Tripp

by Irish Winters

  Jameson laughed, deep in his throat. “Leave it to you to call patent leather slip-ons shitkickers. Nope, just dusted them off while I was waiting for you. There. You look sophisticated enough.”

  Yeah, right. How would Jameson know what he looked like?

  Tripp turned to the mirror, lifted his chin, and ran a quick hand over his clean-shaven chin. They said clothes made the man. Well, that was not him in the mirror. Looked more like a blond James Bond wannabe. But he’d paint himself and go naked if it pleased Ashley.

  “How do I look?” Jameson asked.

  The man was uncharacteristically nervous. He wasn’t wearing his dark glasses. Tripp almost wished he were. Jameson’s brown eyes were forever unfocused, his pupils small, never dilated. But friends didn’t diminish friends, and Tripp wouldn’t say or do anything to dampen his buddy’s confidence. He cuffed Jameson’s shoulder. “Who cares what you look like? You do know this day isn’t about you, right?”

  “Yes, but…” Jameson straightened his tie, then smoothed a hand down his sleeve. “A man can’t afford not to make a good impression.”

  Tripp flicked a tiny string off his buddy’s lapel. “Come on, Romeo. The music’s playing.”

  “You first.”

  “Of course.” Even best men knew when to step up and lead. They were in their place at the front of the chapel when the real music, the here-comes-the-bride tune, started. Tripp fastened his gaze on the back of the chapel. There she was. Ashley. The woman he adored and would spend the rest of his days worshipping. His heart scampered up his throat like some bonkers chipmunk at the sight of her.

  “Well?” Jameson whisper-prompted. “How’s she look?”

  “Oh, yeah, sorry.” Tripp cleared his throat. “Maddie’s beautiful—”

  “I already know that,” Jameson hissed. “I need to know—”

  “Settle down. Ten more steps, and she’ll be right here. Three, two… Okay, reach for her.”

  Maddie stepped onto the raised dais and put her tiny hand in Jameson’s outstretched fingers. “Hey there, handsome. Are you ready to do this?”

  With a quiet groan, he tugged her into his side. “Been waiting my whole life for you,” he whispered.

  Man, the guy was smooth.

  Tripp reached for his woman then, and Ashley folded under his arm like she’d always belonged there. At least, momentarily. The ceremony demanded a little more distance between groomsmen and bridesmaids, which Jameson had just realized as well. When Maddie separated herself from his side, Tripp escorted Ashley over to where the other maids-of-honor were standing and returned to his best buddy’s side.

  Tripp’s hands were shaking, partially in support of his friend, but mostly because it should’ve been him standing with the minister, him announcing his marriage vows today. Him promising to love, honor, and obey the amazing woman who’d dropped into his life that dark Friday night. She thought he’d saved her? Not even close. It was Ashley Cox who’d turned everything she touched into gold, including him. He was just a hard, dumbass grunt who’d finally seen the light, and that light was the loveliest sapphire blue. God, he loved her.

  Poor Jameson stuttered through his vows, until Maddie reached across the gap between them and took his hands in hers. His chin hit the front of his fancy ruffled shirt. He sucked in a deep breath. Something inside Jameson changed once he had a hold of his bride. His chest heaved with a full cleansing sigh. His broad shoulders squared, and he snapped to like the ninja warrior Tripp now knew he was. As usual, Jameson’s head tilted down at the woman he’d never be able to see. The crazy-in-love guy poured out his heart in the longest romantic marriage vow Tripp had ever heard. When he finished, Maddie’s eyes were bright and brimming.

  She whispered her much shorter vows to him then. The minister declared, “By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

  Jameson wrapped one arm around Maddie’s neck, and she melted into him. Her bridal bouquet dropped to her side. Ashley grabbed it before it hit the floor. Maddie slipped both arms around Jameson’s waist. He slanted his head. She slanted hers. Jameson looked pretty damned satisfied when she moaned into his mouth as they kissed.

  Tripp got it then. That minister hadn’t married them; he was just another witness. This sacred promise was all on Jameson and Maddie. They’d married each other, bound themselves to love, trust, and honor each other. Man, the things a man finally understood once they were shoved in his face.

  He looked past Jameson and Maddie to Ashley. Her teary blues were locked on him. Did she know? Could she possibly understand the depth of his love for her? He had to make sure.

  When the newly married Mr. and Mrs. Tenney’s steamy kiss finally ended, the minister turned Jameson and Maddie around to face their friends and family. They raised their hands, and a mighty, “Hoo-yah!” filled the chapel, as every damned, big-mouthed Marine roared congratulations Navy style, in deference to Jameson having been a SEAL.

  By the time the procession followed the bride and groom into the vestibule, Tripp was climbing out of his skin. He had a good hold on Ashley’s tiny hand, but he needed more. The minister stopped to speak with Alex and Kelsey. Jameson and Maddie were surrounded by friends and family. It was time. Before the doors closed, Tripp jerked Ashley back inside and out of sight. With all celebratory noises muted, there in the back of the church, he dropped to one knee. Once again, time stopped.

  Ashley was looking down at him, her eyes shining.

  He was looking up at her, his heart in his throat.

  “What are you doing? We have a reception to be at in…” Ashley scanned the chapel for a clock, then shrugged. “…about thirty minutes.”

  “I love you with all my heart,” he told her. Such pathetic words! They said nothing about the ache in his heart, nor the fire in his soul. Damn it, he was as bad at this, as Jameson had been with his vows.

  Shoving his tux jacket out of his way, Tripp reached deep into his pants pocket and ran into his good luck charm, that pair of silk panties. Ashley didn’t yet know it, but they went everywhere he went. Slipping past them, he pulled the ring out of his pocket. One big solitaire, it captured the light from the electric sconces lining the chapel’s back wall and turned it into sparkling prisms, casting rainbows into Ashley’s pretty eyes.

  He lifted it up for her to take.

  She didn’t. She just looked at the ring, licked her lips, and stopped breathing. “Tripp, I—”

  “I know you don’t want to get married, and I know why. Your parents were a disaster, and I know you’re scared, but…”

  Her chest heaved with a larger than normal breath. She was visibly trembling. Man, he was messing this up so badly.

  “But… Well… Damn it, I’m scared, too, Ashley, but I need the whole world to know you’re mine, and I know that’s not politically correct…” And now he was babbling! “You’re a strong woman, and you can stand on your own, and you don’t need some guy telling you what to do or give you permission, and I won’t, but I—”

  Ashley collapsed and landed on his knee. Just fell forward, took his hard head between her hands, and kissed the ever-loving shit out of him. Robbed his breath. Stole his heart. Vanquished every last nerve jitterbugging up his spine.

  Tripp tucked the ring back into its silken nest in his pocket. He couldn’t get another word out. Didn’t need to. Not the way their tongues tangled. Not the way their hearts pounded in sync. Ashley breathed for him, and he breathed for her, the seal between their mouths and lips tight. Holding onto each other. Just holding on.

  When at last they came up for air, she told him, “You’re not just some guy, Tripp. You’re my guy. Yes, of course I’ll marry you.”

  “You will? Err, but I didn’t ask you yet. Not really.”

  She nodded, her face flushed and her lips deliciously wet and shimmering. “Well, I’m asking you. I’m not my mom, Tripp, and you’re nothing like my dad. We can make our own forever
, but we’ll do it our way. We’ll do it right. Will you marry me?”

  “Yes!” He scrambled to retrieve the ring. The world blurred into one shiny piece of rock once he slid in onto the delicate finger of the only woman in the world he adored. His ribs felt too tight for the warmth flooding his chest. But now, they had something to celebrate. He jumped to his feet and led her out of the chapel.

  Jameson cocked his head when the doors opened and Tripp gestured Ashley out first. “Tripp! Where’d you go, man? Everyone’s looking for you.”

  No way was Tripp making this day about Ashley and him. Instead, he slapped his good buddy’s shoulder extra-hard and, with Ashley snuggled under his arm, he declared, “You old married man! Congrats, brother!”

  That threw Jameson off track. Tripp knew his buddy was an only child. Which was why he used that word liberally. Brother meant something personal to Jameson. Damned if those dark brown eyes of his didn’t water before he pulled his spectacles out and hid his emotions behind them.

  Tripp didn’t let Jameson turn maudlin. When Ashley slipped away to talk with Maddie, he grabbed Jameson by the back of his neck and muttered in his ear, “Damned time you did something smart with your life.”

  “Yeah, well…” Jameson’s voice was too ragged.

  Tripp could tell he was having a hard time. He slapped his friend again. “My turn next, and you’d better damned well be there, you son of a bitch.”

  “Always,” Jameson growled. With one more hearty back slap, he regained his composure.

  It was Maddie who spied the ring. “Ashley!” she squealed. “Did he…? Are you two…?”

  So much for secrets. Before the wedding congrats turned into engagement congrats and stole Jameson and Maddie’s thunder, Tripp captured Ashley’s hand, lifted it high with his, and told the world, “Drinks are on Jameson!”

  Later that night, Tripp lay on his back in Ashley’s bed, exhausted and sated, with her tucked under his arm, and her left hand splayed over his bare chest. Every time the ring on her finger caught the tiniest ray of light from somewhere in the darkened room, it sparkled, and he smiled.

  He was a changed man. The anger he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying for so long was gone. He had Alex to thank for that. Because of Alex, Trish was also a different person. The darkness in her seemed to have disappeared, and Andy was happy as a lark.

  Tripp had more responsibility, the kind that allowed him to continue his night job by doing it more efficiently. Hopefully, more effectively. Who would’ve thought someone like him would be responsible for The TEAM’s new Civilian Anti-Terrorism Unit? That Alex had faith in him told Tripp plenty. But more than anything, he had Ashley. Funny how things changed the moment he’d cradled her in his arms that desperate Friday night. He hadn’t been the same since.

  And those fuck-me-blue heels? Best. Shoes. Ever!

  The End

  Thank you for reading Tripp and Ashley’s story!

  You are the key to this book’s success.

  Please tell other readers why you liked Tripp by leaving an honest review at the retail site where you purchased it.

  Recommend him to your friends. Lend him. Most of all, enjoy him!

  Other Irish Winters’ best-selling series:

  In the Company of Snipers

  Alex

  Mark

  Zack

  Harley

  Connor

  Rory

  Taylor

  Gabe

  Maverick

  Cassidy

  Adam

  Lee

  Ky

  Hunter

  Eric

  Jake

  Seth

  Beau

  Renner

  Beckam

  Walker

  Jameson

  Deuces Wild

  King of Hearts

  Joker Joker

  One-Eyed Jack

  Ace

  Hearts and Ashes

  Smoke

  Ash

  SOBs Novels

  Angel

  Assassin

  Vaquero

  Coming soon:

  Kruze Sinclair’s story

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  Keep reading for another tasty tidbit!

  An Unedited Preview of Damned

  SOBs Novel, #3

  Kruze Sinclair wasn’t supposed to be there. The plan to leave Istanbul, Turkey, had been straight forward. All Senator Sullivan’s black ops exfils were well-planned and scheduled ahead of time, vetted through whichever other spec ops teams were in the same country, and expedited accordingly. If the US Air Force couldn’t accommodate getting an occasional unnamed hitchhiker out of Turkish airspace, the Navy always had resources available on the sly. Since civil unrest became the norm for this third world country, all US military departments operated more as distant, socially unwanted relatives instead of the besties they’d been during the decades of solid Turkey/American relations.

  But like the shifting political landscape below, where Kruze found himself late this afternoon, things had changed between Turkey and America. Unfortunately, Istanbul, his way home, now lay on the exact opposite side of this godforsaken land. Early this morning, Sullivan had tasked Kruze, since he was ‘in the neighborhood,’ to pick up some high and mighty journalist who’d gotten herself lost and captured by a rebel faction, in the edge of the Eastern Anatolia Region. Bordered by Georgia to the north, Iraq to the south, Iran, Azerbaijan, and Armenia to the east, Eastern Anatolia was once again, the glow-in-the-dark hotspot of Eurasia.

  The mountainous region was home to the often-disparaged Kurds. It was what some talking heads called their last holdout. Their Alamo. Kruze knew the history. After the first World War, thanks to then USA president Woodrow Wilson, Kurdish nationalists were guaranteed the eventual establishment of their own country, Kurdistan. But, like the treaties made with American Indians, it never happened. In 1920, the Treaty of Sevres between the Allies and the sultan of the Ottoman Empire recognized Kurdistan’s autonomy. But the treaty was never ratified, due to a rising military star in Turkey, Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, the country’s first president. Lack of that ratification left the ancient country of Kurdistan geographically spread across large portions of eastern Turkey, northern Iraq, and western Iran, as well as smaller portions within Syria and Armenia. Iran and Iraq were the only countries to officially recognize the autonomous portions of Kurdistan within their borders.

  Which also explained the conflict between Turkey and Armenia. Back in the early 1900s, Eastern Anatolia Region had seen the demise, as in the outright genocide, of its Armenian population, by Turkey. The campaign against Armenians had been so ugly that, even today, it was forbidden to even speak the word ‘Armenia’ in Turkey. The powers that ruled Turkey were still changing the written history of that war to suit their whitewashed spin on the war crimes they’d committed against a population of well over a million innocent men, women, and children.

  Which must be why Brianna What’s-Her-Pain-in-the-Ass-Name, oh yeah, Banks, was here. She’d probably decided to write her own spin on the historical nightmare. Guess Mizz Banks hadn’t received the royal treatment she’d expected, though. A rebel faction took her captive. The Turkish military now vigorously hunted for her with no intention of taking her, or her captors, alive. She’d had a death wish coming the moment she’d ventured into this mountainous warzone. Turkey intended to grant that wish, had even put a million US dollar bounty on her hard head. Kruze’s job now was to find the prima donna and extract her pretentious ass without causing an international incident. Lucky him.

  From the bottom of his former Navy SEAL heart, he detested journalists and reporters. Every. Last. One. Of. Them. That hatred stemmed from the fabricated untruths and fiction about his older brother’s final foray into South America, the one that had nearly gotten Chance kille
d. Yes, those ugly stories. Because of them, Kruze carried one helluva grudge against the entire, star-studded, celebrity news reporting community. In his estimation, they were nothing but gold-digging liars, easily bought by whichever politically-driven megalomaniac offered the most pieces of silver. But that was another story and another grudge Kruze carried. Like he didn’t have enough.

  He lay perfectly still on a narrow granite outcropping, his binocs trained on the caravan of rusty jeeps, half-assed, ancient pickups, overburdened donkeys, and the scruffy militia, around four dozen strong, in the narrow valley below. His gear bag, filled with a weighty collection of survival items, lay beside him, his sniper rifle already on its bipod and aimed below.

  Thank you, Jesus, his in-county sources had been spot on. They’d told him which band of rebels Banks had most likely tangled with. And bingo, there she was, her highness Brianna Banks, the latest know-it-all from one of many twenty-four-seven, capitalist, propaganda machines to hit America’s big time. She was tripping along beside a dust-covered, rust-pitted older model Toyota pick-up, itself a DIY project, bristling with banners, armament, and enough rebels to void its shock absorbers warranty. If it still had one.

  Most of these rebels were dressed in traditional baggy pants, ragged button-up shirts, vests, sashes, and leather boots. Nothing colorful. Everything dusty, dirty, and some shade of brown. Yet the entitled American woman among them wore a bright red scarf wrapped over her head and around her arrogant neck, making her a gawddamned target. Kee-rist! What did she think she was? Untouchable? Didn’t journalists understand a gawddamned thing about this country? Guess not.

  Kruze fingered the focus wheel on his compact binoculars to bring her in closer, watching her walk that dusty road with her head held high and her nose in the air. Despite the too-big-for-her-face Jacki-O sunglasses propped on her nose, she screamed Made in the USA and proud of it. Not the smartest declaration in this war-torn region.