The SEAL's Rebel Librarian (2 page)

The elevator gave a jerk, then started to descend. The man … student … put his backpack on the floor between his booted feet and shouldered into his jacket. The rasp of the sheepskin lining against his shirt pulled the hem up from his jeans, exposing a thick leather belt, and a ridged abdomen, sending heat coursing like rivulets of rain over the surface of Erin's skin, and for a split second she was very, very aware of the tiny space, the breadth of his shoulders, her quickening breathing in the silent elevator, and exactly how long it had been since she'd had sex.

Almost a year.

The elevator dinged. She cleared her throat and stepped through the doors when he held back, gesturing for her to precede him. For a moment she stared at the Dewey decimal numbers on the ceiling-high stacks, unable to remember what he was researching. “This way,” she said after an extremely embarrassing pause.

She automatically collected a granola bar wrapper and reached for a Coke can abandoned in the Archaeology section. She fumbled the can a little because he was right at her back, but he caught it on the way down, reaching past her to snag it midair. The movement brought him right up against her back.

He held it out to her, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“Thank you,” she said formally, flushed, heat prickling under her arms and at her temples. She took the can and continued down the aisle to make a right at the Philosophy section, all the while wondering why she'd worn her most comfortable slacks and a cardigan, a
cardigan
over a button-down shirt. Like somebody's grandma. Worse, the florescent lights washed out even the most vibrant complexion, if she even had any makeup on at the end of an eight-hour shift.

Stop it.

Halfway into the narrow stack of books she stopped, scanned high to low, then tipped three books forward. “These appear to be the foundational books in the field. Start with these, and the articles, and see if that helps you narrow the topic a little. Professor Trask will be able to help with that, too.”

“Thanks,” he said. He reached past her to grip all three books in one hand. He wore a Casio G-Shock watch on his wrist, the band scraped and faded with constant use.

“Anything else I can help you with?” she asked brightly.

He shook his head, still looking at her with those slate blue eyes. Her heart turned over in her chest, and she knew she was in big, big trouble. Above them the florescent lights hummed. “You can”—she cleared her throat again—“you can take them upstairs and look at them before you check them out. The circulation desk is open until midnight. Just leave them on the cart if you don't want them. We'll reshelve them.”

Shut up, Erin.

“Okay. Great,” he said, but he didn't move until she ducked her head and took a step forward.

Brushing past his solid, hot body sent a crazy electric current through hers. He followed her back to the elevator, up three floors. When they reached the open, cooler space by the circulation desk, she all but scurried behind it, desperate to put some distance between them.

He leaned one elbow on the information desk. Somewhere in between exiting the elevator and coming around to the front of the desk he'd flipped up the sheepskin collar, so the soft fleece snagged on the dark stubble on his jaw. “Want to get a drink after you get off work?”

Yes. Oh yes. Absolutely yes.
But he was a student. She was in a leadership role at the college, bound by the same rules governing relationships as a professor or an administrator. “Thank you, but no,” she said gently.

He gave her that little crooked bad boy smile again, unfazed. “Okay. Thanks again.”

He strode over to the circulation desk, where Carol, the part-time employee who closed five nights a week, fell over herself checking out the books she'd helped him find. He crouched down to tuck the books into his backpack, then pulled on a hat against the April rain and disappeared into the darkness.

Carol turned to look at Erin, then fanned herself and blew out her breath.
Hella hot.

I know,
she mouthed back, then shook her head ruefully.

And that was that. On the plus side, now she knew the divorce hadn't destroyed her sexuality. Desire was back, with a vengeance. And the possibility, long forgotten and newly awakened, of the excitement of a crush, a date, of falling in love.

Just not with the student whose name she'd not even gotten.

*   *   *

Jack Powell parked Rose's BMW 3-series at the back of the lot next to his therapist's office building, safely away from door dings. He'd been getting around by borrowing Grannie's or Rose's car when he needed to, or taking the bus to and from campus. After she got back from Turkey, Rose had offered the use of her car, going a little vague when he asked her how she'd get to and from work. While he waited for his appointment time, he pulled his phone from his jacket pocket and scrolled through his text messages until he got to Keenan Parker. He thumbed in a text.

What's up?

The reply came before he had his helmet off.

Not much. You?

He had two choices here: the truth, or a funny story. He opted for the joke.
Asked a librarian out for a drink and got turned down.

lol too smart for the likes of you.

He'd downloaded a keyboard filled with obscene emojis, and sent Keenan the middle finger, followed by
Want to get lunch?

Can't today. Team lunch.

Keenan was just over a week into an eight-to-five job at Field Energy Company, and suddenly Jack's best friend and former teammate on SEAL Team Nine was an office drone, working late, going in early.

K. I'll try Rose.

He swung his leg over the Ducati's seat and texted his sister while he walked into the nondescript two-story building situated just off Lancaster's main drag. His therapist's office was on the ground floor. She shared space and a receptionist with another psychologist. The reception area was tiny, four chairs dangerously close to a water cooler, the receptionist crammed behind a desk no wider than the chair she sat in, but the therapist, Colleen Sloane, came highly recommended by someone who knew his way around trauma and PTSD, a captain on the Lancaster police force.

God knew Jack needed someone to talk to.

The receptionist looked up when Jack opened the door. “Hi,” she said. “Perfect timing. She's ready for you.”

“Thanks,” he said, keeping his limbs tight to his body. His shoulders, helmet, and backpack threatened the water cooler and the tiny table stocked with tea and hot cocoa. He was used to maneuvering in tight spaces with a ton of gear, but his coordination, normally as smooth and automatic as a gymnast's or a dancer's, was shot. This felt awkward and wrong on so many levels. A backpack, for Christ's sake. Not an MK17.

He made it down the narrow hallway and into Colleen's office without dislodging any of the pictures. She was waiting for him in the chair under the window and gave him a friendly smile as he closed the door and set his backpack on the floor, his helmet on top of it. For a second he looked at the backpack. He was being such a good boy, going to class, going to his therapist, on time, neatly dressed, doing all the things normal people did.

What the
fuck
had happened to his life?

“How are you, Jack?” she asked.

Their conversations always started the same way, open-ended questions that left him feeling raw and exposed. “Fine.”

Her smile never changed. He knew she was beautiful, tall, blonde, slender, with a bob that framed her face and blue eyes. Understated makeup. Acknowledging her femininity, but not playing it up. Which made him think of the librarian. Erin Kent. He remembered her from the Introduction to the Library class she taught for the college's incoming veterans. Erin Kent, who, despite a connection very similar to the rush of adrenaline and testosterone from a combat high, turned him down three days earlier.

Colleen was still watching him. When it came to waiting him out in silence, she always won. That wasn't like him either. He'd thrown his body into every dangerous situation imaginable, expecting it to give out, but what ended up washing him out of the SEALs was nothing physical.

A door slammed down the hall, and he jumped so high Colleen might have had to peel him off the ceiling. “Yeah, okay, fuck, I'm still jittery as hell, and yes, I still have the tremor.”

Her gaze flicked to his hands. He held them out for her to see. The tremor, intermittent, came and went without his consent. It wasn't bad now, a fine quiver running through both of his hands. It got worse when he was tired, and much worse when he was under severe stress.

Which was why he was back in Lancaster, spending as much time as he could in the quiet, orderly, predictable college library, not on SEAL Team Nine. Not at Gray Wolfe, doing the job Keenan just left for an office job.

What the hell was up with that, anyway?

Colleen made a note on her notepad. “How are you sleeping?”

“Same as the tremor,” he said. “Intermittently.”

“How much are you sleeping?” she asked.

“Five, maybe six hours.”

“All at once?”

Fuck.
“No.”

She looked at him, facial expression unchanging. Her unruffled demeanor was the only thing that kept him here, going through the motions. He expected clucking and cooing, and got a calm, steady presence. She somehow managed to make him feel like together they just might get him through this.

“Maybe three hours a night. I catch a nap during the day.”

“We've talked about clean sleep habits,” she reminded him.

“I'm used to this,” he said. “I'm not a ten-to-six sleeper. I wasn't before I joined the Navy and I sure as hell wasn't afterwards.”

“You're a civilian now,” she said imperturbably. “Work, school, relationships all function on a fairly standard schedule. Routine sleep will also help with the tremors.”

She just blurted things like that out into the air. The tremors. The shakes. The
weakness,
out there for everyone to see. He laced his fingers together to stop the shaking. He used to be magic with his hands, crazy coordinated, able to run and juggle at the same time. Other than snagging a Coke can out of midair last night, he dropped things, ran into things, knocked things off tables and ledges.

“Your doctor can prescribe something to help you sleep.”

“No drugs.”

“There are non-habit-forming treatments available,” she continued.

“No. Drugs.” He'd seen too many guys lost to prescription painkillers. He wasn't going down that road.

Silence.

“I can't go back into the field in any capacity if I'm taking drugs. They cloud your judgment.”

Silence. He felt his face flush. Sat back. Smoothed his palms down his jeans to his knees. Blew out his breath. Looked at the window, the picture on the wall, the tiny table at his left hand for a cup of tea or cocoa. Jesus. It was like being in Grannie's house, except smaller.

He used to be able to sit still for hours. Not before he joined the Navy, then went through BUD/S. Before that he was a wild, out-of-control teenager, a constant source of despair and frustration for Rose, who'd all but raised him while their mother drank her days away. The Navy taught him control, taught him how to channel his energy, his emotions until he was a stone cold killing machine.

Now he couldn't even control his hands.

“I thought you weren't going back into the Navy.”

“I'm not. But the same applies for contractor work. A friend of mine and I were supposed to go to work for a security company based in Istanbul.”

“And?”

“He did. I didn't.”

She made another note. “How are you, other than the tremors and not sleeping? Are you seeing anyone?”

He should consider it a victory that Colleen broke first. He gave a short bark of laughter, and once again dodged the question. “I asked someone out and got turned down.”

Colleen's lips curved into a real smile. “It happens.”

“Not to me.” He wasn't bragging, simply stating fact. He'd perfected the “bad boy with a heart of gold” persona early in high school. Over a decade later, it was damn near foolproof.

Her eyebrows flickered up, just a little. “Then it's good for you to experience the occasional rejection, which is a normal occurrence for most people.”

He felt himself smiling back, liking the banter. “Is this part of my therapy? Getting laid?”

Normally he'd talk to a professional civilian female with far more respect, but anyone who treated cops for mental health issues had probably heard it all. She didn't even blink. “Sexuality is a core component of an individual's wellbeing,” she said. “It's a basic human need, like eating or sleeping. I'm not concerned if you're not sexually active unless it's a change from your baseline behavior.”

He laughed. “It's a change.”

“In what way?”

“You treat cops, right?” he said, looking at his linked hands. “You know about badge bunnies. SEALs have groupies, too. I could walk into any bar in town and find someone to go home with. Hell, I could do that before I joined the Navy,” he said, remembering.

She made a noncommittal noise. “It sounds like you have a pretty good relationship with your body.”

“I do,” Jack said. “Or I did.”

Colleen set her pen on her legal pad. “You've been seen by specialists who all agree there's nothing physically wrong with your hand. Therefore, the tremor is in your mind, manifesting in your body.”

“Yeah,” he said brusquely. She wasn't telling him anything he hadn't heard a dozen times before, from Navy doctors, civilian doctors in Virginia Beach and in Lancaster. If there wasn't a physical problem, there wasn't a physical solution.