Aftershock (8 page)

“What’s this for?”

“Blanket.”

He was used to sleeping on a bare mattress, so he felt
strangely touched by the gesture. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

After he covered his arms with the XL sweatshirt, he closed his
eyes, surprised at how drowsy he was. He thought he’d be nervous and aroused in
her presence, but he was too tired to think about sex. For once.

“I feel safe with you,” she whispered.

It was the last thing he heard before he fell asleep.

* * *

O
WEN
COULDN
’
T
STAND
Jeb
and Mickey.

He’d been unconscious for at least twenty-four hours, and he’d
felt groggy when he’d woken up in the bed of a strange pickup truck. They’d been
treating him like a whipping boy ever since. Get this, do that. Follow orders or
we’ll break the rest of your face.

Although he was accustomed to dealing with loudmouthed
assholes, he was tired and disoriented. He didn’t feel like drinking, and they
were drunk. He wanted to go back to sleep, and they wouldn’t shut the fuck
up.

After what seemed like an eternity, they stopped crashing cars
and burning trash. Unfortunately, neither had been fatally wounded in the
process. They’d gathered around the embers of the fire.

“Make us some food,” Jeb said, poking Owen in the ribs.

Stomach rumbling, Owen got up and searched the box of supplies.
There were three cans of tomato soup. Shrugging, he passed out two and kept one
for himself.

Mickey popped off the top and took a long drink. Making a
choking sound, he tossed the can away. It spilled across the ground, leaving a
mess of thick red liquid. “That tastes like shit,” he said, wiping his
mouth.

Jeb laughed, as if he’d done something funny.

“What the fuck was that, period juice?”

“If it was, you’d lap up every drop.”

“Hell, no, I wouldn’t.”

Jeb looked at Owen. “How about you?”

“What about me?”

“Have you got your red wings?”

Owen wasn’t sure what that meant. He thought it had something
to do with bloody oral sex, which grossed him out. “No.”

“He’s got white wings,” Mickey quipped.

“Fuck you,” Owen said.

Jeb and Mickey both laughed. But Jeb, who wasn’t as stupid as
Mickey, drank his soup without any complaints. When Owen tried to do the same,
Mickey kicked his booted foot. “Fix me something else.”

Owen passed him a package of crackers.

Mickey held it to his groin like an erect penis, grinning.

“Watch out, Owen,” Jeb said. “He likes blondes.”

“I like that blonde doctor,” Mickey agreed. “Let’s pay her
another visit.”

“Shit,” Jeb said. “I should go this time and show you how it’s
done.”

“You think you’d do better?”

“Damn right. You were supposed to knock her out and drag her
off. Instead, you got greedy—and you got caught.”

Owen felt sick, listening to them. He’d heard a lot of cavalier
conversations about rape behind bars, but most of it was just talk. This was
different. There were real, innocent women only a few hundred feet away. It
sounded like Jeb and Mickey had already attacked them. Without a gun, Owen
couldn’t stop them from doing it again.

Mickey touched the bridge of his nose, which he’d bandaged with
some tissue and duct tape. “I should kill that bastard
and
take his woman.”

“You’d better wait until he finds a way out,” Jeb said.

Luckily, they were too inebriated to cause any more trouble.
After a long discussion about tits and ass, they hunkered down to sleep.

It was time to go.

Owen thought about trying to take the gun before he left, but
Jeb kept it hitched in the waistband of his jeans. Owen didn’t want to wake him
up and get shot in the face. No, it was better to slip away. Avoid conflict.

He was an expert at avoiding conflict. As a kid, he’d learned
to keep quiet and go along with his brother’s schemes. He’d known how to hide
from his drunk dad, and when to duck if he couldn’t hide.

Although he hadn’t been able to dodge the cops that day Shane
robbed the liquor store, he’d figured out how to survive in prison. It wasn’t
much different from home: respect those in power. If you can’t beat the gang,
join it. The only other option for a scrawny eighteen-year-old boy was to be
somebody’s bitch.

Needless to say, he chose the gang.

Maybe if he’d been a little older when he’d gotten arrested,
he’d have been able to protect himself. He’d grown five inches and gained fifty
pounds in the three years he’d been incarcerated. Now he was a force to be
reckoned with.

Jeb and Mickey weren’t on his cellblock, or in his crew, so he
owed them no loyalty. They’d been on the same work program, and that was it.
Owen didn’t like rapists, and sure as hell didn’t want to spend his last days
with two of them.

Until now, he hadn’t had a choice.

The first quake had busted up the transport vehicle and killed
the guard instantly. There was a mad scramble to get free. They were chained
together in pairs. Jeb took off with the keys in his hand. Then the aftershock
hit, and Owen got knocked out. If he hadn’t been chained to Mickey, he’d
probably be dead.

Jeb had survived by being a selfish asshole. Mickey, through
brute strength. Owen, by dumb luck.

Owen wasn’t leaving because he didn’t like them. He’d been
tolerating unlikable people his entire life, and he had a high threshold for
stupidity. What he couldn’t tolerate was physical or sexual abuse. His first few
weeks in prison had been torture. Owen refused to be beaten and cowed by anyone,
ever again.

He also thought he had a better chance with the other team.

The fact that Jeb had a gun weighed the odds in the convicts’
favor, so Owen had been reluctant to abandon ship. But then he’d watched Garrett
climb the wall this afternoon, and he’d been struck by inspiration.

He’d figured out how to free them.

Now he knew his best odds at survival lay with the other group.
Sure, they had some weaknesses. Garrett was the only strong one. But he was also
the only one smart enough to look for a way to
escape,
rather than the means to be rescued.

Owen didn’t want to be rescued. He wanted to get the fuck out
of here.

There were a few obstacles. The tattoos that had helped keep
him alive in prison worked against him now. That pregnant girl thought he was
evil, and rightfully so. If Garrett’s group rejected him, he couldn’t go back to
Jeb.

He eased out of the bed of the pickup, taking a backpack with
him. Earlier today, he’d stashed a bottle of water and some chips in it.
Although he tried to step quietly, broken glass crackled beneath his feet. Jeb
rolled over, throwing an arm across Mickey’s shoulder. Mickey made a snuffling
sound, but didn’t awake.

Owen crept away from them, his pulse thundering in his ears. He
didn’t feel safe until he was on the other side of the structure, near the
RV.

He’d been spying on the other group all day, so he knew the
score. Like Jeb and Mickey, Garrett had a boner for that blonde doctor. Owen
understood why—she was hot—but he couldn’t stop staring at the other one.

The pregnant one.

He paused, listening for movement. Garrett and his lady were in
the semi. The rest of them were in the RV.

Hearing nothing, he moved on to an old Ford sedan. The car was
empty, and it had a big backseat. He climbed inside and stretched out his long
legs, shoving the backpack behind his head. Not bad. No death smell.

He took a sip of water but saved the chips. Tomorrow, he’d
approach the other group at first light.

While he tried to rest, the dark-haired girl occupied his
thoughts. She reminded him of someone. She made him feel something. Maybe it was
her condition he was responding to. He liked women. He missed his mother.

That wasn’t it, though. He didn’t think about his mother when
he looked at her.

Owen rolled onto his side, contemplating his embarrassing
physical reaction. He’d been in prison for years. The only women he’d seen
lately were in photographs or porno mags. Her pregnancy should have turned him
off, but it didn’t. He wanted to feel her skin against his fingertips, to smell
her dark hair.

The girl both attracted and repelled him. No—she just attracted
him. Her beautiful face, her jarring vulnerability.

He repelled himself.

CHAPTER EIGHT

F
OR
THE
SECOND
night in a row,
Lauren was awoken by a man’s rough handling.

Garrett hooked his arm around her neck and dragged her off the
bed. She landed in a belly flop, the breath rushing from her lungs. “We have to
take cover,” he yelled in her ear. “We’ve got small arms fire coming from all
sides.”

Lauren didn’t know what he was talking about. Her brain, still
half-asleep, registered no sounds except his voice. It was pitch-black inside
the semi, dead quiet outside. She listened for gunshots, her heart thumping hard
in her chest.

“There’s an insurgent hideout in the building on the northeast
corner. If we stay here we’ll get ambushed.”

It dawned on her that he was dreaming, or having some kind
of...episode. He thought they were in Iraq.

“Are you hit anywhere?”

“No,” she said, moistening her lips.

He ducked, as if a missile had just flown over their heads.
“Oh, shit. IED! Stay down, Morales.” Covering her body with his, he protected
her from whatever monsters his nightmare had generated.

She trembled beneath him, unsure how to react. What if he
decided
she
was an insurgent? He could snap her neck
like a twig.

“Are you hit?” he repeated.

“No,” she said. “Garrett, wake up. It’s Lauren.”

He rolled off her and turned her over, checking for injuries.
“Oh God,” he moaned, searching for the pulse in her neck. Although it hammered
against his fingertips, he made a sound of anguish. “Morales, no!”

She grabbed his hand. “I’m Lauren. Lauren Boyer.”

He didn’t seem to register her words. In his mind, she must
have been dead or dying, because he ran his fingertips down her breastbone and
placed the heel of his hand at the center of her chest.

“No,” she yelled, hitting his forearms. He could crack her ribs
performing CPR, especially if he did so in an overzealous panic.

“Hang on, Morales,” he said, oblivious to her blows.

Lauren had to take drastic action. She drew back her hand and
slapped him across the face with all her might. He flinched, so she knew he felt
it. Terrified that one slap wasn’t enough, she struck him again as hard as she
could.

He didn’t give her a chance to go for three. With a furious
snarl, he grasped her wrists and shoved her arms over her head.

“Garrett,” she sobbed, desperate to get through to him.
“Please, stop!”

He stared at her for a moment, his eyes gleaming in the dark.
Then he raised his head and looked around the quiet sleeper cab. The shape of
the bed and the outline of the front seats were barely discernible.

“Lauren,” he said.

“Yes.”

He released her wrists and climbed off her carefully, sitting
at the edge of the bed. She stood to switch on the overhead lamp. His hand rose
to cover his eyes from the light, but not before she saw the shame on his
face.

He couldn’t look at her.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked.

“No,” she said, taking a seat beside him. When she touched his
shoulder, he jerked away. “Garrett—”

“What was I doing to you?”

She moistened her lips, hesitating. Her palm print stood out in
stark relief on his cheek. “You were...confused.”

“I was attacking you.”

“No.”

His tortured gaze met hers. “Then why were you defending
yourself?”

“You scared me,” she admitted. “I think you were having a
combat flashback. You kept calling me Morales.”

Understanding flickered in his eyes. “Morales?”

She nodded. “You tried to do CPR on me.”

“Hell,” he said, dragging a hand down his jaw.

“I’m sorry I hit you, but I thought you were going to break my
ribs. I had to do something to wake you up.”

He scanned her form. “I did chest compressions?”

“No. You just scared me. I’m fine.”

“Your wrists are red.”

“So’s your face,” she pointed out.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a formal tone. “I shouldn’t have
restrained you.”

Her heart broke for him. She didn’t know what to say to put his
mind at ease. Even in the throes of the nightmare, his actions had been
protective. But what if he’d mistaken her for the enemy, rather than a
friend?

She took a few sips of water and gave the bottle to him. He
drank sparingly.

“Tell me about Morales,” she said, slipping her arm through
his. This time, he didn’t shy away from her touch. “Did you save him?”

He buried his head in his hands. “No.”

“What was he like?”

“She,” he choked.

“She?”

“Jessica Morales was a she.”

Lauren’s chest tightened with dismay. A female soldier had died
in his arms? No wonder he was traumatized. “Tell me about her.”

After a long moment, he lifted his head. “She was good with a
rifle. More accurate than most of the men.”

“I didn’t know women were allowed in combat.”

“It’s kind of a gray area. We brought them along as support
soldiers. Their official duties were to search the female Iraqis and keep them
calm, but they were often called upon to use weapons. Combat came to us.”

She waited for him to continue, squeezing his arm.

“We shielded the women as much as possible. There was a huge
stigma attached to losing female team members, and they weren’t even supposed to
be on the front lines. But Morales...Jessica...she wanted experience, not
protection. She said that the women were just as likely to get separated or
ambushed, but they weren’t as prepared. She demanded equal duties and better
training.”

“So...you treated her like one of the guys?”

“No,” he admitted. “But I was getting there. She’d
distinguished herself in a number of battle situations.”

“What happened to her?”

He took a deep breath, staring up at the ceiling. “We were on a
late mission in an area known for insurgent activity. After an extended
gunfight, we got the hell out of there. As we climbed into the truck, a bomb
went off. Morales sustained a critical shrapnel injury. She bled out in less
than five minutes. There was nothing I could do.”

“Oh, Garrett,” Lauren said, putting her head on his shoulder.
“I’m so sorry.”

“I haven’t had nightmares like that in years.”

“This has happened before?”

“A few times. I’ve woken up yelling orders, army-crawling
across the floor.”

“Is that why you wanted to sleep outside?”

His muscles tensed. “No.”

“No?”

When she gave him a curious look, he amended his statement.
“It’s one of the reasons. The other is more complicated.”

“What?”

“Never mind,” he said, a flush creeping up his neck. He took
another sip of her water. “I’ll go back outside now and let you rest.”

“I don’t want you to leave.”

“Yeah? Do you still feel safe with me?”

She frowned at his self-derisive tone. “Safer than being
alone.”

“Well, you’re not. Obviously, I can’t control myself while I’m
asleep. It’s difficult enough while I’m awake.”

Lauren felt as though the conversation was slipping away from
her. She was still reeling from the story about Morales, shaken by his actions
during the fugue state. This was going somewhere...interesting.

A cautious voice warned her not to pursue this subject. But
another part of her, one that was seeking any distraction from the chaos, any
sensation besides fear, spoke up instead: “What do you mean?”

“Being near you drives me crazy,” he said, his jaw clenched.
“Even when I’m not looking at you, or talking to you, I’m aware of you. I can
smell
you.”

“You can smell me?”

“Yes.”

“Do I smell bad?”

He laughed harshly, shaking his head. “You smell like a
woman.”

“Not a freshly showered one.”

“It doesn’t matter. Even if you stunk, I’d still want you.”

“You...what?”

His gaze dropped to her hand, where it was curled around his
biceps. “I want you,” he said through gritted teeth. “And not in any soft,
romantic way. I’m no better than Mickey or Jeb. I was excited by the sight of
you with your shirt torn. I’ve fantasized about tearing the rest of your clothes
off. Repeatedly.”

Her lips parted with surprise. That wasn’t what she’d expected
to hear. She’d sensed the attraction between them, but she’d never felt
threatened by him. He’d gone out of his way to protect her. “Do you enjoy
forcing women?”

His eyes darkened. “No.”

“Then you’re not like them.”

“I’m exactly like them.”

“You wouldn’t have to force me, Garrett.”

He groaned, glancing away. “Don’t say that.”

“Why?”

“You don’t know me.”

“I know you’re a good man.”

“No,” he said shortly. “I’m not.”

After the story he’d told, she understood why he carried so
much guilt and self-loathing. Many war veterans battled those demons. It was
also clear that his confession about wanting to rip her clothes off was meant as
a warning.

But she wasn’t afraid; she was aroused.

Her pulse throbbed at the base of her throat, and her skin
tingled with anticipation. She longed to feel his hard body against hers.

She moved her hand from the crook of his arm to the nape of his
neck. “I thought we went over this already,” she said, lifting her lips to his.
They touched briefly and pulled apart. “I’m right about everything. To
infinity.”

He stared at her mouth for a few seconds, struggling with
himself. She imagined that his control was hanging by a thread.

She wanted it to break.

When she moistened her lips, tasting him on them, he snapped.
With a strangled growl, he pressed her back against the inside of the truck and
covered her mouth with his. Thrusting his hands into her hair, he devoured her.
He kissed suggestively, driving his tongue deep, making her open wide. There was
no question about which act they were mimicking. She moaned, twining her arms
around his neck.

His kiss was smoking hot and dirty. She could feel the grit on
his skin and smell the faint hint of gasoline on his shirt. It thrilled her.

He broke the contact, his eyes trailing down her chest. Her
breasts were heavy and full, her nipples tight. She arched her spine, biting
down on her lower lip. Groaning, he took her mouth from another angle, letting
her breasts settle against his chest.

She splayed her hands across his back, exploring the muscles
beneath her fingertips. He was so built. Flicking her tongue across his lips,
she grabbed fistfuls of his shirt and lifted, seeking bare skin.

She might rip
his
clothes off.

He raised himself up a little, but not to remove his shirt. His
gaze dropped from her swollen mouth to her jutting nipples, mesmerized. She
indulged his unspoken request by stripping her top off and tossing it aside. The
lacy cups of her bra felt too constrictive, and he clearly wanted to see more.
Reaching behind her back, she unhooked it.

When her breasts tumbled free, he looked like he’d died and
gone to heaven. “Jesus,” he whispered, cupping her soft flesh.

His hands made an erotic contrast to her bare skin. They were
dark, ravaged, bandaged. So large that her breasts appeared almost delicate in
comparison. His thumbs swept over the sensitive pink tips, wrenching a cry from
her lips.

He glanced up at her face, gauging her reaction to his touch.
She trembled in his arms, ready to beg.

Thankfully, he didn’t make her. He stretched out on top of her
and kissed her again, moving his thigh between her legs. Sliding his tongue in
and out of her mouth. Stroking her taut nipples, again and again.

It was too much and not enough. She kissed him back hungrily,
writhing beneath him and threading her fingers through his hair. Her hips
rotated in needy circles. Panting, she rubbed herself against his hard
thigh.

He shoved his hand between them, palming her hot sex. She
gasped at the sensation, wound as tight as a wire.

Making a frustrated sound, he tore his mouth from hers. “I
can’t touch you there.”

“Why not?”

“My hands are dirty.”

She stared up at him, blinking.

He lifted himself off her, moving slowly, as if in pain. Her
eyes swept down his body, widening at the enormous erection straining at the
front of his jeans.

Wow.

She thought about offering to skip the foreplay, but maybe that
wasn’t such a great idea. “I have foam cleanser.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked. He kept his eyes averted, his
shoulders slightly hunched. “No. I can’t.”

It was obvious that he wanted to continue, but wouldn’t let
himself. His soiled hands weren’t the issue; his guilty conscience was. “You son
of a bitch,” she said, her breasts quivering with indignation. She picked up her
T-shirt and clutched it to her chest. “You’re married, aren’t you?”

He dragged a hand down his jaw, looking haggard. “I’m not
married. I’m just...not available.”

The statement did nothing to assuage her anger and confusion.
She didn’t understand what was stopping him. If he had a girlfriend, why hadn’t
he mentioned her?

Maybe he’d lost her in the quake. It was on the tip of her
tongue to ask, but Lauren realized she didn’t want to know. She couldn’t stand
the thought of him with another woman. The outside world had ceased to exist for
her. She was attached to Garrett, dependent on his protection. They’d bonded as
survivors...and more. Her feelings went deeper than sexual attraction.

Available or not, she could see herself falling for him.

Lauren tugged her shirt back on, amazed at herself. Michael’s
betrayal had devastated her. He was the scum of the earth. And now, she had no
room to criticize. When faced with an opportunity to sleep with a taken man, she
was tempted.

Hating Garrett for making her feel so conflicted, she avoided
his gaze as she set her clothes to rights. “I have to check on the
patients.”