21 Marine Salute: 21 Always a Marine Tales (32 page)

“I know.” Logan’s heart thumped a steady cadence beneath her ear. Little by little, the hard strength of his body pressed into hers. Despite the comforting nature of his hold, she felt the weight of his erect cock pressing through the denim. At least he wasn’t completely turned off by her.

“I’m scared.” She owed him a confession for a confession. “They keep saying TBI—traumatic brain injury—like it explains everything, but then they won’t let me try to use my legs. My hand doesn’t work right. Fuck, my memory doesn’t work right.”

“Not yet. But that’s why you do the PT for the body and the MT for the brain.” He sounded so damn sure.

“I need my brain fixed, not shrunk….” She’d already accepted the fact that she wasn’t going back anytime soon. Other Marines would fill in where she left off. They would take care of Anoonseh and the other girls.

Logan’s hip vibrated. A metallic tone, like a woodpecker hammering at high speed hummed. Images of the classroom filled her mind. Anoonseh’s shy smile as she hurried down the hallway. She called
sar-jent
in broken English. The child hesitated and Jazz tugged off her helmet. The girls weren’t always comfortable with their uniforms. She held out a sheet of paper with her version of ‘what she wanted to be when she grew up’ detailed on it. The vibration humming spiked through her mind. She grabbed Anoonseh and flung her into the room. Bright light enveloped her.

“Gunnery Sergeant Winters?” The light stabbed through her pupils.

Jazz blinked, turning her face away from it. Her head was so full and the light added to the pressure. “Stop.” The word slurred.

“Easy, gunny. Can you tell me where you are?”
Who the fuck was asking that question
?

“Where’s Anoonseh?” The stupid light cut through her vision again. Someone held her still.

“Answer him, Jazz. Do you know where you are?” Logan’s muffled voice sounded behind her.

“I’m in Texas. At a hospital. Mike’s Place. The fucking light hurts.” Short sentences, but the assault by light stopped.

“Excellent, Gunny. Excellent. What’s my name?”
Were they playing twenty questions
? She blinked away the blur bleeding at the edges of her vision and stared up at the lieutenant who’d swapped his uniform for some navy blue scrubs and a white lab coat.

“Lieutenant Masterson.”

“Excellent.” The Naval officer nodded. “Okay, no more field trips today, and we’re going to get that CT scan now. You all the way back with us?”

“What happened to Anoonseh? Did I save her?”

“She’s fine. Some bumps and bruises according to the on-scene guys, but no major injuries. You took care of her, Gunny.” The doctor looked down at the chart in his hand. “I can send a request for an update if you like.”

“Please.” Memory trickled in. The hospital. The airport. The listing of her injuries. The walk with Logan…. “Logan?”

He shifted from behind her and filled her vision. “Right here, sweetheart.”

“Did I freak out again?”

“Something like that. But they’re going to run some more tests.” He ran his knuckles down her cheek, a familiar caress.

“I am really starting to hate that word.” Her insides twisted despite the rueful humor. Because what if they never figured it out and she kept losing pieces of herself?

How long before she lost herself entirely?

“These are the anti-seizure meds. She needs to continue taking them as prescribed. I’ve marked everything with the timing. We’re keeping her on the antibiotics, as well. We’ve broken the first week up into packets.” Reade gestured to the thin white plastic wraps around groupings of pills. “We’ve also broken those down into the packets she needs to take. White for morning, blue for afternoon, red for evening, black for before bed. They should all be taken with food.”

Zach listened, committing everything to memory. Three weeks after her final surgery—he crossed his fingers—the neurosurgeon signed off on releasing her from the hospital wing. Jazz needed to remain on campus. She had physical therapy every day, checkups with the neurologist, and appointments with James. He glanced at his watch. The first session with doc was scheduled in a couple of hours. Not a lot of time to get her home and settled in.

Home
.

Reade pushed the pair of bags with her meds toward him. “You got this, Zach?”

“Yeah, I got it. Every six hours, take with food, get lots of rest.”

“She will need the sleep. She’s going to be a lot more tired than any of you realize. It’s a big jump to leave the hospital. It’s a bigger jump to start doing things for herself. If she’s like every other Marine I’ve ever met, she’ll start pushing the minute you walk out those doors. Don’t let her overdo it. Falling isn’t an option. Not yet.” In the five weeks since she’d arrived back in the States, Reade served as her primary nurse and initial physical therapist.

“Been here before, Reade—with an even more stubborn Marine. We got this.”

In the seven weeks since learning Jazz was the one injured, Zach didn’t seem to sleep anymore. Not well, anyway. First it was the waiting for news, then waiting for her to come stateside, and lately it had been the wait to get the all clear from the neurosurgeon. Eight brain surgeries seemed an impossible number. Logan had gone through more, but those surgeries had rebuilt his bones.

The seizures worried him and so did the strokes. She suffered two of them in rapid succession. Every episode chipped away at the beautiful Marine, souring her hope and diminishing the gleam in her eyes. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, and he sure as shit wouldn’t say it to her, but the depression lurking in her soul leaked out.

She all but shoved them out the door most days. Pushing away, feigning sleep, and twice she picked fights just to piss him off. Yeah, he’d been there before. Logan’s recovery took everything both of them had to survive, but they did it.

They and Jazz would survive this.

“All right, discharge papers are here. Her first PT is tomorrow morning. The Lieutenant wants to see her again on Friday.” It was Tuesday morning, so three days neuro-assessment free would be a boon for her.

“Got it.” He headed back toward her room. The sound of voices murmuring pressed through the door and he knocked twice.

“Yes?” Elizabeth Winters voice rose over that of her daughter’s. Jazz’s mother had informed them of her planned visit. Weeks after her daughter threw her out after a seizure, her mother visited often, but she kept her distance.

He opened the door. “Ma’am. Jazz. I have the discharge papers and your meds. Logan took your things back to the apartment. We’re ready to go when you are.”

Jazz sat in the wheelchair she hated. She’d insisted on dressing and wore her uniform. Zach delivered it when he’d arrived, ironed and crisp. She still wore a crown of bandages, a blatant reminder of her numerous surgeries. He’d seen her without them immediately after one surgery. The missing hair barely fazed him. The neatly sutured lines were battle scars. The bore holes after her third surgery—those gave him pause.

“Thank you, Zachary.” Elizabeth was a tall woman, like her daughter. Jazz inherited many of her mother’s features, save for her eyes and her chin. Where the daughter possessed almost delicate features, her mother’s jaw was longer, less rounded, and added to the image of her maturity. “Jasmine and I need a few more minutes if you don’t mind.”

He met Jazz’s gaze. She nodded. She wanted the time, too. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be right outside when she’s ready.”

“Thank you.” The women waited until he closed the door before they began talking. Their voices softened, he could hear snatches of the conversation, but not all. He tried to tune out the snippets. They deserved their privacy.

He leaned against the wall and glanced at his watch. His team had the day off, but they would be back on the practice field tomorrow morning. He would miss Jazz’s first PT session. But that was Logan’s territory, and even though he wasn’t assigned specifically to her case, he would keep watch over her.

As if summoned by his thoughts, his best friend strode up the hallway toward him. Judging by the workout sweats he wore, he’d had a PT session of his own that morning, sessions he’d been missing while Jazz was in the hospital. His wet hair suggested he’d showered at the center and jogged right on over.

“She ready to go?” Logan asked by way of greeting.

“Discharged, but she’s talking to her mom.”

Her mother surprised Zach, although, with what he knew about Jazz, he shouldn’t have been. She was a tough, resourceful woman who demanded answers in the form of the most polite questions. She didn’t budge until she had the facts and then she pressed for more.

“Elizabeth is actually here? Jazz let her in?” Logan had never accepted Jazz’s ousting of her mother. He’d made a point of keeping Elizabeth in the loop and encouraged her to be in the room.

“Yeah. She called her to let her know she was going to be discharged.” Her mother’s arrival concerned Zach some. Captain Dexter offered Elizabeth Winters an apartment on the campus. “She may want Jazz to stay with her.”

“Jazz won’t want that.” Logan dismissed that concern with a wave of his hand, something he’d been doing a lot lately.

“You do realize that if she wants to stay with her mother, we’re going to get cut out of the loop.” Zach wanted her home, safe and sound, and they could take care to see she got her meds and to her appointments on time. He also wanted her where the bed was big enough that he could crawl in, tuck her against his side and know exactly where she was while he slept. He wanted her safe.

“Maybe. Elizabeth knows her daughter. Jazz doesn’t want to be hovered over and her mom can’t help it. She’s a mom. But Jazz needs her support, so making up now is a good thing.”

How the hell did Logan make it sound so blasé? Through the entire ordeal, he’d barely flinched at her prognosis, at her seizures, or her surgeries.

“Neither did you, but that didn’t stop me from taking care of you. Her mom is here, she’s local, and she has more say than we do.” That fact sat squarely on the crux of his concern. He appreciated her mother’s affections and needs, but he didn’t want those to usurp his and Logan’s place. Jazz needed to be protected, from herself if necessary. She needed to rest, to focus on her recovery, and not to put on a brave show for a worried parent.

“Man, when was the last time you slept?” Logan’s concern barely penetrated the cloud of questions hammering to be heard in Zach’s head.

She’d burrowed into his heart and claimed that battlefield without firing a shot. He’d never intended to fall for the Marine. He’d planned that date in Las Vegas to help Logan, to get him over the hurdle of impotence brought on by the trauma. He’d had a front row seat to the instant connection that flared between the pair—a connection that included him. That night the three of them spent together was one of the best of his life. The three days in Italy followed as nights two, three, and four.

“I’m fine. I’ll sleep better when she’s at the apartment.” He repeated it like a mental mantra. From Brody’s first phone call, he walked a razor thin wire between fury and fear. He preferred the anger. It kept him focused.

“Yeah, me, too. I checked the schedule. She’s got Maxwell for first round PT. She’s good. She’ll push her.”

“Jazz doesn’t need to be pushed.” The reply was almost automatic. They’d debated the issue for weeks. Logan insisted on setting a timetable. He’d been the one who encouraged Reade to get her physical therapy started before her surgeries were complete. He’d taken her out of the hospital for a walk that ended with her first stroke and brought in weights for her to work her arms because her right side remained weaker than the left.

“Yes, she does. Bringing in someone to do her nails isn’t going to fix what’s wrong.” Two days ago, Logan found the manicurist Zach paid to visit, buffing Jazz’s toenails. Reade pushed back her therapy for the day, so the woman could do her job. No matter Logan’s opinion, Jazz relaxed more after that visit, a hell of a lot more.

“There’s more to it than pushing her. She needed to feel pretty. Her nails had been growing and she kept snagging them. She wanted me to clip them all off, but the pampering helped.” Her smile afterward was all the encouragement and thanks he needed. The grin stretched her full mouth wide and lit up her face in a way very little had since she’d woken up.

He’d learn how to do a damn pedicure himself if it could make her smile like that.

“She needs to feel whole. Pretty is like patching a bullet hole with a band-aid. She’s fucking gorgeous.”

Zach sighed. It was always so damn black or white with Logan. How quickly he forgot his own situation. His own shaken self confidence. He wore his scars with pride now, didn’t flinch away from mirrors or the staring gazes of others.

Because of Jazz
. Maybe his friend didn’t see it, but Zach witnessed that struggle from the first moment to the last. Jazz changed Logan’s world. She made him feel like a man again. Zach shifted against the wall, putting a lock on his temper. Maybe Logan couldn’t see it. A dozen surgeries and weeks of rehabilitation had taken its toll on him.

They wouldn’t let it take the same toll on Jazz. Reminding her of the good parts of being alive, of being a woman—of being their woman—would make a difference.

The door opened and Elizabeth Winters blew a kiss to her daughter as she stepped out. She closed the door behind her and stood in front of it. Zach straightened immediately from his lean on the wall, and Logan’s shoulders stiffened next to him. The woman swept a look over both of them.

“Gentlemen. As her mother, what rank would you Marines assign to me?” Her navy slacks, white blouse, and navy colored jacket might have been business attire, but she wore an air of poise and authority they didn’t dare ignore.

“General,” they echoed each other.

“Excellent.” She smiled a dangerous smile and focused on him, and Zach swore the weight of it pressed right against him. “In that case, my daughter insists that she would rather go home with you than have me take an apartment here despite Captain Dexter’s generous offer.”