Page 38 of Under Fire

Typically Warren didn’t sleep over at anyone’s place, and especially not to share a bed. He hadn’t in over five years. There was a damn good reason for that.

But now he was passed out, in and out of REM sleep, clutching Alisa in her too-comfortable bed, in their too-intoxicating deal. REM sleep was a necessary evil—but dangerous for Warren. That’s when he remembered things he didn’t want to remember, especially when he was as damn fired up as he was then, and his mind ran wild with memories he couldn’t stop.

Memories that he knew he talked about in his sleep.

Memories he didn’t want anyone to hear.

In the early morning hours, when he was in a light sleep, a vivid dream he hated but often had started playing out in his mind. His body twitched as his dream brought him back tothatdeployment. It wasn’t the last one, and he’d forgotten how many he’d had since then.Too many.

There he was, at the height of the war in Iraq, lying on the top of a crumbled building, well before his promotion. Midday, the sun scorched the back of his neck, covered partially by a keffiyeh. The wind had blown part of the fabric off his neck and jaw, but he didn’t dare move to adjust position—his finger was flexed on the trigger of his sniper rifle, locked dead on the doorway of the building where his high-priority target was situated.

He was alone, as still as hell and hadn’t moved for hours. He waited and waited…and waited. A grayish grit circulated in the air, moving all around him, getting into his nose and mouth. It was like a shit dust—and tasted the same. The unforgiving climate threatened any outsider, making it clear that he wasn’t welcome.

“Whiskey Charlie, you sitting tight?” He heard the voice of his leading chief, Geoff, through his earpiece.

“Ten four,” Warren muttered back, keeping his voice low, despite the blistering gusts at the top of the five-story building in the heart of the Iraqi city.

“When he comes out, you engage. Don’t fucking hesitate. I’m right down here.”

Before the dream could continue down its usual path, Warren felt himself coming out of it, rumbling and thrashing in Alisa’s bed, causing searing pain in the scar on his back—reminding him of the moment he’d gotten it. He recalled blood gushing down his back as he writhed, and he remembered how the cold steel of the blade had felt when it had dug into his ribs.

In the dark of Alisa’s bedroom, hearing her asleep beside him, curled up and facing the other way, Warren ran his calloused hands over his rough stubble, willing the phantom pain to go away. That had been a bad fucking op—and his mistake had cost the team dearly, let alone him. That nightmare was on repeat, a not-so-friendly reminder of what type of mistakes he’d made—and the consequences he’d have to fucking live with for the rest of his life.

He didn’t have the option to be flawed. He didn’t have the option to be imperfect. His aching scar sprawling up his back would never relent, would never fully heal. It was a painful reminder of the cost of mistakes.

Coming to his senses, waking up, drinking in Alisa’s bedroom and the sheets that smelled like a mix of sex and conquest, only one question crossed his mind.What the fuck am I doing?

Alisa’s message from the night before ran across his mind as he pushed out of the bed, careful not to wake her.You’re allowed to make mistakes.He shook his head, rejecting the notion, disgusted by himself. He shouldn’t have allowed himself to falter—but he had. Taking her to the party? Fucking around with her? What the hell was wrong with him? She needed money. He was holding that over her, taking advantage.

Like an asshole.

And now, he gazed around her room, realizing how deep he was in. He’d slipped up and slept over.

A goddamn mistake.

It was clear as day to Warren that things had gone too far. He’dletthings get too far. He had to do better. He had to get out of there.

Thank God she was a heavy sleeper. Even better, he knew how to be stealthy, slipping through her apartment soundlessly. The sun was just threatening to rise on the horizon, giving the quiet morning an eerie dark orange glow.

Dressing quickly then drawing a blank check out of his wallet, he cut her a large enough sum that she’d be able to buy herself a new car, an amount he believed was beyond generous. He dropped it near her phone on her kitchen counter with the memo…housework services. He wasn’t going to hold it over her head anymore. That was the price he had to pay for his honor.

As he twisted to push his wallet back in his pocket, he winced in agony, gripping the kitchen counter before him for stability. Hauling her body up in his arms the night prior, angrily whisking her away, passionately claiming her for his own—he shouldn’t have done any of that. His old nagging injury was back with ferocity. His scar throbbed, like it had just reopened…for the first time in years. A reminder.

Warren’s mind shifted, compartmentalizing. He had things to do, no matter that it was early Sunday morning.

Slipping on his shoes, mission-focused, he bent low enough that some of the book titles on her coffee table screamed out at him. But they weren’t novels. They were textbooks. He read some of the titles—Musculoskeletal Magnetic Imaging, Thoracic Imaging, Pulmonary and Cardiovascular Radiology, Nuclear Medicine…

‘Magnetic’.Her safeword. It hit him in the chest.

What the hell is she in school for?Radiology, imaging…nuclear medicine?Christ.

Gritting his teeth, he couldn’t deny that he barely knew her. He’d spent more time trying to fuck her than trying to get to know who she was. His cock had an agenda of its own. That was exactly what he hadn’t wanted to happen. He leaned in farther to read the name of her university program from a printed-out sheet, partially covered, but heard a soft moan from her bedroom. He stilled his movements.

But everything went silent again.

Exhaling slowly, he soundlessly exited. He found his truck in the parking lot—jumping into the driver’s seat. At barely five-thirty in the morning, he wasn’t prepared to haveanyconversation.

As he rolled out of the lot, keeping his V8 engine as quiet as possible, something happened that struck him as out of place. A loud blacked-out motorcycle crept down the street, a driver with a black tinted helmet staring at him. It was the kind of bike with a custom job, something made to look ultra-aggressive. Snapping him quickly out of his head, Warren felt his nerves prickling. He just knew something was wrong. He watched the driver eyeing him like it was personal.

---