A SEAL's Salvation

“You won’t hurt me,” he said with his usual cocky assurance, even though he was nothing but. “You’re not gonna risk your badge, or your self-respect, breaking those laws you love so much.”

At least, Brody hoped he wasn’t. Because Sheriff Reilly looked furious enough to kick his ass inside out, then rip the pieces to shreds.

And then the guy pulled it all in. Brody had to admire that, the way he could control all that fury, channel his emotions. It was seriously impressive. And not because it meant Brody wasn’t gonna get beat up.

“As I see it, I have a couple choices,” the sheriff mused in a cool tone. “I can do just what you said, and accept the results of those risks. Or I can make sure you get outta here.”

“And I have no choice in leaving?”

“Actually, you do have a choice. You can choose army or navy. But that’s about as much say as you’re gonna get in this.”

Brody laughed. There wasn’t a damned thing funny in the sheriff’s expression, but that had to be a joke. The guy could toss him in jail; he could probably get away with kicking his ass. But he couldn’t force him to join the military.

“I’m not soldier material.”

The sheriff smiled his agreement. “You’re gonna be.”

“Or?”

Reilly nodded, clearly pleased that Brody saw the reality. This was definitely an either-or situation.

“Or I haul your ass in on statutory rape charges. Genna’s seventeen.”

“We didn’t—” Brody bit the words off, not about to share details of just what they had and hadn’t done. “I didn’t rape your daughter.”

“Legal semantics,” Reilly mused. “Statutory rape might not denote force, but that word, it’s a lightning rod. And a case like this, the town bad boy and a straight-A student, a vulnerable girl whose life is now ruined? That’ll make the news. Throw in your record, your rumored gang affiliation? I’ll bet this goes national. Won’t that be interesting? All that attention here on Bedford. Bet your gramma will be bursting with pride. She got anything left to sell off to pay legal fees?”

Brody swore a blue streak, yanking out every cussword and vile epithet he knew. The cop didn’t blink.

By most accounts, Sheriff Reilly was a fair cop. He cozied up tight to the letter of the law and prided himself on his position in town. But Joe had said more than once that his old man was a prick who cared more about appearances, about that precious rep of his, than he did his family. That he’d do anything to keep their reputation as shiny bright as he did his badge.

But Brody couldn’t believe that included punishing his daughter with public humiliation.

Or maybe he just didn’t want to believe it.

But shock didn’t blunt his anger. He’d done a lot of shit in his life that probably deserved punishment. But not tonight. Not like this.

His gramma didn’t hold out a lot of hope that her family would meet any decent standards. But having her grandson branded a rapist would pretty much kill her.

Genna would be publicly humiliated, dragged through the drama of a court hearing. She’d have to face reporters and gossips and nastiness in the form of support. Brody had seen plenty of that over the years, the gleeful joy others took in their hypocritical sympathy.

Numb, as if the fury had pounded itself out against his temples, he met Reilly’s eyes. Brody wasn’t a poker player, but he was the product of violence. He knew absolute determination when it stared back at him.

If he didn’t fall in line, he’d pay.

And he was fine with that.

But Genna and Gramma Irene would pay, too.

Trapped, Brody quit struggling against the cuffs. His shoulders sank low and for the first time in his life, he felt defeated.

He vowed then and there that this was the last time he would ever let his dick get him in trouble.

3

The Present

“YOU BLOW MY MIND, DUDE. We’ve been on this aircraft carrier for what? All of a day and you’re already making trouble?”

“Trouble? Dude, that wasn’t trouble. Believe me, I know the difference.” Petty Officer First Class Brody Lane, call sign Bad Ass, dropped to his rack with a grin, folding his hands behind his head and crossing his booted ankles.

“Farm Boy said some wet-behind-the-ears recruit threatened to kick your ass.” Masters gestured to their teammate who’d returned from the poker game a few minutes before Brody.

Their SEAL team had hitched a ride on a navy aircraft carrier on their way back from a training mission. And while they weren’t treated as dignitaries as they crossed the Atlantic, they were given a ten-man berthing area to use instead of having to bunk with the rest of the sailors.

“What’d you do, tell everyone between mess deck and our berth?”

Carter just smiled. Gossiping like an old lady clearly didn’t faze him. With that fresh face of his, it was hard to believe he was a SEAL. Hell, it was hard to believe he was even old enough to serve, let alone two years older than Brody’s twenty-nine.

“It was getting interesting, with the recruit mouthing off. And Bad Ass just sitting there counting his winnings. I thought the kid was gonna dive across the table. Then Bad Ass stood up and the wuss realized he was in serious danger of getting his ass handed to him.”

“He was a NUB, Farm Boy. He didn’t know any better.” Brody had been a NUB, or new useless body, once. Fresh out of boot camp and on his first tour, thinking he was ready to take on anything. Anyone.

That kind of thinking had been forcefully adjusted pretty fast.

“Why are you playing with recruits?” Masters asked.

“I’d already cleaned out the officers,” Brody admitted with a grin.

“Trouble,” Masters muttered again, but he was laughing as he said it.

“We don’t reach port till morning. What was I supposed to do? Sit in here like a good boy reading a book?” And the crew was providing Brody with a fat wad of poker winnings.

Masters snickered, then angled the book to one side. “I wasn’t reading a book. I’m writing home.”

Brody gave a jerk of his shoulder to show it was all the same to him. Truth be told, in his ten years of service he’d read a lot more books than he’d written letters home.

“You settle it or are we gonna be getting company?”

“It’s done. He just didn’t like losing.” Too bad, since Brody liked winning. Not enough to cheat, though. He didn’t need to. He was damned good. Something he made a point of being, with anything he cared about. Thankfully, that list was pretty short, so he wasn’t spreading himself too thin.

“Mail call.”

“You get demoted to mailman?” Brody grinned at Lieutenant Blake Landon. As officers went, the guy was all G.I. As friends went, Blake was aces.

“Nah, I came to make sure you weren’t hiding a body.”

“Did you have to tell everybody?” Brody gave Carter an exasperated look.

“I heard one of the seamen talking about a hosing some booter got in a poker game and how he was schooled by some visiting badass.”

“And used mail delivery as an excuse to come by to make sure I didn’t do more than pull rank?” Brody guessed.

“Maybe I just wanted to see your pretty face,” Blake shot back, dumping a handful of letters on Brody’s cot. “Or find out if you’d lost a bet and had to find yourself some pen pals. You’re not known for your communication skills, pal.”

“Snipers don’t have to do a whole lot of socializing.”

“Good thing. ’Cause you suck at it.”

True. Probably another reason that Brody almost never got mail. He didn’t do relationships. Oh, the occasional weekend fling or a few dates, but no woman had been able to hold his interest longer than a leave lasted. Definitely not long enough to reach the letter-sending stage. Sure, his gramma sent a letter and cookies every month, something that still made him squirm a little. But nobody else wrote. Hell, everyone else he knew was navy. His team here on the ship, or his platoon back in Coronado.

He snatched up the letters, all four of them, and glanced at the package. Yep, cookies from Irene. He tossed her letter on top of the box to read later and thumbed through the others. His brow creased. They all had Bedford return addresses. Two he recognized.

“Letters from home?”

Brody lifted the two while frowning at the third. “Guys I used to run with. I didn’t know they could write.”

“And that one?” Blake asked, poking his finger toward the last, the one with the flowing feminine writing. “Girlfriend?”

“From Bedford?” Brody’s laugh held no humor. “Hardly.”

No need to say more than that. Once, on a drunken bender, Brody had shared the details of his first hitch in the navy with Blake. Since the lieutenant had about the same love for his hometown and the people there, he’d gotten it.

Blake, ever the Boy Scout, didn’t push the uncomfortable subject. Instead, he thumped his knuckles on the box he’d delivered.

“You bringing the cookies to Friday’s poker game?” he asked, referring to their monthly game whenever they were on base in Coronado.

“Without a doubt,” Brody confirmed. Irene’s snickerdoodles were worth a buck apiece; her macadamia white chocolate anted up for five. And her fudge brownies? Those babies were pure gold.

Blake handed the other guys their much bigger bundles of mail and, after warning Brody to stay out of trouble, left them to enjoy their letters from home.

And Brody to stare at his.

The only woman who’d ever written him was his grandmother.

Not because he avoided women. But letter writing was nowhere on the list of things he did with them. Nope, they were a sweeter treat than the box full of cookies sitting on Brody’s pillow. And they lasted about as long, too.

While Masters and Carter ripped through their mail, Brody looked at the envelope again.

Curiosity fought intuition. He wanted to know what woman’d be writing to him. But he had a strong feeling that opening that letter was gonna end up on his already-too-long list of things he regretted.

So he tossed it on his pillow, tearing open the one from Skeet Magee instead. It didn’t take long to skim the page. There were only a handful of sentences.

Shit.

He blew out a heavy breath, hoping it’d relieve some of the pressure suddenly pushing on his chest.

He hated death.

Brody stared at the wall, seeing nothing but a gray blur.

He’d served on dozens of missions in his five years as a SEAL. He’d killed, and he’d watched death. He’d lost buddies and he’d mourned. That was the name of the game. A simple fact every soldier, sailor and military personnel faced.

So why was this hitting him so hard?

Knowing who the third letter was from now, filled with even more reluctance than before, he lifted the slender envelope off his pillow. The soft scent of something flowery filled his senses. Whether it was the paper itself or just a memory, he didn’t know.

Sorta as though he was in a dream, Brody slid his nail under the flap, careful not to tear the writing. Wetting his lips, he took a breath and pulled out the letter.

Dear Brody,

I know it’s been a long time, and I’m sure I’m the last person you want to hear from. But I felt it was important that I write, that I let you know that we’ve lost Joe. He never quite made it out of that self-destructive cycle, and after you left town, he sank deeper into ugly gang activity. He was in San Quentin on robbery charges and got killed last month in a fight.

I know the two of you stayed in touch. I found your letters, a couple of photos, in Joe’s things.

Please, write me back.

It was like being sucked, unwillingly, into a pit of memories. None good, except the ones that involved tasting Genna. Brody didn’t deny his life before the navy. He wasn’t proud of it, but neither was he ashamed.

But Genna was more than just a specter from his past.

He didn’t think about her every day. He didn’t dream about her every night. He wasn’t that big of a sap. But he wasn’t a liar either.

He thought of her.

A lot.

Too much.

In the navy, he’d found his calling. He’d found his pride. He’d found himself.

And in a weird way, he had Genna Reilly to thank for it.

But he couldn’t.

It was easier to keep the door to the past closed. To try not to think about her, or everything that’d led up to his ignominious entry into the navy. Too much.

And now Joe was dead.

And Genna wanted him to write her back.

Why?

What the hell was there to say?

Why’d they have to kick that door open?

All of a sudden, fury like he hadn’t felt in years pounded through him.

“Genius, got something I can write with?”

Masters spun a pad of paper across the room, Frisbee-style. Brody caught the pen that followed, glaring at them both for a second before taking a breath.

He sketched out a short sentence. Then, still riding on a wave of anger he couldn’t explain, he shoved the paper into an envelope, used Genna’s as a reference to address it and licked it closed.

Then, ignoring his cookie ante and the other letters, he headed for the gym to beat the hell out of something. Anything. Sweat, hard work and pushing his physical limits had saved him before. Maybe it would again.

* * *

GENNA REILLY HATED DATING. Seriously hated it. She’d almost be willing to marry the next guy who asked just to never have to date again. Almost.

It wasn’t the interaction that bothered her―she loved people. And it wasn’t that she was anti-relationships. She’d had a few, she’d given them her all. But inevitably they’d left her wondering what was the point. Now, she was just holding out for a great relationship. Her dream relationship. Which didn’t include this “good-night at the door” awkwardness that made her want to scream.

“This was great. I’m glad we finally got to go out,” Stewart said in a hearty tone, one foot forward already prepared to follow her into the house. For what? Coffee? They’d had it with dessert. A second round of dessert on her couch? Ha. Genna didn’t think so.

“Thanks so much for the lovely evening.” Before he could lean in for a kiss, Genna offered her brightest smile and slipped through the screen door, keeping her expression cheerful and giving a little finger wave. After a long second and a flash of irritation, he nodded and turned to go. She waited only until he cleared the bottom step before shutting the door.

Leaning against it, she held her breath and listened for the sound of his car. Too many of the guys she dated seemed to choose this point in the evening to suddenly forget their cell phones and need to make a call, or have a bathroom emergency, or worse, think she needed convincing that the night was so awesome it couldn’t be over yet.

“Fun time?”

Genna pried her lids open to give her temporary roommate a dead-eyed stare.

“Fun? The guy collects troll dolls, Macy.”

The pretty brunette snickered once before plastering a proper look of conciliatory concern on her face. It was hard to hold it with all that newly engaged, soon-to-be-a-bride smugness she was wallowing in, though.

“Troll dolls? Those ugly little things with all the hair? He was probably just joking. C’mon, he’s an attorney with great prospects. I don’t think you’re giving him a chance.”

Genna wrinkled her nose. How much of a chance did a girl have to give? Either the guy made her heart go pitty-pat or he didn’t. And Stewart definitely didn’t. Genna wanted a guy who made her feel special with just a glance. A guy she could count on to be her own true hero. She shouldn’t have to work at it.

“I went out with him, didn’t I?” She dropped onto the couch next to Macy, who was multitasking her way through addressing her wedding invitations, eating a disgusting-looking diet bar and watching reruns of Friends. “I’d have had a better time staying here with you. Lousy food choices and all.”

“Quite a statement, considering how much you love your food.” Macy winked before taking a bite of the dry-looking carob-coated cardboard she claimed was going to slim her down a dress size in three months. “But one date isn’t enough. You need to give guys more of a chance. When’s the last time you went out with someone a second time?”

Genna sighed. First dates were testing grounds. Nobody got hurt if she said no after a first date. But second dates built expectations. Made guys think there was a chance.

“If I know on the first date that I’m not interested, why would I go on a second date? That just leads to hurt feelings.”

“That’s silly,” Macy said dismissively.

“Oh, yeah? I dated Kyle for a year, and when we broke up, he moved away he was so upset. I dated that dentist for two weeks, and when I didn’t accept his invitation to a cruise to Greece, my mother cried for a week. My father pouted all through Christmas when I didn’t go out with his new deputy after a few dates.” Genna threw her hands in the air, as if to say so there.

“But that’s the point. Those were all perfectly nice guys. I don’t understand why you wouldn’t go out with them longer.”

“Because I didn’t feel anything for them,” Genna said, the words tight with frustration. Why didn’t anyone accept that she didn’t want to settle for just any guy? She wanted a special guy.

“But you’re in a rough place right now. Maybe the date wasn’t that bad, you just didn’t want to be there?”

Although delivered in a gentle tone, the words had the blunt force intensity that only two decades of friendship could offer.

“I’m not in a rough place,” Genna denied. “I just wasn’t interested.”

“And your brother was murdered two months ago,” Macy reminded her quietly.

Genna wanted to ask what that had to do with her lousy date. But they both knew it had everything to do with it.

Stewart Davis had moved to town a year ago. Being a lawyer, he’d gotten to know her father fairly well—and had quickly become the answer to Sheriff and Mrs. Reilly’s prayers. The perfect potential son-in-law.

But Genna had repeatedly turned down his invitations, not interested despite everyone’s claims that they’d be perfect for each other. Until two months ago, after Joe’s funeral. He’d asked her out in front of her father, and the way her dad’s eyes had lit up, she hadn’t been able to refuse.

So in addition to disowning his family, causing no end of stress for their parents, stealing her car and putting her in the unwanted position of the favored perfect child, she was laying blame for this date on Joe, too.

Damn him.

She sniffed, wiping a tear off her chin and looking at her fingers blankly. None of those were things to mourn. Why was she crying?

“It’ll get better,” Macy promised with a sympathetic pat on Genna’s knee. “And your next date will be better, too. Maybe give it a week or so. Give yourself time to heal.”

“I don’t want to go out with Stewart again.”

“You should, though.” Macy shrugged off Genna’s glare. “What? It’s only fair. And your dad wants you to, your mom is over the moon at the idea of you dating a lawyer and you need to do whatever you can right now to help them out, to make them happy.”

She paused and took another bite of her carob-coated cardboard, then offered a questioning look, as if daring Genna to deny it.

She wished she could. She felt like all she did was try to make her parents happy. The worse Joe behaved, the harder it hit their parents. The more miserable they were, the better she behaved to try to make up for it. It’d been a vicious circle.

Joe’s first arrest and time in jail had put their mother in the hospital, making Genna give up her plans for Stanford to stay close to home. Joe’s first stint in rehab had been followed by Genna’s quitting her job in San Diego because the hour-and-a-half commute worried her father. By the time Joe had hit prison, she was working the most boringly safe job imaginable to go with her boringly safe life. It wasn’t as if she wanted to jump out of airplanes or hitchhike across the country. But, man, she wished she had a little excitement in her life.

Instead, she’d been this close to being fitted for wings and a halo when Joe had been killed.

Now she didn’t know where she stood. If he was done behaving horribly, didn’t that mean she could ease up on trying to be perfect? Guilt poured through her, sticky and sour, turning her stomach.

“I’m getting something to eat,” Genna said quickly, pushing off the couch as if she could run from her thoughts.

“You have mail on the counter.”

Genna muttered her thanks as she headed straight for the freezer. She pulled out a pint of double-fudge ice cream, then got the milk from the fridge. She grabbed the jar of caramel sauce she’d made the previous week for good measure. Hopefully, it’d be hard to be sad while slurping down a chocolate milk shake with extra caramel.

Waiting for the blender to work its magic, she flipped through her mail with about as much interest as she’d felt in that date. Which was just about zip.

Then she came to a letter with an APO postal cancellation. There was no name, nor an address, so there was no way to know who it was from.

But she did.

Hands shaking, Genna didn’t even notice dropping the rest of the mail on the counter as she held up the letter in both hands. Heart racing, she wet her lips, wanting to open it. Terrified to see what he’d said.

Ten years ago, Brody Lane had shown her an all-too-brief glimpse of awesome. In return, she’d landed him in the navy. She hadn’t known where he’d gone at first. Partly because she’d spent a month on in-house restriction, partly because nobody—not her parents, not anyone in town, nobody—was saying a word. It wasn’t until Joe had gotten out of the county lockup that he’d told her what Brody had done, had sacrificed. Because of her.

She stared at the letter, a little ragged and worn-looking against the soft pink of her manicure. She was the one who’d made this reconnection by writing him. She’d always wanted to. Always wished she’d had the nerve to tell him she was sorry for her part in landing him in the navy. But she’d been afraid. Afraid he’d hated her for it.

He was like the bridge between the two sides of her life. That side, fabulous and fun, filled with possibilities and excitement and wild times. And this side, with its day-in-and-day-out practicality, focused on doing what was smart, what was right, being perfect.

And she was scared that opening the envelope would somehow suck her right back to the other side of the bridge.

And even more terrified at how much she wanted to go there.

Figuring it’d be confetti soon the way she was shaking, she grabbed her brass letter opener, and with a deep breath, slit the envelope open. She gently pulled the thin paper out and, without blinking, unfolded it.

And stared.

Frowned and blinked. Then stared harder.

“Is he kidding?” she asked the empty room in bafflement.

Then she looked at the paper again.

What are you wearing?

What was she wearing?

That was it?

She’d risked family disapproval, her father’s fury, and had sucked up every last bit of nerve she had to write to him. She’d sent horrible news, informing him of the downward spiral and death of a guy who’d once been his best friend.

And this was how he responded?

Grinding her teeth, Genna held the letter out at arm’s length, peering at it again. But the words didn’t change.

What was she freaking wearing?

Jaw set, more alive than she’d felt in forever, she stormed over to the small rolltop desk in the corner and grabbed her stationery box. She yanked out a sheet of paper, ripping it in the process. She snatched up another and let her pen fly across the page.

She’d show him.

* * *

A teeny, tiny nightie the same shade as your Harley. You remember the Harley, don’t you? Midnight-blue, so pretty it glowed. I used to dream you’d take me for a ride on that bike. In my dreams, I always thanked you by taking you for a ride in return. I could do that, in this little nightie....