21 Marine Salute: 21 Always a Marine Tales (31 page)

“Left feels fine. Tingles in the right.”

“Then it’s your nerves and we knew that might be an issue. PT will help. You have to be patient.” Even though the scarred left side of his mouth didn’t curl up with the rest of his grin, his easy tone carried rueful humor.

“It’s fucking frustrating.” At least fr-words weren’t giving her shit. She leaned back against the pillows. She wanted a shower. She wanted out of this room. She wanted on her feet and walking. She wanted her brain to cooperate.

“Yep and bitching only helps a little.” Logan caught her right hand, interlacing his fingers between hers and massaging them slowly. “But I might have a solution to at least one of your problems.”

Her womb clenched. Did that solution include getting laid? Her nipples tightened at the very thought, but Logan wasn’t looking at her body. Well, not precisely. He swept his glance down to her legs and back to her face.

“What’s the solution?”

“How about we go outside for a little while?”

Next to sex, that was the best offer he could have made. She sat forward in a rush and the room wavered sickeningly. Her cheeks puffed with the three hard breaths she took, but she forced the nausea down. She needed out of that room, and her body could shut the hell up long enough to get her out of here.

Logan strode over to the door and pulled it open, retrieving a wheelchair outside and backing it into the room. Her heart sank. If only he didn’t have to push her around like some damn invalid.

“It’s the wheelchair or nothing.” He didn’t look at her.

“Fine.” He didn’t deserve her grumpiness, but disappointment rode hard on the bitch seat of irritation with herself, with him, with the whole damn situation.

He flipped her blankets back, revealing her chicken legs. The pale limbs lacked their usual muscle tone or definition. The bruises from the explosion were gone, but one jagged pink scar wrapped around her left calf and halfway across the shin. She didn’t even remember the stitches from it, but it was an ugly little bastard. She started to edge her legs to the side of the bed, but Logan slid his arm underneath her knees and wrapped another around her back.

She barely had time to soak in the enjoyment of his touch before he set her down in the chair. The room spun in a full one-eighty before righting itself again. Logan knelt next to the chair and pressed his hand against her bare leg.

“Breathe through it.” The warmth of his grip on her thigh gave her another focus, and she latched onto it. Gradually the swimming sensation in her head eased up, and she gave a shaky laugh. “Better?”

“Yeah. I’m okay. Whew. So where do we get to go?” She forced lightness into her tone. “If it’s another test, I’m going to be pissed at the bait and switch.”

“I thought a stroll around the quad would be good for you, and your doctor agreed. We have to stick close to the hospital wing, but there’s a great shady spot along the walking path we can take a break at.” He dragged the blanket off her bed and tucked it around her legs. It couldn’t possibly be cold enough outside to need it, but she didn’t care.

She was getting the hell out of the sterile white room with its neutral décor and standard furniture. Cradling her right hand in her left, she tipped her head back to look up at Logan. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He bent down and brushed her mouth with the barest whisper of a kiss. Her heart mimed a fist pump at the casual affection. It was the closest to a real kiss he’d given her since she woke up in Texas. “Now, eyes front, Marine. So you don’t get sick.”

“I’d rather look at you.”

“Yeah?” The right side of his mouth inched up. “So would you rather do that in the hospital or outside?”

“Oh, outside. Definitely outside.” She leaned back into the chair, gazing ahead, as ordered, and controlled the urge to cheer as he wheeled her out of the room, down the hall, and past the nurses’ station. Reade glanced up from his paperwork. Her left fist clenched. He’d better not stop them. The Corpsman waved them on with an easy grin, but she didn’t let go of her breath until they reached the end of the hallway and the automatic doors hummed open. A breeze of hot air licked her face as Logan pushed her outside.

The sun dazzled her and she squinted against the brightness.

“Want sunglasses?” His baritone stroked her ears. She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sun.

“Nope. Just walk.” She couldn’t begin to describe how great the blistering heat felt on her skin. A sluggish breeze moved the humid air around, carrying the scent of green grass, fresh mulch, and the distant sound of laughter. Peeling her eyelids open, she squinted at the trees they strolled toward. They promised shade, but she almost didn’t want to go back into the dark.

Too much of her recent past had been swallowed by darkness, and she could barely piece together the slivers of memory from the explosion, much less her time in the different hospitals. She didn’t remember Bagram at all. Ramstein returned to her in the vaguest little fragments. Most of her memories came from Mike’s Place—well, inside the hospital wing of Mike’s Place. She hadn’t actually seen outside beyond a glimpse here or there through windows as she’d been wheeled from one place to another.

“Doing okay?” They plunged into the shade beneath the first line of trees. The warning headache pressing against the back of her eyes receded.

“Oh, yeah.”

The wheelchair stopped and Logan circled around to squat in front of her. He was dressed in his customary T-shirt and jeans. The white was a stark contrast to his tanned skin while the circular collar didn’t hide the march of puckered skin down the left side of his neck. His entire left side was a mottle of burn damage, souvenirs earned following an IED flipping his vehicle in Iraq. She knew some of the details, but not all of them.

“Don’t pull the Marine card. If there’s a problem, you let me know. We’re on shaky ground with the docs, but they agreed that getting you outside for a little R&R outweighed the risks.”

She reached out to trace a trembling touch down his cheek to the damaged corner of his mouth. The rough ridges couldn’t disguise the beautiful man underneath his battle scars. He leaned into her touch, rubbing against her fingers.

“Not pulling a Marine card. I like being out here. It doesn’t smell like antiseptic.” It smelled like sunshine, heat, green growth, and the barest hint of water as though the sprinklers had run. Or maybe it had rained? What did she know of the actual weather forecast?

“Good. James wants to come and see you.”

She brushed her thumb against his lower lip. “Who’s James?”

“Doc.” The name didn’t ring any bells nor did the designation.

“You don’t think I have enough doctors?”

He caught her wandering thumb with his teeth and gave it a nip. “He’s the doc I told you about, the one I work with.”

The psychologist
. She dropped her hand and leaned back. “I’m fine. I don’t need a shrink.”

“You’re not fine. You’re beautiful, stubborn, and glorious. But you’re not fine. You’ve been through hell, and there’s a lot more hell to go. James gets it. He can help you.” He caught her hand when she would have folded it back into her lap. He stroked her palm, massaging relief with the heel of his hand. “You just started your PT. You’re not even cleared for full scale PT until they finish your scans, and Neuro signs off.”

Her grip on a ball was weak and that was just the beginning. Mutiny tightened her jaw. “I’ll handle it.”

“Yep. You will. But going through it without the right support is like going into a combat zone without intelligence.”

“And that never happens.” She snorted. In theatre, intelligence came in drips and drabs. It didn’t—and often couldn’t—take into account impulse decisions or snap judgments. Marines acted on the situation, in the moment, and often under fire. They planned when they could afford to and relied on their training, ingenuity, and fellow Marines for the rest.

“Jazz.” Logan tightened his grip on her hand. “You need to talk to someone. You want to choose someone else, that’s fine. But I trust James.”

She wanted to dismiss the offer, brush it aside with the assurance that she would recover without all that. But four long weeks after the IED and she was doing well to remember who the doctors and nurses were. The seizures seemed to lessen but not the headaches. Her hand wouldn’t cooperate.

She hadn’t been allowed to try walking.

“Help me stand up.” She wanted out of the damn chair.

“Not yet.”

“Yes, yet. If you want me to meet with your Doc, you’ll help me stand up.” She dared him to tell her no again.

His jaw tightened and his gaze hardened. “You’ll meet with the doc because that’s what you need to do. Stop being st—” He swallowed the words.

“Stop being what? Stubborn? Stupid? Logan, I have been flat on my back or sitting in a bed for weeks. I don’t even know if I
can
stand up, and no one seems willing to let me try. If I’m a wheelchair bound crip for the rest of my days, I
need
to know.”

The words poured out like battery acid, burning through reason and patience. She couldn’t close her hand. What if she never stood? What if she never walked? What the hell kind of life would she build that way?

What could she offer to either of the guys? She didn’t want either one pitying her, and they deserved a lot more than a shattered woman, still hung up on how to choose between them. She had to be able to stand.

On her own two damn feet.

“Breathe.”

“Stop fucking telling me to breathe. I know how to breathe. It’s inhale and exhale.” Only she panted in shallow, swift breaths. Her heart thudded a steady gallop in her chest, and the sweat beading her forehead dripped down her cheeks.

His fingers dug into her hands, shackling them in sharp, compressed pain. “I will when you calm your pulse back down.”

He pressed his thumb against her wrist. Awareness punched through her haze of vision. He didn’t grip only her hand. He held her fists.
Both of them, away from him
.

“It’s a fist.” She stared at her right hand, a bubble of hysterical laughter wobbling up. “I made a fist.”

“I see that. Well done. You back with me now?” Logan’s guarded words filled her with apprehension.

The day hadn’t seemed to change. The sun still shone brightly on the sidewalks beyond their shady escape. Birds chirped overhead. A squirrel scrabbled down into the grass, completely ignoring them on its quest for whatever the hell squirrels looked for when they ran around. She still sat in the wheelchair, but her right leg was out on the ground, and Logan had her body blocked into the chair. He held her fists hostage, and she leaned forward, as though trying to rise.

Bile burned in her throat. “I think I just freaked out.”

“Me, too. But your pulse is slowing and your respiration is easing. How’s your head?” Despite the calm words, his tone remained wary.

“I’m sorry.” Tears sheened across her vision and he wavered. Holy crap, she’d actually tried to hit him. She didn’t remember moving forward or shoving her leg out. She didn’t even remember clenching her fists. But his scar-free cheek boasted a red mark.

She
had
hit him.

She hadn’t tried anything. She’d actually struck him. “I’m sorry.”

“No problem. I’m going to let you go, and you’re going to keep your ass in that chair. Got it?”

She nodded, mute. Horrifyingly, one of the tears leaked out. He let her go and she swiped at it. Her anger fled and she felt drained as exhaustion dragged her down.

She’d hit Logan.

“I’m really sorry.”

He didn’t respond, but scooped her out of the chair, blanket and all. Not the quick, transfer, bed-to-wheelchair hold he’d performed earlier. He wrapped his arms around her and hugged her. The pressure of his embrace provided such a profound relief, she burst into tears. They poured out of her, a throat-burning, sinus-stuffing sob.

She didn’t want him to see her that way. She didn’t want to do it. But she couldn’t dam the tide once it began rolling out of her. She clung to him, turning her face into the juncture between his neck and shoulder. He ran his hand up and down her spine. He let her cry, supporting her weight like it was nothing. Her sobs finally tapered down to sniffling hiccups.

“When I woke up in the hospital, I didn’t know what day it was.” Logan confessed in a steady, even voice. “I didn’t know where the hell I was. It came back to me in pieces, though. Jagged little shards of memory, each one cutting a slice in my soul. I screamed a lot. Because while I didn’t know what the hell was happening or where I was, I did know I was in pain. Pain I don’t know the words to describe.”

His throat convulsed. He sucked in a deep breath, but he didn’t put her down. She curled her fingers, even the stubborn ones, into his shirt.

“They gave me morphine, but that didn’t make the pain stop—it just made me stop screaming. Broken bones are better than burns. The bones ache, but the burns never stop hurting. Every time I woke up, pain was the first thing I felt. Oblivion couldn’t come fast or often enough. Surgery sucked, because every time they added another pin to my body, it was like I started burning all over again. But the worst part—” His voice choked. “The worst part was the loss of control. I pissed myself. I couldn’t get myself out of the bed. I couldn’t change position. I didn’t have a damn thing to say about what happened to my body. I was a prisoner of war and my body was the camp. I get it, Jazz. I get wanting out and wanting to fight.”

“Did you hit someone?” The low, strained voice was hers, but the cloud of tears and fear in it gave it an alien quality.

“Zach. I hit him twice. The first time he tried to help me get out of the bed. The second time when he wouldn’t shut the fuck up at PT.” Wry humor unfolded in his tone.

His continued to move his hand against her back, a soothing motion that amped up her other senses. She hurt.
All over
. Her body was one big, aching bruise. The white hot lances boring into her skull were worse.

“I didn’t mean to freak out.” The longer he held her, the safer and more secure she felt. It hurt. But it hurt in a good way. She wanted to run her fingers through his hair, kiss her way down his body, and show him how good it felt. But she wasn’t even sure her legs would hold her up.