Vivid (12 page)

His deep voice sent a pleasant shiver up my spine, making my stomach swarm with those raging butterflies. "Lots."

"Will you sing for me tonight? Please?"

It was in that moment I realized I would do
anything
for him if he asked me like that.

"Yeah, Merrick. I'll sing for you." The lump in my throat felt impossible to swallow, but I pushed past it as I laid on my bed.

The man underneath all that tough skin – scarred skin – was still just a human being. He wanted peace just like the rest of us. It was just a little harder to come by these days.

I sang until I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer. Merrick listened.

Merrick

I believe there are only a few things in this life that should make a man truly nervous. This doesn't include actual fear, like the fear of losing a loved one or the fear of being shot at. Those are completely different.

I'm talking about that very distinct anxiety one has to make sure everything goes well. That deep concern that causes a quivering ball to sit heavily in his stomach.

First, is the apprehension a man feels when he makes the decision to serve his country, in any capacity. There should be pride and determination, but the underlying apprehension of getting seriously injured in the process is always there. This will not usually deter him, but it's there, and it's usually replaced with the adrenaline rush of purpose.

Second, is the unease a man goes through when he truly wants a woman. That
special
woman that makes him forget his name. He wants to ask her out, kiss her, or ask her to marry him, but he hesitates. It's the possibility of rejection that lies at the forefront of his mind. A guy might
say
that he isn't nervous, he might even
look
like he isn't nervous, but he most definitely
is
. The dread of rejection can make a man seriously reconsider his decisions.

The third thing applies to all men, too. It just comes in many different forms.

Facing the man that knew all of his weaknesses.

I've never been more nervous about my appearance and attitude than when I knew my CO was going to be around.

Captain Lee Bowman contacted my parents recently and wanted to check in on me. They invited him for dinner at the house.  With the lack of sleep the night before and the added stress of Mitch being in the hospital, I didn't think I would make it. The captain had given his condolences for my little brother and said he would have rescheduled for another time, but he was leaving the country in a week and wanted to see me before then.

Lee Bowman was thoroughly involved in my training and that of my unit. He was a respected officer with a reputation for being subtly deadly. He was blunt when he needed to be, but the man was powerful with the simple act of silence. He planted seeds in the mind instead of throwing grenades of orders. He taught with lessons and punishment, but not one man who was under his command held any hostility towards him, no matter what he made them do.

He was a hero and a role model for every kid that ever entered the military and was given the incredible opportunity to meet him. The man who, for a solid week, forced me to carry around a fifty-pound rock named Respect.

I had Respect with me when I slept, when I ate, and when I trained. If anyone asked why I carried it around, I was to answer with, "To replace the respect I lack."

To someone on the outside, it didn't seem like a punishment, but every man there knew exactly how humiliating it was, and they made sure to ask about Respect every chance they got.

Needless to say, I learned an important lesson. One I must have forgotten in the last several months since the attack.

Captain Bowman was going to be disappointed when he realized the kid he'd taken under his wing was now lost. I was terrified I would lose his respect by lacking mine.

"You look like you're going to throw up."

Grace's voice was no help for my nerves. She was a prime example of that second anxiety and it was starting to give me ulcers. You'd think a man who had been in the line of fire, saw most of his friends killed, and was nearly burned to a crisp, wouldn't fear very much. But she terrified me. The way I felt when she was close had become a drug. One I couldn't imagine giving up.

"Nah, I'm fine," I said, clearing my throat after my voice cracked. If it wasn't already obvious to her how nervous I was, it was now.

We spent all morning getting the house ready for the captain's visit. Well,
she
did most of the work, and I tried to help where I could. Mom told her not to worry about it, but Grace insisted and told my mom to stay at the hospital with Mitch a little longer while we took care of things. I don't think Emma Thatcher could love Grace anymore than she already did.

The thought of my little brother lying in that hospital bed sent a shiver through my limbs. I don't remember how I got to the hospital that night. In fact, I don't really remember much after I spoke with my father on the phone. The only thing I know for sure is that Grace was there and she had reached into my chest and kept guard of my heart. A heart that I felt breaking more and more every day.

It isn't easy to shake off dread, but Grace swept it off my shoulders like she was dusting off a shelf. Once we took that first step – or roll – out of the house, it had been up to me to keep it off. I went through hell those couple nights in the hospital, unable to see if my little brother was truly going to be okay. I didn't sleep, I barely ate, and every sound in that cold hospital room took me back to the first day I woke up in Germany. I felt the pain, the grogginess from the useless narcotics, the panic of whether or not I was the only one to survive.

I heard the family members of other patients walk by Mitch's room with smiles in their voices. Laughter. Relief that their brother, sister, son, or daughter was going to be okay.

And the worst part? I was angry about it. They had no idea how many were lost. They had no idea the list of names that had already given their lives for
them
.

I couldn't stand to hear the happiness of others when so many of my brothers would never smile again.

It was the thought of Grace that kept me from shouting at them. It was the thought of Grace that kept me from completely losing it. She was a light in the only dark I could see.

Now we were both in the bathroom, me with no shirt and a face covered with shaving cream, and Grace standing over me, waiting for me to steady my breathing. She saw my struggle and had the most incredible amount of patience. She never pushed, just let me work through the pain.

"Merrick?"

"I'm fine," I breathed.

"Whatever you say. I promise I won't cut you with the razor," she teased with a smile in her voice.

"That's not the problem."

"Oh good. Because I've done this before."

Instant jealousy tightened my chest when I thought of her touching another man. I wanted to find the guy and pound his face to a pulp. "Who?" I snapped, tightly clenching my fists to control myself.

"When I did a rotation in geriatrics, the few patients I took care of were men. They wanted to look nice for some of the older nurses that worked there," she said with a chuckle. "I'd go in early and help them shave because they had a hard time keeping their hands steady."

I wasn't sure whether to be relieved or in complete awe of her. It made me realize that Grace was not just a good nurse, she was more compassionate than I originally thought.

She lifted my chin with her gentle fingers and said, "You ready?"

The feel of her warm breath on my face made me wonder if she would care about getting shaving cream all over her when I finally kissed the daylights out of those lips. I was sure they would taste like sugar and I would give anything to get just one look at them.

I nodded my head, under no condition to speak, and I felt her lean in close. I imagined the space between her eyebrows would be wrinkled with concentration and her bottom lip would be trapped under her teeth. The first swipe of the razor was slow and steady, and my fingers started to tremble in my lap.

My CO coming over for dinner was no longer the issue. The semi-erection I wouldn't be able to hide right now, was.

Grace moved closer, shifting her body so she could reach my face more easily. She ended up practically standing between my legs, brushing up against my injured one whenever she rinsed off the razor.

"Take a breath, Merrick. I haven't cut you. Not yet," she chuckled.

I breathed in her sweet scent, my head swimming with arousal. She had no idea what she was doing to me. All those months shaving with a tiny mirror stuck to the wall in my CHU had been frustrating as hell. I couldn't see shit in that thing. Now I very literally couldn't see shit and she was in front of me smelling like she did, being as gentle as she was, and all those memories didn't seem like such a horrible thing.

Because now I was experiencing something even more torturous.

She positioned the razor under my nose and expertly removed the coarse hair above my lip. What would she do if I just leaned in and devoured her mouth? Would I miss her lips completely or would she meet me halfway?

She gently turned my face and started on the other side. I didn't think having her shave my face would be this intimate. In fact, I was planning on it being annoying as hell since I thought she wouldn't really know what she was doing. Asking my mother had been an option, but I didn't want her leaving Mitch either.

"Almost there. You need a haircut, too." Her voice was rough and sexy, and I had to hold back a groan when it sent blood rushing straight to my groin. "I can style it for you so it stays out of your face, but I'm no good with cutting hair."

"That sounds good," I replied. God, if she didn't finish soon, I was going to do something stupid.

She raised my chin and carefully shaved my neck. When her fingers stroked my skin to check for any areas she missed, I swallowed thickly and lost the battle completely.

My injured and stiff hand found her wrist, slowly pulling the razor away from my skin. Her gasp sent my semi-erection shooting straight up to painfully hard. The skin of her wrist was like silk under my fingers, the tiny bones so fragile. I worried that if I was too insistent, I would hurt her with just a touch.

"Merrick?" she breathed, her sweet breath caressing my chin.

"Grace ..."

I felt her racing pulse under my fingers and pulled her forward until I could feel the heat of her face so close to mine. I raised my other hand to her waist and made a cautious path up, until I gripped the back of her neck. She didn't struggle or protest, and I hoped her accelerated breaths were telling me that she was feeling the same intense pull I was.

My dry throat finally found the strength to speak, even if it was just a whisper. "I would give anything to be able to see you right now." I pulled her face closer, until the tip of her nose touched mine. The sound of the razor falling to the floor, briefly registered in my mind.  "I want to–"

"Merrick? We're here, son."

Grace startled at the sound of my mother's voice, quickly pulling back and forcing my hold on her neck to slip away. The sudden awareness of what I had almost done was like a punch to the gut. I wanted her more than I wanted my next breath, but what did
she
want?

Grace was still standing in front of me, but neither of us spoke.

"Merrick? Grace? Where are you?"

The tension in that bathroom was stifling. I haven't felt my heart thump like that since the first day of basic. It was making me dizzy. If I could just reach out and find her, touch her, I might be able to explain myself. If I could explain myself ... then what?

Grace took a deep breath and stepped around me, picking up the razor and placing it on the sink. "I'll let your mom finish up," she stammered.

I nodded, refusing to turn toward her voice. It was a memorable moment for me; the first that I was actually grateful for my blindness. I didn't want to see the rejection on her face.

"Good luck tonight," she whispered. Then her footsteps faded away and I wanted to punch something.

I heard her and my mother speak to each other before the sound of the front door opening and closing. Moments later, Mom walked in and my heart still clamored wildly. Had I completely destroyed everything? Would Grace come back or had I run her off like I tried to that first day?

"What did you do?" Mom asked, her voice filled with unease. Was her concern for me or for Grace?

I closed my eyes and shook my head. "Nothing. Why?"

"Grace looked like she was about to burst into tears. Did you say something to her? I thought you liked her?"

I turned my chair toward the shower, away from the feel of my mother's prying eyes. "I do. That's the problem."

She must have understood because she didn't push for more. I opened the shower door and pulled myself out of the wheelchair. It bumped against the tiled ledge of the shower and started to roll backward. I would be happy to get rid of the damn thing soon. But then it would be crutches, which were almost just as bad.

"Do you need my help?"

"No, Mom. I got it," I answered a little too harshly. I cringed and encouraged myself to stop being such an asshole. "Thank you for offering."

I sat myself on the shower chair, pulling the door closed. I started to tug my pants off, grunting when my leg smarted. Mom was still in the bathroom and it must have been pure torture to watch me struggle. Once my leg was propped on the other chair, I took a deep breath and tried not to think of Grace.

"You look nice with a clean shaven face, Merrick. Grace did a wonderful job."

I dropped my head and sighed, because it was pointless. I ran my hand over my face, feeling the smooth skin under my fingers. "Yeah, she did."

The sound of the bathroom door shutting was the only sign I had that Mom left the room. I tossed my pants out of the shower and closed the door again.

Captain Bowman was going to arrive soon. I needed to pull myself together.

I had hoped Grace would be around, but it seemed unlikely now. She helped me over all the previous hurdles, but maybe I had to do this on my own. Regardless of whether or not I was ready.

***

The sound of Captain Bowman's loud voice sent a rush of dizziness to my head. The deep breaths I'd been taking since his car pulled into the driveway weren't helping at all. I was hoping to be able to take a moment to compose myself once I was ready, but even with another hand and much less pain, it took me forever to accomplish the act of getting dressed.

Didn't help that I stopped to listen for Grace every few seconds.

I dropped my head into my hands, raking my fingers through my hair for the hundredth time. I never noticed how soft hair could feel, never even thought of it until I couldn't see it. Even my aching hand could feel the texture and length of it.