Masters at Arms (Rescue Me Saga, #0.5)(40)
Lance Corporal Grant, sitting against the other wall, had become a great friend, too. She was easy to talk to. Hard-edged, but honest. He didn’t usually have female friends, but she was a Marine first—just one of the guys—and a damned good listener. He’d even told her about Savannah. Damián admired Grant’s kick-ass strength. Maybe, being a woman, she had to come across even tougher just to show her worth among the guys.
Grant sure made it clear from the start she wasn’t here to be a Marine Mattress—having sex with any and all Marines interested. He liked that about her, not that he hadn’t noticed her physical attributes. Blonde, five-nine, muscular build. She just wasn’t interested in anything more than friendship with the men in the unit. Said she preferred to top anyway and that she couldn’t picture any of them tied to her bed. Hell and hell no! So, the two of them were just going to remain buddies.
Then there was Doc. Damián smiled. The Navy corpsman he’d roomed with back at Pendleton sure did keep things interesting. At first, the guy had pissed him off royally. Arrogant. Privileged. Driving a freaking Porsche. What the hell was he doing in the Marines? But over the months since that night at the sex club, the man had grown on him. His unit couldn’t ask for a better corpsman. He’d patched up just about everyone at some point or other. Luckily, only for minor injuries. He hoped that remained true today.
Damián still remembered Doc dragging his ass to that fetish club, where he’d learned BDSM wasn’t all about violence and inflicting pain. That was just plain wrong. It was about a consensual exchange of power. Having control over another—and yourself. Making sure her needs were met before thinking about your own. He could understand that. Definitely something he might be interested in trying when he got stateside again.
Damián wondered when he’d ever get the chance to be with another woman. He’d sure enjoyed himself with that redhead. He smiled.
“What’s so funny?” Sarge asked.
“Just thinking about what a f*cking great life I have in the Corps.”
Sarge grunted. “Yeah, right. I’ll bet you were thinking about some sweet * waiting for you back in California.”
Damián’s smile faded.
Ah, Savannah.
He’d replayed the scene at Thousand Steps Beach over and over in his head. He and Savannah had connected so perfectly that day. He’d never been with a woman who turned him on as much or responded to him as well as she had. He thought it had been good for her, too. So, why had she ignored his attempts to contact her? He was in the phone book. She could have called him. She knew his name. He regretted not exchanging phone numbers, but the best he’d been able to do was leave printed messages in the mailbox at her gate. No response.
Well, he’d also staked out the hotel in La Jolla for a few weeks. She hadn’t returned, at least not while he’d waited for her there. What had become of her? Had she continued to let men abuse her for money? He gave his head a mental shake. He didn’t like to think she’d returned to that life.
No, he preferred to picture her going to college, getting her degree. Maybe she’d go on to become the social worker she’d wanted to be. Help kids who needed her. That’s what he hoped…
The rocket-propelled grenade came over the wall and rolled to land mere feet from Sarge’s hip. Damián froze. No one f*cking moved. He looked over at Sarge, who just kept eating. He didn’t f*cking see it. Grant and Wilson kept talking, oblivious, too. After what seemed like an eternity, Damián shoved Sarge to move, shouting, “Take cover!” Sarge bolted up and grabbed Damián’s arm, propelling him in front of him. Damián’s body felt like it was moving through thick mud. Everything happened in slow motion. He couldn’t move fast enough.
Grant and Wilson reacted at last, but too damned slowly. Damián rushed toward them, trying to push them toward the other end of the rooftop. At the last moment, Damián turned to check on Sergeant Miller, who was right behind him. The blast deafened his ears, the percussion of the explosion knocking him backwards, hard against someone. They went sprawling across the roof.
Mother f*cking insurgents.
It felt like a f*cking wall had fallen on top of his chest. His foot was on fire. He opened his eyes and saw Sarge’s head, or what was left of it, lying on his chest. The man’s bloody brains showed through the hole in his head. Sarge’s body lay prone across Damián’s chest and abdomen. The pool of blood forming on Damián’s chest felt warm. What the f*ck?
A roaring in his ears merged with high-pitched screams. Then he realized the screams were his.
“Madre de Dios! No! Sarge, don’t you f*cking die!”
He knew Sarge was gone, but kept yelling at him as if he could bring him back by the sheer volume of his voice. He looked up and watched as Grant and Wilson, on either side of him, lifted Sarge off him. Damián turned his head away, watching in horrific fascination as Sarge’s blood ran down the rooftop toward Damián’s feet, where it mingled with another pool of blood. The one forming around his own mangled foot.
What the f*ck?
“Corpsman up!” Wilson called.
How could that be his blood? He didn’t feel the burning pain in his foot anymore. As he stared, the image blurred. A wave of dizziness caused his stomach to lurch. He was going to lose his MRE. His head slumped back against the warm concrete.