by Brynn Hale
No man has ever made me feel like I’m simultaneously drowning in his presence and thirsting for more. Macen or Halsey…or whatever his name is…does.
I open my laptop. Macen? I can’t imagine his last name is Halsey, but I type it into social media as Macen Halsey. Nope. I type Halsey into a search. I want to know who he is. And what he’s given me isn’t enough. It’s like I know a sliver of him, and I want the whole pie.
Halsey… singer. Nope. I type “soldier” with it.
William Halsey, Jr. Nickname “Bull.” World War II Admiral. Died of heart attack. Best known for…daring tactics.
You can say that again.
If there’s something that Macen has it’s courageous tactics. He’s subtle in his steps, but I could see the wheels turning in his head as to how he was making his next move. He’s intuitive. He’s thoughtful. He’s calculated.
And he’s off limits.
But I have a feeling Mr. Macen/Halsey—Mr. Hot as Sin—has no limits.
110%, that’s what he’ll give.
And tomorrow is going to test my limits.
Macen
I can read a room and this one is a meat market. And I can read a human and I know Dharma’s going to be here either tonight or sometimes soon.
I once waited for seventeen hours in an outhouse in Ecuador for a security guard to have to take a piss. I got him. I’ll get her, too. I have patience.
Two hours into my surveillance, my mark walks in. Her head thrown back in laughter. Her doctor-façade dropped. I’ve positioned myself out of eyesight of the front door, but I can see her in a mirror that’s on the opposite wall. I scan the other liquor-advertising mirrors that are advantageous from this position, too. As she moves, I lift my glass of vodka on the rocks with a twist of orange—no lime or lemon tonight. I needed a change.
The wait staff steps into my line of sight. “Another one?”
“Yes. But could you please send one to the dark-haired woman in the blue dress at the counter, too? And tell her it’s from Halsey.”
She writes it down. “Will do.”
I’ve already given her a couple hundred-dollar bills for the night, so I know it’s covered. I’m not planning on getting smashed, but if I have to leave quickly, I want to be prepaid.
Huh. I’m always planning an out. A quick getaway. Is that living?
I shake out of the thought and watch as the bartender slips the drink in front of her and his eyes connect to mine as he mouths, “Halsey.”
Her back straightens and the two women she’s with look around the room. The darkness of this corner probably gives me enough camouflage, but I suddenly feel like I’m in the headlights of recognition. I’ve put myself out there for a magnificent woman. And yet, I just want to escape.
My chest burns painfully as my breaths heat in and out. She turns around and her eyes sweep the room. She stops on my corner and her pupils adjust to the dim lighting. Lifting the cocktail glass, she toasts me with a mouthed, “thank you”.
In seconds, one of the women is beelining to me. Dead on aim. Her attitude arrives before her, but I can handle the protective friend. Hell, I’m one myself. Try something with a member of my squad—even Bronson—and I’ll be knocking down that person’s front door. There’s nothing she can shoot that I can’t dodge.
I stand to greet her.
She stops about two feet from me. Well within slapping distance. “Who are you?”
“A friend.”
“No, I know all of her friends. You’re not her friend.”
“I’m a new friend,” I say slowly and lift my drink to my mouth, wetting what’s quickly becoming dry.
The perky, shapely blonde stares up at me. “New friends get vetted by me.”
I chuckle. “She has a vetting system?”
“Yes, she does. And that’s strike one.”
I take a step back as I feel a kick to the chest. Shit. She’s serious. Fuck.
“There are questions you may ask that I refuse to answer.”
“Strike two.” She crosses her arms and her chest puffs out, but my gaze holds on the beautiful silky charcoal haired beauty crossing the room behind her.
“Excuse me, Pixie.”
“My name’s not—”
I walk around her, but I lean back. “Was that strike three?”
“And you’re out.”
I whisper in her ear. “We’ll see about that.”
She shakes her head and turns to see Dharma about ten feet away.
I meet her. “Hey.”
“I don’t know why I told you this place’s name.”
“I do…” I slip my hand behind her neck and tip her head as my lips claim hers. My hunger for her only grows. I can’t stop myself. My other hand slips to her waist and draws her close so she can feel how much I want her. How attracted I am to her. My body is on fire and only she can put it out.
My tongue slips along the split of her mouth and she lets out a soft moan as my tongue sweeps in to tangle with hers. Her fingers dig into my T-shirt, fisting the fabric and holding me close. I continue for a few more seconds and then slow the kiss until I pull away with one final peck.
Her lips quiver as I pull away. And her chest rolls fast.
But in the next second, she spins out of my hold and she races across the floor to the front door.
“Asshole!” blondie screams in my face.
I close my eyes and shake my head, to get the ringing in my ears gone, but mostly to reset my brain. What the hell just happened?
The other friend faces me. Her jaw is tight and her eyes stabbing. “She told us she met someone.” Her gaze flashes my body. “She said he was hot and sweet and he might be what she needs, but after that performance, I don’t think you have a fucking clue what she needs.”
The words hit me square in the chest.
Mission abort.
Mission failure.
No. Even if it takes 120%, I’m in.
I cross the room, right on the woman’s heels. “Okay, maybe I went in a little fast, but—”
She spins and her tight ringlet curls slap across my face and I feel it through my body. “No! There’s no “but.” She’s been fucked over before. She deserves more than a fucking “but” to make your massive ego feel better.” The woman pushes on my chest and I let my body rock back, stumbling.
I watch her leave.
Fuck.
That couldn’t have gone any worse. I went in guns blazing and my gun malfunctioned. Hell, I didn’t know how to operate the fucking gun. And when I thought I did, I misfired big time. My aim was off. My plan was bad. No, I didn’t have a plan. And that was a mistake.
I’m not giving up and I’ll prove that she’s meant to be part of my squad, my only member.
And I’m meant to be hers, too.
4 Macen
I walk into the compound and Patton leans back in his recliner—I swear he looks eighty in that damn chair, but apparently, it’s been with him since his high school days and part of who he is.
“How’d your appointment go? Dr. Howard’s pretty amazing, right?”
“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me it was a woman?!”
Patton’s brows furrow. “Didn’t know that was important.”
I rub my forehead as the tension collects hard and fast. “I think I fucked up.”
The sound of the recliner flicking down cracks through the air. “What did you do?”
“I kissed her.”
Patton’s face scrunches up. “What the fuck? On accident?”
“Patton, when have you ever kissed someone on accident? There’s no ‘Oh shit, I slipped and kissed her!’” I rub my temples. “She was at the same bar as me. I thought I was taking my shot.”
“She’s not a goddamn mark, Hals.” His jaw tightens and I can see fury bubbling in his flaring nostrils and narrowed eyes. Patton’s about forty pounds lighter than I am, but I’ve seen his moves. That damn Krav Maga shit. The motto says it all: Hurt them real bad and then get away. I can’
t move as fast as him and he’d have my jaw broken in one fast punch.
I inhale a deep breath, deescalating my own body. There’s only been a couple times when the guys on the squad have swung at each other. Most of the incidents included alcohol. This one…we’re both totally sober.
And I’m more sober with every passing moment. Brutally sober.
I walk around the couch and sit down. Everyone else is out on the back deck. I can hear them through the glass laughing and my blood pressure rockets until I can hear whooshing in my ears. How can they enjoy themselves? How can they believe they’re okay? That everything will be okay?
Patton sits back in his chair and drinks from his coffee cup. Probably just water because he’s anal about what he puts into his body. If he’s not the reincarnation of a 99-year-old man, I’d be shocked. But an elderly man who could kick my ass.
What do I bring to the team? I ask myself that often. I used to think it was my ability to plan and have almost a sixth sense when it comes to shit going south, but the last mission in Russia showed that wasn’t the case and my rose-colored glasses almost ended up killing my men.
My friends…
“The whole session we were both giving each other major fuck-me eyes. Maybe I read the room wrong, but I thought we were on the same page. Clearly we weren’t and I fucked up.”
Patton shakes his head. “I know she’s fucking hot.”
I huff. “Blazing, dude. Fucking, amazing.”
“And I know she’s making you feel things.”
I still. “What do you mean?”
“She’s making you feel.” He emphasizes the word and I cringe. “Feel. Period. I think in our line of work we block out our feelings so we can move on when shit doesn’t go right. The only feeling we truly have is detachment from reality. We’re family and I know we laugh, and we joke, and we pretend like everything is okay, but we both know that this way of life isn’t okay.” He looks into his coffee cup like it’s got something bad in it. “I’m getting out, Halsey. I gave my notice. I’m leaving in two weeks and I’m not coming back.”
“But leaving to what? What’s there out there?”
He stands and swallows. “Hope.” He shrugs his shoulders and drinks the rest of whatever was in his cup.
“Hope of what?” I guess the word has lost meaning to me because not even an ember of the implication comes to me.
“More, Halsey. That there’s something more out there. But back to you and your assholery.”
I glare, my jaw tight, and he mimics the behavior just to piss me off further.
He crosses his arms. “Let me be clear. Dr. Howard deserves your respect, first and foremost. If you can’t keep your hands and lips off of her…then just leave her alone. She deserves…more.”
He leaves, heading upstairs to the sleeping quarters while the guys still make a huge racket outside. He could always sleep through anything. I can’t. Hell, three hours of sleep makes me feel like I slept too much these days.
But his words settle into me.
More.
I walk to the conference room. It’s where most of the planning happens, intel is gathered, and we find focus for missions. I pull out my laptop from the collection in the middle of the table. We have access to databases that very few in the world do. Information that helps to determine friend and foe at the type of a few letters. I’m just hoping I haven’t made a foe out of the good doctor.
Dharma…Howard, Ph. D, Houston. I type it in. And there’s her life.
Born in Washington D.C. to a lawyer and a doctor. Her parents moved to California when she was four. Married, right out of high school. Divorced, four years after married. Put herself through her bachelors and doctorate. A lot of college debt still to pay off. Rents. Car, ten years old. Age, thirty-six to my thirty-seven.
And then her address and phone number.
I pull out my cellphone.
I just need to know…
More.
5 Dharma
I pull a blanket up to my chin while I sit on my couch and sip a glass of hot tea while reading a book I’ve read a hundred times. It gives me comfort when I’m feeling anxious. My phone buzzes and I ignore it. Probably my girlfriends checking in. I keep reading, but each word seems longer and more tedious than the one before it.
My phone buzzes again. Seriously, ladies, I’m fine. I was just…freaked out. And way too happy about that kiss. And way too shocked at what I felt. But they thought he had basically harmed me. I explained that I didn’t think Halsey was the harming type. If anything, he took too much responsibility for others well-being.
And then another buzz.
I drop my book to my lap with a thud.
It’s after ten. Six messages?
Unknown: It’s Macen. I wanted to make sure you’re okay.
Thirty seconds later.
Unknown: Dharma, are you okay?
Ten seconds later.
Unknown: I’m sorry for the lip-ambush tonight.
Nine seconds later.
Unknown: I know where you live. I’ll come make sure you’re okay.
My body heats fast hearing he’ll come.
I bet he could.
Thirty seconds later.
Unknown: I’m sorry, again. That was fucked up. I’m fucked up.
Ten seconds later.
Unknown: Please. I’m worried about you and I’m sorry that I kissed you.
I lean back. He’s sorry for kissing me? Sorry? The word sits heavy in my stomach. It wasn’t a bad kiss. In fact, it was past unbelievable—whatever that word is—phenomenal, astronomical, magical? I wanted it to never end, but I can’t tell him that.
Can I?
No, I really can’t. He’s my patient. The relationship balance is rocking like a boat in a hurricane right now and I need to get us into the eye because I know tomorrow will be hard on both of us.
And it means I need to be honest, but I don’t want him to be upset. He’s fragile right now.
Dharma: I’m okay. How did you get this number and my address?
I change the information for his contact. I can’t keep seeing “unknown” when I know how unknown he is. I know how sexy he is. I know how broken he is. I know him and I can’t walk away.
Macen: I told you I work for someone who can do anything.
Dharma: Just because you CAN do something doesn’t mean you SHOULD do it.
Macen: I feel like that applies to that kiss, too?
I swipe a finger across my lips. The tingle still lingers, sizzling. The pressure of his lips, perfect. The taste of his tongue, tangy alcohol and sweet citrus, juicy. The softness of his flesh sliding against mine, gently. And then harder. And harder. Consuming me and pulling my will into his care. And when he drew my body into his, I felt him. Every inch of his hardness against my softness. His body wanted me and mine ratcheted to meet his intensity.
Dharma: I’ll see you in the morning, Macen. Just come right in as my staff is off on Fridays. I’ll be there. Get some good rest. Tomorrow will be rough.
Macen: I just want you to know that I don’t regret the kiss. I’m just sorry for not respecting our boundaries. I promise to do better, even if I feel like I want to do…badder. Goodnight, Dharma. Sweet dreams.
I tilt my head back on the upper cushions and stare at the ceiling as my nipples harden painfully and my body drips from my core. I’m afraid those dreams would make an adult film star blush.
I turn off the lights and head to bed, eager to get to those dreams.
I’ll get him to open up tomorrow. He did good today, but he was holding back the one thing that will be the hardest to get past. The one thing that will bring him to his knees and put him in the fight of his life. It’s different for everyone what that is.
And I’ll be right there with him. But knowing the worst of a person can change how you see them.
I wonder if the one thing…the truth…will take me down, too.
I’ve had enough caffeine to kill an elephant. My hear
t is racing as every minute ticks down. I’m casual today, no dress slacks. I’m in jeans. If he can’t open up, I’m going to face the day and go do something…anything…to make this urge for him go away.
And those dreams last night. They had me waking up doused in sweat and panting like a feline in heat. And now I can feel the hotness between my legs ratcheting with only the thought of him walking through the door. I take another drink of coffee and then put it on the back credenza so I will stop drinking it.
The seconds tick down before his appointment and I wonder if I’m going to be sitting here alone. From the last five years of intense work with veterans and people with PTSD, some can’t take facing their demons. Their minds have built up a block. It’s like they’re telling themselves they aren’t good enough for better when they’re plenty good, they just need to face the bad and disable it before it disables them.
I wonder if he’s so set in his ways that he doesn’t want to overcome anything. And that comfort isn’t healthy. He’s adapted to believe the way he’s feeling is the normal. When it’s far from normal and will make him fragile in ways he can’t understand. And the end result is detonation of his psyche into an abyss of denial and self-loathing. I’ve seen it. I’ve helped others work through the depths of despair. But is he willing to work?
Or show up.
Five. Four. Three. Two. I watch the clock count down.
Three rapid taps on the door sound through the room.
I jump in my seat. “Come…” I swallow the lump in my throat. “Come in!”
The door swings open and he looks handsome but a little ragged around the edges.
“Morning,” he mumbles, that dazzling smile absent, that witty banter and laser focus gone.
“Good morning. Please have a seat, I’ll be right with you.”
He plops onto the couch without hesitation, which is a good sign, but it’s with a crestfallen sigh which raises my therapist red flags.
I close up my laptop and grab my notebook. “How’d you sleep?”
His eyes open and he yawns widely. “That show you?”
I nod. “Yeah, same here.”
