Squared Away Read online

  “And that’s exactly why it’s not going to be me.” Mark’s voice hardened, syllable by syllable, making Isaiah’s chest ache.

  “Well, it doesn’t have to be casual.” Maybe Mark didn’t hook up. Maybe there was still hope if he let him know this could be special. Could be the start of something. “I want it to be you.”

  “You’re eight-fucking-teen. Everything is casual for you. And I told you, I don’t do guys. I’m not sure what you think you saw—”

  “What I saw was you wanted to kiss me. Bad. But you’re overthinking things. Why not just have some fun? See where things go?”

  Come on, Wizard, take a chance on some magic. But Mark only frowned, deep lines bracketing his mouth and forehead. “I’m not looking for fun. Sorry. And I better get back in there.”

  And with that he was gone, leaving Isaiah’s hope monster squashed on the bricks. Stupid fucking stubborn SEAL, ruining all Isaiah’s plans. But he’d show him. Someday Mark was going to regret turning him down.

  Chapter Two

  Present day

  “Wizard! Get your ass over here! Bring your kit!”

  Mark was already on it, hurrying toward Tovey, who was shouldering a limping Rogers who was—oh shit—trailing blood from his left leg.

  “Okay, get him down.” There was no good place to have Tovey set Rogers—rusty dirt and rocky outcropping as far the eye could see in this hell hole of a country, but behind a few large boulders for protection would have to do. Luckily, Mark was used to working out in the field like this. No sterile operating room for him. “What’s the ETA on extraction?”

  Rogers was bleeding profusely from what looked to be two separate bullet wounds on his leg. Gloves already on, Mark got a tourniquet ready. The next few minutes could be critical in determining the extent of Rogers’s injuries, and judging by the volume of blood, they were going to need that chopper sooner rather than later.

  “Last time I checked, the LT said fifteen minutes. We’ve dispersed the hostiles, but we’re waiting on Team Bravo’s return.”

  “Not good enough. Check again.” Mark’s voice was terse because damn this didn’t look good. Using shears, he cut away Rogers’s pant leg, exposing the wounds. Yup. Tourniquet time, and not a minute too soon as Rogers had what looked to be a major arterial bleed from a flesh wound in his thigh.

  “What can I do?” Tovey asked after bellowing into his com set about needing the chopper. He was a great guy, one of Mark’s closest friends on the team, and not squeamish in the least, which was good because this was about to get messy.

  “Don’t wanna lose the leg.” Rogers made a strangled sound as he looked down. “Wiz, you gotta promise me. Don’t let them take the leg.”

  “Wizard’s the best. No one’s losing a leg on his watch.” Crouching low, Tovey clapped him on the shoulder. “We’re gonna get you out of here, no worries, buddy.”

  While Mark appreciated the support, that wasn’t entirely accurate—in his almost ten years as a SEAL, men had indeed lost limbs on his watch, but it sure as hell wasn’t from lack of trying on his part. He’d battle for Rogers’s leg and life with everything he had.

  He shot Rogers full of painkillers before grabbing the scalpel and other tools from his kit. “Hold him down,” he yelled at Tovey, not having the benefit of waiting for the painkillers to fully kick in. He needed in that wound, needed to see the extent of what he was dealing with. Rogers was already alarmingly pale, and Mark was praying they weren’t going to need a field transfusion.

  “Chopper’s on the way.” The senior chief jogged up right as Wizard got the first bullet out. “What’s the situation here?”

  Mark gave him a clipped report as he continued to dig and access the wound. “Tell the base to be ready for a transfusion, O negative.” He had long ago memorized the blood types of everyone on the team. These were his brothers. He knew Rogers’s blood type, knew his wife, Deanna, his two towheaded kids, knew his cranky-ass love of bad jokes, knew that he relied heavily on his leg muscles to haul ass on reconnaissance which was his specialty, knew every damn thing riding on him stopping this bleeding. Blood was all over his uniform at this point, but he couldn’t give a shit. Bullets out, he needed to find the bleeder.

  He tuned out Tovey and the senior chief talking, tuned out the roar of the incoming chopper, focusing everything on Rogers as he worked to stabilize him. Get the artery clamped. Get the clotting powder out. Move on to the second wound. He’d been through this enough to be on auto-pilot, keeping his breathing calm and even, murmuring soothing nonsense to Rogers, who was drifting in and out of alertness.

  Tovey and the senior chief made way for two of the helicopter crew to bring in a stretcher. “We going to need a field transfusion?” The female crew member asked him as they transferred Rogers to a stretcher. “I’m type O negative too.”

  “Excellent.” That was good news because Rogers was fading fast, despite Mark’s efforts. The blood loss was heavy. “Stand by for that.”

  They got the team and Rogers in the chopper, him continuing to monitor Rogers’s vitals, prepping him for an IV line for the field transfusion. Person-to-person transfusions were tricky as fuck, but it was the only thing that was going to keep Rogers alive till they could get him to base.

  Luckily, the crew member—Higgins—had good veins on her, and with the senior chief’s help they got her and Rogers rigged up while the bird sped toward base, crossing back from enemy airspace to the base they’d been stationed at the past few months, every second counting now.

  “They’ve got an ambulance set to meet us, and an OR waiting,” Tovey yelled above the roar of the chopper.

  Good. Good. That was all good, but it was going to matter fuck all if Mark couldn’t manage the bleeding and the transfusion in time. He was doing what he could to the wounds, but this was going to take a skilled surgeon for a full repair.

  But Tovey had promised Rogers that Mark wasn’t going to let him lose his leg, and hell if Mark was going to fail him. The helicopter touched down, and he raced with the stretchers toward the ambulance the second they were clear to exit.

  Hurry. Hurry. Hurry. His heart pounded throughout the ambulance ride to the base hospital. Rogers was going to need airlifting to Germany before the night was through, but first they had to finish saving his life.

  “We’ve got him,” the surgeon said, meeting the ambulance. “Fast thinking on the field transfusion. Good work on wound management as usual, Wizard.”

  As usual. Just another day’s work for him, and it wasn’t until the OR doors banged shut that he let himself fully breathe. He wandered back to the treatment area where Higgins had been taken.

  “Think he’ll make it?” Higgins asked from her stretcher while a different set of personnel tended to her. Field transfusions were risky, and she’d need some fluids and juice to help recover.

  “Yup,” the nearest nurse answered for him. “Wizard’s the best we’ve got.”

  “Thanks.” Wizard shrugged off the praise. Only thing that mattered was that Rogers made it. He was starved from a week and a half of nothing more than MRE rations while they were deep into enemy territory on a top-secret mission with only limited contact with the base personnel here. He needed food and a shower and his bunk, but he wasn’t going anywhere until he had word of Rogers’s prognosis.

  “You are pretty miraculous.” Higgins’s eyes twinkled. She’d been on the helicopter crew for a couple of his missions now, and they’d bantered some. She was nice, with a deep west Texas twang and short blond hair. “You want to grab something stronger than juice when we’re done here? After you wash the stink off, of course.”

  “You need rest,” Mark hedged. He could tell what she was getting at as she’d been dropping pretty heavy hints that they should spend some off-duty time together.

  “So do you. But come on, at least let’s see what the chow hall has to of
fer after they let me go. You’re not going to do your buddy any favors, waiting around here all bloody.”

  “Alright, alright. I’ll go shower. But I’m coming back to check on both of you. Then we’ll see about food.”

  Food he could handle. A drink with Higgins? That was far more dicey, and he continued to waffle about how to get out of it while he showered the blood and grime off, and got into fresh clothes. He didn’t bother shaving—that would be tantamount to admitting he did want to start something, and he was too damn impatient to get back to check on Rogers.

  He got the report that Rogers was due to be airlifted to Germany within the next few hours, holding steady after surgery. He was debating whether to go back, see if Rogers was awake, when Higgins came up to him in the waiting area, looking refreshed after her IV, color back in her pink cheeks.

  “So about that food...” She grinned up at him.

  “Honestly not sure how hungry I am,” Mark admitted, wondering if he could simply plead exhaustion, go face-plant in his bunk.

  “You wanna head straight for the flask I’ve got hidden? Been a long-ass day for you, I’m sure.”

  “I shouldn’t. LT’s going to need a report and debrief later. And I’m not much of a drinker anyway.”

  “Come on. It’s stress relief. Which I think you’re in sore need of. Unless you wanna hear my other ideas on stress relief?”

  Stress relief. Something about her words and her facial expression reminded him of an old memory. Isaiah. Cal’s cousin who’d been a friend for the wedding week but then had wanted to be more than a friend. Mark was transported back to Danielle’s wedding and a laughing Isaiah telling him he needed to unwind. His body tensed with the memory, pulse speeding up, same mix of longing and temptation coursing through him. You could have said yes.

  But he hadn’t, and now he had six years of bumping into Isaiah over and over in spite of trying his hardest to avoid him. Avoid that memory. Avoid temptation. He’d seen him last when? He had to think for a second. Mark’s parents’ funeral for sure. Maybe briefly at the hospital when the latest kid was born, Isaiah there, as usual with a friend in tow. Some laughing gangly-legged kid who Mark had wanted to throat punch...

  And fuck. Mark had to stop thinking about Isaiah. And temptation. And memories he worked to keep buried. Higgins was right in front of him, waiting for him to say something.

  “Wizard?” Her head tilted. “Where’d you go?”

  “Nowhere. I’m just bushed. Gonna crash soon.”

  She gave him a sympathetic smile. “Want me to walk you back? You really do look like you’re about to keel over.”

  Mark had no doubt she’d want to take the long way back, offer some more “stress relief.” Which if he were anyone else, anyone normal and sane, he’d be jumping to accept. She was nice, cute, and funny, low-drama and not looking for strings. Half the guys on the team would give up sleep for a week for a little attention from her.

  He opened his mouth, honestly not sure what reply was about to pop out, what excuse he’d have to offer this time. But right then, the senior chief, the LT, and oh holy fuck, the base chaplain came bursting into the waiting area.

  “Rogers?” he asked around the boulder in his throat. Fuck. He’d done everything, everything he could. What the fuck could he have done—

  “They’re readying him for transport. But, Whitley, you’re going on that flight too.” The LT’s voice was as solemn as Mark had ever heard it.

  He sank into one of the waiting room chairs. Even the LT called him Wizard, never using his last name, unless...

  Unless someone had...

  Air was in short supply and his lips tingled. “Who died?” he croaked.

  Chapter Three

  Isaiah needed to be alone in the worst way. And fuck it, he liked people, liked noise, liked big gatherings. But he was going to lose his shit again, and all he needed was the last of the helpers and casserole-bringers to leave, him to put on a video for the girls, get the baby in the pack-n-play, and then he could go lock himself in the bathroom for five minutes until the pressure in his sinuses eased. He’d emerge with red eyes but a clearer head, ready for the bedtime battle. Rinse and repeat. He’d been at this all week, compartmentalizing his grief and anger to those few stolen moments when he didn’t have to put on a face. Like now.

  “Are you sure you’re going to be all right?” The woman—Rene or Rhea or Renee, he wasn’t quite sure, just that her kids went to the same school as Daphne—asked him as she stuck the pan of what looked like stuffed shells in the oven. “I really need to get the kids back home, but I could send over our housekeeper...”

  “We’ll be fine.” Isaiah had gotten good at saying that this week, to the point that he almost sounded like he meant it.

  “I heard the nanny quit right before...” She waved her hand, like there was a good euphemism for what had happened, a way to sugarcoat Danielle driving drunk, killing her and Cal when she tried to tango with a semi. And fuck, now he really needed that five minutes alone.

  “They hadn’t had her that long anyway.” Isaiah sighed. Danielle and Cal had burned through nannies and au pairs the way some people went through laundry.

  “Still. Call the agency. Get them to send over someone else. You shouldn’t be the one doing all this.”

  “The kids know me. We’ll manage. I’m fine.” He was lying again, but he just needed her to leave.

  “And they still haven’t located her brother?” The woman made a tsking sound that pretty much summed up Isaiah’s whole life right then.

  “He’s on some kind of black ops. Even the Red Cross can’t get a message through. We’re trying through his command, but they’ve said it might be some time.”

  “Oh, that’s such a shame.” Another tsk, and finally she moved toward the living room. “Well you call if you need anything.”

  Isaiah would if he could figure out what he needed. “Let’s round up the kids,” he said instead.

  She herded her two young kids toward the front door with promises to check in on him tomorrow. “I’ll have our girl put together another dish for you later in the week. You let us know about the arrangements too?”

  “As soon as we hear about Mark.” He scooped the baby up off the blanket he’d put on the floor for him. So much hinged on them getting word to Mark. He hadn’t wanted to have the funeral without him. Well, not that he wanted any of this thing. He didn’t want to do any of this. Shit. He really needed that five minutes now.

  And from the smell of things, it was going to have to wait until after he changed a diaper.

  “Of course. You call me anytime.” And with that, the woman and her noisy children were gone. They hadn’t offered to clean up the living room, which was trashed from the constant parade of preschool-aged visitors all day long.

  “Who wants to help Uncle Isaiah with a diaper change?” He made himself sound cheery for Daphne and Zoe, who were already sulking over their friends leaving.

  “Not me.” Daphne wandered back to the family room beyond the kitchen, no doubt in search of the TV.

  “Okay. How about you Zoe-Bear?” He headed to the baby’s room, Zoe trailing behind him. “Want to get me the clean diaper?”

  “Nope. Gonna go get the TV.” She stuck her tongue out at him and ran out of Liam’s room.

  “Okay, but don’t fight with your sister,” he yelled after her, trying to get Liam situated on the changing table. Diapers were the worst, really, and he did it wrong again and ended up with Liam peeing on him. Complete wardrobe change for the kid, and now he was going to need to somehow squeeze a shower and clean shirt into his five minutes of quiet.

  “How would you feel about an early bedtime?” he asked Liam as he tucked him into the last clean sleeper.

  “No!” The baby said one of his two words, making a loud raspberry sound.

  “That good, huh?
” Tucking him on his hip, Isaiah headed back downstairs, which was ominously quiet.

  “Girls?” he called out. “Everything okay?”

  “She did it!” Daphne called out, racing toward the stairs. She was covered in flour. And glitter. It was in her curly hair, on the tips of her long, dark lashes, raining down from her slender fingers and squishing out of her Mary Jane shoes.

  “Oh f—” Isaiah narrowly bit back the curse. “What happened?”

  “We had a war!” Zoe came thundering out of the family room, also covered in flour, glitter, and with the added bonus of marker all over her arms and face.

  “I see.” Hell. “Baths for everyone.” He was about to herd them to the downstairs bathroom, but smoky air reached his nostrils first. “F—dinner.”

  He was racing toward the oven when the doorbell rang. And again. “In a minute,” he yelled because that was all his day needed. Another casserole. Maybe they’d just give up. Leave him in peace. Or chaos, as was more accurate. The baby let out a huge howl as soon as Isaiah set him down in the high chair, but he didn’t have time to comfort him. Using pot holders, he hauled the desiccated husk of the casserole out of the oven, waving away the smoke.

  “What in the f—blazes is this?” The voice was one Isaiah would never forget, but he’d never heard it quite this angry.

  “Mark?” He whirled, casserole still in hand, narrowly avoiding a guy who sounded like Mark. And he had keys dangling from one dusty hand, so clearly it wasn’t someone breaking in. But he’d never seen Mark like this—rumpled and dusty uniform, scruffy hair and a beard, looking about as wrecked as Isaiah had ever seen another person, eyes bloodshot and hollow, color blotchy, like he was both sunburned from exposure and pale from exhaustion.

  “Yeah.” Mark’s mouth wobbled, and for a second, Isaiah worried the huge SEAL might be about to hit the floor. So he did the only thing that made sense and dumped the casserole in the sink, then all three kids still screaming, he pulled Mark to him in a tight hug. And fuck, he’d dreamed about this for years now, holding Mark, and never once had it been like this. Mark shuddered hard, but didn’t pull away. “I’m here.”