CHAPTER EIGHT
God damn it.
Jim sat in the shade under his RV’s awning, knowing that he should go inside and ice his knees.
“You okay?”
Ashley. She was heading to her trailer after having lunch in the mess—Team One had another hour of down time before they were scheduled up at the paintball field. She was still dressed in the cargo shorts and sweat-stained T-shirt she’d worn throughout the morning’s strenuous exercises—Red Sox cap on her head. She had to be tired, too, but she was hiding it well.
Jim thought about lying. He was fine, fine, fine-fine-fine… But he suddenly heard an echo of his own voice, earlier, right after Bull had groped her—telling Ashley that it was okay to get angry. And maybe—just maybe—it was also okay for Jim himself to be honest about what he was going through.
So he tried it out. The N-sound was hard to make, but he pushed and it came out, “Nnnn…” He couldn’t quite make it a full no. But from the deepening look of concern on her face, he knew he’d gotten the point across.
She came closer. “How can I help?”
“You could knit me a new career.”
She laughed—just a little—as she also frowned. “Who told you I knit? Clark.” She shook her head as she dumped her team-leader bag on the ground next to the table. “Did he mention I was sixteen when I last attempted a sweater, no probably not. Do I need to find Lieutenant King or is there ice inside?” She pointed to his RV door, and he managed a nod.
“Yeah, there’s ice, but it’s a mess in there…”
“Since I’m pretty sure any ice will be in the freezer, that’s a non-issue,” she shot back as she opened the screen and went inside. “God, I knew you were hurt—it happened right after the cargo net, didn’t it? You twisted your knee in the sand.”
Yes, but he rather desperately didn’t want to talk about it. Then he didn’t have to, as she changed the subject. Her voice carried clearly from the trailer’s open windows.
“You know, you would make a great lawyer.”
Jim laughed. A few years back, he’d briefly toyed with the idea, although most of the SEALs he knew had laughed their asses off. It had turned into a joke that was nearly as long-lived as his nickname: Spaceman Slade as a Perry Mason-esque lawyer, punching opposing counsel in the face, then turning to the bench to say, Your Honor, the defense rests. “Yeah, I don’t think so.”
Ashley came out his RV with the ziplock baggies of fresh ice that Thomas had dropped off that morning, and the hand towels Jim had hung on the freezer door handle to protect his skin from the biting cold.
“Why not?” she asked. “I think you’d be really good at it. That codicil to the team leader agreement… You wrote it perfectly.”
“Codicil,” he repeated with a laugh as he took the frozen packets and the towels from her. He layered them onto both of his knees—as if that was actually going to help. “I didn’t know it was a codicil, it was just… me getting what I wanted.”
“No,” she said, sitting down in the other chair and settling in, as if she planned to stay for a while, “it was you getting what I wanted. Which is exactly what lawyers do for their clients.”
She was serious, and Jim laughed again. “Going to law school would be… a rather huge challenge.”
Ashley shrugged. “Navy SEAL. Isn’t that what you always say?”
“Well, yeah,” Jim said, “but… also Navy SEAL…? Law school is, like, two solid years of sitting still.”
“Three,” she corrected him.
“Oh, even better.”
“Except maybe if you sit still—still-ish—for three years,” she pointed out, “your knees might actually heal.”
“Not enough,” he said grimly.
“Enough to be a lawyer,” she said. “Oh my God! I just realized—you could join JAG.”
JAG stood for Judge Advocate General—the legal arm of the Navy. “It’s not some club with an on-line signup,” he countered. “You don’t just join JAG.”
The look she shot him was one of amusement. “You know what I mean. JAG needs good lawyers—I happen to know they’re actively recruiting. And you can’t seriously think that the Navy wouldn’t do everything humanly possible to keep you—a SEAL officer? I mean, assuming you want to stay in. Although, you’d definitely earn more money if you left and went into the public sector. Way more. There’s no law firm on the planet who wouldn’t salivate at the idea of including a Navy SEAL lawyer on their website’s short list of associates, so… The big question is: Do you want to stay in…?”
It was a little surreal, sitting here, actually talking about this. If she’d asked, Do you want to stay in the Navy as a SEAL, he’d respond without hesitation. That question was as absurd as Do you want to continue breathing? Absolutely, yes.
But that’s not what she’d asked. There was a silent part to her question which was If you can’t continue to do the very hands-on, physically grueling work of a SEAL…
Jim went with the truth. “I don’t know. As anything besides a SEAL…? Sitting behind a desk…?” He shook his head in frustration and tried to move the focus off of himself. “How do you know so much about JAG anyway?”
“There’s a military recruiting office in the strip mall where I work,” she told him. “I’ve had lunch a few times with one of the chiefs.”
“Oh,” he said as he realized of course she was dating someone—how could this woman not be dating someone? She was beautiful and smart and funny and kind…
“Also,” she continued with a slightly mischievous smile that lit her up completely, “when I was a kid, I watched a TV show about a JAG lawyer. Lawyer shows tend to be hyper-fictional—the law is actually brain-numbingly slow-moving, so shows about lawyers aren’t exactly reality based. Even courtroom action—” she made air quotes “—is deadly slow. But this show had lots of eye candy that was perfect for a twelve-year-old. Those white uniforms…”
“My closet is filled with them.” And that came out sounding weirdly flirtatious, which wasn’t his intention. Although at the news that she was dating someone, he’d immediately flashed back to the late morning, when they’d paired up to go through the O-course.
Unlike Bull, Jim had been careful about where he’d put his hands on Ashley, working hard to make sure his touch was both respectful and impersonal. But there had been a moment that had rattled him and stuck now in his memory—in fact, it was playing on repeat—as he’d helped her over the cargo net. They’d made the climb easily, with him cradling her entire body—his arms around her, her back against his front. She was essentially sitting on his lap as they ascended the netting together, his mouth just beside her ear as he’d instructed her how to move with him—to keep the ropes taut and stable.
As businesslike as he’d tried to be, he hadn’t been able to keep from noting how perfectly she fit against him, and how freaking good it felt to hold her close like that.
And how crazy-good she smelled…
Then, just suddenly, like bang, as they’d reached the top and maneuvered their way to the other side, every time he touched her it seemed to burn his hands, and on their way back down he was hyper-aware of all of the places they were skin-to-skin—her arms against his, the calves of their legs… And right before they hit the sand, she turned her head and his face and lips were pressed against the softness of her neck, where he actually tasted the salt of her sweat, and his head had damn near exploded.
And he stupidly—stupidly—landed wrong in his haste to not, like, lick her or nuzzle more deeply into her neck or do something equally and insanely inappropriate. And because of that, he’d twisted the crap out of his knee.
Jesus, he was an idiot.
Jim now cleared his throat and attempted to explain. “If I stayed in, went the JAG route, at least I wouldn’t have to buy a bunch of new suits.” Okay, now he just sounded stupid. But that was fine, because he clearly was stupid. Stupid to twist his knee, and stupid to think that she wasn’t dating someone—a chief in the Navy, to boot.
Freaking chiefs ran the Navy—capable and down-to-earth, reliable and steady…
But Ashley was nodding as if his weird mention of the dress unis that filled his closet actually made sense. “Sometimes when I can’t decide what to do,” she told him, “I make a list of all the little things that come to mind—both pro and con. I mean, it’s pretty clear you want to stay in, but as a SEAL. And yeah, you won’t have to buy a new wardrobe if you go the JAG route, but… Will putting on your uniform every day smack you in the face with a reminder of what you can’t be anymore…? How are you going to feel?”
Oh, Jesus. Seriously…?
She kept going. “But on the other hand, you’ve been in the Navy for years and you know how the military system works, it’s familiar. Corporate America is very different—you’ll be tossed in with much younger people who’ve been playing the corporate game since college—possibly even earlier. How’s that going to feel—like you’re in uncharted territory, uncertain and off-balance, or… maybe that actually appeals to you. Maybe it’ll feel like an exciting new adventure.”
Jim nodded, because she seemed to be waiting for some kind of response. But all this talk about second guessing how he was going to feel…? Nope. He couldn’t even put a name to whatever this shittiness was that he was feeling right now, let alone guess how shitty he was going to feel in the future. To hell with that—shitty or extra-desperately-shitty—he had to box it all up and just get through the day, the way he’d always done.
But a pro and con list…? That was a useful decision-making tool. So, pro: he already had the uniforms and he hated shopping for clothes. Con: dress whites were a freaking pain in his ass—trying to stay clean while wearing white was a challenge for the most fastidious Naval officer, and he was far from that. Although, he only had to wear the whites half of the year, unless he was stationed somewhere tropical, like Hawaii.
Pro: He might be stationed in Hawaii. He liked Hawaii.
Pro: Even though he was no longer officially a SEAL, he’d continue to wear his Budweiser on his uni day in and day out—and damned if that didn’t mean something to him. Huh. In fact, it meant a lot.
But three years of law school… Big, big con. Jim looked over to find Ashley just quietly watching him, as if she knew he was constructing that list in his head and didn’t want to interrupt.
“Tell me about law school,” he asked.
“It’s hard,” she said. “It’s deadly dull. But the work is the work—you put your head down and get it done. You’ll have to learn to read more slowly… But I did it, so I know that you can, too. You’re already incredibly patient—you proved that today, on the O-course. You just have to learn to be patient with yourself. If you decide to go—wherever you end up—I would highly recommend talking to other students and digging a bit and getting a list of the best professors and teachers. A good instructor can be life or death in some of the required classes.” But then she laughed at herself. “Not really life or death, like it is for a Navy SEAL. But try staying awake in Tort Reform with a teacher who doesn’t at least attempt to make it entertaining…”
He nodded. “Where’d you go?”
“Northeastern, in Boston,” she said. “Far enough from New York, but not too far.”
“Not Harvard?” he asked.
She laughed. “No, thanks. I didn’t even apply. My father was… less than pleased about that. But Northeastern’s got some great social justice programs. And since that’s the direction I wanted to go from the start…”
Jim nodded. “Best part of being a lawyer…?”
Ashley thought about that for a moment. “I get to help people,” she finally said. “Particularly women and children, who don’t have a lot of power.”
“Worst part?”
She smiled. “That’s easy. Dealing with other lawyers.” She corrected herself. “Some other lawyers.” But then changed it again, “Most. Big overlap in the Venn diagram of lawyers and a-holes.”
“So now I know,” Jim teased her, “why you were so quick to jump on the idea that I’d make a great lawyer.” He made air quotes around the word.
“No!” she said, laughing. “Oh, my God, no!”
“Um-hmm,” he said, smiling back at her, because she was just too freaking adorable—she was even blushing a little as she realized she’d walked right into that one. And all of a sudden, their gazes locked and something clicked and created a burst of sudden heat, and he had to quickly look away, because that was not okay. He cleared his throat. “So, um… Tell me about your chief. Is he temporary or FTS—full-time support? How long’s he been in the Reserves?”
Ashley was clearly confused. “I’m sorry… I… My what?”
“You just told me you’re dating a chief—the recruiter…?”
She laughed in surprise. “No, I said I had lunch with… Chief Gordon. Kathleen Gordon. Not a date—she’s very happily married. And she’s temporary—relatively new to the reserves.” She shook her head in combined amusement and disgust.
“Damnit,” Jim said, “I’ve gone and failed your feminist test. Again.”
“No,” she said. “Now you’ve failed my feminist test by assuming I have a feminist test for you to fail, instead of simply apologizing and promising you’ll try harder to live more fully in a world where a chief from a military recruiting office might be a woman. Kathy’s really good at her job, by the way.”
Touché. Jim nodded. “Forgive me, twice, because I also absolutely misspoke. What I meant to say is that I’ve failed my feminist test. I blast through life, assuming I’m an ally—that I’m one of the good ones, the safe ones, someone give me a cookie for being so freaking wonderful—and then I do this, and trip over my dick.”
Ashley laughed. “At least you recognize that as a negative. Some men just, like, noisily windmill all over the place, completely oblivious to the fact that they—and everyone else trapped in the room, God help them—are tripping over their dicks.”
Jim laughed, too, although his laughter was mixed with a soupçon of shock and surprise—happy surprise. Windmill—which meant waving one’s penis in a circle—was a word he absolutely didn’t expect to use in a conversation with Ashley DeWitt. On the other hand, he’d learned last night that she was intriguingly funny. “I wasn’t aware there was noise involved in windmilling. Unless the dicks in question are so giant and moving so fast they break the sound barrier…?”
She laughed even harder at that. “Giant’s not usually the case,” she said, grinning back at him. “In fact, it’s usually the opposite of giant. And it’s noisy because there’s accompanied screaming or grunting or… maybe even manly burping and farting.”
And now she’d said fart. It was possible he’d just fallen in love. “You apparently know men quite well.”
“Sadly, I do,” she said.
And now, as they smiled into each other eyes, when that flare of heated awareness arose, Jim didn’t look away. Although… “How do you not have a boyfriend?” he asked, but then adjusted. “Or maybe a… girlfriend…?”
Ashley’s smile deepened at that. “Boyfriend,” she said. “And I don’t have one because I have a terrible ex-fiancé.”
“Ouch,” he said. “How terrible?”
“On a scale from one to ten…?” she said. “A solid twelve.”
“Well… congratulations on not marrying him,” Jim told her. “Some people don’t find out they’ve got someone with a twelve on the terribleness scale until after the vows, and that’s gotta suck even worse, so… Good job. Go, you.”
She laughed a little at that, but the expression on her face was pensive. “I never really thought of it that way, but you’re right. Go, me.”
“I’m not up on my terribleness-scale ratings, is a twelve a… cheater?”
“No, no,” she said. “Cheating’s a ten.”
“So… serial killer, then. Man, I hate when that happens. You meet someone, and everything’s going really well, but then they’re all I must now show you my collection of ears.”
Ashley laughed at that as he’d hoped she would, because damn, when she laughed something warm shifted in his chest and made the day bearable. More than bearable—it actually made it pleasant. What was happening…?
“I’m pretty sure Brad isn’t a serial killer,” she told him, “but after we broke up, well, he had trouble learning that no meant no, and over meant over. That’s one of the reasons why I’m here, because now, suddenly, he’s back.”
“Back?” Jim said. “As in back? As in, you currently have an active stalker and you didn’t think that might be something you’d want to mention…? Jesus, Ash, we’ve gotta work some hand-to-hand self-defense into your schedule, and I know you’re not a fan of firearms and I agree completely that getting a weapon without having either the training or impetus to use it properly would be a big mistake, but we can certainly take pictures that you can post on social media—like, Look, here I am getting some serious weapons training at SEAL World dot dot dot—”
She interrupted him. “Thank you, but no, because Brad’s really not dangerous.”
“Sorry, but I disagree. A grown man who hasn’t yet mastered no means no…?”
“He’s been… led to believe that when I say no I don’t mean no.” She shook her head. “I don’t think he holds that belief universally.”
“So it’s just you he treats like shit.”
She winced. “Yes, but no. It’s really just more of an… inconvenience and… it creates a little… discomfort.”
Jim looked at her sitting there across from him. Even dressed way down in her camp clothes, with her hair sweaty and a streak of dirt on her chin, she was breathtakingly beautiful. Her sense of humor was crazy. She was highly intelligent—but someone had messed with her, badly, even back before the stalker ex-fiancé had made the scene.
“What does it take to get you angry?” he asked her. “Like, drop-dead seething, spitting-out-shards-of-your-teeth angry?”
Ashley looked surprised, and for a moment she seemed to seriously consider his question, but when she spoke, she neatly sidestepped it. “Getting angry solves nothing.”
“Okay,” he said. “Great. But if you were gonna get angry, say, if God suddenly came down from heaven and she’s all Ashley DeWitt, if you let yourself get angry, I won’t let one single child go to sleep hungry tonight. What has to happen to push you to that veins-popping-out-on-your-forehead place?”
She took a deep breath—and his freaking phone rang.
His instinct was to immediately silence it, but it was lying out on the table between them, and Dunk’s name appeared clearly on the screen. And because they’d spent the morning working closely together as team leader and team instructor, she knew that he’d been hoping to get Dunk’s ear again today, even for just ten minutes.
She didn’t know that the topic of conversation was going to be her.
And maybe it was because his question had spooked her, but she was already up on her feet and grabbing her TL bag as she said, “You should take that. I need to make a pit-stop in my trailer before this afternoon, anyway, change into jeans and…”
And just like that, she was gone.
“Yo,” Jim answered Dunk’s call.
“I got about twenty,” Dunk said without ceremony. “You to me, or me to you?”
“Me to you, Senior,” Jim said as he took the ice off his aching knees. “I’ll be right there.”
“Coffee?”
“Please.” Sweet Jesus. Not only was Dunk’s office halfway to the paintball field, Jim wanted this conversation to happen behind a door that tightly closed.
And the fact that there was a coffeemaker in Dunk’s office sure as hell didn’t hurt.