ROMANCE: BIKER ROMANCE: Werewolf Rider (MC Shifter Pregnancy Romance) (New Adult Paranormal Romance Short Stories) (117 page)

She has also heard that Storm's family is very overbearing, and that he joined the Navy to prove himself to his rigid, demanding father. That fits with the need for male approval, which he seems to be showing now.  He always has to be the best, the fastest, the first, and the most popular. It is like an addiction for him, Frankie thinks. But to break the rules like this, on board a ship where she is a Senior Officer, is a step too far.

She is still watching, wide-eyed, wondering if it is her responsibility to report them, and feeling the distress of that decision, when the flask appears in front of her.

“Hey, Frankie-face! Want some?”

“I...” She is honestly speechless. The proffered whiskey-bottle in front of her is a challenge, defiant; daring her to break the rules. Those eyes – deep greenish-black – which contemplate her across its rim offer her another dare; a dare to report him. What can she do?

“I...” She stammers again. She is the center of a circle of silent, waiting faces. What can she do? This is an incredibly difficult position to be in. “Uh...boys, I’m gonna’ bolt, excuse me.” She pushes back her chair, and, with all the dignity she can muster, stands in a perfect posture of confidence, having none of it, and leaves the room without glancing back.

She hears derisive laughter echo behind her –
his
? - as she swings the door to the mess-hall shut.

She walks quickly back up the corridor. She realizes, angrily, that she is upset by this.
Why does life sometimes have to be so damn complicated?
She thinks, as she reaches her cabin and walks in, slamming the door behind her.
Overgrown boys! Why do they have to behave like that?

After five minutes or so of a heavy heart – sheer exhaustion from the day, mixed with the cocktail of emotions Storm always arouses – Frankie falls deeply asleep.

***

“
I wanna give you all my luuuv
...”

Somewhere, someone on board is singing. Badly, out of key, and loosely in time with the radio; Frankie thinks to herself, wryly, from her vantage point in the safe haven of the common room.

It is Saturday, and half the SEALs troop is out performing a boarding exercise; leaving most of the Naval Officers with nothing aside from their normal duties to perform. That gives Frankie an hour or two to herself; something of a luxury since the first day they arrived here off the Tanzanian coast.

The free time gives her time to take stock of her thoughts; something Frankie has diligently been avoiding until now. There is always something else to distract herself with, even off-duty; from laundry, admin work, to a game of foosball, cards or chess with the guys. Now, for the first time, she sits down on the black leather couch in the deserted common room, and attempts to read the map of her heart.

“Why the hell is this stuff so hard?” Frankie asks no-one in particular. Her hands are clasped in her lap, knuckles white against uniform pants, despite their tan.

Storm, AKA, pain in the butt Jakeman
. He is the face constantly on the edge of her thoughts, whenever she lets her mind wander slightly. Those deep green soulful eyes, the clean lines of his jaw, his usual tussled hair, his mocking, sarcastic humor, his drive, his need to be top of the pack …and the best. His strange vulnerability, which makes him seem, on one level, an insecure, unsure boy, tremulously seeking praise and acceptance.

What is this
? Frankie asks herself.
This compassion for his feelings; to be upset when he is, to feel pride in his pride?
But to feel hurt at the slightest dig?
And this wonderful, terrifying feeling of butterflies when hearing his voice, the longing inside, when she looks at him; the wounding sting of his derision, the elation of his smiles.
I'm not some teenage girl
, she chides herself.
I'm twenty-four years old. I’m bigger than this
.
I'm so over it
.

Now for the first time, Frankie curses the lack of female company on the ship. Currently two in total and the other female just wouldn’t get it.
It would be so nice to talk to someone who understood
. She sits quietly for a time, trying to organize her thoughts, and feelings.

And Rex?
That is the question she avoids more than any other.
Rex is...well... a rock, to everyone, but especially her.

Solid inside and out, yet kind, supportive not to mention gorgeous in his boy-next-door kind of way.
Making no secret of his caring for her in the things he
does,
rather than says. She has known Rex longer than Storm, she reminds herself: she met him shortly after joining the crew on this ship. Back then he was fresh to the SEALs, halfway through the training. They met, occasionally, during exercises, and, once, at a social event. It seems Rex has always watched out for her. He is strong yet somehow in a soft way, genuine way, every woman's ideal, surely?

Rex and I have a different kind of connection, why wouldn’t I go for him?
Frankie asks herself.
What is wrong with me?
But somehow, those types of feelings just don't seem to ignite. He is built like a tank, terribly handsome there seems no reason why...

What should I do?
Frankie asks herself. She would try to forget about it all, simply ignore them both.

She closes her eyes, covers her face, rubs, gently at her temples, where a headache is slowly building.

“Frankie?”

The voice is soft, caring concerned. A tall, leaning tower of a tank lowers itself carefully onto the couch beside her, keeping a respectful distance.
Rex
, Frankie guesses, behind her closed eyelids. He smells of aftershave and washing-soap, of starch and dust and sea. She opens her eyes.

“Rex.” She smiles warmly.

“Hey, Frankie.” He smiles at her. His golden eyes are wrinkled at the edges with concern.

“Hey.”

“What's up?” He asks, his voice gentle. “Why're you in here alone? Is something bothering you?”

“N..No.” Frankie hesitates. Of all the people on this ship, he is the last one she could confide this in.
The second-last
, she reminds herself. The thought of that makes her smile; a bittersweet grin.

“You're smiling.” Rex observes. “That's better.” His voice sounds genuinely pleased. Inside Frankie is deeply relieved of his presence, yet something tugs with the irony of his care for her, and her attraction to someone else, who doesn’t reciprocate her feelings.

“Yes.” She smiles again. “Yes, I am.”

“Frankie, you shouldn't take it so hard, you know.”

“What?” She asks. He cannot know.

“The guys...Storm...They can be hard sometimes, I know. I saw what happened in the mess hall. They can be so cold and sarcastic. But they don't mean it, you know, that’s just their way of relating.”

Nope
. Frankie thinks to herself, bitterly.
I'm sure That Man means all the sarcastic words he says
.

“I know.” She says, instead. “They're just...guys.” That was her usual uncommitted vague response, anyhow.

“Exactly: Just guys.” Rex smiles. His eyes are warm, and earnest.

There’s a pause, during which they both sit side by side, saying nothing, but enjoying the shared silence.

“Frankie...” Rex begins. He sounds hesitant, like he wanted to have a heart to heart about something.

“Yes?” she says, looking down at her watch. Adding, “Three-thirty? Crap!”

“What?” Rex asks, his eyebrows rose curiously.

“I have to go. I've got an officer's meeting at sixteen-hundred hours. I need to prepare a couple things still.”

“Sure, Frankie.” Rex replies, easily. His attempt not to appear disappointed noticed by Frankie.

***

“See you. Save me a spot beside you at dinner” She says as she stands, revealing her desire to connect later and hear what he wanted to talk about.

“Deal.” Rex says, standing beside her now. His eyes are looking into hers. Their golden brown gaze is deep, open. Unwavering. Not sure what else to do, Frankie looks back.

Rex lifts a hand, places it gently on her shoulder.

“Frankie...stay safe tomorrow, huh?”

“Sure, Rex. We're pretty safe here, though. It's just training.”

“I know...but... there was a bit of a close call today, it’s still a bit dicey even in training.”

His voice breaks off. His eyes two caring pools of golden brown caught in the sunlight now rendered golden yellow. His hand is still, Frankie notes, on her shoulder.

“Thanks Rex. I will be.”

Frankie says, in appreciation. She means it. Rex means the world to her. She loves him dearly, his kindness, and... well, pretty much everything. He is one of her closest friends, if not
the
closest, a fact which she proudly wears as a badge of honor.

He leans forward. She does not move. His lips gently touch the top of her head in a warm kiss. His eyes closed, as if in reverence. Then, abruptly, his hand withdraws from her shoulder and he is gone, out into the bright light of the corridor.

Frankie is left in the silence of the common room, contemplating the ruins of questions unanswered; rendered, now, entirely unanswerable.

***

It is near midnight, on Monday. Frankie is running down the corridor, her shoes clunking on the hard surface, the corridor and ship around her is filled with the sound of running feet, of the crackling radio, of shouted orders.

“Lieutenant Howard!”

“Yes, Ensign Stuart?”

“Lieutenant? What
is
that?”

“We are under attack. This is NOT an exercise.”

“Have a Condition Charlie declared. Condition Charlie. Copy?”

“Copy.”

“Condition Charlie, imminent attack”
now cast over the ships speakers.

The words ring in Frankie's head.

Everything seems entirely surreal. Frankie feels, deep in her chest, a sense of complete and utter coolness. An icy, unnatural calm, it should seem.

At around ten o' clock at night, the officer in the control room picked up a signal of an approaching vessel. It maintained a distant course at first passing the vessel as if no intention to make contact, whatsoever. It is now clearly within range. It had turned and come back toward us, thinking we may pass it off as nothing, not noting their change of course.

They fired a shot. It went wide, but the message was clear.
We are here. We are armed. We are hostile
. And,
we are not turning back.

Frankie’s original thought
this could be a surprise training exercise
, was quickly corrected, the sounds of massive activity preparing for battle with the unknown vessel, now fastening her flack jacket behind her as she moves.

She trained for this. That it would actually happen,
now
, during training, is something no one was expecting. She knows the drill, has practiced them more times than she can remember. But her mind is prepared; this uneasy calm. No one could teach you about this.
 

“Frankie?”

“Yes?”

Frankie stops as a friendly officer, Kyle Harris, runs past, pulling on his helmet as he goes.
“Frankie, this shit is actually happening!?” almost in disbelief himself, yet thrilled with the onslaught of instant adrenalin.

Despite himself, he doesn’t seem afraid. He is, in a word, brave, and far too young to even think of death. Including hers.

“Nothing we can't manage, Ensign!”

“Yes, Sir.” Kyle grins impressed with her poise.

“Time to kick some ass.” She grins back.

His eyes grow round with pride for the fearless Lieutenant.

“Yes, Ma'am.” He salutes as she hurries past.

Frankie might be reassuring for her men, but she is far from assured herself, as she rushes to the control room, sensing the enemy vessel may have more fire and man power than initially perceived, due to the attacker’s brazenness.

Here, flashing lights on dark screens, loud voices and yelled orders capture the tone. Captain Wright, the commanding officer on this vessel, is in the control room with the leading Officers, of whom Frankie is one. The captain is in his late forties, a hard-looking man, with a perfectly bald head beneath his cap and a stern, pared-down face. Right now, beneath the hard exterior, he looks stricken. Each one of his personnel is like a son or daughter to him, and he takes ownership over their safety, bar none. Here, however, he is not taking anything for granted, with the enemy fire, despite their elite status.

Frankie goes to stand beside him.

“Captain?” She asks quietly.

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

“The threat. Terrorists?”

“I can't say yet, Lieutenant,” he responds gently, “We have to prepare for that possibility. I think it more likely to be pirates. But they are just as dangerous in their own reckless way,” he cautions, “just less likely to cause an international diplomatic issue, is all.”