Last True Hero (3 page)

Mea slams the door behind me and sends me a smug smile as we buckle up.

“Have they been waiting out here the whole time?” I'm already feeling bad for Mikah and his bleary-eyed friend.

“Mikah has been on text alert all night,” she answers. “I sent him a message when the Admiral came in.”

I nod. “Get me the hell out of here, Mikah.”

Chuckling, he takes off, and the large muffler on the little beater he's driving revs loudly. “I'm glad you're home, Berk.”

I smile at him. But the jury is still out on whether or not I'm happy about being back in Lone Sands. If it's up to my parents, I won't be staying long.

I
slide back underneath the little Honda Civic, feeling more at home than I have in a long time. Since I left the army. There's still a twinge of pain in my back when I bend or lean the wrong way, but it's only enough to remind me that I'm no longer whole enough to serve my country.

I love cars. I love everything about motors, the inner workings of a vehicle. I know most cars inside and out. Working here, at Drake's automotive shop, is satisfying in a way that nothing has been since I was discharged, following the closest months to hell I've ever endured, with a stack of paperwork and a “thank you for your service.”

My true passion is for rebuilding cars. Taking something old and mangled, pulling it apart piece by piece, and then lovingly putting it all back together again like a three-dimensional puzzle. But working here at Drake's Automotive is close enough for me, and I'm so thankful to him for the job I want to kiss him right now.

“I wanna kiss you right now, Drake,” I announce.

“Please don't,” he replies from somewhere close by. “I don't swing that way, and you know it.”

“Save it for later?”

“No.”

The large glass garage door next to me opens, signaling that one of Drake's two other employees is bringing in another car to be serviced. I glance over, and all I can see is shiny, high-quality tires. Big ones. Must be a truck or an SUV. The owner might be talking my language.

I slide out from under the Civic and raise an eyebrow at Will, the twenty-year-old kid learning the ropes around here.

“Escalade. Nice.”

He nods. “That's what I said. Custom interior, too. The girl who brought it…” He whistles. “I'd kill to rework her motor. You know?”

I smile wryly. The kid has some work to do where the ladies are concerned. “I know. What's she need done?”

“Just an oil change.”

I glance at the wall of glass separating our work area from the waiting room, and I'm floored.

I haven't seen her since the first night I arrived in town. See Food. I've actually been in there a couple of times a week since, just hoping to catch a glimpse of her again. I figured she just didn't work there anymore, or I was very unlucky.

But my luck has obviously changed, because here she is. Standing in Drake's shop. Her heart-stopping side profile is exposed to me as she stares at the mounted television. Her long, tan legs are visible again, covered only by tiny, white shorts. God, those legs. They go on for days, weeks, months.

Years.

A peek of her flat belly is visible beneath a short, loose-fitting pink tank top with the words
LIVING FOR SUMMER
written across her perfect, perky breasts.

Her curly hair is free and wild, the honey-blond strands in beautiful, sexy-as-fuck disarray around her shoulders.

I know my mouth is hanging open, but I can't manage to get my wits about me long enough to pull it closed. This girl did something to me the first night I saw her, and seeing her here in my own element is doing it again.

Fuck. She's perfect.

I glance down at myself, and groan. I'm filthy, my coveralls are smattered with oil and grime. I look like…well, I look like a damn auto mechanic. I've struggled a lot in my life with feeling inferior. Growing up in the system will do that to a kid. Joining the army and working my way up to Ranger and sergeant helped that tendency a lot, but it still comes back in flashes in situations like this one. The girl is drop-dead gorgeous, but hell, the first time I saw her at See Food I thought she
needed
to work. She was waiting tables at a seafood restaurant by the beach, for shit's sake.

But now she rolls into the shop in a custom black Escalade, and she looks like she just walked out of an American Apparel ad.

My inferiority complex is definitely rearing its ugly head.

A chuckle beside me snaps me out of my inner rant, and I glance over to see Will standing there with his arms crossed, staring at me with a stupid smirk on his face.

“See. Told you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Get out of my face.” I wipe my hands on a rag and look across the room to where Drake is standing at the garage door. He's grinning so hugely I know he's landed a look at Berkeley, too.

Berkeley
. I want to know her.

I decide. Right then and there, inferiority complex or not, that I'm going to. Know her, that is.

I sure as hell hope she's on board with that.

I roll myself under her car and get to work. It's obvious she's had her oil changed like clockwork, and none of her other fluids are low. The vehicle is in perfect working order. I wonder if she's the one who keeps it that way. Or if maybe her father brings it in for her.

Or…her boyfriend.

That thought has my face burning with angry heat. More than anything in the entire world right now, I don't want her to have a boyfriend. I don't want to be cut off from this mission before it's even begun.

When I roll out again, I smooth my longish dark hair down to make sure it's not sticking up, and I run a clean rag over my face and neck. I clean my hands meticulously, but I know there's nothing I can do about my coveralls. I send up a silent prayer, and shoot Drake a nod. He looks back at me with a knowing gleam in his eyes, and salutes me.

When I open the glass doors, those deep, liquid-amber eyes set so deep in her face find me, and I'm lost.

Like I said, my mission is set. No aborts, no retreats. This is do or die.

I walk over to the counter and begin typing up her receipt. I haven't found any words yet, and I decide to wait and see what she'll do.

She walks slowly over to the counter, her eyes never leaving me as she moves. When she arrives, she sets both elbows on top and leans forward. I will my eyes to meet her gaze, and swear I will scratch them out if they dare to glance down to the cleavage I'm sure is revealing itself from the top of her shirt.

“Hey.” That slow drawl is going to get me every time, I know that already.

“Hey,” I reply. I hope my cool attitude is coming across, and that the sweat beginning to dampen my hands isn't also affecting my brow.

“I know you.” Her tone is casual, but not as cautious as the first night I saw her. Is that curiosity ringing through?

I'm going to take that as a good sign.

“I know you, too, Berkeley.”

She draws back, surprise crossing her face. “You remember my name.”

“I do. Couldn't forget it. Not with a face like yours.”

She smiles, as if she can't help herself. Thank God I found my charm somewhere among the bag of nerves opening up in my insides.

“Well, you can't hold it against me that I don't know yours. You never told me.”

“Huh,” I say as I thoughtfully scratch my rough chin. “If I recall correctly, I didn't have a chance to tell you my name. I believe you wrote me off as army trash on sight, and asked me never to disgrace you with my presence again.”

She gasps. “I did
not!
I would never do that…”

When she trails off, I shoot her a grin. “Didn't you?”

The tiny wrinkles are back in her forehead, and my lips practically twitch with an unexplainable need to allow them to meet her skin. I finally let my eyes leave her face, and rake them across her body as quickly as I can so as not to appear like a sleaze. Which I might be, because every inch of her just calls out to me like a siren. She's inviting, she emanates warmth and sultriness, and my nerves are standing at attention just being this close to her.

“Okay, maybe I did.” Her admission of guilt comes complete with one corner of her plump bottom lip being pulled into her mouth. I think I manage to contain the groan that forms in my chest.

I think.

I suck in a breath and refocus on her eyes. “What do you have against guys in the military, Berkeley?”

I use her name because it feels fucking delicious in my mouth.

She studies me and there is a question in her eyes. I want her to ask it. Badly.

“I don't have anything against guys in the military. My dad…”

Her hesitation fuels my curiosity. “Your dad…what?”

Suddenly, she changes the subject. “What's the damage on my car, uh…”

“Dare. I'm Dare.” I tell her the total while I wait for her to comment on my name.

She doesn't.

She hands me her card, and I scan it before I run it. I stare at her face as I wait for the receipt to print, memorizing each minute detail. Sprinkle of light freckles on the bridge of her nose. Lashes long enough to brush her cheeks. Natural-looking makeup, not pasted on like a lot of other girls our age. Her eyes seem darker at this distance, the most satiny brown I can imagine, and it is such a contrast with her hair color that I can't pull my gaze away.

“Thank you, Dare.”

Fuck me.
I want her to say it again. And again.

And again.

“You're welcome Ms. Holtz. You seem like you keep a good regular upkeep on your vehicle. Keep that up. The sticker on your windshield will tell you when you're due back.”

She nods, and turns and heads for the door. Before she reaches it, she whirls around.

“Will I see you back at See Food?”

“I've been at that restaurant a few times a week for the past three weeks. Do you still work there?”

Her dimples deepen in her cheeks as she smiles, and my heart flutters.

Yeah. Like a bitch, my heart flutters.

“I do. Were you looking for me?”

“Maybe.” I shrug.

“Well, if you were, keep looking. You might just get what you came for. I finished my senior year of college last week. Back home in Lone Sands…until.”

“Until?”

She walks back toward the door.

“Just until,” she tosses over her shoulder on her way out.

And then, she's gone.

I hope to hell she's telling me the truth about going back to work at See Food. Because I'm about to buy stock in the place.

My body is cold and clammy, a thin sheen of sweat covering every inch of me as I wrestle ferociously with my bedsheets. When my wild thrashing finally wakes me out of the shitty excuse for sleep, I discover I've been shouting. Drake is standing over me, his voice cool and placid as he instructs me to calm down. He tells me that I'm home, I'm not
there
, and I'm safe.

I'm safe. I'm safe…

My hair sticks to the back of my slick neck. I've been here so long it's grown longer than the army standard. I slap at it as I hustle in the darkness.

The subtropical African climate fucks with my head, my body. I'm a Ranger, so I've been trained to fight in all climates, but I've been here too long. My hamstring convulses in a heat cramp, and I clutch it as I go down.

Crawling, flies buzz around my face in the long savanna grass, and I'm thankful for the camouflage, even if I have no way of knowing what else hides in these grasses.

My head snaps up, whips around. My night vision goggles are long gone, just like my battalion. My breath catches, and my stomach heaves as I think of them.
God
,
help me.
Their voices are getting closer, my escape has been broadcast across the radios, and if they find me, they'll kill me. I gotta move.

Army crawl is how I travel the mile between the jungle camp where I've been kept and the village nearby. I don't want to bring the hell I've been experiencing to the innocent people in the village, but I have to get out of here.

The blood cakes my elbows as the sun rises behind me, a brilliant burst of color and light that I can't believe exists in a place like this. At one point, I thought I'd never see the sunrise again. Tears cover the cheeks I'm sure are the same color as the mud covering my ripped fatigues, and I can see the first hut of the village not far in front of me.

I made it. I'm safe…I'm safe…

And then I lose consciousness.

I start back to complete consciousness and focus on Drake's huge form standing beside me.

Gasping for air, I raise both hands to my head. My hair is sticking to the back of my neck just like it did back then, but as I take in my surroundings I can see that I'm not there. I'm not in that jungle anymore. That was months ago, although sometimes it seems like it couldn't have really happened in this lifetime.

“Shit,” I mutter. “I did it again?”

Drake nods. “You talk to anyone about this PTSD?”

I nod. “Yeah. Did some therapy after I got back. Didn't stop the dreams. Fucking jungle creeps in at night, only at night.”

Nodding again, Drake thumps me on the back. “I'm here, man. If you want to talk about it…I'm here. I still feel all kinds of guilt that I got out before…before it happened. I should have been with you.”

I shake my head, looking him full on in the eyes. “No, you shouldn't. You might have died like the rest of them. You're here for me now. Now get the hell outta here. I'm gonna try to get a little more sleep.”

One side of his mouth turns up, nowhere near his normal grin, and nods again. “See you in the morning.”

I lay in the dark, just staring up at my ceiling, trying as hard as I can to claw my way back from the memories. I pull a pillow into my chest, clutching it as tightly as I can. I want to scream into it, but I don't want Drake to have to come running back to my rescue.

I save myself. I always have.

These nightmares will not break me.

My thoughts are just turning to wild, straw-colored curls and a goddess's face when my phone jangles on the nightstand.

I check the screen; a Florida number.

“Hello?”

Chase's voice is strained. “Dare.”

I sigh. I've known Chase since we were eleven and living in the same foster home. Other than Drake, he's the closest thing I will ever have to a real brother.