Chapter 13

“Can I talk to you?”Josh asked from beside me, catching me by surprise as I was in the midst of going over some intel on the screen that had come in overnight.

“Of course, what’s up? Is it the team?”

“No, August.”

Fear gripped me. “What’s wrong?” I had a million scenarios clamoring for superiority—he needed another op; he was dying; he was?—

“He needs a shower.”

I blinked at Josh. “He needs a what now?”

Josh shrugged. “A shower.”

“Okay, and…”

“Doc Jen got a face full of protein drink, and Dr. Simmons backed out of August’s room after he was threatened with physical violence.”

“But he’s weak as a kitten.”

Josh huffed. “Try telling that to the wall with a food tray embedded in it.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, oh. Anyway, the rest of the team is out, and you’re the only one who…” He waved a hand at me.

“Who what?”

He waggled his hand. “The only one not out on a job, who can duck fast enough when a tray is heading your way?”

I rolled my eyes at that. “Bum knee, remember?” I reminded him, but he scrunched his nose, then thrust something at me.

“Cover for the bandages, and there are waterproof dressings in August’s bathroom for him.”

“But—”

“So, you’ll handle it?”

“I guess so, I?—”

“Cool,” he said, then backed away. “And if anything happens to you, I’ll make sure it’s a huge funeral.” Then, he jogged around the corner, and I was left clutching plastic wrap and knowing my morning wasn’t going to be about coffee, muffins, and intelligence-gathering, but about getting one pissed-as-hell SEAL into a shower.

I headed to my room first, changing out of combats and into loose sweats and a tee, then headed out, only stopping to pick up a deck of cards with some nebulous idea that I could con him into letting me help him. Poker was my thing.

I knocked, but didn’t wait for a polite anything from inside, before strolling in as if I was supposed to be there.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Surely, the Geneva convention stops torture?”

“I’m reading.”

“Exactly.”

He was in bed, and it was clear he was less than pleased with his current situation. I couldn’t blame him; being stuck in a hospital room wasn’t anyone’s idea of a good time. I pointed at the dent in the wall, traced the shape of it.

“Tray frisbee, eh?”

I saw a brief flash of shame, and then, he stiffened and ignored me, so I decided to shake things up a bit.

“Poker,” I announced, then pulled his medical table over him and climbed up to sit cross-legged on his bed, awkward with my bandaged knee, nudging his leg until he shifted, wincing with each wriggle. I was done with him sitting there in misery, and if a shower was what he wanted, and if being on his own was what he wanted, then we’d play for that.

“You need to get your head out of your ass,” I muttered, then slapped the cards onto the table, picking up various meds and the nasty thick drink he was supposed to be downing. Grumpy August didn’t seem too thrilled with the idea—it was clear he wasn’t in the mood for a game of cards. Nevertheless, I was determined to coax him out of his funk, and maybe even get a smile out of him.

He shot me a pointed stare. “Fuck off.” His voice was laced with discomfort as he shifted in bed and stared out of the window.

“Come on, Navy, don’t be a wimp,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. “A friendly game of poker can do wonders for the soul. And besides, it’ll take your mind off things and stop me reading to you all at the same time.”

August winced again as he moved. I leaned over him and the table and fussed with his pillow before raising the bed.

“You know, I could kill you with one hand,” he groused, but I could see the shakiness in said hand, and there was no way he had more strength than me.

“Then, I’d have to kill you back.”

He sighed in annoyance. “But you’d already be dead.”

“I’d manage.”

I dealt the cards and glanced at August, who stared down at them as if I’d offered him a hand grenade. “Texas Hold’em. Two hole cards for each of us, five community cards on the table. Standard rules apply, folks. No wild cards, and when I win, I get to help you to the shower.”

His gaze sharpened. “What?”

“You want a shower. I win I help you; you win, you help yourself with me sitting here in case. Take it or leave it.”

I couldn’t help but notice the slight tremor in August’s hand as he picked up the cards and held them close to his chest, frowning at his hands, then at me, with stubborn determination that I shouldn’t witness any sign of weakness. It was a trait we both shared, but right now, it was working against him. He peeked at the cards, and his expression gave nothing away, even as I studied his face for any hints. He had more color today, and I checked the calendar on the wall, day seventeen, and the gaunt post-op style he’d had going on was more like getting-better-style. Doc Jen said he could have a shower now but added that he wouldn’t let anyone help him out of bed, not even his PT, who was just about ready to kill a SEAL.

“One hand.”

His eyes widened, and I could see he was torn between telling me to fuck off again, and as he glanced at the bathroom door, pleading with me to go now.

“I’ll get myself to the shower.”

I huffed my disbelief. “You can’t even get out of bed on your own.”

“I can.”

“No, you can’t.”

“I’m not an invalid.”

“You are.”

“Fuck you.”

Not this again. “Fuck you back,” I deadpanned, and he scowled.

“One hand,” he muttered.

“One.”

“And when I win, I’ll let you help me to the door, and that’s as far as it goes.”

“Yep, I’ll wait outside.”

He jutted his chin. “I’m locking the door.”

“Then I’ll shoot it open.”

His lips thinned, but he didn’t even offer a fuck you; instead, he cursed under his breath and ignored me.

For a while, August was still uncomfortable, his focus on the cards, rather than the banter. But as the game progressed, I couldn’t resist making more remarks. “You know, August, you should consider a career in professional poker. You’ve got the perfect unreadable poker face.”

“Torture training,” he said.

My mouth fell open. “Wait, was that a joke? Did the big bad Navy SEAL make a joke?” I made a show of turning on the bed and cupping my mouth to call, “Guys! Get in here! Navy made a joke!” Of course, it wasn’t loud enough for people to come running, but it was more than adequate to cause the corner of August’s mouth to twitch. One day, I’d get him to smile.

I bet he had a gorgeous smile.

Oh god, what if he had dimples? I had this thing for dimples.

And pretty dark gray eyes.

And unruly, flicky brown hair.

And the body of an athlete covered in scars from when he’d been brave or stupid, or both.

As the game continued, August’s shoulders lowered, and he actually got into the game, despite the shakiness of his hands. When he laid down a four of a kind, which beat my flush, he left out a soft whoop of victory, winced, cursed, and when he was done with that, raised an eyebrow.

“Well, lookee there,” he drawled in his best approximation of a southern accent, which wasn’t much better than mine. “Seems like Navy beat Army. Again.”

It was a small victory, but I was happy to let him have it.

“Best of three?” I asked, and he glanced at the bathroom door. “Or you wanna try and get in the shower now?”

He wouldn’t meet my steady gaze, but he gave a short, sharp, nod. “You can help me to the door,” he said as if he was bestowing a great gift.

I scooted off the bed, my leg itching like mad where the plastic I’d already covered it with was making me sweat. There was no way he was getting into that shower alone, and I was about ready for anything he’d throw at me.

“Sure thing, lieutenant.”

“What are you?” he asked, curious, and I blinked at him, not sure what he was asking. “Your rank I mean.”

“Specialist,” I said. “Comm.”

“Okay,” he said, as if that was somehow important. He outranked me, but that didn’t mean I’d stop reading to him if he ordered me to.

Reading kept me sane, and it beat sitting there in silence.

I pushed the table out of his way—at least he wasn’t on an IV, which would have added issues—then with a gentle touch, I helped him swing his legs over the edge of the bed, making sure he was steady, and his breathing wasn’t labored before we attempted to get off the bed, let alone make the journey to the shower. Each movement was cautious, his muscles still healing from the surgery, and when his feet touched the floor, he leaned into me. The soft shuffle of his footsteps and the clunkiness of my limp echoed in the room, and his hospital gown hung loose on him, not tied at the back in any way. I gripped the material together as best I could, but he was in a world of his own, determined to battle to the bathroom, which was maybe ten steps from his bed. August’s breaths were measured, his muscles tensing with each step, but I could feel his determination.

As we reached the bathroom, I took his entire weight as I opened the door, revealing the small, tiled shower room, and he gasped. I stopped, but I realized all that had happened was that he’d caught his reflection in the mirror, and he hesitated for a moment, raising a shaking hand to the beard that had stolen his face.

“Shit,” he muttered, and I glanced at the reflection, not seeing anything past the fact that he’d made it this far, and he was alive.

“You want a shave?”

“I want…” His breathing hitched, and I checked his expression for signs of distress. Doc Jen had warned me that this was going to be shit, but she couldn’t know how I felt having this man leaning on me, in my arms, relying on me to help. With utmost care, I helped him under the shower, thankful it was all in one room, and not behind a glass door, with no steps to get over. “You can go now,” he said, gripping a handrail, hunching over it, cursing again.

“Not going anywhere.”

“Get out.”

“Jesus, Navy, you’re an idiot.”

He tilted his chin, stubborn ass, and I closed the door behind us, then locked it, and his expression turned mutinous.

“Sit down,” I said, and eased him onto a chair in the corner, rummaging for the electric shaver.

“I can shave myself,” he snapped, but when I handed the shaver to him, the thing fell into his lap. I picked it up, then tilted his face with a finger under his chin. Then, with care, I ran the shaver over August’s face, trying to keep my hand steady. “You know, it’s been a while since you’ve had a shave,” I said.

He grunted in agreement, which was better than him cursing me.

August winced as the razor buzzed over his skin near a healing cut. At least the bruises on his face had gone.

“We’ll get you cleaned up. You’ll feel better after this.”

August responded with another sigh and a muttered thank you, but he didn’t open his eyes all the time I was this close to him shaving, at least not until I was done. When he looked at me, I could see the lighter ring around his pupils, and the way they darkened into a stormy gray, and I was lost in his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded, raising a hand to his chin.

“Just checking,” I excused my staring, then flicked on the shower, turning the head to the drain so it didn’t fall on him yet, and tested the warmth of it. He reached, shaking, the water cascading over his fingers, splashing him, wetting his gown, and he shivered.

“It’s perfect temperature,” I said.

“You can leave now,” he murmured and struggled to stand.

“Yeah, no.” I said, then stepped close to him, tugging at the gown, and easing it off his shoulders. He struggled to hold himself back, but then, something passed between us, him backing down, me not giving him quarter, and at last, it fell to the floor, revealing the bandage covering his healing wound. “Doc said we need to shield this,” I explained, and making sure he had hold of the grab rail, I took the plastic wrap and made quick and efficient work of covering him up, front and back, stripped off my sweats down to my boxers and T-shirt, and then, as detached as I could be, I supported him to stand under the water for as long as he could.

As August was under the soothing stream, his expression was a mix of relief and exhaustion. The warmth of it cascading over his body seemed to ease some of the tension that had built up during his hospital stay. His eyes were closed, and his expression wasn’t quite so tight. I took his hand and squeezed gel into it, causing him to open his eyes and stare at me.

“It’s okay,” I murmured and rubbed my hand on his to make the suds, and he ran his free hand down his chest, then sagged against me. I braced myself and knew this wasn’t going to work—hell, it was never going to work—but he kind of needed to work that out for himself. “I can help.”

“You wanna clean my junk?” he snarled.

“I’ve seen cocks before, and not just Navy ones, but real Army ones,” I deadpanned.

We were in an epic face-off, and then, he snorted a laugh as if he couldn’t believe what his options were. “Fuck me,” he muttered.

“I expect dinner first.”

I eased his death grip on the support rail, sat him down on the seat there, and made sure I was braced against the tiled wall, ignoring the throbbing in my knee, and washed him carefully, with so many bubbles the bathroom was steamy with citrus. I tried to maintain a sense of impersonal care, even though my heart was pounding with emotions I couldn’t express. I focused on the task at hand, on being as gentle as possible. My gaze was fixed on the washcloth, not daring to look at the skin I was touching, because being this close to August was messing with my head. My soapy fingers traced the contours of his body, but it was all in the name of helping him, of aiding in his recovery.

At least, that was what I was telling myself.

I couldn’t allow my own feelings to complicate things further. So, I kept my voice steady, my touch light, and my eyes averted. It was a difficult balance, cleaning up someone you realized you wanted, but couldn’t fully have, but then, even after don’t ask don’t tell, it wasn’t as if I was new to keeping secrets.

I brought out the big guns—well, a soft sponge anyway—cleaned what I could reach and helped him hold it to wash his boys, supporting him. He was draped over me, and I think he was shaking, although it was difficult to tell under the water.

I could feel the tension in August’s body melting as my fingers worked shampoo through his hair. The warm water cascaded over us, and for a moment, it felt as though we were sharing an intimate and peaceful moment amid the chaos that had defined our connection so far.

As I covered his eyes and rinsed his hair, the only thing holding him upright was the death grip he had on my T-shirt. He murmured something against my neck, but I couldn’t make out the words. I was hyper-aware of the closeness between us. The water droplets glistened on his skin, and I couldn’t help but steal a glance at the man in my arms. August’s face was tilted away from me as I washed. His eyes were closed, and a faint, contented smile tugged at the corner of his lips. It was a rare moment of peace from him.

“Are you okay?” I asked over the noise of the water.

“Gah,” was all he managed, and then, it was all about getting him out of the room, wrapped in towels, and me still dripping wet. I half lifted him to the bed, his heavy ass was drooping, and I eyed the emergency cord for a moment, wondering if I should call someone for help.

But I knew this would be a betrayal of the trust he’d handed to me, so I soldiered on until he was on the edge of the bed, and I helped him sit.

“Stay there,” I ordered.

There was no smart comeback, no sarcasm, not even a faint curse, just him hanging his head, water dripping from his wet hair into the towel around his waist.

I stripped off my wet shirt and jersey shorts, roughly dried my hair and wrapped a towel around my waist. Then, I repeated that for him, well, the hair part, and I toweled him off, then, instead of a hospital gown, I found a long baggy T-shirt and pulled it over his head. I smiled at the image of a unicorn pooping a rainbow on the front, and wondered how that would go down with my big bad SEAL, but for now, he didn’t have a thing to say.

I eased him back into bed, wondered about what he should be wearing under the T-shirt, like sweats or… but after peeling off the wrap, I could see his wound was right where the waist of those would be. Instead, I ran my fingers through August’s hair to straighten its damp length, then helped him into bed, propping him up on the pillows.

“Thirsty? Hungry?” I asked.

He shook his head yawned and closed his eyes. I pulled the blinds to give the illusion it was dusk and not ten in the morning.

By the time I left the room, he was sleeping, the flicks and curls of his hair a dark halo around his pale face.

And by the time I left, my feelings for him had grown way more complicated than respect for his skills.

I think I might be in lust.