Sweet One (Titan Book 8) Read online

  The newbie looked over his shoulder before rounding a corner of a hallway. His face was pure, antagonizing bait. Billy took the bait and swallowed it—and charged.

  An unseen arm jutted out. The blunt obstacle from out of nowhere caught him like a concrete clothesline, and he went down, coughing and sputtering. A med tech who had tried semisuccessfully to watch his back over the years shook his head, looking annoyed. “Cut the shit, Tway.”

  Tway. Billy’s throat might’ve been crushed, but he could breathe better at the sound of his last name. Not fucking Twat Waffle.

  “You stand no chance with anyone on base.”

  “Not true.” He sputtered.

  “Keep your head low, and you’re out of here. Fuck up, and you’re in the brig. What don’t you get about that?”

  Billy pushed onto his butt, sliding against the wall. “We had a situation.”

  The med tech shook his head. “Keep your head low. Try to stay out of trouble, and you get to go home. Don’t you get it? Don’t fuck up.”

  Billy pushed off the ground. “All day long, all I do is fix fuckups.”

  “I’m doing you a favor. Guys like you need ’em. Read me?” With a pitying shake of his head, he started walking away. “Go to your bunker. I’d stay there.”

  Billy hadn’t had a single friend, not one companion through the hell of boot camp and orders. Even though he was less than twenty sleeps from a ticket the hell home, barely anyone knew his name. Over the years, his med-tech friend had claimed he wanted to keep him out of trouble. What about the assholes who spent their time picking on Billy? Was there a poster for orientation that introduced him as the onsite entertainment? No one would miss him when he was gone—though they’d miss him fixing all their fuckups.

  How could an entire medical facility be inept enough to break their computer systems on almost a daily basis? How could they have so little respect for the only man who could fix their screwups? Doctors might save lives, but not if they couldn’t order and review the simplest of medical reports and see MRI results.

  Like the one that was done in Room 6806. That woman.

  Billy’s mind processed information almost as quickly as Landstahl’s servers. In an instant, he knew that innocent face that peered up at him—although it was exhausted and older than the last time he’d seen it, which was in pictures from the news in Podunk, Virginia years ago. Nothing ever happened in his hometown, so when the story had hit, it hit big.

  Billy knew that woman’s story just as well as he knew all of his true-crimes TV trivia. He might’ve even had a crush on her. It was weird to think of a dead woman as attractive, but she was, and this many years later, her face had stuck with him. Now he knew why. What he didn’t know was how she was alive and sitting pretty in a room reserved for military special guests.

  Could it be possible that two people from a small town in the US would find themselves in a hospital facility in Germany more than a decade later? Not likely. But stranger things happened. People hit the lotto. Hopeless illnesses were cured.

  No, he was smart, but he was also stressed. Maybe it was time for those pills that the doctor had offered to help calm him down. Billy hadn’t wanted anything to cloud his mind, to slow his fingers on the keyboard. Those pills would make his fingertips shake, according to everything he’d ever read on the Internet. Plus, they’d dull the acumen that kept him sharp when name-callers who wanted to see him fail surrounded him.

  At a computer near the nurses’ station, Billy pulled the records for Room 6806 under the guise of doing a system upgrade. He’d land himself in a FUBAR world of hurt if he was caught snooping records—especially in public—but he couldn’t help himself.

  Even as he typed, scouring for the name of the woman in Room 6806, he knew the answer: Nicola Hart—the same college kid who died in a car crash years ago. Half of the Gianori mob had gone to jail because of what the FBI had found.

  But what if none of it were true, and she hadn’t died? Conspiracy theory much?

  Room 6806 was inaccessible. Yes. Huge conspiracy theories. Holy crap.

  It was time to go back to his office in the underground lair where they hid the IT geniuses who kept this place running. There he could dig, see what there was to see, maybe watch some Netflix on lunch—a good mobster documentary or two—and if that was Nicola Hart… then he had a meal ticket.

  The military wouldn’t hook him up with a shiny new job when he was back on US soil in less than a month, and Billy wasn’t re-upping his contract. He had no jobs lined up and zero prospects, a small pension, and less in his bank account—thank you online gaming. But Nicola Hart’s existence was the kind of information that the Gianori crime family would feast on.

  Or rather, pay on.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Nothing was better than a dream about a hug from a man who couldn’t hug her. Nicola woke nestled in Cash’s arm. The only upside of this trip was it had scared the morning sickness out of her.

  She sighed, burrowing into him, hating the shitty hospital mattress and plastic-foam pillows, but at least Cash was warm albeit unresponsive. His heavy arm draped over her acted as a security blanket, and even though she positioned it as if he were an inanimate object—almost having to growl at some of the nurses to stay away—it made her feel better.

  “Morning, Cash.” She tilted to kiss his very scratchy cheek. Maybe it would be a good day to trim that beard. “It’s also a good day to wake up.”

  No response—as usual.

  She snuggled back in, loving the quiet moments before the doctors and nurses, Roman and the guys, and the entire world arrived to show support and give them strength. “I love when it’s just the three of us.”

  Cash squeezed her gently. So nice—wait! She jumped up in bed. “Cash?”

  Nothing.

  Straddling him, she put both hands on his chest and willed him to move or even blink. “Cash?”

  “Easy, cowgirl.”

  Nicola jumped. Sugar. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “That’s because you were manhandling your husband.”

  “God.” She climbed off the bed, running her hand over her face and into her hair, wanting to rip it out in frustration. “He moved.”

  “Didn’t they say it would happen?”

  “But I was talking to him, and he, like… responded.” To talk about our family. “You know what? He needs to come home. He needs out of this hospital and to have his normal stuff. Like his hat. Where’s his hat?”

  “He’s in bed.”

  “It should at least be in the room.”

  Sugar bit her lip then nodded. “Jared can find it. Or Roman.”

  “And I want to take him home,” Nicola said.

  Sugar’s eyes went wide, and Nic spun toward Cash. His head pushed back, almost as if he were stretching without using his arms.

  “Talk about home. I’ll go… find someone.”

  It didn’t matter who Sugar would find or how stunned she sounded. Nicola pounced on the bed. “Are you going to wake up?” she whispered. “Because that would be super cool if you did.”

  He wasn’t moving again—back to the relaxed state of nothingness that was Cash.

  “We’re going to have a baby.” She curled back into his arms, wrapping his hug around her. “A little bitty family.”

  It was a quiet lullaby, soothing her to sleep and letting that dream of his hug come and take her away. Minutes ticked by, and her eyelids felt heavy. She wanted to stay awake…

  “Nic.” The raspy, gravelly sound whispered in her dream, just loud enough to pull her awake.

  She blinked, not believing because as her eyes opened, his body was just the same—unmoving in the silence. Just a sleeping Cash. So handsome, so perfect. “I love you too much; you know that.” Her eyes sank shut as her heart and mind warred over whether or not to lose hope. “But I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

  Scooting up, she kissed his soft lips, and—she felt movement. His lips didn’t part,
but they didn’t stay the same. Nicola reared back and stared, scrutinizing. “You’re waking up.”

  Nothing.

  She cupped his face. “Please. Wake up.”

  As staring contests went, this one would kill her. It lasted minutes or hours, and he was the most beautiful and heartbreaking thing she’d ever watched.

  Her thumbs swept over his cheeks, ignoring the occasional nurse who wandered in. “Today, baby. You’re coming back to us today.”

  His eyelashes fluttered.

  God, yes. They did, and he would.

  “See, there you go.” She curled in close. “You said my name earlier. I know it.”

  But when she touched his hair and cheeks and the outline of his lips with her fingertip, nothing changed.

  A knock at the door pulled her attention, and regretfully, Nicola looked up. Beth and Roman hovered close together with an unmistakable new-couple glow, fingers touching then quickly dropping and eyes locked a few seconds too long before they said their hellos. They looked happy and in love but as if they were trying to hide it lest Nicola have some pregnant-woman meltdown. “I’m fine. Chill out.”

  “Thank God.” Beth bounded toward the bed, Cash’s cowboy hat in hand. “You’re looking for this?”

  “Yes.” It was one piece of the puzzle. For ten minutes, they shot the shit, and then Roman and Beth escaped, holding hands. Clearly, they were now publicly a couple. That was good—Nicola wanted them together almost more than anything else.

  Though not as much as Cash waking up. “Get up already!” She stomped over toward him, put the hat on his head, and glared. Pregnancy hormones were making her Mood-Swing McGee, but all Nicola knew was that at the moment, she wanted to shake him awake.

  Instead, she gave him a hug. Then bit his shoulder. Hard.

  Cash groaned. His shoulder jumped. His hand moved as though he wanted to brush her away, and Nicola smiled in triumph, kissing where she’d almost drawn blood. “That got your attention, didn’t it?”

  His eyelashes fluttered, and Nicola watched as the most beautiful blue eyes that she missed more than she could believe stared back at her.

  “Hi.” The word barely choked past her lips.

  He didn’t respond and drifted back to sleep. A total letdown.

  Then his shoulders bunched. His eyelashes fluttered again. Hesitantly, Cash’s eyes opened, and he looked around the room. He didn’t show any recognition, but he didn’t seem uninterested either. So that was okay? Her worry spiked.

  “You were hurt, but it’s okay now,” she said, hoping to soothe him as much as her.

  He focused back on her. His tongue darted out and licked his lips. With a jerky switch, he shifted, and his cowboy hat fell over his face. Nicola grabbed it, noticing that he didn’t react.

  “So…” She should call the doctor or page the nurse, but they said he’d wake up, and that it wouldn’t be a ten-alarm fire when he did. She wanted to take it slow, just as they’d advised, and give him a moment before she pressed the call button.

  His eyes stayed glued to hers.

  “You can hear me?”

  His lips twitched, then a smile flickered before it stayed. God. There was that Cash Garrison lazy-boy grin before it gently faded.

  “Good. You have this IV, and you’re peeing in a bag. All things super awesome.” She laughed, hoping to make him smile again, but his intensity scared her. “Do you know who I am, Cash?”

  His head tilted in a slight nod.

  “God. Thank God.” Nicola launched into his arms. He barely moved, and she didn’t care. She took hold of his arms and wrapped them around her. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  Practically in his lap, she pulled back, half-praying, half-ready to kiss the ever-loving snot out of him. “If you know who I am, say my name.”

  Cash rolled his bottom lip into his mouth. His eyes bounced from her to the wall, the IV, and back again, and with it went her stomach and her hopes. All her fears came back.

  His chest expanded as he drew in a breath, and she watched, waiting, knowing it would be a slow road, knowing she needed to chill. She wanted to tell him it was okay, that he shouldn’t rush. The words would come, and he wasn’t scampering to get away from the crazy woman crawling all over him. So it was all good.

  Nicola dropped her inquisition and laid her head on his chest then propped her chin to stare up at him, still with his arms manhandled around her.

  Cash licked his lips again, his face drawn as though he were almost pained. “Sweet girl.”

  Then he gave her his perfect smile and, slow seconds later, that Cash Garrison wink.

  That was all it took. All the tears that she’d had before came back, but this time, it was complete, consuming, absolute rejoicing. “Yes, I’m your sweet girl.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “I’m holding your hand.” Nicola held tight, and Cash’s heart squeezed as hard as his hand did.

  So did his frustration. What a fucking double-edged sword. He could literally feel how much she loved him, but at the same time, he was crawling out of his skin in a need to be normal again. He had a shit-ton to say, but there were moments his lips took an extra second to form the words.

  How did that make him one of the world’s best snipers? It didn’t. In what way was he the best of the best when it came to special ops now? There was just no way.

  And how could Nicola look at him as an equal partner—in marriage, at Titan, in life? His stomach turned, and he wanted to vomit. Fuck. Or really, he wanted to get his ass down to a firing range and blow something up. Blow everything up. He was angry in a violent, raging, out-of-character way.

  She leaned into him but didn’t let him take her weight. That he had to think about lifting his arm and pulling her in was a problem, but he did it anyway.

  “I like being tucked under your arm,” she whispered as they walked toward the medical center’s conference room.

  “I hate…” That you narrate everything… that I can’t find the words to say this… that it’s all stuck in my brain. “You’re talking to me like a kid.”

  “Doc said to say everything.”

  He kissed the top of her head. “Always the good student.” He opened the door, and they were the first ones in the little room. It was cold, and the table sat eight. His operative training should’ve kicked in to assess the scene in a blink of an eye, but he found that he counted the chairs. Fuck. Then he lifted his gaze to check for the entry and exit points. Vents, lights. Where should he sit? Where should Nicola sit? Everything was always strategic. But for the moment… he plopped into a seat.

  “Doing okay?” she asked.

  Cash forced a smile, and hers registered that she knew his grin was fake.

  Dr. Lobani came in. They did the handshake thing, everything uncomfortably forced and awkward as though Cash was readying for a death sentence.

  “So let’s hear it. What do I need to know? If you could hit me with bullet points, cut the—” His mind stuttered for too long a second. “BS. I’d like that.”

  The doctor agreed. “You tell me when you have questions.”

  They nodded.

  “Closed-head injuries like yours, due to the combination of explosive blast waves, concussive forces, and blunt-object impact, create contusions. Or rather, bruises in the brain. You’re lucky that there were no skull fractures, no hematoma—”

  “Thank God,” Nicola murmured and squeezed his hand. They’d both read up on what went down when Cash had been injured.

  “No two brain injuries are ever alike, meaning that no two recoveries are ever alike. The most important part of treatment…” Dr. Lobani narrowed his gaze on Cash, and he knew a bombshell was coming. “You must relax and give yourself time to heal.”

  “I can relax,” Cash grumbled, and that was a lie. Or at least, he couldn’t relax in the way that a brain-trauma specialist would approve.

  “Relaxing might mean different things to us.” The doctor knew this game well, Cash could tel
l. “Until you’re fully recovered, you’ll have a range of effects: headaches, mood swings, irritability, ringing in your ears. Stay away from percussive forces. For example, no rock concerts. No time on the range.”

  “I’m a sniper. That’s how I chill.”

  The doctor gave them both a pointed yet sympathetic stare. “Exercise falls into the category of not right now. As does any vigorous action, including some sexual activities.”

  As Cash shifted in his seat, that caught him off guard, and he wasn’t sure how or why taking his wife had to do with healing his brain, but he wasn’t going to ask a follow-up—

  “Until when?” But apparently Nicola was.

  “A few weeks downtime, followed by playing it by ear,” Dr. Lobani said plainly as though reporting the weather prediction. “I’d suggest holding off.”

  “Right,” Cash grumbled. “And getting back to the fact that I’m a sniper, I need time on the range.” And vigorous activity with his woman would happen when they wanted…

  “I understand your concerns, and I deal with your type. So I’m going to lay it out there so you understand this in no uncertain terms.” Dr. Lobani leaned forward, clearly familiar with hard-asses. “If you want to continue as a sniper ever again, you have to take care of yourself now.”

  Ever again. Acid bit the back of Cash’s throat. “Right. Okay.”

  “No caffeine. No alcohol. Your body needs time to find its baseline, and stimulants slow the process.”

  “Easy. That’s fine.” Cash shrugged. “Nicola’s on a decaf kick; I can be too.”

  Nic coughed.

  “You okay?” Cash asked.

  “Yup.”

  He turned his attention back to the doctor. “No drinking. No shooting for a limited amount of time.”

  “For however long it takes. And we need to get you in to see a vision specialist. Ophthalmology will see you today and—”

  “I’m sorry, what?” Panic. That was panic. Brain bruises were one thing. No beer—that was another. But his vision? That was his meal ticket.