to hold her again. When he thought about how easily she could have been killed… He didn’t want to care so much, hadn’t known he was still capable of caring so much.
“Let’s go. You must be exhausted.”
She hugged herself as she stared at the remains of her home. The street was no longer filled with gawking spectators, the people in the neighborhood having returned to their regularly scheduled lives.
He gently pushed her along toward his car, which had been protected from damage by the low berm and a large truck that was parked next to it.
Back at his condo fifteen minutes later, he prodded her to take a shower, gave her a T-shirt and boxers to wear to bed, and dug up a travel toothbrush. Other than thanking him, she didn’t speak to him at all. Nor did she cry. He knew the numb feeling all too well. In war, you either learned to distance yourself from the horror or you put a bullet in your head.
Hours after he’d tucked her beneath the covers on his futon, Mick woke with a start, his heart pounding after a dream he couldn’t remember. Whatever it was about, it had left him gasping with feelings of pain and loss.
Too anxious to lie still, he crept into the living room to check on Jenna. In the dim light filtering through the window, she looked up at him, her eyes dry but wide with fear. Not of him though. She didn’t shrink away when he slipped under the covers next to her.
Instead, she let him wrap around her like a cloak, and relaxed into his embrace with a small sigh. Within minutes, her breathing was deep and even, and the anxious creases in her face eased away.
She was beautiful, and he couldn’t stop himself from pressing a kiss to her temple, though he managed to control his less dignified urges. Lying with her brought him a kind of peace he’d never experienced, one he needed as much as she did. One of his last thoughts before falling asleep was that he’d never just slept with a woman before.
He was surprised by how much he liked it.
“This one is my favorite,” Colin said to Tara as they stood in front of the Korean War Memorial.
The statues glowed gray in the dark, oversized ghosts of a battalion—or regiment or whatever they called it—frozen in motion, stopped in their tracks, just like the men who’d died. It was a bit eerie, really.
Her first thought when he brought up the idea over dinner in DuPont Circle had been “ugh.” Even for a former commando, visiting the monuments seemed a bit cliché. But she’d been wrong. It was powerful, moving, and somehow romantic. Most guys would have taken her to a movie or a loud bar. How were you supposed to get to know someone when you couldn’t even hear your own thoughts?
They’d spent the last two hours strolling beside the reflecting pool under the canopy of trees, talking about everything and nothing. He was the oldest of four boys and had grown up in Illinois. He’d been in the Army and served with Troy Griffin before a knee injury forced him out of Airborne. Griffin had invited him to join Claymore from the very beginning, and he’d jumped at another chance to join the fight against the Taliban and insurgents.
“Our role is different as private security contractors. We’re more of a protective detail, either for people, equipment, or buildings. And sometimes we train the local police forces. But every once in a while, we get to do our part to reduce the terrorist population,” he’d told her.
His easy attitude toward killing others—even if they were the enemy—bothered her, but she supposed it was hard to stay objective when your life was in danger day in and day out. And then the tough guy had surprised her with his sensitive side, asking about her own upbringing in northern Virginia.
And speaking of sensitive, he must have noticed her goosebumps, because his hands slid along her arms as he tugged her back against his chest, instantly chasing away the chill. Her belly did a slow flip while her heart danced to a
“Let’s go. You must be exhausted.”
She hugged herself as she stared at the remains of her home. The street was no longer filled with gawking spectators, the people in the neighborhood having returned to their regularly scheduled lives.
He gently pushed her along toward his car, which had been protected from damage by the low berm and a large truck that was parked next to it.
Back at his condo fifteen minutes later, he prodded her to take a shower, gave her a T-shirt and boxers to wear to bed, and dug up a travel toothbrush. Other than thanking him, she didn’t speak to him at all. Nor did she cry. He knew the numb feeling all too well. In war, you either learned to distance yourself from the horror or you put a bullet in your head.
Hours after he’d tucked her beneath the covers on his futon, Mick woke with a start, his heart pounding after a dream he couldn’t remember. Whatever it was about, it had left him gasping with feelings of pain and loss.
Too anxious to lie still, he crept into the living room to check on Jenna. In the dim light filtering through the window, she looked up at him, her eyes dry but wide with fear. Not of him though. She didn’t shrink away when he slipped under the covers next to her.
Instead, she let him wrap around her like a cloak, and relaxed into his embrace with a small sigh. Within minutes, her breathing was deep and even, and the anxious creases in her face eased away.
She was beautiful, and he couldn’t stop himself from pressing a kiss to her temple, though he managed to control his less dignified urges. Lying with her brought him a kind of peace he’d never experienced, one he needed as much as she did. One of his last thoughts before falling asleep was that he’d never just slept with a woman before.
He was surprised by how much he liked it.
“This one is my favorite,” Colin said to Tara as they stood in front of the Korean War Memorial.
The statues glowed gray in the dark, oversized ghosts of a battalion—or regiment or whatever they called it—frozen in motion, stopped in their tracks, just like the men who’d died. It was a bit eerie, really.
Her first thought when he brought up the idea over dinner in DuPont Circle had been “ugh.” Even for a former commando, visiting the monuments seemed a bit cliché. But she’d been wrong. It was powerful, moving, and somehow romantic. Most guys would have taken her to a movie or a loud bar. How were you supposed to get to know someone when you couldn’t even hear your own thoughts?
They’d spent the last two hours strolling beside the reflecting pool under the canopy of trees, talking about everything and nothing. He was the oldest of four boys and had grown up in Illinois. He’d been in the Army and served with Troy Griffin before a knee injury forced him out of Airborne. Griffin had invited him to join Claymore from the very beginning, and he’d jumped at another chance to join the fight against the Taliban and insurgents.
“Our role is different as private security contractors. We’re more of a protective detail, either for people, equipment, or buildings. And sometimes we train the local police forces. But every once in a while, we get to do our part to reduce the terrorist population,” he’d told her.
His easy attitude toward killing others—even if they were the enemy—bothered her, but she supposed it was hard to stay objective when your life was in danger day in and day out. And then the tough guy had surprised her with his sensitive side, asking about her own upbringing in northern Virginia.
And speaking of sensitive, he must have noticed her goosebumps, because his hands slid along her arms as he tugged her back against his chest, instantly chasing away the chill. Her belly did a slow flip while her heart danced to a
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