THE WATCHERS: 6 Military Romance Bundle Read online

  “How come you have all this stuff just lying around in your apartment?” he asks when I walk into the kitchen where he’s waiting, plaster, cotton wool sheets, and cutters at the ready.

  “Chaser ran into the street a few years back and a car clipped his leg. Couldn’t afford vet fees, what with Mrs. T so behind on her taxes and needing my help, so I snuck him into the hospital and got my buddy to take x-rays on the sly. Once I knew what was what, I brought him home, knocked him out, and did a home job.” I shrug.

  Storm seems impressed by this and smiles, as I sit and hold my arm out to him. The cutting is done in mere minutes and I bite back a wince of pain when the cast comes off and reminds me that I have, in fact, broken the sucker.

  Darn murderer. Why couldn’t he choose a different night to try and take out the rich and clueless? Why on my shift?

  “Jesus, that looks like hell,” Storm snarls, taking in the purple and black bruising that takes up half my arm from wrist to midway to my elbow.

  I snort and scrunch my face, giving it another eagle-eyed look.

  “Nah. One time this guy came in after a buddy of his road over his arm with a forklift. That was gruuuueeesoooome. I had to put three screws in his arm just to keep the pin in place. And then I had to sew up the minced meat that was his arm. That was gross. This isn’t too bad, considering all I did was bang it into the floor to break my fall.”

  The last comes out all breathy-like when he starts stroking at my skin in a way that screams tender loving care. Ah hell. I’m gonna have to hose myself down at this rate, if he keeps being all hot and stuff.

  “What do I do?” he finally says, breaking the spell with a harsh throat clearing and clenched jaw.

  I talk him through the wrapping process and how to soak the plaster strips. An hour later, after it’s all set and looking only slightly crooked, I’m sporting a retro pink cast that has Storm’s eye twitching.

  “Do you even like pink?”

  “Sure. Lots of very yummy things come in pink,” I coo, biting my lip when the innuendo of that statement hits me.

  Don’t look at his—

  My eyes wing down and I squeak when he growls low in his throat.

  Crotch.

  I just looked at his crotch and, goddamn, the man should be carrying a license for that monster.

  I’m blushing like a freaking sixteen-year-old on her first unchaperoned date when I look up and meet his eyes, eyes that have gone so dark I can’t distinguish his pupils from the colors.

  “I, uh, you hungry? I’m hungry. I should maybe make something to eat. You like spaghetti? I have this recipe.”

  I keep babbling like a chipmunk, as I stand and go for the refrigerator, grabbing at the ingredients like a lifeline. Right now, there isn’t a damn thing I wouldn’t give to be on Nicolas Storm like white on rice. Two problems though.

  I’m on a mancation right now, and I’m bound and determined to never have another go on that bull since my rodeoing days are over. Over, do you hear me! Even if I’m dying to get back on a bull, er, man. Besides, even if I was to be that dumb ever again, I’d go for a staid, non-threatening guy who’d be so grateful to have scored me that he’d never look at another pair of tits again.

  The other problem is simple. I have zero confidence when it comes to sex, not anymore, not after what that pig threw at me when I refused to go in for some threefold action.

  I don’t need this crap in my life anyway, right? I mean, I have a great job, at least I like it when I’m not half-dead and drooling over patients. And I have an apartment that’s still standing and hasn’t leaked in a while …

  I’m good. For at least another year or so.

  “Here, let me do that and you just relax, Coleman. You can’t be dicing shit with one hand.”

  Dang it! You do not care that this man is hot, sweet, and real, unlike every other guy you’ve ever met, Lenny.

  But I do. I really like that he hasn’t once mentioned hearing me fart, that he managed not to perv over me in the tub, and that he’s not trying to coddle me but rather points out my inability to do this stuff. It may seem really pathetic, but I’d take him being slightly insulting right now, to saying some stupid stuff that wouldn’t hold an ounce of water.

  “Beer?”

  “Not while I’m on duty. I wouldn’t mind coffee though.”

  Aaaahh, the good old trusty reminder that he’s here for a reason—and not to see my junk and beadies. That works like a charm, and I feel some of the tension fade as I set about making him a kickass cup of coffee. I practically live on the stuff so, while I may not spend much money on anything else, I do buy good coffee that costs more than my bus tickets.

  “Hmm, good.”

  “Right? I buy the good stuff,” I say, breathing in the aroma of good beans before taking a sip and sighing deeply.

  “Tell me about that day.”

  “But—”

  “Start right at the beginning, babe. From the minute you woke up, to the minute he attacked you. I’m thinking if we do it enough, it could jog your memory some.”

  I huff and nearly burn my tongue off when I take a sip of scalding coffee to stall.

  “I got up at two, as usual, and fed Chaser before taking him out to do his business and have a run around. I was in a hurry after that because I’d forgotten to iron my scrubs and the assholes were still damp. I missed the bus by like a second and, since I called the driver a communist the week before, he made me run two blocks to catch him at the next stop.”

  That has his shoulders shaking, and I pull a face before giggling and going on.

  “When I finally got to work, my hair was plastered to my head with sweat and my scrubs were drenched, sooo not a good look when you have a staff meeting and others refuse to sit near you. Anyway, it was another day, just like any other. I did my rounds, broke for a twenty-minute lunch and then went to the pit on a consult before starting all over again. I was already running on empty by three and ready to fall asleep on my feet when the chief shoved Darby’s caseload at me and tried to sweeten me up with a candy bar from the vending machine. I’m not too proud to admit it worked some, well enough that I didn’t yell obscenities at him anyhow.”

  The spaghetti is bubbling away by now, and I feel my stomach gnaw at my spine when I smell the sauce and get a whiff of tomatoey-garlic goodness.

  “That’s a shit-assed long day, sugar.”

  “I’d snort right now if I had the energy, Storm. That’s just a regular day. You should be there when I’ve had an hour out of twenty-four to sleep before I have to be up and working again. Anyhowzer, I got that done and squared some other work, even managed to give a friend of mine a pep talk about lupus, before Sheila caught me and convinced me to check on her patients because her kid broke a bone or something at school.”

  Storm grunts at that, and I grin when he shakes his head and falls into a chair, regarding me with a baleful eye.

  “That’s too many hours for one person to handle, sugar. When’s the last time you took a vacation?”

  Four years, two months, and, oh, about eight days. Not that I’m counting or anything. The real truth? My ex and I were slated to go to the Bahamas the year we split. When I told him to shove his “love” up his ass and fuck off, he took a buddy of his and his wife on my dream vacay—one I paid for—and left me alone to deal with the debt he racked up going to a club that still makes me blush and fume just thinking about explaining, or trying to explain it, to my credit card company.

  Deviant!

  “I haven’t been on vacation in a long time, Storm, and, no, it’s not for lack of trying. I just can’t afford it right now. I have rent, Mrs. T, and debt to pay off that should be done in about, oh, three months if I play my cards right and manage to stay upright.” I laugh.

  I hate you, perv. I hate you so much right now, especially having to look up at this man and see pity in his eyes.

  “You don’t make enough money at the hospital?”

  Oh, I do! My jo
b is great and I make a ton, with benefits and all. I just don’t make enough to live extravagantly and pay for my ex’s sexual lifestyle, too.

  Or the freaking vacation I never got.

  “I make enough, just had some debt to clear up, is all. I’m almost home-free though. So I’m not complaining,” I murmur, staring into the black depths of my coffee as the silence stretches into a comfortable place.

  I barely know Storm. Huh. I don’t know him at all, and yet I feel completely relaxed and easy with him and the silence that other people are usually so hard-pressed to fill. For whatever reason, I could so see myself sitting on a porch with this guy, staring at a starry sky without speaking for hours.

  I guess to be this fanciful I must be on a residual high off the drugs they pumped into me, but I like it anyway, even if it’s not real.

  When a plate of steaming spaghetti blurs into my vision minutes later, I manage a smile at Storm and dig in, moaning loudly around a forkful of the best sauce I have ever tasted.

  “This is good.”

  He smiles at me and digs in, nodding and groaning around his own fork.

  “You can thank my mama for that, sugar, since she taught me and my sibs to not only be self-sufficient, but also to kick ass at everything we do on the domestic front.”

  “Hhhmm, my mama’s the same. She always said, if you ain't dead or disabled by a gory accident, you got no reason to be useless at all the simple things in life. I just about killed us all with food poisoning the first week she stopped cooking, shoved me into the kitchen, and threw a recipe book at me. When I almost died from diarrhea the first two nights, I learned real fast how to read that stupid book. Been happy about that ever since.”

  His eyes are sparkling with mirth as we both attack the food, and I almost choke on spaghetti when he finally just stops trying and lets out a booming laugh.

  “What?”

  “I like that about you, Lenny Coleman. You don’t put on airs like most people do. You just say what it is and how you want to say it, and that’s that.”

  I never used to be this way. Back when I was younger and so in love I thought his fart smelled like cologne or some shit, I would have died before I ever uttered an unladylike word. Hell, I used to crap at work just to uphold that myth that nothing nasty could ever come out of me.

  I guess I just can’t be bothered anymore because, what’s the point? Whether I was perfect or not didn’t make a difference and honestly, it’s so fucking exhausting I just can’t imagine myself ever going back to that hell.

  “Eh. I don’t have time to be all girly and pretend I’m not human, Storm. My job is demanding, my life is packed with responsibility after responsibility, and honestly, I just don’t care what people think of me anymore. It makes life easier when you stop pretending, ya know?”

  His plate is scraped clean by the time I get halfway through the mountain he shoveled my way, and I push it toward him with a groan when my belly starts cramping in protest.

  I feel all tingly and warm inside when he just grabs my spitty fork and digs in, his eyes on me the entire time.

  “What did you want out of life?”

  So deep and really none of his business, I think, as I sip at my ice cold coffee and contemplate his excellent table manners. But hell, who cares. I like talking to Storm and besides, I’m going to ask my own questions anyway, so why not.

  “Nothing too spectacular. I wanted to get my medical license and eventually move to a small town and be one of those doctors you see on TV, you know, the one everyone goes to. I thought I’d be that yokel who knows everybody and their grannies or some crap like that.” I laugh, blushing at my stupid dreams.

  “You don’t want that anymore?”

  I shrug and fiddle with my cup, not meeting his eyes.

  “Can’t pay off debt and eat if you’re working in a small town. Private docs make good money, but nowhere near what I make picking up double shifts at the hospital. Anyway, I have my mom and her boyfriend and Mrs. T. to consider now.”

  Double lie on my part, since Mama would skin me alive for even thinking of ignoring what I want for her and Pete, and Mrs. T. would be attached to the roof rack in that chair of hers, to boot.

  No, the only thing that stopped me from doing any of the things I wanted to do was that hokey shit called love, and then a rude awakening in the form of bills I had no hope of paying, along with that swanky house and mortgage I had four years ago.

  Oh, how the mighty falleth, huh?

  “You don’t strike me as a shopper, no offense.”

  Cue hectic blush and a firm promise to buy undies without holes in them. For God’s sake, Lenny, even Wal-Mart is an option, girl, my inner voice snarls, curling into the fetal position with a whimper of shame.

  Knock it off, cow. I didn’t hear ya whining two days ago when we had to resort to rainy day undies when the laundry was head-high.

  “Yeah, well, I was a dupe. So don’t go coloring me with golden tinsel just yet, Storm. Whatever. All I’s saying is I have things to do here in the city, and I can’t be dreaming of nonsense when I need to be practical. How about you? I know you’re some Army jarhead; how’d you get roped into babysitting lil ol’ me?”

  Chapter Six

  Nick

  Her shame is more than evident as she changes the subject and tries to avoid eye contact, probably assuming I swallowed that truckload of horse shit she just shoveled my way.

  I know her story though, and I’ve already vowed to myself that, once this is over and she’s safe, I’ll be paying a certain Terry Jenks a visit. After I get Jericho to hack his bank accounts and clean the asshole out.

  Honestly, who the fuck goes to a sex club, cheats on his girlfriend there, and then charges it to her goddamn credit card? For the gall, I’ma break at least one of his limbs. For the added insult of stealing her dream vacay and taking his lovers on it, I’ma pauper him and then tell a certain little lady he’s so in love with that he’s a piece of shit who deserves to be tortured by women in general.

  You’re wondering why the strong reaction since I hardly know Lenny. Well, I’ll tell ya. I like her a lot, and not just because she’s real enough to blast a fart into the porcelain and not give a crap that I heard, not even because she’s so weird she wears old panties and doesn’t seem to care that I saw them.

  I like her because she’s cool enough to have bargain brand foods in her refrigerator and cupboards, but she feeds Chaser top-of-the-line dog food that probably costs more than her precious coffee.

  I like her more because, instead of sitting here whining about her shitty deal and a boyfriend from hell, she’s shrugged it off and moved on from that life, determined to get over it and just live.

  More than that, the woman is fuck hot, snores while she sleeps, and scratches her ass when she thinks no one’s looking. Or maybe even though someone may be looking.

  With a woman like Lenny Coleman, you can damn guarantee that what you see is what you get, and that is the rarest find in a world filled with celebrity wannabes and women who pretend they don’t fart. Or burp or scratch their junk when it itches.

  I’m no couch potato, not after spending over ten years in the Army, but for a guy like me who’s always on the job and gets almost no down time, I enjoy vegging on the couch or spending hours fishing even though I don’t get a bite.

  Fuck scrapbooking, pottery classes, and my dreaded favorite, couples double dating. I want a woman who’ll lie on the sofa with me for hours, not mind if I scratch my nuts, and, when the kids come along, won’t drill my ass for the mess they make while I’m watching them because chances are I’ll have goofed enough with the tykes to have made half the mess.

  I want real, something I thought I had with Rachel but gave up on the moment I realized she was just a fake trying to play me for what I had and what I would have in the future.

  Lenny’s real. And oh man, is she hot. She’s just not my speed, it seems. She doesn’t want country life the way that I do and isn’t th
at just a deal breaker since I would rather die than give up the paradise I’ve built for myself?

  “Storm?”

  “Hell, sorry, must have drifted there for a second,” I mutter, ignoring her look and just barreling on. “I’m retired. I spent over a decade getting shot at, having terrorists try to blow me up, and I even came close to biting the big one. I gave that shit up when a friend of mine, one of my platoon, died in combat. Nothing shakes a man like watching family get torn apart by an IED, I’ll tell ya that.”

  Her eyes have gone all soft, and I don’t even jerk away or mind that much when she takes my hand and gives it a squeeze.

  “I’m so sorry. I’ve read all about what’s happening over there and I’m buddies with an active duty LT. I totally get where you’re coming from. If she should ever not write me back, I think I’d just die, and I haven’t even officially met her yet.”

  See, that’s even more of why I like her. She doesn’t fill me with shit and try to tell me she gets it. Just gives me a squeeze and lets me continue.

  “Anyway, I got out along with four buddies of mine from the same unit and we started a security agency. Right now, we’re in high demand, and I thank God we each have our own teams to send around because it’s hell sometimes. Especially those jobs protecting spoiled, little, rich girls with daddy issues,” I grin.

  Lenny grins back and rises to go refill our cups, her movements sure and easy despite the pain she must be feeling from that wrist of hers. I accept the coffee with a smile and watch as she slides back into her seat and sighs.

  “Sooo Mr. Professional Bodyguard. How did Harris get you to do a freebie for some poor chick in Tennessee?”

  “Eh. I owed him one. And plus, I saw your photo and reckoned I could get paid in kind, at the very least.”

  “Haha. Hilarious, Storm. Freaking laugh riot. Seriously. What’s up?”

  I watch her as I contemplate how to answer her without sounding like a total douche and eventually just decide to go with the bald truth.

  “Someone’s been watching us for a while since we went civilian and opened The Watchers—”