Fight By The Team (Team Fear Book 2) (8 page)

“Did you pack her comfortable clothes?” Rose asked. The woman wouldn’t be wearing her typical skinny jeans and t-shirts until she healed.

“I packed a bunch of Lauren’s stuff. The women can share.”

Debi was taller and leaner than Lauren. “You know dick about women.” Rose took off down the hall until he found a room full of sunshine and light. The clean, cheerful lines matched Debi’s personality. The walk-in closet was filled with more shoes than he had clothes, and every single one had heels. Not a sensible shoe in the bunch. He grabbed several pairs of jeans, workout clothes already stacked in sets, and anything else he could lay hands on. A lone pair of tennis shoes was tucked into a gym bag in the far corner. He tossed the rest in with the shoes and headed out.

Walking back into the room was like a bomb ticking down. If anything, the men looked angrier despite the extra time to cool down. They were all feeling caged by a situation out of their control.

Craft tossed pantry food in a box while he and Fowler groused back and forth. Stress vibrated off Ryder. The anger flowing through them individually and as a team was a byproduct of the conflict between them and Echo. It was the reason he’d slammed Fowler into the wall. The reason Fowler and Craft were fighting like teenagers. They had survived, but pieces of the team were starting to unravel.

Rose understood Ryder’s dilemma. Splitting up was a dumbass move, but it was the only play they had. The argument between Craft and Fowler escalated so Ryder finally whistled long and loud.

“Shut. Up.” Ryder twisted his neck to relieve the tension. The click of his vertebra popping filled the new silence. Finally, Ryder shifted. The anger visibly faded and he faced them much as he had when they were active duty. “The side effects suck. The anger fucks with us every damn time and we need to figure that shit out. We need to turn our anger on the enemy, not each other. We’re still a fucking team.”

Craft stopped tossing canned goods and stood. Fowler nodded sharply. Order fell over them. Anger drained from faces. Shoulders snapped back to the position of attention. Ryder had reminded them of who they were. Team Fear.

“We can’t take my vehicle,” Rose said. Echo’s actions continued to diminish their options, which accounted for some of the earlier anger. “I’ll leave the truck in the barn.”

“We can lay down the seats in my SUV.” Fowler cleaned up the medic bag and zipped it closed. He carried it in one hand and grabbed Debi’s bag in the other. “Let’s roll.”

Rose lifted Debi, careful to keep the blanket wrapped tightly over her shoulders. She weighed less than his sister Ivy, who he’d had to carry when she sprained an ankle last year. Debi was out cold, not simply fragile, but completely at his mercy. She was breakable and still in danger. The rock in his gut churned into gravel. This was why a smart soldier stayed the fuck away from civilians. Collateral damage was unavoidable, and from where Rose stood, unacceptable. Debi didn’t deserve to get drawn into their world. He should have left her at the motel. He marched behind Fowler out the door, and grief and regret followed like a shadow.

A
pounding headache
and dry mouth woke Debi from the sleep of the dead. Every muscle in her body protested when she tried to shift positions. She opened her eyes to a dark room and a monster-sized silhouette sitting upright in a chair next to the bed. The size of the shadow caused her heart to seize. She tried to sit up, but a zap of pain at her shoulder reminded her of the gunshot. Everything flashed through her brain and panic threatened.

“Give it a minute.” Rose’s big hand pressed her gently back to the bed. “You really awake this time?”

“Have there been false alarms?” The frog in her throat sounded more like an ugly old toad with a frog in his throat.

“This is round three.”

“Lucky three.” Debi struggled to move, but her body didn’t respond. “Where are we?”

“Motel number three, about four hours from the last one you remember.”

The math didn’t add up in her addled brain. “I missed one?”

“We’re moving every day, paying cash, and staying off the main roads.”

“Seems wise,” she rasped. With a cough that jarred her shoulder, she tried to clear her throat. It was hard to believe that they’d moved locations multiple times and she’d been that unaware. The last thing she remembered, she’d been at the ranch, and he and Fowler had given her an injection of something. “Blood loss?”

“Significant, but not life threatening.”

“Did the couch survive?”

A slight smile broke the solemn line of his lips. “The Barry couch is toast.”

“Finally some good news. Did you burn it?”

“I figured you’d want the honors.”

“Oh, I do.” Not really. She’d rather not face the reminder of the shooting, although she’d probably have a scar. A big one. “Did you really stitch me up?”

Rose shook his head. “Found a doctor who was willing to patch you up without any records. You want water?”

She licked her chapped lips. “Wouldn’t refuse.”

He reached to the nightstand and grabbed a bottle of water with a straw through the top. “We stemmed the bleeding and got the doctor to do the deed.” He pulled the bottle back when she’d taken a sip. “Met back up with the rest of the team. There’s safety in numbers. Your little incident scared the crap out of Lauren. She wouldn’t leave you for the first twenty-four hours.”

“It was my turn.” Lauren had taken enough damage when she’d been kidnapped. Debi took another sip, but when she tried to get a good gulp, Rose pulled the straw away.

“Keep it down and you can have more.”

“How long have I been out?”

“A couple days. Lauren comes over in the daytime. She left a couple hours ago.”

To spend the night with her husband no doubt, leaving Rose on bodyguard duty. Again. Poor guy. “Help me up?”

“Stay put.”

“Dude, I’ve been out of it for days. I need a trip to the restroom. Help me up or I’ll go alone.”

He glanced at the door to the outside. “Did you call me dude?”

“If the flip flop fits, big guy.” Debi turned to her good side and used her free arm to brace herself into a sitting position. Her injured arm was in a sling, tucked tight against her body.

He stabilized her before helping her to her feet. The feet currently wearing Goofy slippers. “What’s with the slippers?”

“Got them from your closet. Lauren said they were your favorite.”

“That’s because she has a warped sense of humor.” Debi had threatened to bring Goofy slippers and a housecoat the last time Lauren needed a change of clothes. Holding onto Rose, Debi stepped free of the top-heavy footwear. “They’re likely to trip me if I try to walk in them now.”

“You walk in sky-high heels and you’re worried about Goofy?”

Debi used Rose’s arm as a crutch to help her hobble to the bathroom door. “You don’t like my heels?”

“I like them fine, but you’re off heels until you’re done with physical therapy.”

She frowned. The entire time she’d dated Barry, she’d been forbidden to wear heels that made her taller than him. Now all bets were off. She wore them whenever and wherever. They were a piece of her daily armor. “I don’t think so, Rosie. I don’t own anything but heels.”

“You own Goofy slippers—”

“Not a chance.” The day she left the house in slippers and a housecoat was the day she went for a psych eval.

“I brought your gym shoes.”

She owned gym shoes? “I appreciate it, but—”

“Doctor’s orders.”

She released his arm and leaned heavily against the bathroom’s doorframe. “Doctor or medic?”

“Right now, they’re the same thing. Besides, I didn’t bring any other shoes for you.”

“I was wearing boots when it happened.” Threatening Rose if he cut off her boots was one of the last solid memories before waking up.

“I took them off, left them behind.”

An ache formed at the loss. The heels were a little thing, comparatively, but they were a defensive weapon, much like Rose carrying a gun. “You are a cruel, cruel man.”

He reached in to flip the bathroom light on for her. “How do you feel?

“Like I’ve been shot.”

“You have been shot.”

The light stabbed her eyeballs. “Thanks for the reminder.”

He leaned against the opposite jam. The light from the bathroom showed eyes rimmed with an exhaustion that went deeper than the dark circles.

“When’s the last time you slept a full night?”

“The night before Mad Dog took his life.”

PFC Madigan had killed himself because Team Echo dosed him with something and then convinced him that he’d killed his wife. The rest of the team had believed the lie, when in reality, Echo had killed Madigan’s family and let him take the blame. “Call me crazy, but not sleeping doesn’t sound healthy.”

“We’re trained to fight on very little sleep.”

They’d been used and abused and spit out, and yet all the Team Fear men held on to their time in the service. “You’re not in the Army anymore.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” he said, mirroring her earlier response, but no emotion crossed his features.

“But you’re still a warrior.” Only an idiot would think otherwise.

He stretched his spine along the doorjamb and grabbed the top of the trim, the move drawing attention to his height. He absolutely filled the doorway. His biceps flexed, or maybe they were always so defined. Debi swallowed. Her inappropriate libido was working overtime, but Rose was tired, she was still drugged up, so now was not the time. And wasn’t that a sad state of affairs? She turned and presented him her back. “Would you untie the sling?”

“Leave it.”

“I don’t think you want me showering with this thing on.”

“Wait on the shower for a few days.”

She snorted. “Not a chance.” She felt like the bottom of the bar’s dumpster. “Undo the sling.”

“No.”

“This isn’t a power struggle.” Although, crud, it probably was, and right now, she didn’t have any power. “The shower will help clear my head.”

“You need sleep.”

“I’ll sleep better after a shower. Plus I’m betting you don’t want me tearing things apart if I try to do it myself.”

“No.” If anything, his tone grew more uncompromising.

She turned to try to gauge his mood by his expression, but his hard features were unreadable. “Don’t bet against me, soldier boy.”

The vibration of his sigh ruffled the hair on the back of her neck. “Women,” he mumbled under his breath, and then he undid the sling and removed it from around her right shoulder. “Do not use your right side until the doctor looks at it tomorrow, and keep it dry.”

“That defeats the purpose of a shower.” Her injured arm was against her skin rather than through the armhole. It probably was too hard to dress an unconscious woman without aggravating the injury. The yellow wash they used to clean the wound was visible through the neck of the shirt.

“I’ll cover the stitches so they don’t get wet.” The air of resigned acceptance was in every syllable he spoke. “Take off your shirt.”

She choked on her own spit, and sputtered and coughed like an empty water line.

“I’ve already seen you shirtless, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

It wasn’t her bare breasts so much as the reality that she looked like death warmed over. The idea of Sergeant Sexy checking out her assets while she was literally at her worst didn’t go over well.

“Relax.” With the one word, he left the doorway, which gave her space to breathe. She really wanted a shower and a chance to brush her teeth. His warmth hit before she heard him return. The silent moves from such a big man were hard to get used to. He lifted the back of the shirt. “I can cover it from the back.” He lifted the side of the t-shirt over the wound, and taped something around the wound. “I’ve got pain pills if you need them.”

Need was relative. “No thanks.”

“You’re a terrible patient.”

“What can I say? I don’t have experience getting shot.” This was the first she’d ever needed a caregiver.

“I can give you a few pointers.”

“You’ve been shot?” That surprised her. The soldier seemed bulletproof.

“Even the best quarterback gets sacked sometimes. All of us have had our share of injuries. First rule of wound care, listen to the medic.”

Right. If and when he got shot, she’d bet good money that he went right on working. “I’ll take a pill when I get out. I don’t want to get woozy in the shower.”

“Getting behind the pain is a bad plan. Once you get out of the shower, you’ll wish you took one before.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“Your choice.”

The acceptance gave her pause. He had the power to force her to do things his way, but he presented his side of the argument and let her make the choice because he was a good guy and not just a sexy one, which made it that much harder to keep her emotions out of it.

With an offer to help when she needed it, he stepped from the room, closing the door behind him.

Debi took the first full breath since she’d woken. The intensity he exuded dissipated once he’d gone, leaving her feeling deflated and strangely alone. Her shoulder started throbbing the instant he’d taken off the sling. Pulling the t-shirt off the rest of the way, she avoided the reflection in the mirror. The shower was quick, because he was right. It hurt like hell without the sling or a pain pill. She combed her wet hair one handed, and then stared with distaste at the clothes she’d shed. They were dirty and smelled like antiseptic.

“Debi?” Rose knocked lightly.

Her pulse spiked. The door separated them, yet his voice rumbled through the wood like an audio aphrodisiac. He was big, bad, tall, and gorgeous. He had a tattoo—and she still wanted a good look at that—his voice got her worked up, and he was the most considerate man she’d ever met. All that goodness wrapped up inside a soldier. The attraction made sense, but the slow roll of her heart had her leaning weakly against the sink. Too much. He was too much and she was too vulnerable right now.

“Clean clothes.”

“Oh.” Relief washed away the fear that started inside, the kind she didn’t want to examine. It wasn’t the panicky kind. It was more like a big freaking warning label that should be tattooed across his chest: Proceed with caution. The towel wrapped around her didn’t feel thick enough to buffer against the feelings running through her. The hollow door wasn’t enough to protect her from the temptation, yet she shielded behind it as she opened it a few inches to take the clothes.

“Don’t try to put your arm into the shirt. Leave it off that side and I’ll put on a fresh bandage.

She nodded, the movement pulling her neck muscle and stretching the stitches. “Thank you.”

The one-armed thing made it hard to dress, and she had to yank and pull with her non-dominant hand to get the sleep shorts from twisting at her waist. The shirt was three sizes too big, and had a strong, masculine scent, the kind that promised life-altering sex. After sharing a motel room for days on end, she’d recognize his scent anywhere. Dropping the shirt over her head, she left the injured arm under so she didn’t have to fidget with it too much. When she finished, she stepped from the room, feeling unusually shy. She’d been alone in a motel with him for a week or more, but the wound put her on the defensive. She didn’t want a man to take care of her. Yet here she was, taking his help because she didn’t have a choice.

“Don’t argue.” Rose held out a pill the size of a quarter. “Take the medicine.”

“Wasn’t going to argue.” Their fingers brushed as she took the pill. The burn of attraction was instant, and completely unnecessary. As long as she needed him to take care of her, she wouldn’t make a move. Not until they were back on even footing. Even then, there was something about him that made anything more than friendship a gamble. Debi had walked away from Barry with everything but her pride intact. Rose had the ability to turn her inside out until there was nothing left.

He handed her the water with the straw. “Turn around. I’ll put on a clean bandage.” The slow and economical movements he used were clinical, impersonal yet gentle as he tucked the soft cotton of the shirt between her side and her arm so she didn’t flash him. He didn’t rush, nor did his fingers touch anything inappropriate. She was relieved and a little disappointed. Debi focused across the room on the bed that was all but calling her name.

“I think I’ll...” She nodded at the bed.

“Wait.” He slid the sling over her shoulder and made a few adjustments. “You should eat.”

The last thing on her mind was food. “I’m pretty sure this motel doesn’t have room service.”

“No, but I made you a sandwich.” He gestured to the table under a weak overhead light. “We got groceries and a cooler, so we’re not dependent on fast food.”

She followed him to the table, feeling petite next to his massive presence, and overwhelmed by his continued generosity. It had been too long since anyone had done for her. The seat opposite—the size of doll furniture in comparison to him—groaned when he sat down to his plate of food. A thick sandwich filled with meat, cheese, and sliced tomatoes was cut into identical wedges on her plate. She couldn’t remember a time when someone had cooked for her, and the simple sandwich was more than that. It was one more thing this sweet man did without being asked. “You’ll make someone a good wife someday.”