? One who doesn’t want anything serious? Ever?
Stepping up into the truck as ladylike as possible without doing any crazy flashing of my girly parts, he closes the door once I’m safely inside. It’s only then that I let out a long exhale. When Foster comes around and gets in on the driver’s side, he buckles his seatbelt before glancing to ensure that mine, too, is fastened.
“Buckled up and ready to roll, Dad,” I say mockingly.
He turns to face the front to start the car, but I can see, even from his side profile, his lips twitch the slightest bit.
“Wiseass,” he mutters beneath his breath.
As he backs out of the driveway and pulls out onto the main road to take us to the office, I inhale what I hope to be a calming breath to begin the workday. At least it’s a Thursday—thank God for small mercies. Hopefully, I’ll be able to coast through today and Friday and have the weekend to get back to normal.
“Your place should be ready to get back into by this evening.”
I stare at Foster with a mixture of disbelief and awe because I know, without his help, there’s no way in hell I would have been able to juggle everything and get it accomplished in this kind of timeframe.
Without even turning my way, he mutters, “Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I did something out of the ordinary.” It almost sounds like there’s a hint of embarrassment in his tone.
Batting my eyelashes at him, I put my hand over my heart, making my voice high-pitched. “But, Aladdin! You used one of your three wishes to help me in my time of need.” I start humming the movie’s theme song, “A Whole New World,” and it isn’t until we’re at the final stoplight before we arrive at the office that he turns to me. His expression is dark, and he’s glaring at me. Except one tiny thing is off.
His eyes. Those whiskey brown eyes are different. There’s a lightness present in them which isn’t normally there. Well, okay, unless he’s with his sister or mother, of course. His eyes hold mine, and he shakes his head, making a dismissive sound before turning back to the road once the light turns green.
As we pull in and park in the office lot, I release my seatbelt. Just as my hand sets on the door release to open it, I hear him mutter, “Ten thousand years will give you such a crick in the neck.”
My jaw slackens because… Holy shit.
Foster Kavanaugh just quoted the Genie in the movie, Aladdin.
Chapter Thirteen
Foster
It’s only noon and I already feel like calling it a day. Which is not at all like me, but this day seems like it was hardwired to suck.
I’m putting off returning a call from some dude who claims to need to speak with me about being the sole beneficiary of Hendy’s life insurance policy. Like I want anything? I want my fucking friend back, damn it. But that’s not the entire reason I’m not calling the guy back; I’ve got so much shit going on right now it isn’t even remotely funny. I’m juggling getting the security system installed in Noelle’s place now that the cleaning crew managed to get the mess taken care of and I have ordered replacements for Noelle’s, uh, intimates.
Yeah. My man card nearly got revoked by phrasing it that way. But it sounds a lot less creepy than saying I ordered a slew of bras, panties, and sleepwear for my office manager because that right there—creepy as fuck.
I plan on taking her to the grocery store so she can load up a bunch of groceries before I bring her home. I want to inspect everything inside, especially the locks and alarm system, an
d show her how it all works.
On top of that, I get a call from my mother and it goes something like this:
“Hey, Ma.”
“Foster Bryant Kavanaugh! Why do I have to hear about this from your sister? Is Noelle all right?”
That’s right. No happy greeting for her eldest—and only—son.
“Yeah, I’m doing great and my day’s going all right, thanks for asking. And I love you, too, Ma.” I can’t help it. I love the woman, but I have to give her shit. That’s just my style.
She lets out a long, slow exhale on the other end of the phone. “You know I love you more than anything in the world, Foster. But I—”
“More than Laney? Go ahead. You can say it.” I can’t resist the smirk that creeps over my face because I love doing this to my mother.
“Fosterrrrrr.” She drags out my name and gives a quick huff of a laugh. “If you’re deflecting like this, that means Noelle’s in pretty serious trouble. Am I right?”
I dart a quick glance over to the woman in question sitting a few feet away at her desk. “Yep. But I’ve got it under control.”
“Bring her over tonight for dinner. Please, honey pie?”
Honey pie. Thank God she doesn’t say that shit in front of the guys.
“Will do. Hoping to finish up by about five thirty, six o’clock. Knock on wood.”
“I’ll make some lasagna rolls and have some prosciutto ready.” She pauses, and it’s enough of a pause for me to know two things:
My mind has already gone back to last night when I witnessed Noelle eat prosciutto and cheese, appearing as though she were about to orgasm right then and there.
My mother’s up to something. Likely, whatever she says next will be a “fishing expedition” of sorts.
