Chapter One
2018 September 15
Lieutenant Travis Hunter, Hunt to his friends, lay on the exam table in the emergency room of Craig Joint Theater Hospital at Bagram Airfield. He cursed himself silently for not being fast enough in the latest confrontation with the Taliban to avoid the knife that sliced through his ass and down his leg.
He was good at what he did. That wasn’t conceit or ego. Years of training as a U.S. Navy SEAL had ensured he stayed good. At least the perpetrator was dead, but his luck blew up in his face. He’d drawn the gorgeous trauma surgeon to work her magic on him. If rumors were true, her top-notch status as a combat trauma surgeon benefited his current injury.
Chief Warrant Officer Two Warren “Doogie” Dugan, his best friend, had already had an injury this month and had been treated by the Doc. Doog’s hadn’t been his ass, though. Hunt’s lower half was currently naked, and he stood no chance controlling an iron erection caused by an excessiveamount of adrenaline and the feel of her hands on his skin.
She had some kind of magnifying headset and studied every inch of the foot-long gash from his gluteus maximus into his left hamstring. Gentle fingers probed the wound. Even though the area was deadened, his imagination filled in the blanks. Soft hands shifting to touch the right place…
He forced air out his nose in a silent quest to keep his situation contained.
He looked over his shoulder at Doogie and Petty Officer First Class John Evans, better known as “Carter,” the team medic. They both were smirking at him, his problem no secret to them. Bastards. Their knowing scraped against his unbreakable need for privacy formed since childhood.
“Eureka,” Dr. Michaels whispered, finally rising from blessing his skin with her warm breath. “Well, Lieutenant, you have a piece of the knife at the top of the wound. We’ll need to take that out before stitching you. Muscle injuries can cause functional impairment, so we want to manage this wound with care.”
“You can call him LT or Hunt, Doc.” Doogie’s tone had lightened from the original dark sternness when he thought Hunt was gonna die.
“Hey, not dead here,” Hunt answered, ready to bloody punch the teasing tone right out of hisfriend. “How deep, Doc?” He struggled to achieve calm and neutral to mirror the doctor’s professional smile. He struggled mightily against the irritation riding him on a level he couldn’t figure.
“You’re lucky this isn’t as deep as I expected. We’re not looking at needing to use invasive surgery or any type of patch to tie the muscles along this rip together. I’m going to coax the tip out instead. I don’t want to mess with the tendon. It’s what keeps your entire hip and leg moving. I can slip in a couple stitches to shore it up, and the rest is a simple stitching process. Your recovery time will be less then. Give me a sec, and we’ll get x-rays to make sure there isn’t any more metal inside of you.”
Coax it out? She could coax something out, but it wasn’t the tip of a knife. His way was more personal, messier, and involved a hard piece of his anatomy. He squirmed surreptitiously, pulling air quietly through his nose for control.
She touched his hip with a small pat then jerked unobtrusively.
Yeah sweetheart, I felt that, too.
Mother fucker, he’d been in Afghanistan too long and on a celibate track even longer. Women. He succumbed periodically to the lure of sex but hated the empty feeling left behind, and he didn’thave the profession, social skills, or the trust level to develop a relationship that lasted.
She left the room, rubbing her hand against the leg of her surgical scrubs. He stifled a grin and focused on not having her scentright there.
“You need to settle down, Big Hunt.” Doog snickered quietly, careful to cover his mouth.
“You need to shut up, or I’ll beat you to death,” Hunt growled the words, desperate to turn over and take the pressure off his groin. “Why don’t you two beat it? I’m fine.”
“We can’t leave you in your hour of need,” Carter insisted. Sometimes their talented medic was too Nebraska naïve and too patient-dedicated, considering he blew up things and killed people for a living.
“I need stitches, Carter. Not major surgery. That will probably take a couple of hours. I don’t need you both leaning over me. Go back to headquarters.”
“You want her all to yourself.” Doog was one of his oldest friends, but he was about to have his bald black head used as a billiard ball.
“Out, you motherfuckers. Now,” he ordered in his tough, no-nonsense command tone. Let him be in sexual overload in peace.
“You play nice with Doc.” Doog grinned and stepped over to pat his hip, showing Hunt that he’dseen the electricity pass between them. The man never missed anything.
“Out.”
“You need us, sir, you call.” Carter gave him one last wishful look, like he wanted to stitch him up, which he could have except for the tendon thing.
Dammit. He didn’t need a long recovery. They’d send him stateside, and there wasn’t anything there for him. He’d left Montana at eighteen, leaving behind abusive parents with a penchant for anti-government activities. With his team here in Afghanistan, there would be nothing to do in his empty apartment in San Diego.
Minutes passed; the equipment in the room hummed, the noise in the other areas high but contained. Finally, his body settled down, but his mind refused to be wrangled.
The orderly shoved a mid-size machine into the room, making him jump. Him. The elite, cool professional who never lost his focus. He scowled, mood shifting deeper into grumpy territory.
“Gonna take a picture of your backside and hip, sir.”
