SEAL Forever (13 page)

He shifted in his seat. Their acts of caring made it harder to ask his buddies to get lost for a while, but he knew his psyche pretty damn well, and his priority was to deal with his injuries in his own way. He'd always needed to figure out stuff on his own before he asked for help or relied on others. Maybe it was a survival instinct from his childhood. Whatever the cause, he didn't relish putting the word out, but he knew he would.

As the soldiers and sailors began to deplane, he heaved his body up and steadied on his crutches—they'd made him take them both—and managed to somehow grab his pack with his less-needed hand. He must have looked pretty damned determined, because no one gave him crap about how slow he was going or offered him a hand with his stuff.

Sunshine beat down on him as he stepped outside. Blessed California. He turned his face up to relish it. There was definitely something special about the sun out here, as if it were medicine for all of life's miseries.

Putting his head down, he concentrated on making it into the building. The walk into the terminal was intensely slow, and though he managed it, he was still sweating like a trainee on his first day of BUD/S.

A gruff voice barked at him as he entered the door. “What took you so damn long? I heard they were letting the ugly guys off first.”

It took Declan a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the cool darkness, and then he was dropping his pack and reaching for the owner of that voice. His lips split into a cheesy smile. “Gich, you, son of a bitch, good to see you.”

They shook hands, then the older SEAL slapped him on the back, nearly bowling him over before grabbing Dec's pack and swinging it over his shoulder. They made their way outside to Gich's giant truck and stowed the gear.

Once inside, Gich started the motor and pulled onto the road. “I need someone to do some stout tasting before I drop you off. Work for you?” That was code for stopping at McP's Pub or Danny's and drinking until someone blacked out. Declan had never really been a drinker and wasn't about to start now. Beer was his exception, though he'd gone nonalcoholic for several years. Made it easier when he had to hop or shove off at a moment's notice.

“I'm kinda tired…”

A hard look came from Gich, who studied him from head to toe. “Can't avoid the world forever. A lot of people want to see you.”

“Yeah.” Declan was noncommittal. “I, uh, want to be good with things first.”

Gich nodded. “Understood. I'm not saying the rest of the community is going to get it, but I'll abide by your wishes…for now.”

“Thanks,” said Declan. Looking over his shoulder, he spied a case of his favorite stout. Alongside it was his bag from the Team FIVE cages. “For saving me a trip.”

“Yep. Figured you'd need keys and stuff to get in. Not that I'm doubting your ability to jimmy a lock, just don't want you to have to go get a new one when you're done.”

“Good call,” Declan said flatly. The Commander could break in anywhere, though the XO had probably given some direction. He nodded with his head. “Who's that for?”

“A friend. Thought he might need a drink. He's a stubborn asshole who'd rather be alone than laugh his dick off with his friends.” Gich smiled and his mustache twitched as he held back the laughter. Before he pulled out of the parking space, he punched Declan in the shoulder. “Keep in mind we aren't a sum of our parts, or even a part of them; we're what we got inside. SEAL spirits are indestructible.”

Declan nodded. He resisted the urge to dump his emotional load on the Commander, former BUD/S instructor, and good friend. Instead he listened to the man harp about a pretty lady described as the sweetest thing he'd ever met and how he never ever wanted to let her get away.

* * *

Stairs were a bitch and a half. Something he used to take two at a time now had him moving at a snail's crawl. Made him feel fucking frustrated! When did the little stuff become so tough?

“Do you need help getting it all inside?” Gich was shorter by several inches, but the man's power made him a giant.

Dropping the case and duffle at the door, Declan went back to the top of the stairs.

“No thanks, Gich,” said Declan, proffering his hand instead. The faster he said good-bye, the sooner he could be alone in his apartment. Home. Something he'd been craving since this shitstorm happened.

Gich slapped it away and gave him a hug. Power that could snap a spine wrapped around his shoulders, and then Gich was thumping him on the back again. Damn, that man could dislodge food without the Heimlich. Size and strength just didn't change things when your core was fueled by belief and confidence. This man had taught him that, and so much more.

“Hey, how did you know…when I'd arrive?”

“Old Frogs & SEALs. A Team wife is in touch with a couple of the docs at Walter Reed and the Master Sergeant at SOCOM. She badgered them all until she knew when you were coming so you could be met and the community could roll it out for you. I added my dime about waiting on the fanfare. She deferred to me.”

Declan nodded. “Please thank her. And I'm glad it was just you.”

“I know.” Gich headed back down the stairs. Over his shoulder, he yelled, “Stay ugly.”

“You first.” Watching Gich leave was bittersweet. Part of him wanted to invite the guy in and the other part just needed time alone. Sliding his key into the lock, Declan opened the door. It smelled clean and fresh in here, like bleach, ammonia, and glass cleaner. Must have been a Team wife.

He pushed the case into the entry hall, pulled the rest of his gear into the apartment, and closed and locked the door. Despite the fact he was being careful maneuvering over the pile, he stumbled and landed on his shoulder.

Crawling away from the pile, he pulled himself to his feet, got his crutch, and went immediately to the glass door. He stood there with his hand on the latch, wanting to open it and smell the fresh air. Craving the sunlight on his skin and the ocean lifting him high on the waves. He could get lost out there, forever. It'd be such a happy way to go…

Turning away from the temptation, he went into the bedroom, stripped off all of his clothes, and collapsed on the bed. His mind needed to shut off. His body was shaking with exhaustion.
Just a few hours… That's all I need.

Cramps twisted and squeezed his stomach. Waking up abruptly, Declan was covered in sweat. He shook his head, trying to make the memory fade, but it was far more vivid and memorable than the sand in his pants during sugar-cookie drills.

Moving his legs toward the side of the bed, he groped on the floor for his crutch with his hand. Fingertips wrapped around the cold metal, and he pulled it closer so he could haul his body out of bed.

He headed into the other room slowly, grabbed a beer from the case, and fished his pain pills and antibiotics out of his pack. Gich's stout was the real stuff, no near beer here. He knew he probably shouldn't combine the two—the medication label was pretty explicit—but he didn't give a shit right now.

He slammed the edge of the bottle cap against the counter, and the top popped off and foam spewed out. He sipped, once, twice, three times, feeling the warm brew hit the spot.

Withdrawing the prescribed meds, he tossed them onto his tongue and chased them down with a long pull of brew. “Ack,” he said, tasting the chalky film and bitter taste left behind by the pills.

He finished off the stout before heading back to his bed. Pulling off the sweaty comforter, he tossed it aside and lay down on the cool, clean sheets.

There was one scene he was hoping to avoid, the thing he hadn't dreamed about yet, but that had lingered on the edges of his conscious and subconscious mind. He had successfully anesthetized himself, not realizing that he was unleashing the dam of his memories.

“Can you hear me, Master Chief?” The man was rubbing his knuckles on Declan's sternum. “I'm Dr. Walters.”

That fucking hurt! “Yes,” Declan answered. His eyes were slits because the light was so bright. He wanted to close them, to just go to sleep. Why wouldn't they let him sleep?

“Where does it hurt?” asked the doctor as he pushed on spot after spot.

“Everywhere,” replied Declan. He was so tired… Too exhausted to do this.

“What about your legs? Can you wiggle your toes?” The doctor wore glasses and Declan could see his reflection in them. The eyes behind the lenses looked confident, kind, and concerned. “You need to move…”

Declan felt his heart squeeze as if something were crushing it. His mouth was open, but he couldn't ask for help.

“He's crashing. Hypovolemic shock. Get that blood volume back up. Get the paddles. Move!”

It was the strangest feeling, hovering over his body, looking down on himself and the doctors and nurses. Had to have been at least six of them working on him. There was so much blood. And someone was keeping pressure on his leg.

They ripped open his shirt. Laid paddles on his chest.

“Clear! Clear!”

The shock sent him back into his own body. Into his pain-ridden, bleeding body, which looked like so much red meat from above. The pity he'd felt was gone. Instead there was a sense of fighting. He wanted it, wanted to live.

“Got a pulse. It's steady. Okay, let's get him to surgery.” The doctor was leaning over him.

Declan was looking into those bespectacled eyes.

“Stay with us, Master Chief. We're going to get you fixed up.”

Leaning over the side of the bed, Declan grabbed the edges of the mattress and threw up. The entire contents of his stomach purged themselves onto the floor of his bedroom. The image of his body as tattered and torn red meat played over and over in his brain.

His body shook. Going down, stout tasted great. Coming back up was like barfing acid.

Seemed like forever before the heaving stopped.

Opening the nightstand drawer, he withdrew a pack of Extra spearmint gum and shoved two pieces into his mouth. It was ideal to stop the heaves and was a pretty good stopgap until he could get to the bathroom and brush his teeth. Thinking of the bathroom, though, made him have to do other things.

Why was it that bodily functions wanted to happen all at once?

He reached for his crutch and knocked the lamp off the nightstand. It crashed to the floor and he ended up in the same place. Just then his bladder let loose, and he started to laugh as relief and pain dueled in his body. In for a penny, in for a pound…

The balcony light came on. The glass door opened and Maura's voice was tentative. “Declan, is that you?”

“Yep! It's me. I was going to call you in the a.m.” Declan didn't know if that was true or not. All he knew for sure was that he hated feeling helpless as a baby.

Lights snapped on in his living room and then in his bedroom. His eyes drank in the sight of her like a thirsty man.

“Declan? What on earth?” She stood there in a white cotton nightgown and robe, and from this angle, he could see her white panties with a small pink bow on top. She leaned down next to him. “When did you get home? What happened?”

“A few hours ago. I wanted to get a few winks before I came over and woke you.”

“Oh.” She bent down beside him. Her fingers touched his face. “What happened? Give me two minutes to call an ambulance.”

“No,” he said adamantly. “No doctors. No more hospitals. I'm fine.” He had just gotten out; he couldn't bear to go back.

“Okay. Don't move then. Just give me a minute.” She was gone less than a minute. When she came back from the bathroom with wet washcloths and dry towels, she also had his crutch. She didn't say anything about his leg, merely handed it to him.

She ran the wet washcloths over his body and then dried him. It was actually sort of nice, better than the experience at the hospital. From this position, his body joined in on the applause.

“Declan, let's get you back up on the bed.”

“First, a side trip to the bathroom to clean up.” He used his arms to pull himself up and onto the bed. Feeling her hands brush gently over his flesh brought a flood of memories. He used the crutches to get to the bathroom. While he rinsed himself off, he realized how starved he was to see her, to touch her and smell her. And he had denied himself that pleasure…why?

Smiling when she saw him, she propped pillows around him after he lay down. She gave him a glass of water and his toothbrush with toothpaste on it and then tackled the messes on the floor. As he brushed his teeth, he wanted to tell her that she didn't have to do it, but watching her touched something inside of him.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

He pursed his lips and shook his head.

“By morning it will be better. Why don't you come over to my place?”

Surprisingly, he wanted to. He wanted to smell the scent of her on her sheets and towels and wrap his body around her warmth. He pushed away the pillows and covers, grabbed his crutches, and got to his feet. They moved through his apartment slowly and then onto the balcony. The fresh air made his senses feel alive. He breathed deeply for several seconds and then followed Maura into her place.

“I can sleep on the couch or the floor. I've slept worse places.” He really didn't want to put her out. She'd already gone above and beyond.

“No way.” Maura stood like a militant nurse. The expression on her face was unreadable, and he would have given just about anything to know what was on her mind.

As he sat down, the bed sagged under his weight. Stretching out, he felt the cool clean sheets beneath him. Her scent enveloped him and he immediately relaxed.

Slowly, she lay down next to him. Putting her head on his chest, she hugged him. “I…I missed you.” She stayed like that for a long time.