A SEAL at Heart (4 page)

The comment hit home. She couldn’t speak past the knot in her throat.

Just then the music started up. “Fuck you, Jack!” She yelled, but he was gone. The man slipped through the crowd as if he was butter on a hot pan.

No one paid him any heed as he made his way to the door and left.

She watched him go. Tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision.
I
won’t do it. I won’t cry. Jerk!

Honestly, what had she done wrong? Besides make out with a total a-hole!

I
told
you
so
, said the voice from inside her head.
You
should
have
gotten
to
know
him
better. Then you would have realized he was a loon, or just another egocentric, self-involved guy like the last few dead-end souls you dated.

As she wiped the wetness off her cheeks, she said, “I promise. No more leaping before I look, and no more spontaneous moments.” Part of her couldn’t deny, as awful as the parting had been, that it had been one of the most memorable kisses of her life. For a few minutes, Jack Roaker had made the whole world melt away.

***

Laurie quickly shut down her little pity party. She was there to support her business and the SEAL community—she always did her duty. The party was in full swing and she should circulate.

Plastering a professional look on her face, she smiled bravely as she walked around. It was pure torture. All she wanted to do was go home and pout. She’d had a string of horrifically bad luck in the romance department lately. There was Patrick, who’d slept with her ex–best friend, and the last loser was Kenny, who’d thrown her against a wall in a fit of anger. She’d never told Gich about him. Her adoptive dad would have killed him!

Those guys had the moral fiber of dock rats, and that was insulting the rodent population. Add in the military element— soldiers and sailors who wanted to get drunk every time they had access to alcohol and get laid every night—and you had the definition of bad-relationship material. Not that she was opposed to sex or that everyone in the military was like that, it was just hard to find the good ones. Honestly, she loved sex! But talking was necessary to her and usually underrated in their minds. What she needed was a regular guy, maybe a lawyer or an architect. But not a doctor; her childhood friend married one and he was rarely home.

Scanning the room, she didn’t think she’d find anyone like that at a Navy fund-raiser.

Sure enough, other guys hit on her. She walked away from a few propositions midsentence and went back to holding up the walls. That’s where Hank G., Bruiser, and Jimmy—cronies of her dad’s from UDT (Underwater Demolition Team) 11—found her and hovered close. They amused her with stories she’d heard a hundred times.

“Your dad ran naked onto the beach, having snagged his UDT swim trunks on some barbed wire. Didn’t stop him from slitting two throats before he stormed…” Jimmy’s voice was so familiar and the Southern twang was melodic, making her mind wander. If her dad were alive, maybe things would be different.

“Yeah, Dad was a hero.” She was a military brat who had basically been raised by the West Coast SEAL community. Her mother had died when she was a baby, and her dad had drunk the pain away. Gich had stepped into the gap, and though the Commander was a bachelor, he was a pretty good father figure. She remembered her dad going out for milk when she was little and coming back two days later. An hour after he left the house, she’d called Gich and he had stayed there the whole time, playing Barbie. Gich might have had a proclivity for the same things her father did—alcohol and women—but Gich had rules and never let anything bad affect his life or hers. She wished her biological dad had been smarter about his choices. Was she following in his footsteps—making dumb mistakes or risking herself on the wrong things?

“You’re not laughing, Laurie. Bruiser, do your thing. Make little Laurie laugh.” Jimmy poked his friend in the ribs.

“A cow and a goat walk into a bar…” started Bruiser. His breath was laced with the smell of rum and his beer sloshed over the rim of his cup as he spoke. Within the hour, his daughter would be swinging by to pick up the lot of them and drive them home. They had two hours of socializing time, which was their SOP.

“Thanks, guys, but I’m really tired. Do you mind if I call it a night?” Drawing in a deep breath, she let it out slowly. She wasn’t in the mood for being “cheered up,” and the only lure right now was the silence of her bedroom.

“Sure, good night, Laurie,” said Jimmy. “Drive safely.”

Each of them hugged her, patting her back gently. Somehow the sympathetic twist was the hardest part to take. As she walked away from them, she was glad there were people in her life who cared, but somehow her dad’s neglect had really damaged her. It made her more cynical about life, the male sex, and the military in particular. Hard to escape what you’re born into as well as shake events and impressions that had imprinted on the psyche.

As the crowd thinned, a few insular clumps waited for the raffle to conclude. After that, they would most likely scatter like church mice, all except for those diehards who couldn’t pass up a one-dollar cup of beer. Those folks were definitely going to be praying to Ugh, the porcelain god, later tonight.

A hand caught her arm as she neared the door and wrangled her into an embrace.

“Hi, sweetie. How’s the lovely and successful Laurie Smith tonight?” It was Gich. The man in question had actually showed up at the NSW fund-raiser. Hell
must
be freezing over!

“Hi, Papa Gich.” Laurie hugged him close. The smell of beer and cigars wafted off of him with an undertone of musk that was all Gich. She could close her eyes and find him in a crowd. There had been so many times he tucked her into bed, held her while she shivered with a fever, or wiped her tears. Tonight, she was definitely grateful to be in his arms. Her arms squeezed tight.

“Hey, are you okay, little one?” His voice held concern. He always said he hated to see her cry. When she was a child, she’d scored a lot of candy with a sudden outbreak of tears. Though he was no one’s fool and could always tell the real deal from the faked.

Bowing her head, she murmured, “Yes.” But she didn’t mean it. Suddenly the urge to bawl was so intense, she bit the inside of her lip to squelch it. A single tear slid down her cheek. The solitary cry for help was wiped away by the tip of his thick index finger.

She waved her hand, and said, “I’m okay, Papa Gich. I’m just tired.”

He didn’t seem to buy the excuse, but Gich was a “weigh the battles” guy, and he’d only confront her if it was absolutely necessary.

Gently, he touched her cheek. “I’m here.”

She nodded, but didn’t say anything. She didn’t trust her voice yet. This man with his X-ray vision into her emotions was tough to be upset in front of. Trying her best to calm her chaotic feelings, she focused on happy thoughts.

SEALs had an uncanny ability to see the hidden. Gich frowned at her. “Should I be kicking someone’s ass?” A bit of anger was at the end of that question.

Shit! Does he know? Can he tell I just fooled around?

“Not yet,” she said as calmly, coolly, and collectedly as she could muster. “But I might take a rain check on it.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, scanning his eyes protectively over her one last time before he allowed his gaze to roam the room. He seemed to be looking for somebody, but he never said whom, and she didn’t want to ask. They took a turn around the inside of the establishment. When he seemed satisfied, the Commander walked her to her Dodge Charger and kissed her on the cheek.

“Good night, Laurie. Call me when you get home.” He nodded at her. “Buckle up.”

“You’re such a mother hen, Gich,” she replied with a half smile. It was important that someone somewhere in the world loved her. “Love you.”

“I love you, too, Laurie girl,” he said softly before he stepped back from the car.

She started the engine and pulled into the empty road. There was barely any traffic, and she doubted the trip home would be eventful. Regardless, if she didn’t call within twenty minutes of leaving here, Gich would call her. Sort of nice… the actual feeling of being loved.

The image of Jack popped into her mind. She was tempted to ask Gich about Jack, but what would be her reason? If Gich learned about her… uh… moment with Jack, would he get angry, or would he be happy that she had fun—at least twenty minutes of it? She preferred that her personal life stay her own as long as it could.

Making out and fooling around!

As she turned onto the road that would take her over the Coronado Bridge, her mind spun.
If
I
could
do
it
all
over
again, would I?

The sensation of his mouth on hers… His strong arms around her… Those rock-hard abs…
Dammit! It felt incredible!

Could
I
rewrite
the
ending?

Unfortunately, she didn’t think there would ever be a do-over for her and Jack. Nope, that boat had definitely sailed.

Sometimes it is entirely appropriate to kill a fly with a sledgehammer.

—Major I. L. Holdridge

“Today, we are going to begin our group therapy with a hug. Everyone put your arms around the person next to you and hug tight—squeeze your neighbor like he’s a lifeline.” Dr. Debbie “Dismal” Mucan was so proud of her activity that she embraced the person on the right. The fact she was stacked like a double-barreled gunboat was a plus for the guy grinning over her shoulder. Probably the best “feel-up” he’d had in months, too.

Jack sighed. Being here sucked! And he was not a hugger.

Fucking
unreal!
He wanted to utter the acerbic thought but used his great restraint to hold it in. The only expression he allowed himself to register was a slightly raised eyebrow and a frown. He was a man who could morph into anything that was required of him.

The guys on either side of Jack looked skeptical, too, shaking their heads and pushing their chairs even farther back from the group circle they all sat in. When the scraping of the chair feet and groans of the chair legs stopped, the ring of patients looked like a disconnected and oddly shaped trapezoid.

“Now, we’re going to take the interaction to another level. Anyone who is
not
interested in participating or who is unable to contribute anything positive, you’re welcome to leave,” Dr. Mucan commented sharply, pushing her glasses back up her nose.

Six men rose instantly from their seats. Jack was out the door before the comment was even cold.

Hooyah! Get me the
hell
out
of
here!

He moved swiftly down the hall, over the steps, and out the door. He looked up into the hot San Diego sun, and for the first time in twenty-four hours, he smiled. Strike that, it had been twelve hours since he willingly grinned. Because at almost precisely that time last night, his cock had been almost inside the prettiest brunette he’d ever seen.

“Dammit! Why did I have to think about her? Probably a setup.” He withdrew his phone to call Gich and ask him. But he just couldn’t imagine the man sandbagging him that way. And she seemed too pretty, too reserved to do it… for money. So why did she come on to him so freely?

He looked in the mirror. No answers reflected back to him. He looked like… a dork.

The BlackBerry vibrated in his hand, and he almost dropped it. The screen said it was his shrink. If he didn’t answer, the man would keep calling back. Persistent SOB.

He pushed the button and waited.

“I’m glad you answered. I can see you from my office, and I’d like to know why you aren’t in group.” Dr. Derek Johnson’s voice was clipped. “We spoke about this in D.C. When you arrived back here, you would be required to go to group three times a week if you want to return to full duty—at some future point, that is, after you’ve gotten your memory back.”

There was the rub. He would kill to be operational again. With the hole in his memories, no one would approve it, and “group” was a waste of his time.

He searched his brain for a loophole as he started toward his car. “Didn’t you suggest that I seek other forms of healing—acupuncture, or something like that?”

“Oh, yes, physical therapy as well as biowave sound therapy and visual training have been shown to be extremely useful in memory loss and perceptual difficulty. Are you going to do that now?” asked Dr. Johnson with a note of surprise in his voice.

“Sure,” agreed Jack, lying through his teeth. He could always make the call later in the day and arrange something, or perhaps he could poke himself with a few needles and call it done. There couldn’t be that much to the acupuncture process.

“Well, that’s interesting. I didn’t expect this proactive behavior from you. I’m pleased to hear you are taking an active role in your healing process. Who is the therapist? Is he or she on the Department Of Defense approved list?” The sound of Dr. Johnson tapping his pencil on a pad of paper was a loud and impatient
thunk, thunk, thunk
.

Shit! Was she approved? “Laurie something. I’ll have to get back to you, Doc.”

“If you can provide me with her information, we can add it to your record…” began Dr. Johnson. “Oh, and don’t forget our upcoming appointment. We have a lot of ground to cover, Petty Officer First Class Roaker.” Using rank to remind Jack who was in charge of his future was a nice touch. Bummer, that he didn’t particularly give a shit. He’d always be the master of his destiny.

“Uh, I’m late, Doc. I’ve got to go!” Jack entered the car in one motion as he shut off his phone. Tossing it on the seat, he spied the business card he had dropped the other night. Picking it up from the floor, he studied it.

Laurie
Smith

Physical
Therapist

Make
appointments
in
advance.

Physical
therapy
takes
your
commitment.

619-555-5569

Sliding the key into the ignition, he shoved the gear stick into reverse, backed up briefly, and then quietly left, resisting the urge to peel out of the parking lot. No one would have access to his true state of mind unless he wanted it.

At the next red light, he dialed Laurie’s office number.

“Hello, Laurie Smith, physical therapist, this is her assistant Frannie. How may I help you?” asked a clipped, authoritative female voice. She was also shuffling papers at the same time she was extending the greeting. “Hello, is anyone there?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’d like to speak with Ms. Smith,” he said, uncertain of the precise words he would use to cajole her into giving him an appointment, but he thought the use of formality might help.

“She’s booked up through next week. Did you want to make an appointment? Is Thursday morning okay?” Her brisk tone was not pleasant to his ear.

“No. Um, I need to set up an appointment today.” He paused and an inspiration made him take a different tack. “I need to see her and apologize. My name is Jack.”

“Oh, that sounds interesting. Let me check her schedule.” The call was put on hold and Native American flute music with a new-age edge came wafting over the line.

The light changed and Jack flipped on his Bluetooth.
Connected
, the speaker said, and then the sweet-toned music was flowing into his car. As he reached the next traffic light, the man next to him rolled up his window to block out the melodic sound.
It
isn’t that bad.

Just as another call was beeping in, the voice came back on the line.

“She can see you at five thirty p.m. You’ll be her last appointment of the day.” There was a click, and a dial tone blared on the line before the Bluetooth spoke to him:
Call
ended
.

“Great job, boy genius. You were thinking on your feet, that Laurie was the lesser of the two evils. Now you have an appointment with a woman who you’d enjoy having in your arms again, but have no explanation for why you made such an ass of yourself. What next?” Jack followed the flow of traffic toward the bridge, letting his instincts lead him. The optimal action would be to go for a run, and that was precisely what he would do.

***

Amphibious Base, Coronado, California

Jack placed his military ID in a clear plastic arm holder and strapped it to his bicep, then tucked the keys under the front seat. He never worried about the car when it was parked on the base. He actually almost dared someone to take it.

Since his Jeep was surrounded by other cars better looking and more expensive than his, it was doubtful anything would happen. Outsiders didn’t have the balls to park here. This small fenced-in area was for his kind and their families. It afforded the military beachgoers an easy walk to the ocean or, for the men, a straight shot to the poles and climbing rope.

Today, he wanted nothing more than to sweat. This was the best therapy he knew. Working out, taking his body to the max, made all the demons go away.

Knowing his own limits had been a valuable lesson to learn during Hell Week, and since then he’d gotten even stronger. He could run twenty-five miles and then some with a full pack or carrying a body. Hefting them both at the same time was challenging, but he’d done that, too.

What he craved now was working not only his physical body but also his mind, setting them up to conquer the obstacle of his memory block. But how did he break that hard shell?

Without missing a beat, he pulled a warm Propel from his glove compartment and downed it in several gulps, then tossed the empty sports-drink bottle into the recycle bin. His feet knew where to take him. Having made this run thousands of times—it was definitely one of his favorites—he set off in the direction of the sand and waves.

The light jog along the path to the water felt good.

“Hooyah!” The shouts came his way from trainees. He nodded. Then he was on the hard-packed sand of the beach. The waves were crashing on the shore and he could see the tide pushing out to sea. He opened up his stride and was soon leaving the base—Gator Beach—and heading onto civilian sand. Picking up speed, he stayed on the hard-packed sand of the beach as he passed the Coronado Shores and felt the familiar comfort of steps he knew by heart.

The wind smacked his face as he breathed in the fresh salty air. Exhilaration flooded his system and almost too soon he reached the rocks. He scrambled over them and veered toward the trampled sand in front of the Hotel del Coronado, which was busy with a fancy event, probably a wedding. Then his attention was back on the run—the chopped-up sand, the frothy water, and the thump of his heart as he dug inside and ran harder.

The world tuned out as his mind opened up, letting the air in and the issues out. This was how his mind worked, putting his body through the paces and allowing his concerns to unfold naturally. Solutions always came to him this way and he knew if he kept going that something would reveal itself as a clue.

The image of Laurie popped into his mind. The idea of her being a setup didn’t sit well in his gut. She was too clean-cut for that, like a boat whose sails were just unfurled—too free and unfettered. There was no overt calculation; he would have seen it in her eyes.

All he remembered was Laurie’s confusion. But how had she known Gich’s name?

Shaking his head, he made the anger go away and concentrated on the memory of her hot, well-endowed body locked tight against his. It made him smile. Perhaps he had been too hasty in judging her.

Yeah, he could drum up an apology for the lady if it might help his cause, though it was doubtful she would forgive him. He’d been a pretty nasty asshole, accusing her basically of being either a prostitute or a froghog. In either case it was going to take a lot of fancy acting.

Was the “I fucked up” special still available at the North Island flower shop? It was colorful and supposedly worth the $99. Maybe he needed to go for the “don’t divorce me” bouquet, which had three dozen long-stem roses, two red birds of paradise, and the large box of Godiva chocolates. Was it worth $200? A couple of the Team guys swore by it.

Abruptly, the Naval Air Station North Island NAS came into view. Had he run that far and fast?

As he neared the guardhouse, a strange tightness started to climb his skull with sharp icy pain biting stabs to the back of his head. It hovered over the spot where his wound was. Supposedly, the head fracture was mostly healed, but of late, the pain had gotten sharper and somewhat more intense.
What
the
hell
do
these
docs
know?

Jogging in place, he rubbed gently over the spot. Pain washed away his mental gymnastics; a deeper jab—into his brain—forced him to stop.

Fuuuuuuuuck! It’s like an ice pick!

A familiar voice made his head turn so fast, it felt like whiplash.

“You look like hell, my man.” His swim buddy, Don, stood wavering in front of him. His BDU—battle dress uniform—was pristine; not a speck of dirt or blood was on the black cloth, and even his hair was slicked in place. There was an air of calm as if he’d just arrived at work and all was right with the world.

“You’re not really here.” Saying the words aloud made Jack feel better. His heart was racing and he consciously calmed his breathing. Training had taught him he could control practically every bodily function. Though in truth, he did feel slightly sick to his stomach. Oddly enough, at the same time, he was wishing with all his might that his swim buddy were really standing there.

“Nah, man. I’m here. Well, sort of…” Don said, still grinning. “I only seem to have a front. I can’t turn around. Though, I guess it’s okay. It’s not like I’m going to do the hokeypokey or anything.” His smile melted away. “Jack, how’s my angel—my little girl—doing? I can see her, but I miss holding her in my arms. When can you visit, hug her for me?”

“I, uh, don’t know.” Jack was embarrassed that he hadn’t seen Sheila or their daughter, but what could he say as an excuse? Nothing! His emotions berated him. “Man, I have to ask you, what happened?”

Imaginary Don shrugged. “It’s my turn to say ‘I don’t know.’ What’s the last thing you remember?”

Looking down at the sand, Jack studied his shoes and allowed what he knew to come easily to him. The sensory data was crystal clear. “I can see my feet hitting the ground. Everyone was accounted for and had gone into formation, following the plan. Above us, bats were flying and the wind was picking up. Clouds blocked the light coming from the moon and stars. No one was around, but for some reason, I had an ache in my spine, which usually means there is something going on. I turned to look at you, and then… then… nothing.”

“You’ve got to do better than that, my friend. Much better!” Don’s image wavered. “I can’t hang on. Time—for now—to split. Hang loose, bro.”

“Hanging loose,” Jack repeated, per their habitual parting.

The pain in the back of Jack’s head squeezed tight. The ice pick drove its way even further in. He closed his eyes to block out the swirling images and he held the palms of his hands against his eyes until it subsided.