Page 55 of Badd Ass

It was weird texting Bast—he’d been kind of a caveman when it came to technology of all kinds, as in he hadn’t had a cell phone, computer, game console, nothing. The first thing Dru had done when she moved in was instruct him in no uncertain terms to “go get a cell phone and learn how to fucking text, you goddamn Luddite.” Dru could and did curse like a sailor, and having been a sailor myself, that’s saying something impressive.

I set the phone aside as Mara came in, her hair brushed, face clean of makeup, eyes flicking around, fingers plucking at the hem of the T-shirt. I tossed aside the blankets and held out my arm; Mara hesitated at the foot of the bed for a few moments, and then climbed toward me, slid her feet under the blankets, and nestled her head against my chest. My arm curled around her waist and palmed her thigh, her hand fluttered around before coming rest on my chest, under my chin; we were both stiff for several minutes, until I laughed, reached out to shut off the lamp, and tugged her more fully against me, sliding lower in the bed.

Gradually, we both relaxed.

“This is…really nice, actually,” I said, feeling sleep finally tug at me.

“Mmm,” she answered, her voice muzzy. “The nicest. I’m glad I thought of it.” I heard the sleepy grin in her voice.

“Yeah, well, you’re pretty damn smart.”

“I have all the best ideas.”

“Sure do.”

Silence, then, for a long time. I was on the verge of sleep when I heard her speak again. “Zane?”

“Hmmm?”

“I get nightmares a lot, still, and disoriented, sometimes. If I wake up and I’m crazy—”

I pressed a kiss to the top of her head; I hadn’t thought about it, it had just happened automatically. “I do too. If it happens, we’ll deal.”

She made a quiet, innocent little humming noise in her throat in response, and then nuzzled closer to me, her whole body curled around and draped over mine, my arms wrapped around her. I could smell her hair, the faint odor of toothpaste, and just…Mara.

I’ve never fallen asleep so fast in my life.

She never woke up with a nightmare.

* * *

Iwoke up slowly, gradually. Sunlight streamed into the bedroom from my window, seagulls cawed loudly…and a woman snored softly.

I blinked my eyes open and glanced down—Mara was facing away, body curled into a comma, blond hair tangled and messy and draped over her face, obscuring her features. She was pressed back against me, back to my chest, thighs against mine, ass nestled against my hips.

Her mouth was partially open, a soft, feminine snore snuffling out every few breaths—and that was, possibly, the most adorable sound I’d ever heard. My heart clenched, squeezed, skipped half a dozen beats, and then started up again, pounding and hammering.

I didn’t deserve this. Not her, not this peace—

Deep, deep, deep down, that was the fear that plagued me.

That was the reason my heart was pounding so hard I felt it slamming against my ribs. That was the reason I’d frozen, my hand on her hip, my nose in her hair—I was scared to death I wasn’t good enough, that I didn’t know how to be a guy she could stay for. Not saying it was easy for Bast and Dru, but neither of them had watched best friends die bloody, violent, pointless deaths. Neither of them had fought off dozens of insurgents alone, standing over the body of their blood brother. Yeah, I got a fucking stupid bronze star—people expected me to flash it around and swagger like a cocky badass because I got a medal. Sweet, great, I’m proud of it; I am, too, in a way. But I’m also ashamed of it. Marcodied. He took a bullet, just inches away from me. I see his eyes go glassy in my nightmares, a hole in his forehead. He fucking died, and I went apeshit, and got a stupid piece of bronze for it. Marco is still dead, and his kid is still without his daddy, and that bronze star won’t bring him back. Worse yet is that I’m not really supposed to talk about how I got the star, or that have it at all, because we were on a covert mission, and the only reason I got it is because my actions saved the rest of my team and the extract crew. I didn’t do what I did for honor or glory or for the extract team or even the rest of the guys…I did it to avenge Marco.

Deep down, I feel gnawing, acidic guilt and shame: Marco should have lived. He should be on a ranch in Tennessee, playing with his baby boy and riding horses with his wife. Not in a box six feet under the Tennessee soil. I shouldn’t be here. It should be me in that box, covered in the Stars and Stripes.

That’s the fear. That’s the insecurity. I’m a Navy SEAL. I’m hardcore, I’m tough, I’ve got a lot of skills, I know I’m good looking, I’m good in bed, and I’m loyal as hell to my brothers. But way deep down, there’s that insecurity, the knowledge that it should have been me that died instead of Marco, but it wasn’t and now I’m here, alive, with an amazing, incredible, gorgeous, sweet, sexy, smart woman in my bed, snuggled in my arms, one who understands the invisible scars combat leaves, the survivor’s guilt. She gets it. We don’t have to talk about it to know we both get it.

I don’t fucking deserve her.

The thought finally hits, finally moves through me in so many words. I don’t deserve happiness with a woman like Mara Quinn. I let my best friend die. I let his wife and son suffer. I lived, and he died, and that’s a fucked up amount of unfairness I can’t make right. But how do you make yourself feel worthy? No one would understand if I said anything about this. Not even Mara—she gets combat, she gets the nightmares and flashbacks and all that, but survivor’s guilt? I don’t think she can understand that. I know the term for what I’m going through, but that doesn’t help me fix it, that doesn’t make it easier for me to go through it, and doesn’t give me the tools to address the problem.

Marco should be alive right now, not me; that’s a truth I can’t shake. God, how can I ever be good enough for a woman like Mara when I shouldn’t even be alive? I should be in a box six feet under. My brothers should be the ones with the folded flag stowed away somewhere, not Annalisa Campo.

I don’t know what to do. I’m here, in my bed with Mara in my arms, and I don’t feel good enough. I’m not enough—I wasn’t enough to save Marco, to keep my best friend alive, and I’m not enough now for Mara. But…I can’t let her go.

I don’t deserve her, but I don’t know how to let go.

She stirred in my arms, stretching and groaning, spine arching. And then she froze, breath catching, her hand sliding along my forearm, as if she was disoriented and confused as to where she was and who she was in bed with.