Under Fire, page 3
Hearing his name roll off her lips broke the last straw, and he consciously flexed his fists to keep them still by his side. But it didn’t matter. Alisa was already out of the door, out of his life. Unfortunately so, because he just then realized that she was the type of enigma that he enjoyed solving.
A peculiar emptiness grew in his chest as he became, once again, the sole occupant of his house. The words ‘missed opportunity’ ran roughshod across his mind, taunting him, and he snarled at himself to sit the fuck down. She was just a chick. He had other shit to do. It was time to forget it and move on.
Work was heating up, and deployment was coming around again. He had made his choice, years ago promoting to Chief. He’d become the leader of the pack. He lived, breathed and would die as a SEAL. Planning and preparation were his focus. There was no time for new distractions. The next deployment was going to be a long one, he understood.
And the rule always was—no relationship would last the length of the deployment unless it had pre-existed for at least the same amount of time back home. It was a fact. People thought life was unpredictable, but Warren knew better. He predicted everything. He was never wrong about people.
But then something he didn’t predict happened.
The sound of a car backfiring in his driveway echoed into his front hall—the distinct sound of a car unable to get going.
Alisa.
Chapter Four
Alisa
“Come on. Come on!” Alisa pleaded with her hunk of junk, trying to get the engine to turn over. “For the love of God, don’t do this to me.”
Nervously pushing loose strands of hair behind her ears, she glared back at the house, hoping to hell Mr. Perfect wouldn’t come out. That morning had already been all shades of weird, and she was nothing short of mortified…mostly at her own behavior. She needed it to all go away so she could pretend she’d never tried to tease a Navy SEAL while cleaning his house, all for some misdirected gratification.
But the car’s whines were too loud to be discreet, and she groaned. Sure enough, within moments, her hulking savior sauntered outside, locking eyes with her—the midday LA sun scorching above and his auburn hair glittering red like Hades himself.
Damn, she snapped to herself, shaking in pure agony.
“Need a hand?” Warren opened the driver’s-side door, casual and confident like nothing had just happened between them.
“No,” she replied too fast. “I’m good.”
“You don’t seem good.”
“I said I’m fine, but thanks.” She shot him a stiff sneer, trying to slam the door on him.
He pushed the door open. “Try turning it over again.”
“Please, just go.”
Ignoring her, he focused on the car’s dashboard, investigating.
It was either him or a tow truck, she grasped, which would be way out of her budget. So, she reluctantly obeyed, letting him lean in over her to assess the angry flickering lights on the dash and the corresponding dying noise that the car was making.
“Ah, this looks familiar,” he confirmed, leaning back. “Get out, champ.”
From her seated position, she gazed up to where he stood, realizing she was stuck between a rock and a hard place—or his rock-solid body and that hard-on she’d clearly given him earlier. The warm and intoxicating scent drifting off his body made her woozy.
“Come on. Let’s go.”
“I don’t have time for this.” Alisa then let out an exasperated sigh, beating her head against the steering wheel.
The last thing she needed was to miss out on studying and show up the next day unprepared. That would really be the icing on the proverbial shit cake.
“Time or not, this is happening.” Warren’s deep voice permeated the space between them.
Reaching down, he unbuckled her seat belt and offered his hand. Chivalrous. Her mouth watered just a little bit, but she shook her head. It was peculiar how she continued to feel both extremely sloppy and very captivated.
“Fine,” she relented, stumbling out of the car.
Falling into him, he grinned down on her, unwilling to budge and clearly as entertained as fuck.
“Ah, a sadist—” she griped as she pushed off him.
He roughly grabbed her shoulder, moving her away from the car to give himself space, making her quiver.
“Kill me now,” she whispered to herself, mostly sure he didn’t hear it as he dove into the driver’s seat.
“How old is this puppy?” he called up to her while investigating the cause of her car problems.
“We’ve had it for fifteen years,” she admitted. “It was nice when we got it. My mother drove it for years before…”
Then she stopped. That wasn’t something she wanted to get into.
She hoped he hadn’t noticed. Maybe he was as bad at reading people as she was.
A silence growing between them, the rugged, tall man ejected out of her small economy car, moving over to pop the hood. Through his thin gray T-shirt, she could see the definition rippling up and down his core. He was solid and athletic, and she bit her lip as she found herself unable to look away, kind of in disbelief. That only intensified when he shot her that icy blue gaze, amplified by his outdoorsy tan.
“Before? Before what?” he cross-examined, reaching into the car’s engine, yanking at something.
Alisa felt her throat constrict. He didn’t miss a beat, did he?
“You going to finish that sentence?” Warren followed up, standing straight.
“It used to be my mother’s before she passed away,” Alisa let it out finally. “I guess that’s been just about four years now.”
Warren’s body stilled as he was watching her. “I’m sorry.”
She let herself breathe in slowly. Cancer was a bitch. Everyone was sorry. That was something they all said when they heard, but it just felt different coming from him. It felt more intense. More real. Like he meant it, truly meant it.
Like he’d lost someone as well.
“Thanks.” Alisa nodded slowly, observing him turn back to the engine.
But then a weird laugh escaped her lips as she blurted out, “I’m just wondering who’s going to be next…me?”
Warren’s blue eyes caught her once more, throwing her balance off. Then he turned back to his work, not replying to her offbeat remark. She sucked in a breath, feeling ten times more self-conscious than before. Now she looked like the psycho.
She wasn’t a fucking people-person.
As he worked wordlessly, she relocated into the shade by his house, still just feet away from him. Then, he stood up, striding to look for something in his garage. As he walked by, she couldn’t help but blurt out what was on her mind.
“So, you’re a SEAL—” she started, but he shot her a glare, telling her to stop.
“Keep that quiet.”
“Why’d you tell me, then?”
He shrugged, reaching for a wrench on his workbench before turning back to the car.
“I just had to trust you,” he replied, giving her a warm and fuzzy feeling all over her body.
As he bent back over the engine, he fired her an expression that screamed ‘don’t fuck with my trust’.
His muscular arms deep in the block, she couldn’t help but admire. That same wetness in her pussy tingled. Damn, special forces, huh?
It didn’t take Warren much longer before he stood, wiping sweat off his brow while leaving a dash of engine grease on the side of his face.
He nodded at the car. “This should be enough to get you going for now, but you’re going to need to get this car to a shop—or a junkyard.”
Alisa let out a breath. The shop meant more expenses, more money she needed to beg for. And she couldn’t go without a car. Her body language certainly didn’t disguise her distress.
He watched her, assessing.
“Look… I could do the work. It’s fixable. I just have to get a part.”
“Really?” She parted her lips, apparently trying to understand his offer.
“Sure.”
“But, why? What’s in it for you?”
“Well”—his grin widened, and he nodded back to his house—“come back and finish the job. I think you left a few spots.”
He trailed his gaze up and down her body again, and she stiffened. That’s what he wanted.
“You in?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I wouldn’t wear this again.”
“Thank fucking God.”
Alisa narrowed her eyes on him, issuing a warning.
He grinned back, like he couldn’t give a fuck less.
Dogged, his gaze tracked her as she strode to the driver’s door, opening it. Everything in her body screamed ‘get the fuck out as quickly as possible’. She’d learned her lesson against inexplicable generosity. She’d learned what happened when you got sucked down a rabbit hole, indebted.
“Thanks for your help,” she concluded, a little pinched. “If I don’t see you, best of luck.”
“No problem. You, too.”
Her heart racing, she plopped into her driver’s seat. Thankfully, the engine turned, and it actually sounded better than it had before. He crossed his arms, watching her reverse out of his driveway, and offered her a curt nod as she drove off.
Her heart thumping out of her chest, she couldn’t keep her eyes off the rear-view mirror, watching the striking man standing there, his gaze never drawing away. It was only once she got out of view that she felt the tension in her body release. When she yanked her hair elastic out and let her locks cascade over her shoulders, there was something curious that endured in her heart.
Again, she found herself asking, but meaning something different from before—who is this guy?
Chapter Five
Alisa
Alisa draped her pink stethoscope around her neck as she took the patient summary being handed to her. It was time for morning rounds in the wards of the hospital, and among the circle of final-year med students, she was trying to wrap her head around what the hell was wrong with their young patient.
“Callum presented to the ER with severe abdominal pain,” the lead student explained at his mobile laptop stand, reading the electronic chart. “He’s been admitted for three days and so far, we’ve done scopes, scans and biopsies to determine the cause of his pain.”
“Tumor?” one of the students asked.
“Doesn’t look like it, but we are waiting on biopsy results,” the lead answered before continuing, updating the group on the details of the procedure that had taken place the day prior.
Alisa observed Dr. Zucker, a pediatrician, in the background scribbling notes into his journal, ostensibly grading student participation. This was what the end of med school had been like—real-life experience on the cusp of final exams next month. They’d all write their exams, hopefully get licensed as medical doctors and proceed to residency, where they’d finally be earning salaries. Meager salaries, but at least that meant Alisa wouldn’t be begging for help and eating ramen noodles twice a day.
Before the group moved on to the next patient, Dr. Zucker pulled her aside. The other students shot her the side-eye, and she knew what they were thinking. Everyone was getting nervous about residency and getting a good spot. In fact, things had grown quite competitive between the students as the doctors graded their aptitudes.
“Alisa, I want you to check in on Callum with me this morning,” Dr. Zucker said, closing his journal.
She took in a deep breath, knowing that it was going to be another critical moment in her assessment. More and more, the doctors were requesting that med students get more hands-on with patients. By that point, it was like an on-the-job interview for residency. That only made her all the more nervous.
“Okay.” She nodded, following the lean, mature man into the patient room.
Don’t fuck it up. Don’t fuck it up—caution and self-doubt bounced through her mind. She chewed her lip, trying to dig deep into those books she’d read on how to become a people-person, how to improve her bedside manner—that little thing that she’d never thought mattered…until it had started proving to be the difference between a job offer and bust.
Dr. Zucker pulled out his journal again, ushering Alisa forward to the sick boy’s bedside. She greeted him stiffly, trying not to show her nerves. Reviewing his vitals, she began robotically asking him how he was feeling.
“It hurts…a lot,” Callum groaned, grabbing at his gut, his thirteen-year-old eyes blinking in agony.
“He’s in a lot of pain,” the teen’s mother restated, clutching at his blanket. “Isn’t there anything you can do?”
Alisa checked his pain medication record, shaking her head. He’d been receiving lots of narcotics—too many. She shot Dr. Zucker a look. Who signed off on that? The hospital typically sought to administer narcotics sparingly on teens, given the addiction rates.
Dr. Zucker widened his eyes—telling her to answer the mother.
“I’m sorry, Callum,” she reluctantly spoke after an awkward break in the conversation. The air felt stale. “All we can offer you at this point is more Tylenol, because you’ve already had the maximum of these other drugs.”
“I don’t want Tylenol!” Callum cried out, coiling and sobbing. “I want more of that!”
He pointed at the IV drip, and she knew he was angling for more narcotics.
Alisa stepped forward, taking his pulse, checking his oxygen. Was he faking it? Was he trying to squeeze her for drugs? That was unfortunately something they saw from time to time, especially when there was no clear answer as to what ailed the patient.
“Callum, we’ll get to the bottom of this one way or another,” she said, too much suspicion in her tone. “For now, you just have to muscle through.”
“What does that mean?” his mother demanded, picking up on her subtle message. “How can you say that?”
“Alisa.” Dr. Zucker’s tone was challenging, urging her to explain herself.
She fumbled, her eyes darting back and forth.
“We see a lot of cases,” Alisa started, trying to find the right words. “And in your case, I think you can get through the pain as best as you can. I think you’ll just have to deal with it until we have answers.”
“Alisa”—Dr. Zucker stepped forward, pointing at the door—“a word.”
The boy’s sobbing behind her escalated as the pediatrician escorted her out of the room, taking her aside in the hallway to have a conversation. His face didn’t read happy.
“You can’t talk to patients like that, especially children!”
“He’s thirteen,” Alisa offered, as if that would save her.
“Exactly, Alisa—he’s only thirteen. You can’t make a child feel like they are making up stories about their pain, and you certainly can’t make them feel like you aren’t willing to help them,” Dr. Zucker said. “You are one of my brightest students, but your head needs to get out of textbooks and into reality. This isn’t how we deal with people.”
“I’m— I’m sorry,” she said, but was cut off by the lead med student, who’d suddenly appeared.
Dr. Zucker turned to him, receiving an update from the biopsy.
“The results are in, doctor— Callum has an atypical bacterial infection at the base of his stomach. We should be able to resolve this quickly with antibiotics,” the med student explained, trying to keep his eyes averted from Alisa. He definitely knew she was getting in shit.
“That explains the pain.” Dr. Zucker flashed back at Alisa, sending her a clear look.
She’d failed the test. A little part of her dropped to its death inside her. I’m hopeless.
Dr. Zucker turned to head back into the patient room to deliver the news. Alisa moved to follow him, but he stopped her.
“I think I should do this alone,” he said, his expression disappointed. “You know, Alisa, you are at the top of the heap in academics, but you won’t get far if you can’t find a way to round yourself out.”
“And how do you suggest I do that?”
He flipped his journal, shrugging slightly. “Spend more time with people.”
Then he marched into the patient room.
Chagrined, Alisa lumbered behind the nurse’s counter to grab her bag. It was time for a break. She needed some air. She needed to think.
Time and time again, her bedside manner was proving to be problematic. She just wasn’t good at it, she grumbled silently to herself, walking out of the ward’s locked doors. Her dream of becoming an effective physician was threatened by the fact that with others, she was too cool, too unfeeling—not nearly friendly and sympathetic enough.
Pacing down one of the quieter hospital corridors, she tugged her cell phone out of her bag for needed distraction. There was nothing more depressing than working so damn hard and still feeling like a failure. She sifted through app notifications, none of them social, but she wasn’t able to analyze much because a call from a blocked number came through.
“Hello,” she answered.
Warren’s deep voice came through the line. “What are you doing later? I’ve got the part for your car.”
A little smile spanned Alisa’s lips.
“I can’t,” she replied slowly, wondering how he’d gotten her number. Maybe Maria gave it to him.
“Tomorrow morning?”
She bit her lip, wondering what the hell to do. What was his endgame?
“You in?” he probed. “This kitchen sure as hell needs a cleaning.”
“Okay, fine. Tomorrow,” she squeaked, resolving to finish what she’d started.
Immediately, manic butterflies unsettled her stomach. The unbelievable reality dawned on her. She’d just made plans to return to him.
“One more thing,” he said, smooth as silk, “what do you like in your coffee?”
The question drew a curious laugh out of her, throwing her off guard. She subdued it, trying to correct herself.
“Cream—and lots of it,” she grinned, reaching a little too hard for her answer.
He offered her a chuckle in return as he ended the call, but it didn’t help. As she stared at the screen of her cell phone, she found herself shuddering. Cream—and lots of it? Why the hell did she say that? That wasn’t funny or cool. Grumbling to herself for being so weird, she anxiously flipped back to her notifications for a diversion. It hadn’t turned out to be a great morning for interpersonal skills.
