All for You (4 page)

He nodded gruffly. “And what’s going on with Wisniak?”

She tipped her chin at him. “Are we really going to have a conversation about a soldier’s private medical issues in the middle of the gym?”

Reza ground his teeth. “It’s a simple question.”

“It is,” she agreed. “But it’s not one we should have here.”

“Where would you like to have it?” He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. The reaction on her face was enough to let him know he’d made his point.

He didn’t really care where they had the conversation but it needed to happen. He wasn’t going to let this doc brush him off. Too many of his peers would let the docs do just that. Soldiers suffered.

“Give me a sec.” He watched her as she wiped down the treadmill and tried not to stare flagrantly at her ass. It was a really great ass and the way she moved was pure grace. Satin layered over steel. He took a step backward and followed her out of the gym. He walked with her silently, enjoying the relative quiet of the end of day at Fort Hood. Oh, there was traffic and the constant hum of life around them but the crush of soldiers swearing at each other, the constant shouts, were gone. But compared to the constant growl of generators broken up by the helicopters whirring overhead and bursts of machine gun fire from the test fire pit, an afternoon at Fort Hood was relatively quiet.

He followed her around the Greywolf gym and down a gentle slope toward the parking lot. “I don’t usually see you in here,” he commented. A deliberate attempt to lighten up the hostility between them.

“I usually run out by the airfield. There’s a trail by Engineer Lake I like.”

“You’re not afraid to run by yourself?” he asked.

“I don’t believe the media reports that all of you guys in uniform are closet rapists. I’ll take my chances,” she said dryly.

Well, how about that. Kitty had claws. He was mildly impressed.

She folded her arms over her chest. “Look, Wisniak is having a really hard time. Without going into too many details, he had an incredibly hard life growing up. He joined the army to be better than what he came from. And in his mind, he’s failed.”

He studied her as she spoke. There was no hint of the attitude that drove him batshit crazy about the head docs. No need to protect the poor soldier from the evil chain of command. No desire to save the world.

Just genuine concern for his trooper. Something Reza should have felt. He searched for a name for the misfit emotion swirling inside him. It was unfamiliar and fleeting. Flittering like a hummingbird against his heart before wrapping a cold wet blanket around him. Then he knew it. An old, long forgotten emotion.

Shame. It shamed him, deeply, that he could not feel empathy for Wisniak. “He doesn’t need to stay in the army,” Reza said softly.

“It’s all he’s ever wanted,” Emily countered.

“He can want it all day long. Some people simply aren’t meant to be soldiers.” She flinched. He hadn’t meant to slap at her but he saw he’d struck home nonetheless. He cleared his throat roughly. “Why is it so hard for you to understand that some people really don’t belong in the army?”

“And why is it so difficult for you to understand that some people just need a little more help fitting into the life we lead?” She lifted her chin. “The failure of not being a good soldier is killing him.”

The echo of her words pushed aside any hint of compassion, the shame replaced by the familiar burn of rage beneath his skin.

“It’s killing him?” Reza said softly. “Like, literally killing him? Stabbing him with a bayonet killing him? Close quarters killing him? Or is he getting shot at three hundred yards?”

Her mouth opened but no sound came out as horror filled her pale blue eyes. “I didn’t mean it like that,” she whispered.

“How did you mean it, doc?” Reza swallowed the bitterness in his throat, fighting the urge to shout at her that she had no fucking idea about killing.

“It’s just a figure of speech.”

Reza smiled coldly. “See, that’s where you’re wrong. Killing is very much not a figure of speech where I’m from. Killing is a hot, bloody, screaming reality. A reality I’m supposed to be training our boys for. It pisses me off that I’ve had boys on the range that I couldn’t go teach how to shoot because I’ve been running around after this kid.”

“Then why are you even talking to me?” she asked, lifting her chin.

“Because I have to. Because Wisniak is in my company and that means I’m responsible for him.”

“That’s a stunning lack of loyalty,” she said, her voice filling with challenge as she found her courage. “How can you lead someone you feel no loyalty toward?”

“Loyalty is earned.”

“See, here’s where you and I differ. You should have loyalty to all your soldiers.”

Reza shifted and folded his arms over his chest, mirroring her own stance. “There are some who aren’t meant to be soldiers.”

“This again?”

“Why is that so hard for you to hear?” he asked suddenly. “What is it about you docs that makes you feel like every broken, battered kid can be the next commanding general?”

“We have to try. Everyone deserves a chance.”

“But what’s the cost, doc? Every day I spend running around after this kid who wants to kill himself or that kid who can’t take it because his sergeant yelled at him is a day I don’t spend training soldiers for war. Which, by the way, in case you missed it, isn’t over yet.”

Her skin blanched, tightening over her cheeks. “I know that,” she whispered.

He remembered the right shoulder of her uniform. No combat patch. He could have driven his point home then. Could have pressed his advantage, reminding her that he’d seen a side of war that would leave her trembling from the raw terror of it.

But he didn’t. Something about the fear in her eyes reminded him of something he tried very hard to forget.

He lowered his arms as an old memory tickled the base of his neck. Fear, primitive and dark, looked back at him. Reminding him that he’d been young once. Young but never innocent. Never that.

But younger. Before the war had twisted everything up inside him. Before it killed anything good he’d managed to salvage from home.

He closed his mouth, swallowing roughly. “What are the visiting hours on the fifth floor?” he asked.

She shifted, brushing her hair out of her face. “He’s not ready for visitors.” A familiar gauntlet thrown between them.

“When will he be?”

“The attending physician will make that assessment.”

Reza bit back a snarl of frustration and turned to go before he laid into her for the second time that day.

“What would it take for you to realize we can’t all be strong all the time?”

Her words whispered across his skin, taunting him. If he closed his eyes, he would see their faces. The men who’d died on his watch. The men he’d destroyed because they’d dared to defend their homes. Men who looked like his mother’s family.

He turned slowly to face her. She didn’t back down, didn’t step away from the rage grinding between his teeth. “I know all about weakness, honey. And that is not a position I will defend.”

He stalked back into the gym, the need for a drink snapping at his heels. Taunting him.

Demanding he slake the thirst. Just a little bit. Just one drink.

What could it hurt?

He headed for the weights. He could do this. He could walk away from the anger and the rage and the hate.

It was a long time before he was calm enough to leave.

R
eza padded to the front door, the carpet soft beneath his bare feet. Someone was pounding on his door like the damn house was on fire and he felt a strong urge to whip someone’s ass.

It had been a shit week as shit weeks went. The last thing he felt like doing was socializing.

He swung the door wide to see Ben Teague standing outside, sporting his Stetson and holding a Heineken in one hand.

“Get your shit. We’re outside.”

He hitched the towel around his waist and frowned. “Shit, I forgot.”

Ben Teague was a captain who specialized in avoiding responsibility. He was one of the more senior guys but as far as Reza knew, he’d never been offered command. Which was a damn shame because Teague was a hell of an ally in a firefight. Teague wasn’t the guy Reza wanted watching his six—he was the guy who wanted to be the first man in the stack, kicking in doors.

He couldn’t seem to wrap his head around the fact that Reza had quit drinking.

“How could you forget about mandatory fun night? Grab your Stetson and let’s go.”

He didn’t make a big deal out of it but nights like this where they were expected to socialize at one of the local bars challenged Reza’s restraint. He was the first sergeant, though, so he had to be seen. The sergeant major would notice if he wasn’t there.

But he
was
going, if only to prove that he could handle it.

“Give me five minutes.”

“Cool. Hurry up.”

Reza shut the door in Teague’s face and padded back to the bedroom. He dropped his towel onto the bed and pulled on a pair of jeans and tugged a long-sleeved t-shirt over his head, keeping his back to the mirror. He didn’t need the visual reminder of what he’d done to his body over the years tonight.

Tonight there were too many memories circling. There was no reason for the ghosts to be haunting him. Some nights were just worse than others.

Grabbing a bottle of water, he stuffed his wallet into his pocket and palmed his cell phone. He pulled his Stetson out of his truck and climbed into Ben’s passenger seat, hoping tonight would be uneventful. Reza wanted to unwind tonight, if only to prove to himself that he could handle it.

His phone vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it out.

Leaving for NTC tomorrow. Stay out of trouble.
He grinned at his phone. Claire had an uncanny ability to contact him when he was about to tip over the line. But he wasn’t. Not tonight. Not tomorrow night.

He had this.

Ever since that mission in Colorado, when she’d laid it on the line and forced him to confront the fact that he had a problem, he’d refused to fail her again.

He slammed the door shut.

“What took you so long?” Teague asked.

“I was doing my makeup,” Reza said with a grin he did not feel.

“You look pretty, honey. Try to leave some of the girls for us tonight.”

Reza leaned his head back against the seat as Teague turned up the radio. Marilyn Manson blasted through the cab, the bass from “The Beautiful People” thumping in Reza’s chest. It reminded him of the pulse of a fifty cal. A powerful comfort.

Abruptly, the music ended.

“What crawled up your ass?” Teague demanded.

Reza sighed. “Just first sergeant bullshit. Docs busting my balls at the office. Marshall being a pain in the ass. Same shit, different day.”

Teague turned off the highway, heading toward Belton Lake. “Sometimes I think it’s easier being deployed.”

“We’re heading to the MOUT site next week. Ought to break up the monotony.” Reza took a sip from the water bottle, unable to avoid the reaction inside him that wished it was something stronger.

Excitement burned through him. He couldn’t wait to head out to the Elijah MOUT site, the mock-up city where they practiced urban operations. He loved running the boys through kicking in doors and fighting house to house. He got a charge out of it.

It was the only place that felt like everything fit. Everything else was just a pause until he could get back to training or better, to war. Training soldiers for war was what he did. It was what he was good at.

He wasn’t supposed to be some expert at mental health and suicide prevention.

The damn doc was wrong. Everyone couldn’t be a soldier. He knew that truth down into the marrow of his bones. He had the scars on his body to prove just how wrong she was. The army needed soldiers and no amount of time on the head doc’s couch could turn a spineless weakling into a warrior.

He’d dealt with far too many so-called leaders of men who’d refused to leave a bunker when the mortars started falling. Far too many grown men who’d frozen the first time their convoy had gotten blown up and refused to ever leave the base again.

He didn’t blame them for the fear. But he didn’t respect them either.

Terror was part of combat. A heady marriage of fear and adrenaline and death. It was the most potent of drugs, he thought, twisting the cap on the water bottle. Combat rewired the brain like nothing else. And his blood was now hardwired to needing the fix.

He glared at the bottle, wishing he was strong enough to control the urge and have just one drink.

But he knew he wasn’t.

Combat was his only addiction now. He needed it.

It was just a matter of time before he got back to it.

Emily walked into
Talarico’s
, burned out and exhausted from the week. She’d processed nearly a hundred medical packets on top of her regular patient load. She’d put in five eighteen-hour days and she’d barely scratched the surface. There was so much to do, so little time.

She didn’t want to be here tonight but she’d promised Olivia she’d meet for drinks.
Talarico’s
was out on Lake Belton, a beautiful old building that had been redesigned with a Tuscan flavor and feel. The floor was polished concrete, the walls beautiful mixtures of warm bronze, gold, and yellows. Outside, there was a wide deck, illuminated by an outdoor fire pit and low-hanging lights.

“You are looking far too serious with all these sexy Cav boys running around in their Stetsons.”

Emily ordered her wine then glanced over at Olivia. “Sorry. Shitty week.”

They’d crashed a Cavalry event and Emily couldn’t help but wonder if Olivia had an ulterior motive for dragging her out to
Talarico’s
on a Friday night. The men were lingering around the bar or outside on the deck, sporting their Stetsons, the traditional headgear of Army Cavalry units. There was something powerful about the men in that room.

Olivia was nursing something pink and green, toying with the end of her straw. “You’re supposed to be having a good time.”

Olivia’s black hair shined in the candlelight of the bar. Behind her wire-rimmed glasses, her green eyes glittered with the brightness of a little too much to drink.

“I thought we were celebrating your latest case?” Emily asked.

“I thought so too until I saw you over here sulking at the bar.” Olivia smiled. “I put another scumbag in jail today for life. I’m going to celebrate, damn it, and you’re going to join me.”

Emily raised her glass. “To putting away scumbags,” she said with a smile.

Olivia tinked her glass against Emily’s. “To putting away the bad guys.”

Emily took a sip of her wine. “How do you know the difference?” she asked quietly.

“The difference between what?” Olivia asked.

“The good guys and the bad guys?”

Olivia toyed with her straw. “I guess there isn’t a clear line,” she said. “Some things there is. Like there’s no one on the planet that could convince me someone who hurts a little kid sexually deserves a second chance. Other stuff? It’s more gray.” She took a sip of her drink. “Most of it’s gray,” she added.

Emily was learning that. Her job would be so much easier if the medical records that came before her were clear-cut and easy to decide. But every single one danced in the grey areas. She made the best decision she could, case by case, based on the army’s guidelines.

Always, she tried to remember that there was a soldier on the other side of that file, counting on her to get it right.

She thought of Iaconelli’s words from the gym earlier in the week. Weakness he wouldn’t defend.

The soldiers’ packets that came across her desk weren’t weak. They were broken, and there was a distinct difference in her world.

They deserved her defense. They deserved someone to advocate for them but even then, sometimes, there were cases she simply couldn’t adjudicate in favor of the soldier. Sometimes, though, their problems were self-inflicted and she simply couldn’t just check the block.

“You know what you should try,” Olivia said, interrupting her serious train of thought. “I should see if I can get one of these strapping Cavalry men to give you a ride home.”

“I’ll pass, thanks,” Emily said with a laugh.

“I thought you were giving up on your stuck-up Northeastern Old Money ways, Em,” Olivia said with a grin.

“I am, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to run around screwing the first thing that winks my way. I’m trying to be more selective than a hamster in heat.”

“A hamster in heat? Are you serious? Who has hamsters these days?” Olivia glanced over at a tall Cavalryman, her gaze going dark with longing and something else. A freedom that Emily envied. “There is something about that hat that does something to my insides,” Olivia said, lifting her beer toward one of the captains near the bar.

Emily followed her gaze. The tall Cavalryman had shoulders for days and an easy, carefree grin that radiated confidence that bordered on arrogance. Yeah, that hat did do something to her inside. It was a symbol. Of tradition. Of pride. Of a lineage to which she didn’t belong.

She wished she could be like Olivia. Free. Comfortable in her own skin. Confident enough to undress a man across the bar.

She thought about Sergeant Iaconelli. About how he’d radiated power at the gym, in her office.

What would he be like in a place like this? Would he relax? Or would he wear his rank like a shield?

She swirled her wine in her glass, his words about weakness echoing in her brain. God but she wished she could turn it off sometimes. She glanced over at Olivia.

“What’s eating at you?” Olivia asked, managing to tear her eyes off the captain across the room.

“Nothing. It’s just been a long week.” The truth. “Go. Have fun.”

Olivia glanced toward the captain, who was now watching her. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” Emily said. Olivia tipped back the rest of her drink and set it on the bar.

Emily watched her friend weave through the crowd of broad-shouldered Cavalrymen and toward the captain. Alone at the bar, Emily twirled her wine in the glass, staring into the swirling pale golden liquid.

She sipped her wine and glanced around the wide open space, feeling the warmth. She was comfortable in this place. A drink after work. A good friend. This was a good life. It was simple. It had purpose. So much better than the complicated mess she’d left behind.

She lifted her glass, savoring the freedom of her rebellion. She might not fit into her uniform just right but she fit here among these soldiers better than she’d ever fit back home.

She saw Olivia gyrating slowly with the captain across the dance floor. Her friend’s movements were slow and sensual, a sultry undulation that spoke of power and of sex. She smiled at her friend’s pleasure. It was enough that Emily could enjoy another’s happiness. She’d come here tonight to relax, to help Olivia celebrate.

“You don’t come here often, do you?”

Emily glanced at the man who’d appeared at her shoulder. He’d been standing with the group of captains that Olivia had just infiltrated.

“Not really,” she said, sipping her drink. She thought about easing away, putting space between where their upper arms touched.

Personal space much?
she thought.

“Are you here with friends?” he asked. She caught a heavy scent of beer from his direction, beer mixed with cigar smoke. It was not unpleasant.

She glanced over at Olivia. “Yeah.”

“Not up for company?”

She smiled and finally glanced back at him. “Not really. Thank you though.”

He brushed the tip of his hat with two fingers. “My pleasure, ma’am.”

He swaggered off, leaving her alone at the bar. That had been nice. Too bad she wasn’t interested. Once upon a time, she might have danced but there was something missing from the way he’d carried himself.

He was missing that power that Sergeant Iaconelli wore like it was second nature.

She shook her head and took a long sip of her wine. She’d done nothing but argue with the man but now she was thinking about him in a way that was purely unprofessional.

The heavy iron door swung open at that moment and Emily’s breath caught in her throat.

“Speak of the devil,” she muttered.

Reza Iaconelli stood in the doorway, his gaze scanning the room as though he was taking a headcount. What was it about the man that he was always walking through doors at the wrong time? And this time, his gaze swept the bar and landed directly on her.

His eyes lit up, his mouth flattened. Just a faint flicker, but it was enough to tell her he’d recognized her.

And the familiar hostility was gone.

Her mouth went dry and she took another sip. He wasn’t going to come over. It was going to be fine.

They would keep the rampant hostility and no lines would be blurred.

It would be fine, right?

Except that he was now coming over. Weaving through the crowd, his Stetson adding to his height.

What the hell was she supposed to do about that? The closer he got, the more her stomach flipped beneath her ribs.

She was too tired to fight. And the alcohol would probably allow her to say something that she’d regret come Monday.

His clean white shirt accented his shoulders and made his skin look darker, more appealing. His face was shadowed by the brim of the Stetson.

He was there. A short space separated them. He radiated something—a power.

A rawness.

She was doomed.