Bronco's Rough Ride (Bad Boys of Beta Squad, 0.5) by Siobhan Muir Page B
Authors: Siobhan Muir
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voice reached her despite its softness.
“Good, Chief. I’m right here. Right beside you and you’re not restrained, but I can help get the blankets off you .” She didn’t move, watching his body. “Do you need me to move the blankets?”
Seconds ticked by recorded only by her heartbeats. She resisted the urge to rip the covers away and hold him. I’ll be dead before I can get close. He had too much training in hand-to-hand and regret only came after safety was attained.
“Are we secure?”
“We’re secure, John. Can I take your hand? Would that help ground you?” Lindsey locked her arms to her sides and forced herself to wait.
“How do I know you’re the real Lindsey?” He didn’t have to tell her he worried her cover had been blown.
Lindsey took a deep breath and thought back to the conversations they’d had in private.
“I know your nickname is Bronco and you’re a US Navy SEAL. I told you I’m a coffee snob when you said you prefer your coffee black, and I’m a US Army vet.” Lindsey paused for breath. She suspected she’d missed a few other details, but she didn’t want to waste time. “I know you were on a PCS when you stopped in Vegas for some R&R , and your specialty is interrogation. All these details ringing true, Bronco?”
John didn’t say anything, but his body hadn’t relaxed yet, the muscle in his neck standing out against the skin like organic ropes. He really is beautiful even when he’s liable to kill me. She wished he’d verify her responses quickly, but her mother always said patience was key and they had to stand strong when her father couldn’t. Gotta be strong for John now.
“Lindsey?”
“Yes, John?”
“I can’t see anything clearly. The shadows are shifting around too much.”
“I’m right beside the bed, John. If I have your permission, I can free your hand and hold it.”
“Permission granted.”
Lindsey exhaled the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding and reached for the tangled blankets. “This is me, John. I’m pulling back the covers to give you more range of motion.” She kept her voice even as she tugged the camping bag away from his body. Sweat soaked his shirt and matted his hair, but he held perfectly still. “I’m going to free your whole body so anything you feel around your legs or hips is just me. I’m right here, John.”
She kept tugging at the blankets and when she freed his torso and legs, she returned to the side of the bed and grasped his hand.
“I’ve got you, John. I’m holding your hand. Can you see anything better yet?”
“No.”
“Okay. I’m right here. Do you need me to shut up or keep talking?” Sometimes her father had needed silence. Sometimes he’d needed her mother’s soothing voice. Back then no one had a name for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, but Marian Jarvis had instinctively known how to deal with it. Her dad had been able to face life at home because of her.
“Please talk to me.” For all John’s stillness, his body lay rigid with tension and his hand closed tightly around hers.
“Okay, John. I told you my dad was in the Army, right?” John nodded. “ He got drafted for Vietnam and when he came home he had what they called shell-shock back then. Nobody had a name for PTSD. It was a big surprise when he’d get angry over me or my sister dropping things or making loud noises. He hated the fireworks on the Fourth of July or New Year’s, and he started avoiding family gatherings and large crowds.”
Lindsey could still picture her father’s white face every time a car backfired.
“At first, none of us knew what to do. My sister and I were too little to really understand anything other than dad was just angry all the time. But my mom, she was pretty special.” A smile curled Lindsey’s lips at the memory of her tall, slender mother facing down the bear her father had become. She’d shown patient determination to protect their children from his overwhelming ferocity.
“Good, Chief. I’m right here. Right beside you and you’re not restrained, but I can help get the blankets off you .” She didn’t move, watching his body. “Do you need me to move the blankets?”
Seconds ticked by recorded only by her heartbeats. She resisted the urge to rip the covers away and hold him. I’ll be dead before I can get close. He had too much training in hand-to-hand and regret only came after safety was attained.
“Are we secure?”
“We’re secure, John. Can I take your hand? Would that help ground you?” Lindsey locked her arms to her sides and forced herself to wait.
“How do I know you’re the real Lindsey?” He didn’t have to tell her he worried her cover had been blown.
Lindsey took a deep breath and thought back to the conversations they’d had in private.
“I know your nickname is Bronco and you’re a US Navy SEAL. I told you I’m a coffee snob when you said you prefer your coffee black, and I’m a US Army vet.” Lindsey paused for breath. She suspected she’d missed a few other details, but she didn’t want to waste time. “I know you were on a PCS when you stopped in Vegas for some R&R , and your specialty is interrogation. All these details ringing true, Bronco?”
John didn’t say anything, but his body hadn’t relaxed yet, the muscle in his neck standing out against the skin like organic ropes. He really is beautiful even when he’s liable to kill me. She wished he’d verify her responses quickly, but her mother always said patience was key and they had to stand strong when her father couldn’t. Gotta be strong for John now.
“Lindsey?”
“Yes, John?”
“I can’t see anything clearly. The shadows are shifting around too much.”
“I’m right beside the bed, John. If I have your permission, I can free your hand and hold it.”
“Permission granted.”
Lindsey exhaled the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding and reached for the tangled blankets. “This is me, John. I’m pulling back the covers to give you more range of motion.” She kept her voice even as she tugged the camping bag away from his body. Sweat soaked his shirt and matted his hair, but he held perfectly still. “I’m going to free your whole body so anything you feel around your legs or hips is just me. I’m right here, John.”
She kept tugging at the blankets and when she freed his torso and legs, she returned to the side of the bed and grasped his hand.
“I’ve got you, John. I’m holding your hand. Can you see anything better yet?”
“No.”
“Okay. I’m right here. Do you need me to shut up or keep talking?” Sometimes her father had needed silence. Sometimes he’d needed her mother’s soothing voice. Back then no one had a name for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, but Marian Jarvis had instinctively known how to deal with it. Her dad had been able to face life at home because of her.
“Please talk to me.” For all John’s stillness, his body lay rigid with tension and his hand closed tightly around hers.
“Okay, John. I told you my dad was in the Army, right?” John nodded. “ He got drafted for Vietnam and when he came home he had what they called shell-shock back then. Nobody had a name for PTSD. It was a big surprise when he’d get angry over me or my sister dropping things or making loud noises. He hated the fireworks on the Fourth of July or New Year’s, and he started avoiding family gatherings and large crowds.”
Lindsey could still picture her father’s white face every time a car backfired.
“At first, none of us knew what to do. My sister and I were too little to really understand anything other than dad was just angry all the time. But my mom, she was pretty special.” A smile curled Lindsey’s lips at the memory of her tall, slender mother facing down the bear her father had become. She’d shown patient determination to protect their children from his overwhelming ferocity.
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