Because of You: A Loveswept Contemporary Military Romance (15 page)

Anger sparked inside of Shane with each passing number. He was hurt, his men were hurt, and this arrogant son of a bitch stood here, reading off serial numbers like the equipment was the most important thing in the world. Serial numbers Shane recognized from having read them off multiple times a day every single day during the deployment. Serial numbers Shane couldn’t have cared less about at the moment. “Have you visited any of our men since you’ve been home?”

Randall frowned and studied the clipboard. “I haven’t had time since I’ve been back. Someone had me barred from the visitor’s list. I had to go all the way to the deputy hospital commander to get access.”

Shane coughed into his hand. Barring Randall was something Carponti would do. He caught himself wondering how the young sergeant might have pulled that one off. Not that he was going to confess his suspicions to Randall.

“Do you even know how many of our troops are back here?”

Randall’s eyes narrowed as he studied Shane. Shane answered for him.

“Three.”

“I know. I have the names right here,” Randall said, tapping the paper with the end of his pen.

“You need a clipboard to account for three soldiers? Really? And that’s acceptable
to you as an officer? We’re talking about equipment versus troops, asshole. You can replace it.”

“I told you—”

Shane held up his hand and the lieutenant turned a brilliant shade of apoplectic purple. Shane leashed his temper, barely. His words came out tight and tense. Close to the breaking point. He deliberately kept his voice low. “Do you even care that we’ve got wounded troops back here? Or is everything always about what’s important to you?”

“We can get more people. Equipment has to be manufactured, shipped—”

Shane exploded, grabbing for the lieutenant, who was just out of reach. “You self-centered, arrogant, son of a bitch! These are people’s sons and daughters!”

“Sergeant—”

“Out! If you’ve got a problem with that,
sir
, I recommend you contact Captain Davila downrange. Because I am not talking to you and my men are not talking to you. Not until they are out of the hospital and well enough to deal with your bullshit. Go play fucking Nintendo or whatever, but get the hell out of this hospital.”

“If you’d bothered to do a simple inventory, you and your
men
wouldn’t be in this situation, Sergeant,” Randall said, using sergeant like it was a derogatory slur of the worst sort.

“Out. Now.”

Randall lifted his chin and Shane wished, oh, God, how he wished, he could take the smirk off the lieutenant’s face. Permanently. “I’ll be back. And when I come next time, I’m bringing the MPs. You will answer my questions, Sergeant. Wounded or not.”

The door slammed like a gunshot behind him and Shane’s heart pounded against
his ribs. He leaned back and closed his eyes, taking slow deep breaths and praying for calm.

Trent had to be out of his damn mind sending his executive officer back here. For this? There had to be more to the story. Shane slammed his fist against the railing, frustrated and impotent. What the hell was going on downrange?

Jen paused outside Shane’s door, and hesitated for a brief moment before knocking softly. Shane’s muffled voice came through the door and she pushed it open.

She didn’t know how he would receive her, but she wasn’t prepared for the glow in his eyes when his gaze landed on her. His entire expression softened, then instantly, the shields were back and he was the rock-hard Sergeant First Class Garrison again.

“Hi,” she said quietly as she stepped into the room.

He studied her without speaking for a long moment. Too long. Jen fought the urge to squirm beneath his scrutiny. She felt the makeup against her skin and wanted to scrub the new blush from her cheeks.

“How are you feeling?” She moved closer to the bed, and pulled his chart open. She was pretending to update herself on his status, but she really just needed something to do with her hands.

It had been a week since she’d shaved him. A week since his lips had hovered a breath from hers. A week since something deep and primitive had awoken in her, refusing to be ignored. She thought she’d imagined the intensity of her emotions. She’d been wrong.

“You’ve been gone.”

She stopped short at the possessiveness of his tone. That dark and needy something
shifted and stretched inside of her again. The kiss they’d shared had been a lifetime ago, but she suddenly felt the desire to do it again. So much for perspective. “You look different.” His voice was low. Edgy.

Heat crawled up her neck. “Is that a compliment where you come from?”

She watched him flush, noting the lack of stubble lining his jaw and his newly shaved head. It made him look rough again, but no less appealing. Then she saw the electric shaver on the counter and suppressed a brief flicker of disappointment. Guess she wouldn’t need to shave him again, after all. She didn’t know what to do with the sharp regret that came with that thought.

He cleared his throat and rubbed his jaw. “Sorry. I, ah, was wondering where you’d been.”

She watched the way his free hand picked at his hospital gown, wanting to step closer to him. No matter how good it felt being in the same room as him, he was a patient, and she knew better. Even if he professed his undying love, she knew his feelings were all tangled up in gratitude. And she needed to be professional. She snorted softly. Yeah, right.

“So, things are looking good. When’s the last time someone talked to you about your chart?” she asked, looking up at him. A lot had changed in a week. There was some questionable bone setting in his left leg but his right leg was knitting together nicely.

His silence unnerved her. He sat back in the bed, simply watching her. His expression could have been carved from Kevlar, but for the vein bunching in his neck. His eyes were dark and searching and she felt exposed beneath his gaze.

“I’m sorry.” His words were quiet, barely audible.

She tipped her head and returned his scrutiny. “For what?”

“Making you uncomfortable.” He sniffed. “Contrary to popular belief and recent demonstrations, I don’t generally behave like an asshole.”

“What are you apologizing for? Yelling when you first got here? Shane, that’s all part of this. You were in pain. Thank you but your apology isn’t necessary.”

“That’s not what I’m apologizing for. I ran you off after—last week. I didn’t mean to …” He looked away and swallowed. “It’s nice seeing a friendly face. Other than Carponti.”

Jen couldn’t quite get her mouth to work. Her throat closed for a moment and she set the chart down. She smiled, letting some of the warmth his words inspired show through. “I wasn’t avoiding you, Shane. I was in San Antonio for training at the burn center.”

She’d never seen him truly embarrassed. Now she knew that there was nothing sexier than seeing this man blush. His tan skin turned a deep shade of pink as her words hung between them. She couldn’t resist the grin that broke through as she leaned on the edge of his bed. “It has to be hell on your ego thinking you almost kissed a girl and she didn’t come back for a week, huh?”

His lips parted a little as he tried to figure out what to say. She rested her palm against his forearm, felt the heat from his skin.

“I wouldn’t avoid you, Shane.” She cleared her throat, hiding the thought that avoiding him was
exactly
what she’d been doing this last week. A whole lot of good that had done her. She’d come straight back to the hospital to check on him. He shifted then, catching her hand and holding it to his chest. Beneath the cool cotton, she could feel his
heart, strong and steady.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“That’s sweet of you to say,” she whispered. The sensation of his palm against her skin sent heat spiraling through her belly.

“I’m not sweet.”

“Charming?”

“No.”

“How would you describe yourself then?”

“Useless.” He swallowed and looked away, dropping her hand abruptly. She instantly regretted teasing him. “Can we change the subject?”

“Oh, Shane.” The words were out before she could stop them and instantly, his anger was back. She shut him down before he could even launch. “You’re not.”

“What would you know about being so friggin’ useless you can’t even wipe your own ass?” His voice was a growl now. The quiet moment between them was gone, replaced by awkward insecurity and his own, glaring anger directed at just one person.

Himself.

She folded her arms against her chest, barely noticing that her scars didn’t pulse against her skin. “Well, since you brought it up, how would you like to get your cast off?”

* * *

He was getting his cast off.

Cold relief prickled across his skin. He’d had broken bones before. Hell, his right arm had been broken three other times in his life. With two arms, he could maneuver his
Franken legs out of the bed. With two arms, he could go to the bathroom by himself. The first order of business would be getting that tube out of his dick. Immediately wouldn’t be soon enough.

Jen moved with practiced efficiency as she set the cast removal tools down on a tray near the bed. He enjoyed watching her. He would have to be dead not to appreciate the curve of her hips against her pale cotton scrubs.

She turned back to face him, pulling on her gloves. Shane felt the memory of the soft brush of her lips against his, the slide of her tongue in his mouth. He looked at her now, her smile all soft and sexy, and wished she would come close again. His new favorite smell was strawberries and vanilla.

Damn, he was pitiful.

“Ready?”

Finally, he nodded. “Yeah.”

She squeezed his shoulder and fired up the saw. It was slow work as she ground the lines down his biceps then circled his elbow. The cast came away in pieces, upper arm first, followed by the lower. When she’d peeled away the last piece of plaster, Shane flexed his arm for the first time in weeks.

Back and forth. Up over his head. He threaded his fingers together and stretched as warmth spread inside him. His arm was stiff and sore. But whole. He made a fist, opened it again, his muscles stretching and protesting the now foreign movement. He felt weak. Weak but whole. It was a start.

He looked down at his two hands, turning them to look at the veins running beneath his skin. He felt like a new man with both arms free. Like some of the weight that had
dragged his soul into the depths of depression was finally lifting. He looked up again and caught Jen watching him. Her gaze softened as heat unfurled in Shane’s belly.

“What?” he asked.

“You should see your face.”

“That bad?” He tried to lighten things up. He tried to direct her attention anywhere but at him. Because try though he might, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was too good to be true. To finally have both hands free. To be able to take care of himself. To lose some of that damned dependence he’d been forced to live with.

It had to be a dream.

“Shane?”

“Hmm?”

“You stink.”

He looked at her like she’d suddenly grown two heads. His sudden laugh surprised them both, most of all Shane. His breath caught in his throat. He went deathly still. “Are you volunteering to help me clean up?”

“Don’t get excited,” she said dryly. “It’s my job.”

“Okay. Yeah.” Excited wasn’t quite the right word, but he wasn’t about to correct her.

Jen moved around the room, setting things up for a sponge bath. As badly as he might want a shower, it wasn’t possible with all the pins in his legs. And the thought of her sliding her hands over his skin was damn tempting, too. Her fingers wet and warm slipping down his chest, across his shoulders. It was the stuff of fantasies.

Maybe if he hadn’t kissed her all those months ago, the thought of her touching him
wouldn’t be such a big deal right now. Maybe if he didn’t know her taste, hadn’t felt her hand resting on his stomach as his lips traced hers, heat wouldn’t be trailing down his body and settling someplace very obvious. Until now, someone else had always taken care of that. Today, Jen gathered together the soap and towels. Today, Jen poured water into the basin. His body was tight with a new tension coiling through his blood.

Today, Jen was going to bathe him.

The thought was torture. Pure, blissful torture.

“You’re going to need to take this off,” she said, flicking her thumb over the hem of his T-shirt.

He didn’t answer. Shy was not a word he’d normally use to describe himself. But damned if he wanted to take his shirt off at this moment. Hell, he spent most of his time surrounded by men, half of whom went native when they were deployed or in the field. So why did the simple act of removing his shirt—something he could now do by himself thanks to free hands and a stinted IV—cause his mouth to go dry?

It was fear. Fear that he could say or do the wrong thing and crush this fragile thing growing between them.

He wanted to feel her fingers on his skin too badly to screw this up.

He lifted the shirt over his head, wincing as stiff muscles protested. She didn’t move for a long time. What was she seeing? The black tribal lines that were tattooed across his chest and down each arm? Or was she noticing the scars interwoven with those black lines, some of them fresh enough to still be red gashes in his flesh.

He waited, watching her watch him. Finally, he closed his eyes, needing to regain control of the riot inside of him.

It was a long moment before she moved. Her feet shuffled against the tile. Then he felt it. The tiny brush of her fingertip over the half-inch scar at the base of his belly button.

The scar where the docs had gone in and taken out the appendix that had damn near killed him. The more recent wounds that were still knitting together were larger. More raw. But her fingers found the old one, the one that she had found before.

He jumped at her touch and she yanked her hand away. He was faster, though, and he grabbed her hand in his. All at once the heat was gone from her eyes, replaced by something else he knew all too well. “Don’t. Don’t blame yourself for sending me.”