Breaking Through (Book 2 of the SEAL TEAM Heartbreakers) (24 page)

“And it only takes one link of the chain who’s more interested in covering his own ass than covering his men to do that.”

“Maybe he’ll tell you who it is,” Tess said, a wistful note in her voice.

Ian’s head jerked around and his gaze went sharp and flat. “You’ve not gotten involved with this guy?”

There was involved and
involved.
“No, I haven’t.”
But it didn’t stop her from wishing. She just couldn’t go down that road with Brett. She’d feel as abandoned as she did each time her father walked away from her. The fact that she was even imaging what a serious relationship with him would be like had her heart racing and her mouth going dry. After what had happened in her apartment and the other night in his—As soon as the series was finished she had to cut off contact with him. She had to.

***

Clara shifted her attention back from the pale blue early morning sky. The light was soft as though it shone through a filter. A faint smell of exhaust from the early morning rush hour still hung in the air, blending with the rose bush Russell had planted in a huge pot just outside the balcony door. That he’d done that for her gave her a special thrill.

She leaned forward on her elbows to study the chessboard. It had become their morning routine when she visited to play chess with Evan while Russell finished paperwork.

These moments with Evan were a blessing. He was witty and sharp and above all a sweet man. Their first experience together was almost forgotten in her growing fondness for him. She didn’t know how to protect herself from that, wasn’t sure she could if she’d wanted to. He was burrowing into her heart just as easily as Russell seemed to be doing.

She jumped Evan’s pawn and moved the knight into position.

“I believe I’ve been hustled. You said you played, but you didn’t say you were a pro,” Evan said.

“Not even close, but I used to play with Brett quite a bit. He, like his father, loves war games and strategy.”

“Do you have pictures of your children? I’d like to see them.”

“Certainly. If you’d like to meet them, we can have a family dinner or something at Hawk’s house,” she offered. She hadn’t wanted to push that until Evan was ready. She dragged her purse from behind one of the longue chairs and took out her billfold.

“I’d like that, when I’m a little stronger.” He opened the flap where the pictures lay in their plastic sleeves and studied them.

“Zoe and—” 

“Sharon,” she supplied.

“They both look a great deal like you.”

He flipped the picture. “That’s Brett. He’d just gotten his trident.”

“He’s gorgeous.”

She laughed at hearing her son described like that by a man. “Yes, he is.”

“This is Joe, your husband?”

“Yes.” She studied the picture, long faded to sepia from exposure. She’d just moved it every time she changed billfolds.

“Do you believe in soul mates?”

She smiled.  “Yes, I do.”

“Do you think you get a shot at more than one?”

“I hope so.”

He smiled. “And these two princesses?”

“They’re Katie Beth and Ali Marie. I can’t believe my daughter bought into that southern tradition choosing two names for her children. It’s so stereotypical. But it seems to suit both the girls. Katie Beth just turned five and Ali Marie is five months old now.”

“They’re your legacy. And they both favor you.” He handed her back her billfold.

“For now. They could change any moment. That’s the way with young children.”

“I always hoped to have children,” Evan said, a wistful look on his face. “Do you think it wrong for same sex couples to have children? Be honest.”

Clara thought a moment. “I’ve seen children neglected, abused, molested, and die in accidents and of disease since I’ve been teaching, Evan. I don’t really care if their parents are same sex, lesbian or gay, straight, married, cohabitating, divorced, bi-racial or what. If they love and take care of them, which is basically what all children need and want, I don’t think it matters. The kids just need them to be there and to pay attention. The children need to be their priority, not an afterthought.”

“Don’t hold anything back now, Clara,” he teased.

She laughed.

After a moment’s silence, he returned to the chess match. He moved his knight forward.

The move posed a threat to her queen, and she moved the piece back out of striking distance.

“I wish you’d been my mother.”

Her heart plunged into her stomach and she looked up to find his brown eyes focused on her face with such sadness that instant tears threatened. What had happened with his mother that could have caused him to feel that way?

“The only things my mother carries in her wallet are her charge cards.  And the only attention she was willing to shower on me was when she used me like a weapon or a bargaining chip—” he stopped. He ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “I don’t really want to talk about this.”

A bargaining chip? How had she done that?

Clara rested her hand on Evan’s forearm, and after a moment his hand covered hers and he gave it a squeeze.  Her heart ached for him.

A few minutes later, when he won the match, she rose from her seat and moved to stand behind him and rest her cheek against his and give him a hug. “ Shall I show you what a good loser I am by getting you a drink? I’m going to make myself a glass of iced tea.”

“Do you know how to make real coco?” he asked.

“Yes, I do.”

“I’d love some.”

Anything that was fattening and might help him gain a little weight was fine by her. She had just stirred the coco and sugar into the milk and placed the pot on the burner when Russell came to stand next to her.

“That smells good.” His gray hair was ruffed where he’d combed his fingers through it, and his glasses hung from the front of his shirt.

“Evan wanted some coco. Do you want some? I can add another helping of everything to the pot.”

“No, I’ll stick with tea. Though it is tempting.” He slipped his arms around her waist and brushed his lips against her cheek. “But not as tempting as you.”

With his tall frame pressed close against her from behind, her whole body heated with a wonderful surge of desire that left her lower limbs weak. She’d thought those feelings were long dead. But Russell Connelly seemed to trigger them without much effort at all. “That was a very good line, Captain Connelly.”

“No line, just the truth,” he rested his cheek against hers. “One of these days we need to spend a day together, just the two of us, Clara. As much as I appreciate your willingness to include Evan, I want some time alone with you.”

She laid her hand on his forearm, felt the muscle there thick and strong, and rested back against him. She had missed the sturdiness of a man’s body against hers. Missed being held and kissed. And missed other things as well.

Her mouth was suddenly dry with longing. “Whenever you’re free, just give me a call.”

“I hope you mean that, because I’m going to,” he warned. He found the sensitive area behind her ear with his lips.

She shivered.

When he released her and moved toward the door to the balcony, she drew a deep breath of regret.  He’d left her aching for more.

He paused in front of the sliding glass door. With the deep cleft in his chin and his beard-shadowed jaw, he looked heart-tuggingly masculine. His brown eyes looked dark.  “What about tomorrow?”

Her face grew hot and her heart beat so hard she had to fight to draw breath. “Tomorrow would be good.”

“It’s a date.”

***

Brett shoved another clip into his Sig Sauer P228 and faced the target, feet apart, knees bent, arms forward, hands in position. The stance was second nature to him. He squeezed the 4.4-pound trigger and fired in controlled bursts. Each of the thirteen plus one rounds hit the lighter circle positioned over the target’s head, shredding the cardboard.  He lowered the empty pistol to his side and studied the target.

“Hold fire.” The command came down the line from Petty Officer Newton. Though Brett wasn’t one of the BUD/S students, he reloaded his clip and held his fire.

Newton wandered down the line, checking each man’s progress, and until he came to Brett. He eyed the distant black silhouette with its head in tatters. “You have a serious grudge against that target, Ensign Weaver.”

Brett smiled. “Just keeping my skill level up, Petty Officer Newton.”

“I know you’re as good with a gun as you are a knife. We’re shorthanded today. If you want to lend a hand with some instruction, we could use the help.”

Finally, he could do something useful. Brett suppressed a grin.  “Sure, I have some time.” He secured his sidearm in his holster.

“I’ll clear it with my CO,” Newton said, and, reaching into his pocket, flipped open his cell phone to make the call.

Brett sauntered down the wooden railing separating the shooters from the range and checked out each man’s target. The level of marksmanship the trainees exhibited ranged from excellent to mediocre. The latter performance would change in a hurry with a little more practice and a few pointers.

Newton shot him a thumbs up as he closed his phone, and Brett moved in on one of the two students he saw needed instruction.  After some work on stance and sighting with the seaman, the he seemed more confident and Brett moved on to the other student.

As Newton ordered a prepare to fire, Brett slipped on the protective headgear Newton had given him. “Fire.” A simultaneous explosion of sound followed, muffled to a roar by the safety gear.

When the firing stopped, he walked down to check the targets. The two men had done much better.

The short-barreled M4 rifle came next. He loved this shit. He was in his element with a rifle in his hands. Why wouldn’t Jackson assign him to instructor duty?

Because the CO thought he wasn’t the perfect SEAL anymore.

Mrs. Jackson’s words from the other day played through his head.
No one can live up to your expectations. No one.

Was that what this was about? Did Jackson think because he’d suffered a brain injury he was like his son, Alex?

Brett shook his head. As much sympathy as he felt for the little guy, he couldn’t equate himself with the child. He’d read the evals Dr. Stewart had sent to Jackson. They were all excellent. The doctor had given him a clean bill of health and released him to full duty.

But if Jackson was fixated on the head injury, he would try to find a way to force him off the team and out of the service. And transferring to another team would be out as well. He wouldn’t pass on an operator he believed wasn’t at the top of his game to another team.

Jackson was isolating him from his team, and any help they might offer him. He had to find a way to protect his back.

Was he growing paranoid? Was that part of his PTSD?

He rubbed a hand down the side of his face. The high he’d experienced only moments before had taken a nosedive quicker than a FA-18 Hornet after a ground target. Shit.

Maybe he should talk to Tess about it?
Whoa—

The woman was a reporter. They wanted each other, but the distance she kept between them ensured he reined in this insane need to share. Just because he wanted to tear her clothes off with his teeth didn’t mean he could trust her with any of this shit.

And he certainly couldn’t talk to her about the PTSD.

PTSD was a sneaky mother. He never knew when his heart rate and blood pressure would shoot up and he’d be thrown into a panic. He’d almost lost it when he was last with Tess, but he’d held it together. Or it could have been the way she’d distracted him when she’d changed the direction of his thoughts and feelings.
Oh, yeah.

He couldn’t mention the PTSD to his mom. She’d get worried and upset, and it wouldn’t help either of them in the long run.

Maybe Zoe. She already knew about the PTSD. She always had some good advice about things, and she knew how to keep a secret. Yeah, he’d talk to Zoe. Maybe. Probably not.  She was already worried about Hawk. She didn’t need anything else gnawing at her.

He had to shake this shit off for a while and just enjoy doing what he was trained to do.

He sauntered down the shooting range and studied the targets. He paused just behind one of the students and waited for the firing to cease.

Brett hung his sunglasses on his shirt, approached the student, and asked his name.  Accepting the rifle from Cramer, he demonstrated to the Ensign how to lean into the butt of the gun as it was fired to better absorb the impact. Though Cramer was doing that, the percussion made the barrel jump, and he wasn’t bringing it back into position completely before firing again. It was throwing his aim off by a few inches. Inches that could count in a close-quarter firefight.

“Hug it in like it’s a woman you’re about to dance with. This lady will save your life, and you want her directed where you need it. Stiffen your muscles each time you fire so that they will pull the barrel back into place again, like a spring, before you squeeze the trigger again.” Brett swiveled the rifle barrel up to return it to Cramer. The strap snagged his sunglasses and they fell to the ground.

“Thank you, sir,” Cramer said.

Brett stepped away, giving Cramer room to reload while he bent to pick up the glasses. Cramer turned and the metal stock of the gun came right at Brett’s face. He shoved up a hand to block it. His palm absorbed the impact, but he staggered and threw out a hand to catch himself.

For a moment the world flashed green as though he were looking through NVGs. A blurred image of someone standing over him was overwhelmed by the memory of a metal gunstock plunging toward his face.

“Jesus. I’m sorry, Ensign Weaver,” Cramer’s voice jerked him back to the present.

Brett blinked to clear his vision and focused on Cramer. His hand shook as he snagged the sunglasses from the ground. Excitement jacked his heart rate up to Mach IV speed.
I fucking remembered something!

  “No harm done. You didn’t hit me.” he assured Cramer as he shoved his glasses back on. At Newton’s prepare to fire order, Brett took two big steps back and again covered his ears with the headgear.