A PLACE CALLED HOME
Chapter Three
Reza padded to the front door, the carpet soft beneath his bare feet. Someone was pounding on his door like the damn house was on fire and he felt a strong urge to whip someone’s ass.
It had been a shit week as shit weeks went. The last thing he felt like doing was socializing.
He swung the door wide to see Ben Teague standing outside, sporting his Stetson and holding a Heineken in one hand.
“Get your shit. We’re outside.”
He hitched the towel around his waist and frowned. “Shit, I forgot.”
Ben Teague was a captain who specialized in avoiding responsibility. He was one of the more senior guys but as far as Reza knew, he’d never been offered command. Which was a damn shame because Teague was a hell of an ally in a firefight. Teague wasn’t the guy Reza wanted watching his six—he was the guy he wanted to be the first man in the stack, kicking in doors.
He couldn’t seem to wrap his head around the fact that Reza had quit drinking.
“How could you forget about mandatory fun night? Grab your Stetson and let’s go.”
He didn’t make a big deal out of it but nights like this, where they were expected to socialize at one of the local bars, challenged Reza’s restraint. He was the first sergeant, though, so he had to be seen. The sergeant major would notice if he wasn’t there.
But he was going, if only to prove that he could handle it.
“Give me five minutes.”
“Cool. Hurry up.”
Reza shut the door in Teague’s face and padded back to the bedroom. He dropped his towel onto the bed and pulled on a pair of jeans and tugged a long-sleeved t-shirt over his head, keeping his back to the mirror. He didn’t need the visual reminder of what he’d done to his body over the years tonight.
Tonight, there were too many memories circling. There was no reason for the ghosts to be haunting him. Some nights were just worse than others.
Grabbing a bottle of water, he stuffed his wallet into his pocket and palmed his cell phone. He pulled his Stetson out of his truck and climbed into Ben’s passenger seat, hoping tonight would be uneventful. Reza wanted to unwind tonight, if only to prove to himself that he could handle it.
His phone vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it out.
Leaving for NTC tomorrow. Stay out of trouble. He grinned at his phone. Claire had an uncanny ability to contact him when he was about to tip over the line. But he wasn’t. Not tonight. Not tomorrow night.
He had this.
Ever since that mission in Colorado, when she’d laid it on the line and forced him to confront the fact that he had a problem, he’d refused to fail her again.
He slammed the door shut.
“What took you so long?” Teague asked.
“I was doing my makeup,” Reza said with a grin he did not feel.
“You look pretty, honey. Try to leave some of the girls for us tonight.”
Reza leaned his head back against the seat as Teague turned up the radio. Marilyn Manson blasted through the cab, the bass from “The Beautiful People” thumping in Reza’s chest. It reminded him of the pulse of a fifty cal. A powerful comfort.
Abruptly, the music ended.
“What crawled up your ass?” Teague demanded.
Reza sighed. “Just first sergeant bullshit. Docs busting my balls at the office. Marshall being a pain in the ass. Same shit, different day.”
Teague turned off the highway, heading toward Belton Lake. “Sometimes I think it’s easier being deployed.”
“We’re heading to the MOUT site next week. Ought to break up the monotony.” Reza took a sip from the water bottle, unable to avoid the reaction inside him that wished it was something stronger.
Excitement burned through him. He couldn’t wait for next week, when he headed out to the Elijah MOUT site, the mock up city where they practiced urban operations. He loved running the boys through kicking in doors and fighting house to house. He got a charge out of it.
It was the only place that felt like everything fit. Everything else was just a pause until he could get back to training or better, to war. Training soldiers for war was what he did. It was what he was good at.
He wasn’t supposed to be some expert at mental health and suicide prevention.
The damn doc was wrong. Everyone couldn’t be a soldier. He knew that truth down into the marrow of his bones. He had the scars on his body to prove just how wrong she was. The Army needed soldiers and no amount of time on the head doc’s couch could turn a spineless weakling into a warrior.
He’d dealt with far too many so-called leaders of men who’d refused to leave a bunker when the mortars started falling. Far too many grown men who’d frozen the first time their convoy had gotten blown up and refused to ever leave the base again.
He didn’t blame them for the fear. But he didn’t respect them either.
Terror was part of combat. A heady marriage of fear and adrenaline and death. It was the most potent of drugs, he thought, twisting the cap on the water bottle. Combat rewired the brain like nothing else. And his blood was now hardwired to needing the fix.
He glared at the bottle, wishing he was strong enough to control the urge and have just one drink.
But he knew he wasn’t.
Combat was his only addiction now. He needed it.
It was just a matter of time before he got back to it.
***
Emily walked into Talarico’s, burned out and exhausted from the week. She’d processed nearly a hundred medical packets on top of her regular patient load. She’d put in five eighteen- hour days and she’d barely scratched the surface. There was so much to do. So little time.
She didn’t want to be here tonight but she’d promised Olivia she’d meet for drinks. Talarico’s was out on Lake Belton, a beautiful old building that had been redesigned with a
Tuscan flavor and feel. The floor was polished concrete, the walls beautiful mixtures of warm bronze, gold, and yellows. Outside, there was a wide deck, illuminated by an outdoor fire pit and low-hanging lights.
“You are looking far too serious with all these sexy Cav boys running around in their Stetsons.”
Emily ordered her wine then glanced over at Olivia. “Sorry. Shitty week.”
They’d crashed a Cavalry event and Emily couldn’t help but wonder if Olivia had an ulterior motive for dragging her out to Talarico’s on a Friday night. The men were lingering around the bar or outside on the deck, sporting their Stetsons, the traditional headgear of Army Cavalry units. There was something powerful about the men in that room.
Olivia was nursing something pink and green, toying with the end of her straw. “You’re supposed to be having a good time.”
Olivia’s black hair shined in the candlelight of the bar. Behind her wire-rimmed glasses, her green eyes glittered with the brightness of a little too much to drink.
“I thought we were celebrating your latest case?” Emily asked.
“I thought so, too, until I saw you over here sulking at the bar.” Olivia smiled. “I put another scumbag in jail today for life. I’m going to celebrate, damn it, and you’re going to join me.”
Emily raised her glass. “To putting away scumbags,” she said with a smile.
Olivia tinked her glass against Emily’s. “To putting away the bad guys.”
Emily took a sip of her wine. “How do you know the difference?” she asked quietly.
“The difference between what?” Olivia asked.
“The good guys and the bad guys?”
Olivia toyed with her straw. “I guess there isn’t a clear line,” she said. “Some things there is. Like there’s no one on the planet that could convince me someone who hurts a little kid sexually deserves a second chance. Other stuff? It’s more grey.” She took a sip of her drink. “Most of it’s grey,” she added.
Emily was learning that. Her job would be so much easier if the medical records that came before her were clear-cut and easy to decide. But every single one danced in the grey areas. She made the best decision she could, case by case, based on the Army’s guidelines.
Always, she tried to remember that there was a soldier on the other side of that file, counting on her to get it right.
She thought of Iaconelli’s words from the gym the other day. Weakness he wouldn’t
defend.
The soldiers’ packets that came across her desk weren’t weak. They were broken, and there was a distinct difference in her world.
They deserved her defense. They deserved someone to advocate for them but even then, sometimes, there were cases she simply couldn’t adjudicate in favor of the soldier. Sometimes, though, their problems were self-inflicted and she simply couldn’t just check the block.
“You know what you should try,” Olivia said, interrupting her serious train of thought. “I should see if I can get one of these strapping Cavalry men to give you a ride home.”
“I’ll pass, thanks,” Emily said with a laugh.
“I thought you were giving up on your stuck-up Northeastern Old Money ways, Em,” Olivia said with a grin.
“I am, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to run around screwing the first thing that winks my way. I’m trying to be more selective than a hamster in heat.”
“A hamster in heat? Are you serious? Who has hamsters these days?” Olivia glanced over at a tall Cavalryman, her gaze going dark with longing and something else. A freedom that Emily envied. “There is something about that hat that does something to my insides,” Olivia said, lifting her beer toward one of the captains near the bar.
Emily followed her gaze. The tall Cavalryman had shoulders for days and an easy, carefree grin that radiated confidence that bordered on arrogance. Yeah, that hat did do something to her inside. It was a symbol. Of tradition. Of pride. Of a lineage to which she didn’t belong.
She wished she could be like Olivia. Free. Comfortable in her own skin. Confident enough to undress a man across the bar.
She thought about Sergeant Iaconelli. About how he’d radiated power at the gym, in her
office.
What would he be like in a place like this? Would he relax? Or would he wear his rank like a shield?
She swirled her wine in her glass, his words about weakness echoing in her brain. God but she wished she could turn it off sometimes. She glanced over at Olivia.
“What’s eating at you?” Olivia asked, managing to tear her eyes off the captain across the
room.
“Nothing. It’s just been a long week.” The truth. “Go. Have fun.”
Olivia glanced toward the captain, who was now watching her. “You sure you’re okay?” “I’m fine,” Emily said. Olivia tipped back the rest of her beer and set it on the bar.
Emily watched her friend weave through the crowd of broad-shouldered Cavalrymen and toward the captain. Alone at the bar, Emily twirled her wine in the glass, staring into the swirling pale golden liquid.
She sipped her wine and glanced around the wide open space, feeling the warmth. She was comfortable in this place. A drink after work. A good friend. This was a good life. It was simple. It had purpose. So much better than the complicated mess she’d left behind.
She lifted her glass, savoring the freedom of her rebellion. She might not fit into her uniform just right but she fit here among these soldiers better than she’d ever fit back home.
She saw Olivia gyrating slowly with the captain across the dance floor. Her friend’s movements were slow and sensual, a sultry undulation that spoke of power and of sex. She smiled at her friend’s pleasure. It was enough that Emily could enjoy another’s happiness. She’d come here tonight to relax, to help Olivia celebrate.
“You don’t come here often, do you?”
Emily glanced at the man who’d appeared at her shoulder. He’d been standing with the group of captains that Olivia had just infiltrated.
“Not really,” she said, sipping her drink. She thought about easing away, putting space between where their upper arms touched.
Personal space much? she thought.
“Are you here with friends?” he asked. She caught a heavy scent of beer from his direction, beer mixed with cigar smoke. It was not unpleasant.
She glanced over at Olivia. “Yeah.”
“Not up for company?”
She smiled and finally glanced back at him. “Not really. Thank you, though.”
He brushed the tip of his hat with two fingers. “My pleasure, ma’am.”
He swaggered off, leaving her alone at the bar. That had been nice. Too bad she wasn’t interested. Once upon a time, she might have danced but there was something missing from the way he’d carried himself.
He was missing that power that Sarn’t Iaconelli wore like it was second nature.
She shook her head and took a long sip of her wine. She’d done nothing but argue with the man but now she was thinking about him in a way that was purely unprofessional.
The heavy iron door swung open at that moment and Emily’s breath caught in her throat.
“Speak of the devil,” she muttered.
Reza Iaconelli stood in the doorway, his gaze scanning the room as though he was taking a headcount. What was it about the man that he was always walking through doors at the wrong time? And this time, his gaze swept the bar and landed directly on her.
His eyes lit up, his mouth flattened. Just a faint flicker, but it was enough to tell her he’d recognized her.
And the familiar hostility was gone.
Her mouth went dry and she took another sip. He wasn’t going to come over. It was going to be fine.
They would keep the rampant hostility and no lines would be blurred.
It would be fine, right?
Except that he was now coming over. Weaving through the crowd, his Stetson adding to his height.
What the hell was she supposed to do about that? The closer he got, the more her stomach flipped beneath her ribs.
She was too tired to fight. And the alcohol would probably allow her to say something that she’d regret come Monday.
His clean white shirt accented his shoulders and made his skin look darker, more appealing. His face was shadowed by the brim of the Stetson.
He was there. A short space separated them. He radiated something—a power.
A rawness.
She was doomed.
***
It was fate. It had to be. A slow warmth unfurled inside him as the doctor he could not get out of his head looked up at him, her cheeks flushing pink.
She looked so different. Looser. Unbound. She was all buttoned up at work.
Compelling. That’s what she was. Her fire at work. Her refusal to let him bully her. He’d admired her backbone before.
Tonight, he admired her in an entirely new light. Her hair framed her face in careless curls. He hadn’t expected to see her outside of work. He damn sure hadn’t expected to see her here. An old familiar need rose inside him. A need for touch, human and warm. A need to lose himself for an interlude in sweat and sex and stunning pleasure. He’d given up drinking but women had apparently fallen into that category, as well.
It had been months since he’d felt a woman’s hands on his body.
This woman was not someone he needed to be talking to at the bar tonight but he found himself walking toward her anyway.
After the week of confrontation they’d had, he’d be lucky if she didn’t slap him the minute he approached her.
He could do this. He could talk to a woman without drinking. Right?
Emily met his gaze as he approached. He almost smiled.
“Not your usual scene?” he asked, leaning against the bar.
She shifted, putting a little space between them. That slight reclamation of power. He made a noise of approval in his throat. “I’m surprised you’re talking to me.”
“I’m surprised you’re here. Shouldn’t you be home reading medical journals or something?” Her cheeks flushed deep pink and he wondered how far down her body that color went.
She tipped her chin then and looked at him. “Have you been drinking?”
He looked down at the bottle in his hand. “I don’t drink anymore,” he said quietly. No reason to delve into his abusive history with alcohol. “You?”
“Glass of wine,” she said.
Reza shrugged and took another pull off his water and being careful not to lean too close. She looked like she’d bolt if he pushed her. “That would explain why you’re talking to me. We haven’t exactly been friendly.”
Her hair reflected the fading sunlight that filled the room from the wide open patio. He wanted to fist it between his fingers, watch her neck arch for his mouth.
She motioned toward his bottle with her glass. “‘Anymore’?”
He simply took another pull off his water. He was going to be damn good and hydrated after tonight. He wondered what she’d do if he leaned a little closer. “Long story.”
“One you’re not keen on sharing?” she asked. She leaned her cheek on one palm. The sun glinted across her cheek.
“Let’s just say alcohol and I aren’t on speaking terms. Bad things happen when I drink.”
It was nothing to be ashamed of but there it was. Shame wound up his spine and squeezed the air from his lungs. He was just like his dad, after all.
“You say that like giving up alcohol is a bad thing,” Emily said quietly.
Reza snorted softly. He should have guessed she wouldn’t let it alone. She had stubbornness that could last for days. “It’s not something I’m proud of.”
Her hand on his forearm startled him. Soft and strong, her fingers pressed into his skin. “But stopping is something to be proud of.”
Reza stared down at her hand, pale against the dark shadows of his own skin. A long silence hung between them.
He lifted his gaze to hers.
“It takes a lot of strength to break with the past,” she said softly.
“What are you doing?” Her eyes glittered in the setting sun and he thought he caught the sight of the tiniest edge of her lip curling.
Her fingers slipped from his skin. “Offering my professional support?”
His lips quirked. “Was that a joke?”
“Maybe,” she said. “I’m working on developing a biting sense of humor. Defense mechanism against raging asshole commanders.”
Reza barked out a laugh. “You look different out of uniform,” he said lightly, pressing his advantage.
“So do you.”
He angled his body toward hers. “You like my makeup?” he asked.
She balked at him, her lips parting as she tried to figure out if he was kidding or not. Finally, she cracked the barest hint of a smile.
Something powerful woke inside him and he moved before he thought about it. He reached for her, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. The simple gesture was crushing in its intimacy. Her lips froze in a partial gasp, as though her breath had caught in her throat.
“Sergeant Iaconelli,” she said quietly, her voice husky. But she didn’t move away. Didn’t flinch from his touch.
“Reza.” He swallowed the sharp bite of arousal in his blood, more powerful without the haze of alcohol that usually clouded his reactions. “My name is Reza.”
“Reza.”
His breath was locked in his lungs, the sound of his name on her lips triggering something dark and powerful and overwhelming.
He wanted this woman. The woman who’d stood in opposition to him this week. The woman who lifted her chin and stood steadfast between him and his soldiers.
There was strength in this woman. Strength and courage.
“I’m Emily.” Her words a rushed breath.
He lowered his hand, unwilling to push any further than he’d already gone. This was new territory for him. Unfamiliar and strange and filled with potential and fear.
“It was nice talking to you tonight, Emily,” he said when he could speak.
He waited for her acknowledgment that she’d heard him. Some slight movement of her head or tip of her chin.
Instead, her throat moved as she swallowed and she blinked quickly, shattering the spell between them.
He left her then because to push further would challenge the limits of his restraint. He wasn’t ready to fall into bed with someone. No matter how compelling Emily might be.
He waited and he watched for the rest of the evening. Watched her slip out with her friend, leaving an empty space at the bar.
Leaving him alone with the fear that he was unable to ignore the cold silence of sobriety.
His thoughts raced as he made sure his troopers all got home that night, and Teague crashed on his couch.
He fell into bed later, need and desire twisted up, filling the cold dead space inside him from the lack of alcohol. A dead space he usually filled with work while deployed. Tonight, though, unfamiliar pleasure slid through his thoughts, whispering that he could still love a woman, that he didn’t have to be drunk to climb into bed with someone.
But Emily wasn’t a random someone.
And she was so far out of his league, it wasn’t even funny. Even if there was some sexual attraction there, she wasn’t likely to go slumming with a burned-out infantryman like him.
He lay there in the darkness, waiting, clinging to that single, simple pleasure of her touch, hoping that tonight the nightmares wouldn’t come. Hoping that maybe tonight he could sleep, avoiding the nightmares that reminded him of the monster he’d become.
A beast who had lost his compassion somewhere on the road to Baghdad.
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