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Boone nodded, his expression moved by the support. “I appreciate that. But all of you…you’re my team. It’s my job to take care of you. I hate to see any of you hurt, especially on the job—and especially when I’m in charge. I want you to know it won’t happen again.”
While everyone reassured Boone, Jesse stood there a little gobsmacked.
Because, man, did his boss’s words hit him right in the chest—right in the memories, if he were honest. Because as Chief Anderson, he’d had to give similar talks more than once. A leader was always accountable for what happened to those under his command, which was why he’d felt the weight of every EOD tech he’d lost. During his last deployment in Iraq, his team had performed one hundred EOD missions, including forty improvised explosive devices, twenty-one unexploded ordnance calls, eighteen suspect improvised explosive devices, twelve post-blast assessments, and nine suspect vehicle improvised explosive devices. That was just one of his many deployments.
But the number Jesse most remembered…the one that felt most important…. That number remained twenty-two.
Before long, they’d packed up and made for the same restaurant they’d visited at the start of the project. Jud had made the case for eating before they ran him to the ER to get his foot scanned, so the whole team was together as they celebrated having emerged from a crisis relatively unscathed and having finished the lucrative surveying project on schedule.
While Jesse enjoyed himself, he couldn’t stop sneaking glances at Tara. She laughed when she was supposed to laugh, answered questions when someone posed one to her, and seemed engaged in the banter. But she mostly pushed the food around on her plate. And when she’d reached for her drink, Jesse had caught the unmistakable glimpse of fingernail marks in the palm of her hand.
Knowing she was hurting—and putting on a show to appear otherwise—was eating Jesse up inside. Especially because the day had left him almost exhilarated, as if the part of his brain set to expect bad things to happen could be quiet for once in the wake of an actual snafu. That was probably twisted, but it didn’t make it any less true.
Finally, they were back in the elevator at the Holiday Inn, minus Boone, George, and Jud, who’d all gone to the hospital. Mike and Bobby got off on the second floor, leaving Jesse and Tara alone.
“Funny meeting you here,” Jesse said, trying to reach her with humor. Even though what he wanted to say was Please tell me what’s wrong. Please let me help. Please lean on me.
She gave him a little smile even as she rolled her eyes at him. “Are we neighbors again? I’m in 420.”
His gut fell, which was damn telling. “Nope. I’m in 302. This is me,” he said as the bell dinged for the third floor. “G’night.”
“Night,” she said, those pretty blue eyes too damn flat.
The door closed, and Jesse caught it at the last minute, forcing it to ease open again. “Tara—”
She shook her head, and now those eyes looked almost…scared.
He swallowed hard. “I’m in 302. Understand?”
“Yeah. ’Night,” she said again, her voice no more than a whisper.
A rock in his gut, Jesse nodded and removed his hand. And hoped against hope that she’d come to him.
* * * *
By the time Tara got to her room, her hand shook so bad she had a hard time sliding the key card into her door.
“Come on,” she said. “Come on.”
Finally, she was in. She flicked on a light. Dropped her bag. And then paced because she didn’t know what else to do with the overwhelming emotion inside her—the emotion from being involved in the first diving accident since her own.
Why was she freaking out so bad when she wasn’t even the one who’d needed rescue? Instead, she’d been in the exact opposite role this time. And she’d been able to do her job without a single problem.
Except none of that seemed to matter to her brain which, as soon as she’d known Bobby was safe, had started offering up flashbacks of what’d happened to her. And it didn’t seem to matter to her central nervous system which, now that no one was watching, had her body shaking uncontrollably. And it didn’t seem to matter to her instincts, which told her that she should be terrified—as terrified as the day she’d nearly died in the ocean several years before.
Even though there wasn’t a single damn thing to be scared of.
But Tara couldn’t seem to logic herself out of this one.
She’d tried. Over and over again. On the GD, she’d retreated to her cabin, used the breathing techniques she’d learned in counseling, and had attempted to immerse herself in her environment by focusing on things she could see and smell and hear. But none of it worked.
And now…in the middle of her hotel room, she burst into tears. Went down to her knees. Curled into a ball and just…sobbed.
I can’t let them see me like this. I can’t let them see me like this. They can never see me like this.
That was what her anxiety was worried about. That if her teammates ever knew she was this fragile, they’d never again trust her to have their backs. They’d see a weak link instead of an equally qualified teammate. Boone would second-guess hiring her in the first place.
A small, distant-sounding part of her mind tried to remind her that anxiety lied, but she couldn’t believe it. Not now. Not when doing her job had left her so shattered.
