ROMANCE: BIKER ROMANCE: Werewolf Rider (MC Shifter Pregnancy Romance) (New Adult Paranormal Romance Short Stories) (116 page)

“Cal, what...?” Tessa began but the woman spoke again.

“I thought I should come down here and thank you.” Cal looked horrified.

“
Thank
me!” He managed to choke out. The woman moved forward again and actually knelt, taking Cal's hands in her own. Tessa watched in fascination as she looked into Cal's eyes with tears building in her own.

“Yes Calvin, to thank you for bringing my boy home.” Cal coughed up tears which sprung from his eyes.

“But I let him die.” He wailed and Tessa's heart broke to hear the pain in his voice.

“You brought him home!” Mrs. Greenwood declared hotly, “You risked your own life to make sure my boy could be properly buried. Not left in some God-forsaken hole.” Cal was sobbing.

“I let him die,” Cal shouted, “I let him die and it should have been me, I’m so sorry.” Tessa felt shock jolt through her and Mrs. Greenwood sat back on her haunches.

“Don't ever say that!” She snapped at him, “Never! I don’t blame you for Nicky dying, the Lord knows it’s not your fault so should you, you should be thankful for the miracle you managed for the others. You didn't kill my Nicky, the war did, she insisted. But you did make sure I could say goodbye to him properly and for that I thank you and I will always remember you in my prayers.” She looked over at Tessa, “Hang on to this one,” she told her, wiping her tears. “He's a hero.”

***

The End


Copyright 2015 by Jasmine Jensen - All rights reserved.

Seal Code

Sunsets are strange over the sea.

That was the first thing Frankie had noticed, her first time on board a ship.
That was a long time ago
, she thinks wearily. Now, after years of training, with the roar of the ocean in her ears and the constant scent of the wave's salt, she is so accustomed to the sea that she hardly notices it. But she loves it, the fresh, powerful and cunning ocean. It was certainly a force to be respected, never taken for granted with its moodiness.

“Frankie? You okay?”

Inwardly, Frankie groans, looking away a moment over the rail out at the crazy cacophony of gold light and speckled orange clouds where the sun sets over the sea. Every inch of her body hurts, she’s exhausted and would like nothing better than to steal a few hours of sleep, if only she could turn in now. But she wants to wait for the rest of the men to return from the training exercise.

“Frankie?”

Frankie turns when the voice repeats its call, and looks up into a pair of concerned, golden brown eyes.

“Hey Rex.”

She manages an exhausted smile at the Navy SEAL before her, in what she hopes is a kind way. Under her grime, sweat, and especially fatigue, it probably looks more like a grimace, she thinks. She deeply appreciates Rex and his caring ways, he’s her rock and their relationship has been one of life’s greatest blessings, she acknowledges to herself.

But right now she just wants a moment to catch her breath and watch the sun, where wavy lines of gold-soaked blue, dips and bobs over the face of the sunset on the starboard side. It seems she is not to be favored in this request.

“Frankie!”

“Hey...
Goldilocks!
”

“
Woo hoooo
! That was great shooting! Go Frankie, go!”

The rest of the men are rejoining the group, now, climbing back up over the rail. They trail with them the scents of the sea, of musky sweat, pushed hard in training under an unforgiving sun.

It is a heady, redolent mix that has filled Frankie's days for as long as she can remember. She manages half a grin at their catcalls. She does shoot well, she admits.
Really well
. And it is always a surprise to the men she works with. That is one aspect she can't help enjoying; the raw surprise of the men when they see what a woman like Frankie can do. “It must be a ‘Leo’ thing”, she laughs to herself; humbly noting her courage, independence and leadership all tied neatly together, into an appropriate nickname.

“Hi, guys.” Frankie grins wryly. Her eyes scan the group, looking for one SEAL officer
in particular,
among them.

“Lieutenant Howard?” Repeating his call for her earlier. A young man, two ranks below her.

“Yes, Ensign Robben?”

“Last of the SEALs reporting back, Ma'am.”

“Thank you, Ensign.” He salutes, and she mirrors the motion with the ease of long practice. He turns and goes below deck.

She has been on this ship for two weeks, now. That’s how long it took to get here, to the coast of North Africa, to begin this round of training exercise. Lieutenant Frances Howard, senior Officer in the US Navy and member of Navy SEALs Team 7, sighs and brushes her hair out of her eyes with her left hand. Her entire body hurts from a full day of Navy exercise in hotter than usual sun.

She turns away, looking out over the rail again, when she hears a certain voice,
in particular.
Despite herself she feels a familiar knotting in her stomach, a mixture of anticipation, discomfort and
desire
.

“
Lieutenant
Howarrrd
?” He makes the salutation a cool mockery, somehow insolent despite the acknowledgment of her rank.

She forces herself to turn round. “Yes, Lieutenant Jakeman?” She answers him in kind, hoping that her voice sounds calm and cool. Inside, her heart is racing, even before turning to see his impeccable hard body, standing at six feet five inches, with an effortless perfect posture and most unnervingly handsome, rugged face framed with golden blondish-brownish hair, as if confused which color to decide upon.

She leans against the rail; finding its solid presence a reassurance. Storm Jakeman makes me feel more uneasy than all the dangers on land, air and sea combined, she ponders.
Damn it!
She can feel her palms sweating, and her heart racing faster now. Ever since she became involved with Team 7, their Senior Officer has managed to break her calm, cool demeanor, with an overwhelming fascination with him. She had met him in a past tour, but it was a brief two month stint. She was as smitten then as she is now.

“You okay, after
watching
all the action?” he smirks.

Frankie swallows, pretending to choke on his cockiness. She was fully engaged, and as much part of the operation as anyone; certainly as him. Her hands still ache from hanging on to the rope during the exercise and her body bruised all over from the training course. But this is where Navy SEALs thrive, and with an effortlessness which defy the seeming limitations of the human body.

“Yup. Seems to have exhausted
you,
though?”

The sting in her words is unmistakable, and behind Lieutenant Storm Jakeman, some of Team watch the interaction, and whistle. Frankie looks carefully elsewhere, knowing that if she catches their eye she is in danger of laughing, not wanting to show her lightheartedness and enjoyment at the current round of sarcasm. She looks at the orange sunset over his left shoulder, and displays neutrality to his digs and her own current state of exhaustion, willing any further sweat to stay at bay.

“I... uh I'm not exhausted. I'm just getting started.” He stammers a little, trying to recover himself, the edges of his nostrils flaring at the fib.

Inwardly, Frankie grins. The small victory has cheered her. In a day of grueling exercise, she needed that win in banter over the perfectly toned, bronzed SEAL God to cheer her up, and offer up a little boost of adrenalin as a welcome bonus.

“Officer Perlman? Everyone back on board?” Frankie asks for confirmation as she notices him approach her.

“Yes, Lieutenant.” Says Perlman, member of SEAL Team 7, standing behind Storm laughing, humored at his discomfort in front of his crew, and its female cause.

“Good.” She responds thankfully. “If that's the case, I'll turn in.”

She turns, before anyone can make a comment at that, and, returning the salute from Officer Perlman with a reciprocated twinkle in her eyes, goes below deck to her cabin.

On route, Frankie hears her steps echo down the corridor, and the click of the lock as she enters her cabin door and turns the key. She drops her gear, leans on the closed door, and feels her body slide down against it, until she is crouched, looking toward the porthole window, where the last of the evening’s sunlight leaks through to dye the cabin red, orange and gold.

She feels her body begin to relax, now that she’s given it permission, and, for the first time in a while, can take stock of her thoughts.

Leaning back against the door, she thinks “
Gareth
,
where are you
?”

Gareth is her big brother, older by a year. The strong, smiling force in her world, who taught her how to shoot, cleaned her scraped knees, and even shared his friends with her, in his elaborate tree-house. She’s a tomboy alright, and cleans up extremely well, a natural beauty. The guys look past that though, treating her like one of the guys. Her biggest supporter is her older SEAL brother. And he’s MIA.

Four years ago he left home without a word. Her father, distraught, managed to trace him to the US Navy, via hints and information from his college friends. He signed up to join the Navy SEALs, in secret, because he knew his father would not approve his choice of career.  Gareth was never an office type. He loved the outdoors, and it was here that he thrived
.
If anyone could manage the outdoors, he could. His survival skills were nothing short of brilliant, with an ability to solve any problem.

Where her brother went, Frankie went, to her parent’s chagrin. She registered at the Officer Candidate School fresh out of school, and never looked back. After Gareth recently disappeared a few months back, she signed up for tour of duty where she had the greatest chance of conducting her own search for him. She knew Seal Team 7 had also worked with him in the past, and was hoping they would support her, if she asked. She knew there was a protocol to follow for rescue missions, but she had her own agenda, and was prepared to pay the price.

Frankie rises, this time using the door to help her up. She wearily takes off her clothes and breathes a sigh of relief as the hot water from the shower soothes her aching muscles. She soaps up, and enjoys lingering in the suds making sure to scrub every inch of her feminine, yet impeccably toned body, having been fully drenched in well-deserved sweat.

Frankie sighs and puts on her dress uniform. The light peeking into the cabin outlines her profile: fine nose, narrow, high cheekbones, full lips and, thick, golden locks that go down almost to the middle of her back, recently blow dried only to be tied back up into a tight bun, revealing a healthy golden tan.

Her baby blue eyes have discretely studied the men in the Navy, despite Frankie's perceived aloofness at their constant cat-calls. The men all love her though; with more than a little awe at her innate, masculine-like abilities, quick wit, confident leadership, and of course her natural, care-free beauty.

Frankie glances back over her shoulder at the mirror, checking the lie of her jacket before she leaves. She will go to the mess for dinner, and then retire. She wonders, if Storm Chaser will be there, her nick-name for him. She feels her stomach clench again at the thought. She longingly hopes he will.

She shakes her head catching the thought, as she studies her freshened image in the mirror, and makes her way to the mess hall.

***

The mess hall is well lit with florescent bulbs. One of them is not working, casting the end of the table into mottled shadow. Frankie grins wryly inwardly. One of them is always broken. She fills her tray with today's meal of spaghetti and meatballs, garlic bread, but passes on the Caesar salad, grabs a Diet Coke and makes her way to the end of the table where light meets dark and sits down.

She looks up. Facing her is Storm.
Where did he come from?
She thinks, as she feels her heart momentarily stop, and her belly tighten. She looks down again at her plate and picks up her fork, anticipating banter. Half of her wants him to say something, while half of her is hoping he will keep going, and leave her in peace. The first half wins.

“
Hey,
Goldilocks
.” His nickname for her has been well received by the boys, and they all call her that, at least all the members of SEAL 7.

“Hey.” Frankie replies noncommittally. She casts her eyes sideways, looking for support. She is stranded. All her co-workers, the Naval Officers, are seated at the top end of the table. Here, she is surrounded by Storm’s squad who loudly enter the hall, his “gang”; the meanest, leanest, toughest of toughest of SEAL squads. Rex is not with them.

Perhaps this was not the best place to choose to sit, after all; the rational half of her mind concedes. The other half, the part that longs to be wanted, and enjoys the excitement and feelings this man arouses in her, affirms that this is the best and only choice. She glances upwards again, and, with Storm looking elsewhere toward his buddies coming toward them, turns back to her food.

The conversation around him is lively and racy, peppered with the unique slang of the SEALs.  Frankie tunes in half-heartedly as she digs into her dinner. These are the “cream of the crop”.

“That was a bag of dicks today, eh, guys?”

“Yeah! I'm zapped. I wanna’ go flop and listen to music on A-farts. You gonna’ join?”

“Yeah, why not?”

Frankie smiles to herself. It is the talk that has filled her days, the Naval slang, and she would, she thinks, miss it. The loose, louche, testosterone-infused environment has its good side, and this is part of it. She listens in more eagerly as they continue, a half-smile on her face, well hidden. Then she leans in closer, as the conversation gets more muted.

“Hey, Stormy! You got some ass whoopin’ by Goldilocks today?”

“Hey, Stormeo! Give us a dose.”

Frankie's eyes widen. Bringing hard alcohol onto a ship during a training exercise is an offense. Surely Storm would not have done so? She cannot help but stare, as he reaches into the jacket pocket of his dress uniform, and produces a small, slim-line bottle of whiskey.  Her eyes are round, as each of the men take a generous swig, and pass it back.

“Yeah, Stormy-baby!”

“Awesome.”

There are smiles and pats on the shoulder and general goodwill around the table. One of the men even ruffles Storm’s hair in a brotherly fashion. Storm, Frankie cannot help but notice, looks rather smugly pleased at the attention. She thinks about this.

Storm is the only son of an extremely wealthy freight-ship magnate, or so the gossip about him, (of which there is plenty), relates. Frankie is sure he is given a substantial allowance on top of his Officer pay, with which he seems to buy high-quality hard-tack to share illicitly with his men.