Hard: A Step-Brother Romance (18 page)

“Are
you asking if I got my quick fuck and will be on my way?” He said.

In
every sense of the word. “Of course not.”

“I’ll
have you know, I’m not anywhere close enough to you yet.”

There
wasn’t really any place left on me to get close to. All my places were
thoroughly discovered. Sometimes twice. Sometimes
three
times while
accompanied with fierce denial in the morning. What else did he want?

And
then I knew.

“Look,
Zach—”

“Don’t
give me the step-brother line again. It doesn’t weird me out. It shouldn’t make
a difference to you.”

“Okay,
bro
,” I sighed. “Let’s ignore the family tree for a second. You said it
yourself. You’re re-enlisting.”

“So?”

“Will
a Navy SEAL make it home for dinner at night?”

He
quieted. “No. But there’s leave every once in a while.”

“I’m
not looking for every once in a while. You have your life, what you’ve planned
to do, what you’re built for.” I regretted the words as they only encouraged
him to flex. “You want to be a SEAL. I understand that. But I can’t get wrapped
up in this only to have you leave. Zach…I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

“You
wouldn’t be.”

“We
have our own goals, okay? We need to focus on those. We had some fun together.
More than we should have. But I can’t let myself fall—”

Shit.
I almost said it. And no big industrial truck rumbling by or hooting laugh of
another diner muffled the mistake. Zach stared at me.

“Shay?”
He clenched his fist around his drink. “Only two things could keep me out of
the SEALs now. One would be a douche-bag doctor failing my physical. The
other—”

My
heart pounded. “—Don’t.”

“I
never had a reason to settle down.”

“Zach.”

“You’ve
always been alone.”

“Stop.”

“I
literally had my life flash before my eyes, and I had nothing to show for it
except a dozen classified missions and an empty apartment. Almost dying gives a
man perspective. Maybe there’s more for me.”

“I
can’t do this.”

“Shay,
why fight it?”

“Because…”
My lip trembled. I didn’t
want
to fight it anymore. I didn’t want to do
anything but rest in his arms, giggle at his crude humor, and lick every last
drop of the milkshake from his chest. “I…”

A
shadow crossed over the table. A middle-aged moment-killer winked at Zach and
set the check by his hand.

“Thanks,
folks, come back now.” She didn’t mean it.

I stood,
shouldering the bag. “We should go. Thanks for lunch.”

Zach
crinkled the bill as he stood. He wagged a finger at me, but his smile
returned, bigger than ever.

“We’re
not done yet,” he said. “You and I got a lot to discuss.”

“We
really don’t.”

“Yes,
we do.” He loomed over me, brushing my chin with the bump of his fingers. I
swallowed, trapped in the size, the scent, and the power of him. “From this
moment on, baby, you are mine. And I’m going to spoil you, pamper you, and fuck
the hell out of you until you finally admit it. That I promise.”

He
parted from me to pay the tab. I rushed outside to gulp as much air as
possible. The humid, smoggy afternoon didn’t help, but I was at least free of
him.

Until
I saw the bike.

A
half hour trip back home, clutching on a man more dangerous to me than the open
road and his crazy driving.

Zach
wanted me to admit what I felt.

Keeping
that hidden would be more than a challenge.

It’d
be
Hard
.

I
left Shay at home and told her I’d return from Washington D.C. with good news.

Good
news for one of us at least.

I
made it to my scheduled physical twenty minutes early, but the doctor’s office
didn’t operate on naval time.

I sat
in the cramped waiting room for thirty minutes before a pretty nurse took my
vitals. I stripped down and waited another fifteen for the doctor. Not that I
didn’t enjoy a good sixty degree office shriveling my balls, but today wasn’t
the day I wanted to get fucked around.

I
needed
to pass this physical.

Everything
in my goddamned life depended on convincing the doctor I was fit to serve.

I
had a lifetime of preparation, training, and sacrifice that punished my body
beyond the breaking point, and
this
was how my fucking future would be
determined. Not at a promotional ceremony getting commended for valor in
combat. Not in the field taking out low-life, scum-of-the-earth murderers who
targeted innocent people.

Here.

My
worth
was judged in a shitty doctor’s office with faded wallpaper and a sink that
perpetually dripped. My bare ass hung out of my gown, and my feet covered in nurse
issued
booties
. To make it worse, they piped in some hackneyed Barbara
Streisand and left me to freeze.

My
only good luck was a kiss from Shay who seemed more relieved to be rid of me
than to actually touch me.

Maybe.

Hell
if I understood that woman, but I’d love to try.

I
flipped my phone. I texted her when I landed. Not because she asked me to, but
because I thought it’d be like, nice? Something I was supposed to do?  Shay
answered immediately with:

Ok!
: )

Nothing
else since.

I
shouldn’t have expected anything. The girl I texted feared being abandoned. Here
I was, sitting half-naked on a table, waiting on pins, needles, and the memory
of IVs shoved into my veins to see how soon I could ship out and leave her
alone.

I wasn’t
the only man who ever made a choice between his family and country, but goddamn
if it wasn’t both the easiest and hardest decision of my life.

I
belonged somewhere, but now I wasn’t sure if it was with the SEALs or Shay.

Only
one way to find out. I texted her again.

waiting
in the doctor’s office

Nothing.
I gave it a minute before tapping the screen. I snapped the photo and sent it.

if
u think the gown is sexy, u should see my ass in it
.
everyone else can

My
phone buzzed.
Can the doctor give you a lobotomy instead?

I grinned.
So she did care.

 
shouldn’t
b here that long. u should call the office. tell him I’m fit enough to serve
you.

A
delayed response. I imagined it flustered her. I hoped it did.

I’ll
call and recommend a castration if you aren’t careful.

I
took my shot and hoped for the best.
that wouldn’t make either of us happy

An
even longer delay. One step too far, or just enough of a push? What would it
take to get her to see how fucking perfect we were together?

Heading
into the attorney about the charity. Good luck!

Ah,
willful ignorance. Or avoidance. Probably avoidance.

Shay
warmed up with the intensity of an M80 and shut down with the force of a
cleaver into a cutting board. I had to watch my fingers, toes, and more important
areas around her.

Damn
it. I shouldn’t have scared her off. I liked talking to her.

I
wanted to talk to her.

Christ,
I wanted her to be here with me.

How
pathetic was that? I was a fucking Navy SEAL, and I needed someone to hold my
hand in a
doctor’s
office?

During
my injury, I had more needles in my arms, catheters in my cock, and
fingers
in my brain than I ever told Shay. I didn’t need her
to fucking baby me.

I was
getting back in the SEALs.

And
there wasn’t a damn thing that would stop me.

Except
her.

And
she had no idea. All she had to do was say the word.

That
scared me more than anything the doctor might have said.

The
door opened, and a balding doctor in his late fifties entered. He washed his
hands and gave me a cautious glance.

“SEAL,
huh?” He asked.

“Yes,
sir.”

“You
guys really do have two modes—living and dead.”

“I’m
still breathing.”

“Lucky
for you.” He studied me with dark, skeptical eyes. “I had a look at your file,
son. I’m sure how you survived.”

I gave
him a smile. “I’m not complaining, sir.”

“Wouldn’t
expect you to.” He tapped my chart. “Your blood work is fine.”

“With
all due respect sir, the issue wasn’t with my blood. I had too much of it
spilled.”

“Well,
you’re looking solid now.”

“Yes,
sir.”

He
approached, and I straightened as he gripped my right shoulder. “You seem to be
in good shape. Exercising every day?”

“At
least, sir.”

“Not
overdoing it?”

I
grinned. “No such thing.”

He
hummed. Squeezed. The shock bit through my shoulder. My nerves set on fire,
rampaging down my spine.

“Does
that hurt?” He asked.

I’d
swallow my tongue. “Uncomfortable.”

“You
had an injury to your rotator cuff,” he said. “They opted not to do surgery and
wait.”

Probably
because they were still stitching my head. “It’s getting better without the surgery.”

“Right.”
He had me stand. I gritted my teeth as he moved the gown aside and pressed
against my chest. “Broken ribs too?”

“Healed.”

“Right.”

He didn’t
fucking believe me? Holy Christ, when I first woke, the ribs and collapsed lung
fucked me up more than the head wound.

The
doctor had me sit. He examined the scars on my head and exhaled.

“Do you
feel you are physically capable of returning to duty?”

I
didn’t hesitate. “Yes, sir.”

“Son,
you suffered a severe, near-fatal accident only eight months ago. You endured
months
of intense therapy after weeks of extended hospitalization. Do you understand
what that sort of trauma does to a body?”

“I
remember it well,” I said. “A lesser man might have fallen.”

“But
not you?”

“No,
sir. I guarantee, I’m the strongest son of a bitch you’ve ever had the pleasure
of examining.”

“That
so?”

“Yes,
sir. Just wait until I turn my head and cough.”

Finally
got a chuckle out of him, but it faded quick. He tapped the chart. “Well, you
seem mostly recovered.  I’m guessing you’re more physically fit now than you were
before the accident which is…impressive, given the SEALs expectations.”

“I’ve
definitely had more to work for, sir.”

“Any
family?”

In a
sense. I shrugged. “I live for the job.”

That
wasn’t the answer he wanted.

He
pulled a chair over and sat, crossing his legs. His glasses came off, and he
rubbed his eyes. He hesitated.

But fucking
why
?

“Tell
me about the headaches, Zach?”

I
revealed fucking nothing. “What headaches?”

“Son.”

“Gotta
be more specific, doc.”

“You’ve
been prescribed oxycodone and fiorcet for migraines by Dr. Gretchen Halley.”

Damn
it. Gretchen tried to force the pills down my throat before. I refused her
every time. Didn’t stop her from calling a prescription in for me. Son of a
bitch.

“I
didn’t take them,” I said.

“So
you aren’t having headaches?”

I
preferred a real mine-field to these questions. “I could handle them.”

“How
bad are they?”

“Just
a headache.”

“Do
you have one now?”

Yeah,
and he was making it worse. “It’s not bad. Caused by the travel. Chartered my
own jet, but unless I’m strapped in the back of a helo, flying is boring.”

He
handed me a plastic tool to hold over my eye. He pointed to the chart on the
door.

“Read
the fourth line.”

“Look,
the headaches are manageable—”

“Son,
read the line.”

I couldn’t.
The words blurred the more I concentrated. I shrugged.

“R-O-3-A-V.”

He frowned.
“Not even close.”

I knew
what he was going to say next. I didn’t let him talk.

“I
can get LASIK. It’ll correct my vision. That’s not a problem.”

His
voice hardened. “It’s not your eyes.”

“They’re
blurry. Of course it’s my eyes.”

“Zach,
you suffered extensive head trauma. Quite frankly, it’s a goddamned miracle
you’re even standing, walking, talking, exercising, and
thinking
of re-enlisting
in the SEALs.”

“Sir—”

“These
aren’t tension headaches. This is a clear-cut case of Post-Concussion Syndrome.
It’s serious. You shouldn’t be trying to get into the Navy. You need to find a
qualified neurologist.”

“But—”

“This
types of syndromes can
kill
you, son. The only thing you should be doing
is resting and focusing on getting healthy. These headaches may last a
lifetime.”

“I’ll
handle them.”

“Not
if you’re under enemy fire in hostile territory. It isn’t just your life on the
line. Do you want to be the man responsible for killing a member of your
squadron?”

Jesus.
Like I didn’t have that nightmare every night. I clenched my jaw.

“Son,
do yourself a favor. Be grateful you’re alive. Take care of yourself. Find a
pretty girl and settle down.”

“I
can do this, I just need a chance.”

He
stood, clapping my shoulder. “I’m sorry. I can’t in good conscience clear you
for duty. Not when you’d pose a danger to yourself and others. You served your
country well, almost gave your life. Be grateful for the opportunity and focus
on your continued recovery.”

He
offered his hand. I reflexively shook it. He nodded.

“I’m
sorry, son. But thank you for your service. You’re a hero to many people.”

The
door closed behind him.

A
hero?

To fucking
who
?

Years
of training. Dedication. Motherfucking hell week—five days of physical fucking
torture with no sleep—and it was over?

How could
it be
over
?

How
the hell could I survive the IED, the transport, the surgery, the recovery,
only to have a goddamned
headache
prevent me from shipping back out?

Holy
Christ, I survived spider bites, lacerations, and a parachute that incorrectly
deployed. A damned
headache
knocked me out.

I
ripped the gown off and pitched it across the room. It took out a glass
container of tongue depressors. The glass didn’t shatter, but it toppled into
the sink.

It wasn’t
enough, but I wasn’t trashing a doctor’s office. It wasn’t his fault he ruined
my life.

It wasn’t
anyone’s fault, but it sure as hell felt like mine.