CHAPTER EIGHT
FOR THE SECOND night in a row, Lauren was awoken by a man’s rough handling.
Garrett hooked his arm around her neck and dragged her off the bed. She landed in a belly flop, the breath rushing from her lungs. “We have to take cover,” he yelled in her ear. “We’ve got small arms fire coming from all sides.”
Lauren didn’t know what he was talking about. Her brain, still half-asleep, registered no sounds except his voice. It was pitch-black inside the semi, dead quiet outside. She listened for gunshots, her heart thumping hard in her chest.
“There’s an insurgent hideout in the building on the northeast corner. If we stay here we’ll get ambushed.”
It dawned on her that he was dreaming, or having some kind of...episode. He thought they were in Iraq.
“Are you hit anywhere?”
“No,” she said, moistening her lips.
He ducked, as if a missile had just flown over their heads. “Oh, shit. IED! Stay down, Morales.” Covering her body with his, he protected her from whatever monsters his nightmare had generated.
She trembled beneath him, unsure how to react. What if he decided she was an insurgent? He could snap her neck like a twig.
“Are you hit?” he repeated.
“No,” she said. “Garrett, wake up. It’s Lauren.”
He rolled off her and turned her over, checking for injuries. “Oh God,” he moaned, searching for the pulse in her neck. Although it hammered against his fingertips, he made a sound of anguish. “Morales, no!”
She grabbed his hand. “I’m Lauren. Lauren Boyer.”
He didn’t seem to register her words. In his mind, she must have been dead or dying, because he ran his fingertips down her breastbone and placed the heel of his hand at the center of her chest.
“No,” she yelled, hitting his forearms. He could crack her ribs performing CPR, especially if he did so in an overzealous panic.
“Hang on, Morales,” he said, oblivious to her blows.
Lauren had to take drastic action. She drew back her hand and slapped him across the face with all her might. He flinched, so she knew he felt it. Terrified that one slap wasn’t enough, she struck him again as hard as she could.
He didn’t give her a chance to go for three. With a furious snarl, he grasped her wrists and shoved her arms over her head.
“Garrett,” she sobbed, desperate to get through to him. “Please, stop!”
He stared at her for a moment, his eyes gleaming in the dark. Then he raised his head and looked around the quiet sleeper cab. The shape of the bed and the outline of the front seats were barely discernible.
“Lauren,” he said.
“Yes.”
He released her wrists and climbed off her carefully, sitting at the edge of the bed. She stood to switch on the overhead lamp. His hand rose to cover his eyes from the light, but not before she saw the shame on his face.
He couldn’t look at her.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked.
“No,” she said, taking a seat beside him. When she touched his shoulder, he jerked away. “Garrett—”
“What was I doing to you?”
She moistened her lips, hesitating. Her palm print stood out in stark relief on his cheek. “You were...confused.”
“I was attacking you.”
“No.”
His tortured gaze met hers. “Then why were you defending yourself?”
“You scared me,” she admitted. “I think you were having a combat flashback. You kept calling me Morales.”
Understanding flickered in his eyes. “Morales?”
She nodded. “You tried to do CPR on me.”
“Hell,” he said, dragging a hand down his jaw.
“I’m sorry I hit you, but I thought you were going to break my ribs. I had to do something to wake you up.”
He scanned her form. “I did chest compressions?”
“No. You just scared me. I’m fine.”
“Your wrists are red.”
“So’s your face,” she pointed out.
“I’m sorry,” he said in a formal tone. “I shouldn’t have restrained you.”
Her heart broke for him. She didn’t know what to say to put his mind at ease. Even in the throes of the nightmare, his actions had been protective. But what if he’d mistaken her for the enemy, rather than a friend?
She took a few sips of water and gave the bottle to him. He drank sparingly.
“Tell me about Morales,” she said, slipping her arm through his. This time, he didn’t shy away from her touch. “Did you save him?”
He buried his head in his hands. “No.”
“What was he like?”
“She,” he choked.
“She?”
“Jessica Morales was a she.”
Lauren’s chest tightened with dismay. A female soldier had died in his arms? No wonder he was traumatized. “Tell me about her.”
After a long moment, he lifted his head. “She was good with a rifle. More accurate than most of the men.”
“I didn’t know women were allowed in combat.”
“It’s kind of a gray area. We brought them along as support soldiers. Their official duties were to search the female Iraqis and keep them calm, but they were often called upon to use weapons. Combat came to us.”
She waited for him to continue, squeezing his arm.
“We shielded the women as much as possible. There was a huge stigma attached to losing female team members, and they weren’t even supposed to be on the front lines. But Morales...Jessica...she wanted experience, not protection. She said that the women were just as likely to get separated or ambushed, but they weren’t as prepared. She demanded equal duties and better training.”
“So...you treated her like one of the guys?”
“No,” he admitted. “But I was getting there. She’d distinguished herself in a number of battle situations.”
“What happened to her?”
He took a deep breath, staring up at the ceiling. “We were on a late mission in an area known for insurgent activity. After an extended gunfight, we got the hell out of there. As we climbed into the truck, a bomb went off. Morales sustained a critical shrapnel injury. She bled out in less than five minutes. There was nothing I could do.”
“Oh, Garrett,” Lauren said, putting her head on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”
“I haven’t had nightmares like that in years.”
“This has happened before?”
“A few times. I’ve woken up yelling orders, army-crawling across the floor.”
“Is that why you wanted to sleep outside?”
His muscles tensed. “No.”
“No?”
When she gave him a curious look, he amended his statement. “It’s one of the reasons. The other is more complicated.”
“What?”
“Never mind,” he said, a flush creeping up his neck. He took another sip of her water. “I’ll go back outside now and let you rest.”
“I don’t want you to leave.”
“Yeah? Do you still feel safe with me?”
She frowned at his self-derisive tone. “Safer than being alone.”
“Well, you’re not. Obviously, I can’t control myself while I’m asleep. It’s difficult enough while I’m awake.”
Lauren felt as though the conversation was slipping away from her. She was still reeling from the story about Morales, shaken by his actions during the fugue state. This was going somewhere...interesting.
A cautious voice warned her not to pursue this subject. But another part of her, one that was seeking any distraction from the chaos, any sensation besides fear, spoke up instead: “What do you mean?”
“Being near you drives me crazy,” he said, his jaw clenched. “Even when I’m not looking at you, or talking to you, I’m aware of you. I can smell you.”
“You can smell me?”
“Yes.”
“Do I smell bad?”
He laughed harshly, shaking his head. “You smell like a woman.”
“Not a freshly showered one.”
“It doesn’t matter. Even if you stunk, I’d still want you.”
“You...what?”
His gaze dropped to her hand, where it was curled around his biceps. “I want you,” he said through gritted teeth. “And not in any soft, romantic way. I’m no better than Mickey or Jeb. I was excited by the sight of you with your shirt torn. I’ve fantasized about tearing the rest of your clothes off. Repeatedly.”
Her lips parted with surprise. That wasn’t what she’d expected to hear. She’d sensed the attraction between them, but she’d never felt threatened by him. He’d gone out of his way to protect her. “Do you enjoy forcing women?”
His eyes darkened. “No.”
“Then you’re not like them.”
“I’m exactly like them.”
“You wouldn’t have to force me, Garrett.”
He groaned, glancing away. “Don’t say that.”
“Why?”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know you’re a good man.”
“No,” he said shortly. “I’m not.”
After the story he’d told, she understood why he carried so much guilt and self-loathing. Many war veterans battled those demons. It was also clear that his confession about wanting to rip her clothes off was meant as a warning.
But she wasn’t afraid; she was aroused.
Her pulse throbbed at the base of her throat, and her skin tingled with anticipation. She longed to feel his hard body against hers.
She moved her hand from the crook of his arm to the nape of his neck. “I thought we went over this already,” she said, lifting her lips to his. They touched briefly and pulled apart. “I’m right about everything. To infinity.”
He stared at her mouth for a few seconds, struggling with himself. She imagined that his control was hanging by a thread.
She wanted it to break.
When she moistened her lips, tasting him on them, he snapped. With a strangled growl, he pressed her back against the inside of the truck and covered her mouth with his. Thrusting his hands into her hair, he devoured her. He kissed suggestively, driving his tongue deep, making her open wide. There was no question about which act they were mimicking. She moaned, twining her arms around his neck.
His kiss was smoking hot and dirty. She could feel the grit on his skin and smell the faint hint of gasoline on his shirt. It thrilled her.
He broke the contact, his eyes trailing down her chest. Her breasts were heavy and full, her nipples tight. She arched her spine, biting down on her lower lip. Groaning, he took her mouth from another angle, letting her breasts settle against his chest.
She splayed her hands across his back, exploring the muscles beneath her fingertips. He was so built. Flicking her tongue across his lips, she grabbed fistfuls of his shirt and lifted, seeking bare skin.
She might rip his clothes off.
He raised himself up a little, but not to remove his shirt. His gaze dropped from her swollen mouth to her jutting nipples, mesmerized. She indulged his unspoken request by stripping her top off and tossing it aside. The lacy cups of her bra felt too constrictive, and he clearly wanted to see more. Reaching behind her back, she unhooked it.
When her breasts tumbled free, he looked like he’d died and gone to heaven. “Jesus,” he whispered, cupping her soft flesh.
His hands made an erotic contrast to her bare skin. They were dark, ravaged, bandaged. So large that her breasts appeared almost delicate in comparison. His thumbs swept over the sensitive pink tips, wrenching a cry from her lips.
He glanced up at her face, gauging her reaction to his touch. She trembled in his arms, ready to beg.
Thankfully, he didn’t make her. He stretched out on top of her and kissed her again, moving his thigh between her legs. Sliding his tongue in and out of her mouth. Stroking her taut nipples, again and again.
It was too much and not enough. She kissed him back hungrily, writhing beneath him and threading her fingers through his hair. Her hips rotated in needy circles. Panting, she rubbed herself against his hard thigh.
He shoved his hand between them, palming her hot sex. She gasped at the sensation, wound as tight as a wire.
Making a frustrated sound, he tore his mouth from hers. “I can’t touch you there.”
“Why not?”
“My hands are dirty.”
She stared up at him, blinking.
He lifted himself off her, moving slowly, as if in pain. Her eyes swept down his body, widening at the enormous erection straining at the front of his jeans.
Wow.
She thought about offering to skip the foreplay, but maybe that wasn’t such a great idea. “I have foam cleanser.”
A muscle in his jaw ticked. He kept his eyes averted, his shoulders slightly hunched. “No. I can’t.”
It was obvious that he wanted to continue, but wouldn’t let himself. His soiled hands weren’t the issue; his guilty conscience was. “You son of a bitch,” she said, her breasts quivering with indignation. She picked up her T-shirt and clutched it to her chest. “You’re married, aren’t you?”
He dragged a hand down his jaw, looking haggard. “I’m not married. I’m just...not available.”
The statement did nothing to assuage her anger and confusion. She didn’t understand what was stopping him. If he had a girlfriend, why hadn’t he mentioned her?
Maybe he’d lost her in the quake. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask, but Lauren realized she didn’t want to know. She couldn’t stand the thought of him with another woman. The outside world had ceased to exist for her. She was attached to Garrett, dependent on his protection. They’d bonded as survivors...and more. Her feelings went deeper than sexual attraction.
Available or not, she could see herself falling for him.
Lauren tugged her shirt back on, amazed at herself. Michael’s betrayal had devastated her. He was the scum of the earth. And now, she had no room to criticize. When faced with an opportunity to sleep with a taken man, she was tempted.
Hating Garrett for making her feel so conflicted, she avoided his gaze as she set her clothes to rights. “I have to check on the patients.”
“I’ll come with you.”
She wanted to tell him to f*ck off, but she couldn’t. Tears pricked her eyes as she laced up her shoes and put on a jacket.
Before they left the semi, he grasped her wrist, forcing her to look at him. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have started anything.”
“You didn’t. I threw myself at you.”
The corner of his mouth tipped up. “I enjoyed that.”
She tried to jerk her wrist out of his grip.
“I mean it, Lauren. That was the most exciting five minutes of my life.”
“Don’t exaggerate.”
“I’m not. You would have been very disappointed in my performance if we’d continued. I’d have lasted about two seconds.”
“Shut up,” she said, rolling her eyes.
He let go of her wrist, placid. She didn’t believe his ridiculous assurances, but she was flattered by the compliments. He was an enigma. Guarded and aloof one moment, teasing and self-derisive the next.
As she entered the triage space, a chill came over her. She rushed to Mrs. Engle’s side, searching for a pulse. Her skin was cool to the touch. She glanced at Garrett, suddenly glad they hadn’t surrendered to lust.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“She’s dead.”
Mrs. Engle wasn’t the first patient Lauren had found unresponsive. She’d tried, and failed, to revive dozens of people. Sometimes, the sick or injured were beyond help. The ambulance arrived too late.
A few years ago, a little girl had died on the way to the hospital. Lauren had fought so hard to save her. Although she’d learned to separate her emotions from the job, she wasn’t always successful. That day, she’d been inconsolable. It ranked among the worst experiences of her life, along with her father’s passing.
And this.
She covered the body with a sheet, her face crumpling with sadness. The combination of Garrett’s rejection and Mrs. Engle’s death overwhelmed her. It was compounded by too little sleep and too much stress. She turned her back on him and squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could just disappear.
Stay strong, she ordered herself. Don’t break down.
Garrett tried to reach out to her again, but she held up a hand to ward him off. “Leave me alone.”
“Tell me how you’re feeling.”
“I feel like hitting you!”
“Then do it.”
With a choked sob, she rushed out of the triage tent, her heart racing.
He followed her. “I want to be here for you.”
This was her breaking point. It was his fault she was crying, and he didn’t even have the decency to give her privacy. When he touched her arm, she rounded on him, shoving at his chest. He stumbled back a step, surprised by her ferocity.
And maybe a little impressed.
Furious with his bemusement, and his eagerness to be her punching bag, she did it again, pushing him harder. He wrapped her up in his powerful embrace, taking away the distance she needed.
Furious, she started pummeling his chest with her fists. “Damn you,” she cried, hitting him with all her might.
He endured the abuse, his jaw tight with emotion.
She was exhausted after a few minutes, her anger drifting away like smoke. It left her feeling limp and raw, too weak to stand up. “Damn you,” she repeated, putting her head against his chest and dissolving into sobs.
“Shh,” he said, holding her. Just holding her.
She couldn’t bring herself to hate him, which made it worse. If she could stop caring about him, stop caring about anything, she could stop crying. But she couldn’t. The disaster hadn’t just forged a bond between them; it had broken down the wall around her heart. She’d let him inside, and he’d hurt her. Just like every other man in her life.
She’d never learn.
He continued to hold her and stroke her back, murmuring words of comfort. She thought of his hazy relationship status and found the strength to pull away. Removing a tissue from her pocket, she wiped her runny nose.
She felt like a weepy mess. He didn’t take his gaze from her face.
“People die all the time,” she said.
“That’s true.”
“My first year on the job, I responded to an HBC. Hit by a car. It was a little girl, walking home from school. Seven years old.” Fresh tears flooded her eyes. “She died in the back of the ambulance.”
His expression softened. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“I wouldn’t let her mother ride with us for insurance reasons.” She shook her head in regret. “Can you believe it? That poor little girl died alone, without anyone she loved to hold her hand or say goodbye.”
“I’m sorry.”
She stared into the dark space that surrounded them, distraught. Over the years, she’d seen a lot of debilitating injuries and untimely deaths. Kids were the hardest to deal with. Mrs. Engle hadn’t even been young. But she’d been alone.
Scared, confused and alone.