Clearing my throat and studying my watch, I announce the time. The guys know exactly what it means—how many minutes we’re out before we make contact with the enemy. This scenario was practiced before we left. Timing has to be perfect, as does our performance if tonight is to tilt in our favor. They could easily spot us from this distance and take off, or call for back-up or—even worse—start shooting in our direction. We rely on our silence, preparedness, but mostly the cover of night for missions such as this.
Maverick slows his throttling and Cody radios to our looming back-up in case of emergency. The rest of the guys let go of the boat and the energy shifts. It’s as quick as a summer breeze. We’re ready. I’m ready. Gray eyes, or southern accents won’t affect me for another second. Neither will curvy, naked hips, or fucking stupid chat breakups. I place her in the box that’s she’s always been in. The one I have no right to touch.
We’re close enough to hear the waves lapping the sides of the enemy boat. Luckily, that’s all we seem to hear. Everything seems still, calm aboard. Cody signals with his hands, letting us know it’s time to work.
The chipping paint on the side of the old fishing boat makes me smile. They think they’ve been hiding, and they don’t have any idea that we’ve known their location for a long time. Maybe they fish every once in a while, but their specialty is terrorism with a side of hostile intentions. This boat is filled with dangerous killers.
The only thing they have left to lose is their lives.
We have two boats with us. The lead in front of us tosses their caving ladders up and over the side of the boat and begin climbing swiftly to the top and over the rails. Fisting my hands to make sure my gloves are tight, I shift slightly so my strapped gear is out of my way and grab the ladder.
Once at the top we split into small groups and spread out to canvas the entire boat. Maverick and one other guy are with me as we head for the stairwell, guns raised, ready for whoever comes first. Once again, our intel was correct when mapping out the layout of the boat: one door on the bottom of the stairwell that leads to another corridor. Cody’s voice reverberates inside my head when he speaks into our radio system. Pressing a hand to my earpiece, I listen to his commands. The boat rocks as we walk, making it difficult to gain solid footing. The first room we enter is clear, as is the second, and then the third.
The fourth room has boisterous noises coming from inside. We lighten our steps and assume they’re aware we’re coming. Speed is the only factor that matters now. I radio back to Cody, updating him. I’m lead, with Maverick directly behind me. Once close enough, we stack up beside the door, listening for anything that might give away the location of the enemies inside. The vibrations of their voices and footsteps are easy to hear and a dead giveaway.
I feel Mav squeeze the back of my thigh. The guys are ready. I try the doorknob; it’s locked. I motion to the guys behind me and then place the barrel of my gun in the joint of the door, knowing full well that this particular door won’t take much to blow. A few well-placed shots and one powerful kick, and we’re in a room littered with enemies, their stolen guns blazing in our direction.
Clearing the room methodically and also precisely because the mother-fuckers are shooting at us all willy-nilly, we’re able to take six men down in a matter of seconds. Head. Chest. Move on. Head Chest. Move on. They might have numbers on their side, but they don’t have skill, or any sort of game plan other than pull the trigger and kill the stupid Americans. The bloody, slumped bodies all over the room signal a job well done. A quick glance beside me reassures me that my guys are unharmed and still on guard ready for whatever comes next.
A small closet in the corner blasts open to reveal the one last bad guy in this section. This bad guy has a small, blindfolded woman by the neck and a gun trained on the side of her head. He steps out of the closet screaming at us in a language I don’t understand. Maverick responds to his scream by yelling back in his native tongue, trying to engage him in conversation to distract. Dax, the other operator, moves ever so slightly without lowering his gun. The sweating, disgusting ferret squeezes the hostage’s throat, his fingers digging into skin. A wisp of air leaves her mouth, causing a distressed noise.
My eyes are drawn to the only visible feature on her face. Her mouth. Bloody, cracked, full lips separate as her need for oxygen intensifies. Maverick keeps babbling in the fucking language, and Dax takes another step forward. Removing the gun from her head, the bad guy takes aim at Dax. He’s stepped too close for comfort. The woman’s head slumps forward and a cascade of matted, long black hair masks her face. Morganna. My stomach lurches and in a nano-second of complete weakness, I aim at the enemy’s head and pull the trigger twice, even though her head is far too close to his. Maverick and Dax fire after me, just to be sure, and because they had the better shot to begin with. The woman falls limp out of his arms as adversary blood sprays against the wall.
Rushing to her side, I get the tangle of hair out of the way and feel for a pulse. It’s weak, but it’s there. Maverick greets Cody and the rest of the operators at the door. I hear the affirmation that both hostages have been secured and that the Prize crew is already on deck to take over the ship, so I take another moment to remove the blindfold. Blue eyes flutter open and her dry lips part.
Through cracked syllables, and frail gasps of breath she says, “Save me. Please, save me.” My chest constricts.
Her eyes close, and her head lolls to the side. With her black hair disguising her face, I pick her up in my arms and I do what she’s asked, all the while pretending I’m saving a completely different person. The one woman who I’ll never be able to save.
Morganna
The worst cut is always the shallow paper cut. It’s the one that refuses to heal no matter how much you tend to it. It refuses to cease causing you pain. Even if you forget about it for an hour or two, you’ll do something and the pain will sear you, reminding you it’s there, burning with fiery pride.
When Steven left it was almost too much to bear. The familiarity of the situation caused me physical pain, and bore a constant reminder of Stone. It was too much. In my weakness I made a decision that I thought long and hard about. I know Steven will forgive me one day for the atrocity of breaking up with him over a computer, while he’s miserable on a boat, and on the night before he had a mission to complete.
Yeah, it’s a lot to forgive, but if I waited another second to tell him, I’d self-combust with pent up emotions. Selfish should be my middle name. I’m well aware. Sometimes people do things that they aren’t proud of in the name of sanity. This is one of those times. I couldn’t even explain it to him, which made it seem that much more horrible. I’m in love with you, but I can’t be with you. It doesn’t even make sense to me.
Now? I miss him more than I thought possible. I’ve locked myself in my home office for weeks so I can wear pajamas and cry in between phone calls. Phillipe makes sure I eat, but the sympathy in his eyes drives me insane so I send him home early most days. I’m not sleeping. The nightmares are back, except Stone’s dying face morphs into Steven’s and when I wake, heart pounding, I think that I’ve lost them both. Stone all over again and a fresh wave of losing Steven.
I’m pretty sure these particular nightmares should be considered sleeping panic attacks. The fact that the men interchange is the only warning I needed from my subconscious. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. The logical, problem-solving side of my brain took over and I’m miserable; catastrophically miserable.
There’s no such thing as a clean break from Steven. Our history is too deep-rooted and my love for him is too strong. I miss him as a friend, sure. But his love, the kind that wraps me up completely, and lets me know it’s always is what stokes the empty pit in my heart. He hasn’t sent one e-mail, one message, nor has he tried to contact me any other way since my video chat breakdown, break-up lunacy. His absence is unexpected, but it’s what I asked for. A barrage of unwelcome tears makes its way to my eyes a
nd I have to blink them back. Raccoon eyes is a condition I don’t catch. Ever.
I’ve gotten myself dressed and driven to one of my favorite restaurants to meet Lainey for lunch. From her view from the side window of her house, I’m sure she’s seen me loafing around my own house without remorse. She’s concerned. I can’t blame her. If I wasn’t still working prolifically, I’d be concerned for myself, too. I pull my car into a compact spot and take a few moments to pull the other Morganna from her hiding spot, the one everyone expects to see. The fake one. The person Steven knows I’m not.
Lainey greets me with sad, accusatory eyes and we order items that aren’t even on the menu, but I know they’ll make for me. After the waiter leaves, she folds her hands in front of her and tilts her head, raising one brow.
“You fucked up, Morganna,” Lainey hisses. I didn’t expect sympathy, but I surely didn’t expect this.
I force a mouthful of tea down my throat. “I’m not perfect. Despite popular opinion.” I fake a smile.
She shakes her head. “I got the scoop from Cody and I’m appalled at your childish it’s not you, it’s me routine. On chat. What’s really up?” Others speaking of it makes it sound that much worse. I’m not allowed to have a weak moment; it’s the only sound conclusion. Fake Morganna doesn’t get any breaks.
I can’t pretend her words don’t pierce or that I’m intrigued by finding out what else she knows. She has an in with Cody. I need her to tell me everything about post-breakup Steven without actually asking. “It’s complicated, Lainey. I told myself I’d never do this again. I’d never willingly fall for someone who is in a dangerous line of work. Can you blame me, really? I fell hard. I feel deep. Because Steven and I were friends for so long before, it felt like the natural progression. Swept away, I forgot…until he deployed, that it wasn’t normal. Stone and Steven are…” My voice breaks.
“They’re similar. I get it. It’s wrong to punish Steve for something he can’t control. Personally, I think you’re insane. Steve would do anything for you. Steve isn’t Stone, Morg. You know why? He’s alive.”
My heart feels like it may bounce out of my chest. Heartbreak wars with love and I want to clasp my chest to make sure it stays in place.
All I can do is nod. “Well aware of that fact.” She waits for more, but I’m not giving anything else. I don’t have anything else to give. To anyone.
“You saw the news. They’re all safe. One of them is sad and angry like a bull, but safe,” she says, smashing around her lemon water with the straw. Good lord, an angry Steven is a volatile, unpredictable person. The one I can’t gauge. I close my eyes and rub my temples. I did watch the news with their usual vague details. The media usually screws around with the story until it fits their liking, so I take it with a grain of salt until I hear from the guys. Something I haven’t done yet.
“He saved the woman. He was on his A game. Everyone was pretty pleased with his performance,” she whispers.
Shaking my head, I scold, “You shouldn’t be talking about details. Number one rule. Sure, it’s just me you’re talking to, but you never know who’s listening.”
She glances over both shoulders and widens her eyes. She points across the room. “You mean that couple on the far end of the restaurant? The only other people in here?” Snark. Flapping jaws about secret details is a freshman mistake made by a new girlfriend who doesn’t know better. I intend to correct her behavior A.S.A.P. The last enemy the guys need is an unwitting idiot back at home.
“You don’t have to tell me he’s a badass. I already know. Don’t ever talk about details, okay? Cody wouldn’t like it.” She fluffs her hair and averts her eyes. “I’m serious,” I admonish.
“Fine. Fine. I was only telling you because he misses you and you should call him. They come home…soon.” She was going to tell me a date and thought better of it. Damn it. That is info I would really like to have, but I won’t contradict myself. I’ll call Windsor later. She’ll tell me in code.
“I miss him. This is for the best, though.” Our food arrives as my friend studies me skeptically. I stuff a forkful of salad in my mouth. Finally. I can occupy myself in a different way.
Lainey rattles the ice in her glass while chattering on about insignificant details in her life. “Are you going to the Fundraiser Ball next month?” A topic I’m comfortable with.
“Yes. I’m a key supporter. I won’t speak at this one, but I’ll definitely attend. Are you going with Cody?”
She nods. “I am. Maybe we can shop for dresses together. It will require a trip up to D.C. or an intense online shopping session. Which are you down for?” She’s just as busy as I am, so I know the online shopping will be best for both of us. I agree to meet at her house next week with my laptop so we can scour our favorite fashion websites for the perfect choice. A welcome distraction. Then my stomach sinks. A date. I’ll need a date. I can’t count on the Steven friend date. Shit.
I clear my throat. “Do you think all the guys are going?” Hint. Hint.
She shrugs. “I have no idea. He won’t be single long, if that’s what you’re asking. How many girlfriends does he have waiting in the wings? A baker’s dozen?”
Chloe. My face burns at the memory of her in the trench, her perfection obvious to the naked eye. And she’s smart. Facing him alone will be hard enough. A date with Chloe? I grimace. I didn’t calculate the risks of frequently seeing him when I made the decision to end things. I’m tied to his community for forever hold your peace. Lainey doesn’t bring up Steven again as we finish our lunch and make another plan to lunch again soon.
Her face glows when I tell her to say hi to Cody for me. The homecoming giddiness hits like a wallop and doesn’t leave until around three weeks after they return. There’s nothing quite like the high of the anticipation mixed with nerves. It’s the best and the worst at the same time. No matter what you’re doing, it’s always somewhere in the back of your mind. Like a paper cut that never heals.
After speaking with Lainey, I knew I needed to do the right, grown up thing. Apologize to him. First, though, I called my daddy. I told him everything, even things I probably shouldn’t have. Pouring your emotions into a pan and handing them to your dad is an odd feeling. He’s being enlightened in a way he never suspected. His opinion, one that won’t be swayed by being in the epicenter of SEALdom, is what I need.
After telling me I reminded him of my heinous mother, I felt about as low as dirt. He said it in such a way that wasn’t too offensive, but there it is—the woman who runs away from good things because she’s lost in her own head and only worried about number one. Seems to me you need to put it all on black and hang on to a good thing for as long as you can. Tomorrow isn’t promised for any of us, darlin’.
Growing up I always had a firm backbone. It’s how I handled life’s cruel ways. I told myself it was how I would never become my mother.
Somewhere along the way I lost touch with those goals and slipped into a self-destructive pattern. I’m her. The one who abandons people they love out of fear, or from selfishness. For me, it’s both. I’m sick with regret, not just because of Steven, but because my life’s goals of trying to form a perfect person. That perfect person was never me. It’s still not me. Hardened and bitter, I donned a shell of protective armor. Few were strong enough to penetrate it. Steven did with ease from the get go. I saw through his cocky teenaged swagger, knowing the man he’d eventually become. Little did I know how complicated our lives would end up.
“You’re not really wearing that dress to prom, are you? It’s missing a back and half of the front,” Steven Warner, football God, and my best friend barks from the edge of my bed. “They should call it a biki-gown. Half bikini, half gown.” So creative.
Standing in front of the full-length mirror in my room, I admire my reflection. I look much older; like the woman who resides in my head. Daddy has always called me an old soul. I rub my hands down the sides of the bumpy red sequins and meet his eyes in the mirror. I smirk.
He’s tossing a football in the air with one hand, his face is a mask of consternation.
I turn on him. “Why Steven Warner, is that a hint of jealousy? Or was that the equivalent to, ‘Morganna you look stunning and any boy will be lucky to dance with you at Senior Prom?’ because I’m not sure.” I narrow my eyes and take a step toward him. His football wobbles in one hand, but he steadies it with his other.
Shaking his head, he says, “Your daddy won’t let you out of the house in that.” His eyes wander over my curves, which are usually hidden underneath proper southern girl clothing.
“He’s already seen me try it on. He approves. I’m eighteen now. He has little to say about my clothing choices. I make good life decisions,” I fire back. I take another step toward him, my bare feet in contrast with the glitz of the dress.
Steven clears his throat, lowers himself back on my bed, and starts tossing the ball up toward the canopy, his laser focus now on the brown pigskin and not me. He’s distracting himself and I love it. It means I’m finally gaining my womanly wiles. I affect him. I snatch his ball on the way down, before he can catch it, pulling it against my chest. He remains lying, with his gaze pointed at the ceiling. He’s calculating his words.
Clearing his throat, he looks at me from the side, warily. “Noah Crosby is a pansy, sissy boy. I don’t know why you said yes to him anyways.” He makes a grab for the ball, but I hug it tighter against my breasts, intentionally using the ball to push them up. Steven’s gaze darts down right where I want it.
“Noah Crosby asked me,” I counter.
Steven sits up, eyes still glued to my chest. “You would have said yes to anyone who asked you first, then?” I toss the ball at his face and he barely catches it in time.
He had a million girls ask him. Not that I would have asked, but it would have been nice to hear those words come from his mouth; some small recognition that maybe I could be more than just a friend in his world… at least for one night. The boundaries in our friendship are solid. It’s one thing that I can count on, even if I wish we were more—especially now that we’re older and his charm and looks are becoming harder and harder to ignore.
Set In Stone Page 19
