Chapter 16
ASHTON
I ’m sitting in the air-conditioned consort office, sulking like a giant man-baby behind Kora’s filing cabinet, when she and Sybil pull up in the golf cart. I stare through the window, hunched in my chair as I watch them walk past the pool to the office.
The two women converse, Sybil wild-haired and animated, Kora with a stride that suggests she’s eager to get back to work. They hold hands as they walk, Kora pausing to open the door for her wife.
Sybil blows through with her curls all askew, and her voice jars me back to our X-rated zoom chat.
“—just think it’s an asshole thing to do,” she says before skidding to a stop. Her sparkly gray eyes go wide and she looks at her wife like she’s pleading for rescue.
“Sir.” Kora falters for only a second before marching to her desk. “We’ve just finished escorting Dr. Plier to her flight.”
“Good.” I get to my feet, not wanting to add rude prick who doesn’t stand when a woman enters the room to my list of asshole offenses. “Thank you for taking care of that.”
“Certainly.” She glances at Sybil. “Would you give us a moment?”
Sybil looks grateful for the chance to escape, though she throws me an insolent look as she moves to the door. Catching Kora’s arm, she leans in to kiss her wife’s cheek. I don’t hear what she whispers, but I’m fairly certain I make out the word “dickhead.”
I deserve that.
Kora waits for the door to swing shut before she sits down behind her big desk. “Sir.” She wears a crisp silk blouse and a puzzled expression. “Were we scheduled to meet?”
“No. I just—” God, I’m an asshole. I pace the length of her desk, not sure what to do with my hands. “I wanted to make sure that Camille—er, Dr. Plier—” Fuck, I’m botching this. Dragging my hands through my hair, I pace back the other way. “Did she make it out okay?”
There’s an extra-long pause, and I turn to see Kora regarding me with the same wary look she’d give a crazed bat. Folding her hands on the desk, she nods to the chair. “Would you like to sit down?”
What I’d like is to kick myself in the testicles. Since that’s physically impossible, I settle for taking a seat. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Compassion creeps into her voice. “What is it you wanted to know?”
I must be so fucking transparent. “How did Camille seem?”
“It was my first time meeting her, sir.” She looks at my face for a moment. “Sybil knows her better than I do.”
“And?” I wonder what Sybil told Kora. I trust their discretion with others, but I’m guessing there aren’t many secrets in that marital bed. “Did Sybil share any observations about Camille’s state of mind?”
Kora gives me a long, thoughtful look. “With all due respect, I think you’d be better off discussing that with Dr. Plier.”
Dragging a hand down my face, I sigh. “Yes, of course. You’re right.”
Her expression softens. “Far be it from me to pry into your personal life,” she says softly. “But is there something you’re needing to get off your chest, Mr. Holyfield?”
“No.” Except this gigantic weight that hasn’t lifted since I sent last night’s text.
“You’re sure?” Kora tilts her head. “If you need someone to talk to, I’m here.”
I absolutely, positively do not want to talk to anyone about anything. Not Kora or Camille or even a licensed, professional therapist with whom I haven’t exchanged bodily fluids.
But this fierce, hollow ache isn’t going away. And Camille has already.
“Sir?” Kora’s expression shifts to one of concern. “Are you okay?”
I open my mouth to say—what?
I haven’t a clue.
And I’m saved by the door flying open. In walks Logan Wilder, looking tanned and relaxed and intent on speaking with Kora.
“Ms. Neville,” he says, “we need a new location for the support group. The fresh paint in that office smells— Sir .” He snaps to attention as his eyes dart to me.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Holyfield. I didn’t see you there. I’ll come back later.”
He’s edging away as I hold up a hand. “Stop.”
In a display befitting a former US Marine, he obeys. “Sir?”
Folding my arms, I give him my full attention. “What support group?”
He glances at Kora, then back to me. “A support group for former military personnel, Mr. Holyfield.” Logan clears his throat. “Quite a few consorts—both women and men—served in their countries’ armed forces.”
“I’m aware.” I’m never sure why, but all of my Jilted Brides properties have an unusually high number of consorts with military backgrounds. “There’s a support group?”
Kora comes to the rescue. “I approved it, sir. I know how seriously you take the consorts’ mental health.”
Logan is nodding, still looking edgy. “It’s been a tremendous help for so many members of the team. Gives us a place to talk through our issues, you know?”
I had no idea. “What sort of issues?” That was incredibly crass. “Forgive me, I don’t mean to pry.” I turn back to Kora. “See that they get whatever they need for space.”
Logan clears his throat. “It’s fine, sir. I don’t mind talking about it.” He chuckles. “The support group saw to that.”
I turn back to the stoic young man with a scar snaking down his right leg. I’ve noticed before but never thought to ask what happened. The US Marines tattoo on his shoulder suggests the story involves his time in the service.
Another piece of intel to which I am not entitled. I get to my feet, not wanting to make him self-conscious. “You’re under no obligation to stir up bad memories by sharing your personal story with me. I’ll leave you alone to?—”
“Actually, sir.” Logan looks thoughtful as he watches me shove in the chair. “I’ve found that talking about trauma helps.”
“It does?” That seems odd.
“Yep.” His pale hazel eyes track my movements. “Learned that the hard way after keeping things bottled up nearly killed me.”
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I stare at this man with biceps the size of watermelons. “What happened?” My voice sounds scratchy and strange. “If you truly don’t mind sharing, that is.”
“Not at all.” He shifts his stance with his feet spread apart and his hands clasped behind him.
A perfect model of military parade rest. “My team and I were dispatched to a covert operation off the coast of Somalia. We got intel on a ship smuggling illegal weapons—cruise missiles, warheads, you name it. They were en route to a terrorist cell in Yemen, and it was our job to intercept them.”
“That sounds incredibly dangerous.” I can’t even fathom that being my job.
He gives a curt nod. “That’s an understatement.
” He’s relaxing a little, getting into the story.
“Ten of us were commanded to take over the ship at zero-one-hundred hours. Er, one a.m.” He shifts on his feet and continues.
“The plan was to seize the vessel and weapons and turn any terrorists over to authorities for prosecution.”
I can tell by his haunted expression that the mission was not a success. “Something went wrong?”
“Very.” He draws in a long, shaky breath.
“It was pitch black and the water was choppy as hell. We were using a tactical ladder chucked over the other ship’s railing.
Eight men made it safely on board. I made my attempt and—” He falters, breath hitching.
“To this day, I’m not certain what happened.
I lost my grip and went into the water. Ripped a gash in my leg on the way down, so now there’s a shark risk on top of everything else. ”
“Jesus.” I’ve never set foot in the Gulf of Aden, but I don’t imagine it’s bathwater warm. “Were you wearing a life vest of some sort?”
“I deployed my floatation device when the weight of my gear started to drag me down. But something malfunctioned and—” He squeezes his eyes shut for a second. “The teammate behind me dove in to help.”
Oh, God. “He drowned?”
“No.” His throat makes a click as he swallows. “Both of us survived.”
I blink. “He survived?” This must be a close-call story. Still terrifying, nonetheless.
Reading my confusion, Logan continues. “By then, the target vessel was out of reach, so my teammate and I returned to our ship.” Another deep breath keeps him going. “We’d just climbed on board when the terrorist vessel exploded.”
“My God.” I didn’t see that coming. “Was it booby trapped?”
“That’s the assumption.” Pain fills his eyes as he speaks. “The incident report suggested the tangos knew we were coming. That they blew up their own vessel in some anti-American military revenge scheme.”
I’m almost afraid to ask this next question. “What happened to the men who’d made it on board?”
Logan looks into my eyes as he answers. “All eight men died in the explosion.”
“Oh, Jesus.” I don’t have a clue what to say. “Survivor’s guilt isn’t something I’d wish on my worst enemy.”
“It’s not just that.” Logan closes his eyes, drawing the strength to continue. “I was the team’s demolition expert. My job was to scan for explosives. To defuse any booby traps and ensure the safety of the rest of the team. But my careless misstep cost those eight men their lives.”
Kora looks stricken. “Oh, Logan.” She snatches a tissue from the box on her desk. “I had no idea. I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Logan looks at me. “For a long time, I hated myself for surviving. For failing my teammates. For not watching my footing more closely.”
I’d probably feel the same way. “Logan, you can’t?—”
“I could and I did.” He shakes his head slowly, balling his hands into fists at his sides. “Believe me, I found every way in the book to beat myself up. To destroy myself like I destroyed those men’s lives. Booze, pills, fast cars—you name it, I tried it. None of it made me stop hating myself.”
My whole body aches for this man. He’s ten years my junior, but what he’s endured would be inconceivable to most men. “How did you stop?” I clear my throat. “Hating yourself, I mean.”
“Who says I have?” One edge of his mouth gives a wry, crooked quirk, and I honestly can’t tell if he’s joking.
“Have you?”
“Mostly.” One massive shoulder lifts in a shrug. “We all have our moments.”