Page 111 of Luck Be Mine
Finally, it all came out in a rush. “Doogie is cooking. Constantly. The smell of bacon and shrimp clings in my kitchen. He’s sleeping in my guest room even though his house is right across the freeway. Brennan is weeding my flower beds and working his way through Hunt’s to-do list. My garage door now opens without coming off the rails, but the weeds are piled like green bodies in my driveway.”
She tried for control, but failed. “Rachel calls me every day. She’s ready to toss Senior Chief in the Pacific. K-Rock is shaking the house with his amp. His guitar playing is annoying the neighbors, and Grayson is ready to drop him at my house, too.
She leaned in for emphasis. “Tommy, our crazy, trouble making problem child? He is serious, but calm and handling all this well. Frankly, it’s freaky!”
Harrison raised a brow. He’d been responsible for Tommy joining the team.
The anguish hit her. “Hunt is shut down,” she whispered. “All the way. Help me.”
Harrison stayed quiet, pondering. His serious brown eyes commiserated. He put his hands on her shoulders and leaned closer, keeping the words between them.
“The Navy puts teams who have lost a member on non-operational status for a reason. It’s more than the paperwork, the interviews, the command reviews of what happened. The team needs a minute to work through the loss. They are tight-knit band, and the loss rips them apart. They have to complete new psych evals for this reason. They need to process so they don’t hesitate when they go back out. It’s better they work it out together. It’s how they stay strong.”
“I get it, but I’m not sure any of them, well, except maybe Tommy, have seen the team therapist. But how would I know? They are just in my home, eating all the food, sleeping on our beds, and I’m on the outside peeking in.”
She stepped away, but Harrison took her arm. “Safe Harbor is the best place for them right now. Because it’s exactly that. Safe. Isn’t that what it’s for?”
Cait froze, her whole purpose for their home evolving in one quiet statement.
“My best advice? You can’t do anything to help them. They’re SEAL Team Three. They have to fucking figure it out. I know what youcando, though. Fix him. You know how.”
She exhaled in exasperation. “Not without breaking our marriage.”
Harrison shook his head. “That’s not true. He listens to you. He’s not going to walk away from you voluntarily. He’ll stand.”
Cait battled tears gathering in her tight throat. “I hate fighting with him. I get so little time with him as it is. God dammit, I miss Baxter, too,” her whisper fierce.
“Nothing is easy here. But some fights are worth having. I ignored that. It’s why I’m divorced. Don’t be me.”
Cait closed her eyes, rolled her head to stretch her neck, and struggled to swallow tears. Finally, she nodded, emotions tucked back in. “All right. I’ll fix him.”
“Only you can.” He patted her shoulder. “I’m not their commander anymore, but I can help you. Call me if you need anything.” He picked up his work pile and moved off.
She had nine men to complete medical assessments on, a reluctant veteran to find, and a husband to save. She wouldn’t lose Hunt. Not without a fight.
Chapter Seventeen
◊ Command Waits for No Man ◊
Hunt stepped into the Operations building, his jeans and gray Navy shirt out of sync in a workspace full of uniforms. But he was on leave, non-operational, and about to enter the grocery store when the call came from Commander Gregg. The directive was now, not go home and change into uniform first. Whether it was his solemn face or the fucked-up situation, no one stopped him to talk.
He didn’t want to linger, didn’t chat, didn’t even want to know. He entered the Unit Command office and came to a halt.
Salt-and-pepper gray hair, erect posture, polished uniform, Commander James Gregg stood with his admin talking. He was tough personified, and Hunt felt the heavy weight of the last two weeks become pressure to get them back to fighting strength when they were still wrecked. Or he was.
“Hunt, come on in.”
He followed to the side office and took the chair the Commander indicated, staying silent.
“Coffee?”
“No, sir. Thank you.”
The commander refilled his from the carafe on the side table and shut the door. A courtesy or a warning?
The windows let in the afternoon sun, spilling across the carpet with the shadows of the blinds. Gregg’s desk was clear of paperwork, the picture of his wife and son had no dust, and his tablet was off. He settled into his chair and took a sip of coffee. “Informal here, Hunt. How are you?”
Informal meant different things to different commanders, but for his purposes, Hunt’s answer sufficed for either.
