Page 43 of Keeping a Warrior

Devon smiled. Teammates.

Chapter Eight

It was already hot on the tarmac.

Devon joined the guys in doing the “bag drag” toward the back of the huge C-17, its ramp yawning open like a huge, gaping mouth. Once on board, the loadmaster took whatever they didn’t want to keep with them and tied it down.

“Okay, we’re flying straight to Fort Bragg,” Lieutenant Bradley announced, “where we’ll meet up with the other Robin Sage role-players. From what I understand, we’re gonna play mercenaries trying to stop a guerrilla force from staging a coup against the ‘government,’ which the Special Forces wannabes need to try and make happen. Good times.”

Some growls of anticipation from the guys.

“Let’s go!”

The briefing over, everyone claimed a patch of airplane floor for their own. Devon picked a semiprivate space between two of the pallets and spread out her woobie, a thick Army poncho-slash-blanket that she always carried with her on work trips.

“Mind some company?”

She glanced up to see Rhys grinning down at her, one ginger eyebrow raised in inquiry.

“That looks way more comfortable than what I have to sit on.” He held up a tan blanket, saying mournfully, “Such a thin, sad little thing.”

“Ah.” Devon pretended to consider it. “I don’t usually share my woobie, but in this case, I’ll make an exception.”

“Thanks, buddy.” He lowered himself down, and with a fist bump, they stretched out, heads pillowed on their rucks.

The huge engines rumbled to life, and several minutes later, they were airborne. Rhys dozed off right away, so Devon turned on her side to watch him sleep.

His mouth was slack, his head lolling with the motion of the plane. Freckled hands were linked together loosely over his flat stomach, long legs crossed at the ankle. Devon had to fight the urge to brush her fingertips over his forehead, surprised by how much she wanted to touch him.

Don’t you ever learn?

Flopping onto her back again, Devon let out a grunt, furious with herself. She’d already made that same mistake once, and it’d come within a hair’s breadth of costing her everything.

“What’re you thinking about?”

Rhys’s voice next to her ear startled her, and Devon jumped. “Ah, crap.”

“Sorry.” He sounded amused as he pushed to his elbow. “I thought I heard you sigh.”

Devon was a terrible liar, so she decided to tell a half-truth.

“I was actually thinking about that first night I met you. You know, when I puked all over your boots.”

“Oh, my God.” Rhys’s laughter was deep, and rich. “No worries. I’m just glad it didn’t come out the other end.”

“What?” Devon gasped. “That’s happened?”

“Not to me, thank fuck. But the body reacts to stress in all sorts of strange ways. I’ve been with guys who find themselves with an uncontrollable urge to take a dump, even during a firefight. A little puke doesn’t bother me, especially not when you consider the fact I’ve had to sit in a hide for hours inches away from some other dude’s steaming pile of shit.”

Gagging, Devon groaned, “Ewww,” the disgust tempered with admiration at Rhys’s knack for saying just the right thing to ease her mind. In truth, combat wasn’t glamorous, or fun, and SEALs weren’t sexy killing machines. They were men with human fears, and bodies that sometimes betrayed them in the most inconvenient and embarrassing of ways.

A sudden memory made Devon clap her hand to her mouth to cover her squeak. Rhys looked at her, curiosity quirking his lips. “Do share.”

“I can’t.” Devon’s cheeks were on fire. “No, I can’t.”

“C’mon.” Rhys nudged her foot with his. “I can take it.”

Of course he could; he was a medic. Devon let out a breath, in equal parts horrified and amused that she was about to say this. “Once when we were convoying from Kandahar to a couple of the remote outposts to deliver supplies, we didn’t stop for maybe eight hours. I, um, bled all over the seat. It covered the back of me from my knees up past my waist. The motor pool guy said the Humvee looked like a crime scene.”