Forged in Smoke (Red-Hot SEALs #3)(15)

No matter how he broke it down, he couldn’t escape one hard fact. There was absolutely no evidence proving that Pachico had actually existed in that incorporeal state. Nothing to verify that Rawls hadn’t lost his damn mind and dreamed the whole damn thing up. Hell, even the conversation with Wolf earlier could have been a product of his overactive imagination.

It was hell not trusting your own mind.

With a tense hand Rawls reached for the bottle of Tennessee Honey, rotating it on the windowsill. He’d found the bottle three days ago. It had been full back then. It was still full. A miracle considering that every chorus of that endless song had pushed him closer to twisting the cap and breaking the seal. Thus breaking a promise he’d made thirteen years ago.

A promise to himself . . . and to his sister, even though Sarah had been dead by then—past caring what he did or didn’t do with his life. Past blaming him for the trajectory her short life had taken because of him.

Past blaming him, something his mother and father—hell, even he himself—hadn’t been able to get past.

He slowly turned the bottle again, watching the amber liquid inside the glass burn, as though the sun were boiling the booze trapped inside. Tennessee Honey was the kind of smooth, sweet liquor Sarah would have appreciated back in the day.

He’d gone for the harder stuff, booze with a bite, although he’d never crossed the line between partier and alcoholic. He’d been too committed to medicine to make that mistake. Driven to join his father and grandfather in the family tradition of surgical medicine—in wielding the power of life and death. So while he’d partied hard over semester and summer breaks, it hadn’t affected his studies, his residency, or his life . . . until Miami. Until his alcohol-induced recklessness had stolen Sarah’s life and sent his into a 360-degree tailspin.

From his third year of surgical residency to Navy SEAL in six months. What a curve his life had taken. And once again he was reeling from a 360-degree wipeout. Only this time, he had no clue what his life would look like once the world stopped spinning.

“Jesus Christ, Doc. At the rate you’re moving, you’ll never get that damn shirt off her. How about—” Pachico’s voice cut off. He rocked back on his heels and took a long, slow look around. “What the f*ck . . . when—” His mouth snapped shut and an unsettled expression crossed his face.

Rawls staggered up from the kitchen chair, stunned by the hot rush of relief that hit him. Sure, the *’s reappearance didn’t prove Rawls’s sanity. Pachico could still be a delusion, but when he was walking and talking, or more apt—singing—he didn’t feel like a hallucination.

“What the hell happened to you?” Rawls asked.

Something had kicked his transparent stalker out of existence—at least this existence, this world. It hadn’t been for long, maybe fifteen minutes, but if he could figure out how and why, he’d have control over the bastard, and the ability to boot him at will.

“What the f*ck are you yakking about?” Pachico asked, but the uneasy expression in his eyes belied his truculent question.

Pachico knew he’d blinked out for a bit. The look of shocked surprise on his face to find himself in the bedroom instead of the woods had been a dead giveaway.

“You disappeared,” Rawls shot back. “You were gone fifteen minutes. Why? Where did you go?”

He suspected the questions were a waste of breath. If the ghost had remembered going somewhere, he wouldn’t have shown such astonishment when he’d found himself back in the cabin. For the moment at least, Rawls bet he had more answers than his ghost did. Or at least one answer. The big one.

Wolf.

But he’d be keeping that name under his hat until he had a chance to question the man.

“I don’t know what the f*ck you’re talking about,” Pachico growled, a stony expression dropping over his face.

Sure he didn’t. “We were out at the creek, then you up and vamoosed. What’s the last thing you remember?”

The real question was whether he remembered Wolf’s approach. Since the bastard had been totally focused on Faith, Rawls was pretty certain the answer to the Wolf question was no.

“That it’s none of your f*cking business, that’s what I remember,” Pachico snapped. “And I think you’ve lost focus here, Doc. You ready to make that call?”

“No,” Rawls countered with a dry smile. “I reckon you were at five hundred and one.”

Through the bedroom doorway came the sound of a fist at the cabin’s front entry, followed by the squeak of the door opening and the muted bang as it fell shut again. Rawls tensed, turning to face the hallway. Only his teammates would enter on a knock, without introducing themselves first. The women in the compound were more polite; they waited for acknowledgment.

He listened to the sound of boots hitting the plank floor. Zane from the sound of them. Cos had a quicker pace, and Mac was faster still—clipped and impatient rather than brisk.

“Five hundred bottles of beer on the wall, five hundred bottles of beer—”

Rawls groaned beneath his breath. Yeah, this conversation was bound to be fun. He’d be lucky to hear a tenth of what his LC had to say.

After another fist against the bedroom doorjamb, which Rawls saw but couldn’t hear, Zane stepped into the room. He stopped halfway between the door and Rawls. And thank you, Jesus, Pachico shut the f*ck up. Had Zane’s arrival kicked him out of existence? It hadn’t the last time Zane had visited. Rawls shot his ghost a quick look. It hadn’t this time either. Based on Pachico’s expression, he was simply more interested in what Zane had to say than torturing his ride-along.