One
“ should have someone look at that cut above your eye. It looks nasty, Spaniard.”
Booker Maldano flipped his buddy Roman the bird and shifted his ass on the hard, plastic seat underneath him. He motioned to the room at large. “We all look like we’ve been chewed up and spit out. I’ll get checked out once we get some news.”
The waiting room at Seton Medical Center had been packed, and it became even more so when Booker and his friends arrived. The cute chick behind the front desk had taken one look and promptly ushered them into a private waiting area so as not to scare the ailing folks of Austin.
With an average height of over six feet, Booker and his friends were an intimidating group on the best of days … and today had been far from the best.
Booker fingered his injured eyebrow. A butterfly bandage or two—okay, three—and he’d be good to go. He glanced at the others. His team. His brothers. He wasn’t the only one sporting damage. Roman Powers’ knuckles were busted to shit. Sitting next to Roman, Sully Walsh nursed a split lower lip. Adam Casey leaned his back against the wall, pants stained with blood and appearing to favor his left side.
Across the room, Brandon Martin had his cell phone pressed against his ear, lips pressed into a tight line. That couldn’t be good. Neither were Brandon’s torn shirt and the blood that had dried in rivulets on his arm.
Noah Summers was the only one of them not visibly bleeding, but the way he repeatedly tipped a flask to his mouth and one-arm-hugged his midsection, Booker suspected Noah sported a broken rib or two.
Ketcher Novak, who was notably absent, rounded out their group. Their missing man had taken the brunt of the damage, having tangled directly with the guy who had taken Ketcher’s woman.
Please let her be okay.
Ketcher had recently killed a Cuban drug lord down in Florida. Wounded during the operation, Ketcher had been ordered to lay low until he recovered. The younger brother of said drug lord promised retribution. Unable to locate Ketcher’s whereabouts, the asshole had kidnapped Dr. Regan Daniels in an attempt to draw Ketcher out into the open.
Mistake number one.
The tactic had worked, but in his infinite stupidity the kidnapper hadn’t counted on Ketcher coming with backup.
Mistake number two.
A few hours ago, they’d gone in and rescued Regan. Booker and the guys had provided cover and secured Regan while Ketcher showed that motherfucker what happened when you messed with one of their own.
Game over.
There was a reason Regan had dubbed them the deadly seven all those years ago in Afghanistan. Individually, they were good. Together, they were downright lethal. And they got the job done.
Days like today made Booker glad they were all out of the military. If they had been deployed and anything had happened to Regan … Ketcher would’ve been ruined.
Booker ground his teeth, an ancient pain resurrecting in his chest. He knew about the helplessness of being thousands of miles away when life turned sideways. The frustration. The pain.
Oh yeah. He knew a little something about that.
Booker dropped his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. Life could change in an instant. Or rather, lives could change. Where one life changed, so goes another. And another. Booker had seen enough carnage to know the truth. Hell, right now they were an exercise in the ripple effect. Every man in this room would walk away changed forever if they didn’t receive favorable news about Regan’s condition.
But change wasn’t always instantaneous, was it? Sometimes it was gradual. Sometimes it snuck up on a man like a thief in the night, stealing everything worth—
Someone dropped into the chair to Booker’s left and nudged him.
“We might have a situation.”
Brandon.
Booker rolled his head toward his buddy and cracked his lids. Booker had known Brandon for most of his life. They had gone to school together. Played varsity football together. Joined the military and served their country together. The history between them made it easy for Booker to read the guy. Brandon was hesitant. Concerned, but not wired for all-out detonation. Whatever the situation was, it wasn’t likely to blow up in his face.
“What’s up?”
God, he sounded as tired as he felt. And his eye was beginning to throb. He didn’t need another problem right now. He needed to hear Regan was going to be okay so he could get the hell back to Montana and the life waiting for him there. If work and renovating a house he’d never occupy could be considered a life.
“Can you take a few extra days off?”
Annnd, so much for getting home.
Booker fought the urge to sigh as he dipped his chin. “Hank’s a good guy. He understands brotherhood. Hell, it’s the name of his business. The Brotherhood Protectors.”
The business was Hank Patterson’s brainchild and Booker’s saving grace. Separation from active duty was a challenging process. Acclimating to the rhythm of civilian life was hard enough. Try finding a job when your only work experience was drenched in sand and blood.
Booker had a family to consider. He’d almost given up hope of finding a job when Hank reached out to him. Hank was a retired SEAL. His new mission was to give former military men and women a place to do what they did best—protect others. A phone call and a trip to Montana later, Booker had a new future.
“Work is slow right now,” Booker said. “Hank was cool about giving me time to take care of things here. He won’t balk if I’m a few days late getting back.” Although Booker might, if Brandon didn’t get on with the why of it.
“And your family? Will the delay affect the renovation?”
Irritation growing, Booker stared hard at his friend. He got the feeling he was being vetted for something, and it was starting to piss him off.
“Really,’mano? That’s how we’re going to play this?”
The dickwad knew Booker wouldn’t refuse whatever fucked up situation he had going on, regardless of how it would affect the construction timeline. Brotherhood.
“Indulge me.”
Booker blew out a breath. After he accepted the job with the Brotherhood Protectors, he used most of his savings to buy a forty-six-acre hobby farm on the outskirts of Eagle Rock, a picturesque little town in the foothills of the Crazy Mountains. The property boasted a four-bedroom house, a one-bedroom guest cabin, a three-stall barn, and a creek that ran along the western border.
Booker stayed in the cabin, where he would continue to live even after he moved his grandmother, mother, sister, and adolescent niece into the main house. Unfortunately, the house had been neglected for years and needed a total overhaul. Construction was well under way, but it would be months before the house was ready for inhabitants. In the meantime, the ladies would continue living together in Booker’s childhood home on the outskirts of Austin.
“My family is fine. They, and the status of the renovation, are not for you to worry about. Both are my responsibility. I’m the one who’ll decide how I spend my time, not you. Now, are we gonna keep dancing or are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
Brandon’s gaze darted around the room, looking everywhere but at him. “I’m not sure yet. I just got a call from a…” Brandon hesitated, making Booker’s spidy sense go on high alert. “A friend.” Brandon leaned forward, resting his forearms against his thighs. He glanced back at Booker. “Look, it might be nothing. Until I know for sure, I’d like you to stick around.”
“Is it Nat?”
Natalie Cordova was an honorary member of their group and the only one of them still active military, although no one knew who she actually worked for or what she actually did. She and Brandon were … close. Friends and fuck buddies for years, but as far as Booker knew, that’s as far as it went.
Brandon shook his head. “No. As far as I know, she’s fi—” The ding signaling a text drew Brandon’s attention. As Brandon glanced at the screen, the new sense of urgency surrounding the guy had all eyes turning their way.
“Fuck. Time to go.”
“Startin’ to get pissed off at all the mystery, ’mano.”
The door to the waiting room flew open and Ketcher waltzed through.
“Three minutes,” Brandon muttered and surged to his feet.
Booker followed suit, gaze on Ketcher as a cheesy-ass grin split the man’s bruised mug.
“Regan’s fine. Better than fine. She’s perfect. A few bumps and bruises, but nothing…” Ketcher’s voice cracked. “Nothing permanent.”
Cheers and oorah’s filled the room, followed by back slaps and a round of man hugs.
Booker’s knees wobbled in relief. He knew the pain of losing someone he loved. He crossed himself, touched his fingers to his lips, and then pointed them toward the heavens with a silent prayer of gratitude that his friend would be spared the same heartache.
While he was at it he offered up another prayer, hoping the Big Guy wouldn’t fault him for hedging his bets.
After all, he only had one minute left and had no idea what waited for him when the time ran out.
#
followed Brandon away from the joyous atmosphere of the waiting room, an undeniable sense of foreboding increasing with every step. Clearly the lack of sleep was making him punchy, so he shoved the worry aside. Whatever his friend needed, Booker had his back. No question.
When they reached the epicenter of the ER, Brandon slowed. “Room 8?” he asked as they approached a nurse’s station.
A nurse pointed them in the right direction, and in less than a minute they stood outside a floor-to-ceiling sliding door made of glass and chrome.
Brandon glanced at the number over the doorway. “This is it.”
The guy sounded almost … apologetic. And since Booker didn’t know what “it” was, he said, “Do you want me to stay out here until you determine whether you’ll need me to hang around or not?”
“You’ll want to hang around.” He clapped a hand on Booker’s shoulder, squeezing once before letting go.
Seriously, what the hell? The guy was weirding him out.
Brandon went through the door first. Booker hung back in the doorway, prepared to guard against any unwanted interruptions while his buddy assessed the situation.
Bright fluorescents illuminated the room. Machines and wires ran from every inch of the wall behind the hospital bed. Rolling carts filled with medical supplies occupied the left side of the room. A sink and cabinets on the right.
A nurse appeared to be cleaning a wound on the crown of a woman’s head. Although the nurse’s arm obscured the woman’s profile, Booker knew she was a woman from the delicate curve of her back and the brief glimpse he got of a small, round breast as the nurse shifted position.
Brandon kneeled in front of her. They spoke in tones too low for him to understand, but there was something distinctly familiar about the girl. The subtle tilt to her head as Brandon spoke. The quiet lilt of her response.
“All finished,” the nurse said and straightened. “The doctor will be in after he reviews the X-rays they took when you got here.” When she stepped away from her patient Booker’s heart stopped pumping.
The first thing he thought was maybe he’d gotten hit harder than he realized, because no way was he seeing what he thought he was seeing. His mind must be playing tricks on him. The woman sitting on the edge of the bed … it couldn’t be.
He blinked hard. Refocused.
And for the second time in his life, the world tilted on its axis.
“Ellie.” The name caught in his throat, its syllables rusted from lack of use.
She turned and fuck, her beauty sucker-punched him. Booker drank in her image like a man starved. And wasn’t he? For twelve years he’d been denied those dark chocolate eyes. Her delicate nose and perfect lips.
Her eyes widened and she bolted to her feet. “Brandon, what…?” Her expression morphed from surprised to decidedly panicked. “W-why is he here?”
“Is there a problem?” the nurse asked, her gaze darting between the occupants of the room.
“We’re fine.” Tacking on a smile that no doubt melted panties, Brandon said, “Could you give us a minute?”
The nurse’s stance softened. She looked to her patient for confirmation. At Ellie’s stilted nod, the nurse slipped out of the room, but not before shooting Brandon an inviting smile.
Whatever. The guy could score on his own time. Booker slid the door shut, using those precious seconds to get his head straight. It wasn’t enough. Wasn’t near enough. He turned and stepped deeper into the room.
“What the holy hell is going on here?”
Ellie backed up a step; her hand flying to her throat as though she expected Booker would try to strangle her.
And he might. He just fucking might.
Her gaze darted between the two of them, finally settling on Brandon. “That’s what I’d like to know. Why is he here?” Her volume and shoulders grew in strength. “And why do you both look like you’ve been in some kind of accident?”
“He’s here because I asked him to come. We can’t get into the rest of…”
Booker tuned out, not giving two shits what kind of explanation Brandon had to offer. Right now, he was more interested in the girl.
Head-to-toe and back, he studied her, still not convinced his brain wasn’t playing tricks on him. She looked different. Thin. Too thin. Hair was shorter. Short enough to leave the delicate line of her neck exposed. What was that color? Mahogany? There was probably some fancy name for the shade that looked red one minute, purple the next, depending on the light. A plain white tank hugged breasts that were smaller than he remembered, but no less perfect. Faded denim rode low on her hips and covered the legs he could still feel wrapped around his waist.
Son of a bitch.
Booker’s lungs went on lockdown as heat rose in his chest. Years’ worth of the emotional sludge he’d worked hard to repress oozed to the surface and brought his temper along for the ride.
He’d had a shitty fucking day. Sure, they’d saved Regan and she was going to be okay—big win—but in the process he’d gotten his head bashed with the stock end of a rifle, earning himself one hell of a headache. He was running on virtually no sleep. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate. Now, his best friend had deliberately deceived him. And was that a bruise forming on the side of Ellie’s face?
Christ.
It was Booker’s final straw. He marched forward, clamped a hand around Brandon’s arm and spun the guy to face him. Booker knew what he was about to do was a terrible idea, but in that moment no force on earth could’ve stopped him. Consequences be damned, Booker hauled off and punched his friend on the jaw.
Brandon stumbled sideways, catching himself on the edge of the counter with a curse.
Ellie—his Ellie—cried out with alarm and stepped between them. “Stop! What do you think you’re doing?”
Brandon straightened and moved his jaw back and forth, apparently checking for damage. Eyes blazing, Brandon jabbed a finger in his direction. “Considering the circumstances, I’m gonna let you have that one.”
Let him, his ass. If he wanted to dish out another hit, he’d damn well serve it up. And Brandon would take it because goddamn.
But first, Booker wanted answers and he wanted them now.“Motherfucker,” Booker ground out. “You didn’t think it was need-to-know that your situation was my fucking wife?”
Fuck answers. Booker hit him again.