Need You for Always (Heroes of St. Helena)(20)

So he’d outrun it.

His fingers twitching to crank the throttle, Dax got to the curb—and stopped short when he spotted Lola.

Lola had been Dax’s treat to himself a few years back. His Indian bike was a handcrafted work of innovation. With her sculpted chrome exhaust, polished midnight body, and incredible 119 feet per pound of throttle, she was trouble on wheels. And the exact kind of rush he needed when stateside.

Only today she was wearing a boot.

A big-ass, bright orange boot that had ST. HELENA SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT engraved on the side.

Unconcerned about the time of day and saving the barrage of oncoming f-bombs for his brother, he fished out his phone.

“Want to tell me why you’re calling me at five in the morning?” Jonah breathed into the phone. His voice was groggy and thick with sleep—which made Dax happy.

“Because you’re the only loser who would answer his phone at five in the morning,” Dax said. “Come on, man, Lola?” He looked at his pristine bike with that god-awful lock on it and wanted to cry. “It’s abuse of power. Plain and simple.”

“I’ll let the sheriff know,” the sheriff said with a chuckle, and Dax heard a lightness to his brother’s voice that he hadn’t heard much since their dad died. He would have been happy for him, but messing with another man’s bike was on the same level as messing with another man’s woman.

“Make sure you tell him that it’s a total dick move,” Dax said.

“He’d tell you so is driving around town before the doctor gives you the go-ahead,” Jonah said, and Dax could hear the prick smiling.

“I have PT today,” Dax reminded him. “What do you expect me to do? Walk?”

“Nope.” And because his big brother had a solution for everything, he added, “Frankie should be there twenty minutes before your appointment.”

“So I can ride on her bike, but not my own?” Because like him, Frankie believed that vehicles with more than two wheels were made for pussies.

“She’s borrowing Nate’s truck.” Despite the fact that Nate was a DeLuca, he was a stand-up guy and made Dax’s sister smile, so Dax chose to overlook the fact that he was born into the wrong family. “And Shay’s got you covered next week.”

“Actually, Sheriff, I’ve got you covered right now,” a muffled but definitely feminine voice came through the phone. “Put your hands where I can’t see them.”

Dax threw up a little in his mouth. “Jesus, man, I don’t need to hear this, and I sure as hell don’t need help setting up a damn carpool. Come unboot my girl.”

Jonah didn’t give him an affirmative that he was headed over, but when Dax heard the phone hit the ground and some questionable noises follow, he decided to hang up and start running, because it was going to take more than a few miles to erase those sounds from his head.





Just because it felt like Dax was taking a round to the knee didn’t mean he had to show it.

“This is what you get for running on it,” Kyle said, laying into Dax’s leg, then applying a tooth-grinding pressure to the back of his knee.

Kyle O’Malley was one of Dax’s oldest friends. He was built like an MMA fighter, had the hands of a butcher, and could teach the Taliban a thing or two about the art of torture. He was also the best orthopedic specialist in the county, but before that he’d been in the air force as a pararescue, which was the only reason Dax was putting up with his BS.

Sure, he wasn’t G.I. Joe, but any guy who had the balls to parachute into a hot landing zone to rescue a soldier he’d never met had earned the right to be heard.

“I told you not to overdo it and what do you do?”

“I took a brisk walk,” Dax lied. “Just around the block.” And across town. Twice. Outrunning some of the slower-moving cars. “It felt good to work it out.”

Kyle leaned his entire being into the stretch, and Dax was certain the man was six feet one of solid lead. “Does it still feel good?”

About as good as waterboarding. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Then I’ll take it a little deeper,” Kyle said and when Dax didn’t call his bluff, he took it from waterboarding to wake me when it’s over.

On a good day, PT hurt like a bitch. Today wasn’t a good day. Dax was tired, aching, and in desperate need of a beer. Or a six-pack. And not that he’d admit it out loud, but pushing that hard this morning on virtually zero sleep had been a crap call. Especially with an hour of PT on the schedule.

Dax had overcome pain before. Had been slapped around by some of the biggest hellholes in the world with no hope of getting to a hospital in time and never once thought he’d break. Not even for a second. He’d been shot at regularly, fractured every rib in his body, twice, and stared down death more times than he cared to admit. But right then, lying stateside on some cushioned mat, he admitted he wasn’t sure he could survive Kyle—and those fingers of torture.

But there he was, flipping pain the proverbial bird, because this was the one stipulation to getting the job in San Jose. He had to complete his recovery before the doc would sign off.

No clearance meant no elite team. And Dax didn’t have another backup plan.

So for the next hour he gritted through the torment, listened to Kyle go on and on about how stubborn he was, and didn’t even break a sweat when he felt that first shot of pain move up his leg.