AN: Yes, this update is real. Hurray! Also, keep an eye out for a flashback about mid-way through the chapter. I decided we need to take a trip back in time, at least for a moment, just to keep things moving. Let me know what you think;-)
"How did you get those?" Chelsea asked, nodding to the jagged white scars on Baird's shoulder. She'd finished sewing together his fresh wounds and moved on to wrapping clean gauze around his bicep, taping on the bandage.
Clean and wearing fresh sweats, they were sitting at the foot of Damon's bed. Chelsea had found out early in her career as a medic than even the most grizzled front liners should be seated when receiving needlework, preferably somewhere soft, like on a bed or couch, just in case they fainted.
Baird could take a needle, but his cheeks were still pale from enduring stitches with no anesthetic. His color was slowly returning and Chelsea figured getting him talking might keep his mind off the stinging in his arm. He didn't seem overly eager to talk about his past, but he'd given her a small glimpse earlier when he told her about his home town. Why not press her luck?
Without looking, Baird reached over with his opposite hand, his fingers automatically finding the scars.
"That one still hurts sometimes," he admitted.
The gauze slid through her fingers and around his thick arm. The bandage neared completion. "Did you get it during the war?"
Baird slowly shook his head, unusually subdued. "Before. When I was a kid."
"It's pretty jagged. What'd you do? Get caught on a barbed wire fence?"
He gave her a look out of the corner of his eye. "Before I tell you, promise me you won't hop on any pity trains. When I was a kid I needed help, and all I got was pity. It still annoys the shit out of me. That's why I don't talk about it. It took Cole over a decade to drag it out of me, and if he hadn't done it I wouldn't be telling you anything now."
Holding the bandage on with one hand, Chelsea tore off a piece of medical tape with her teeth. "That's fair. But if we continue to go down this road, you should know it would really piss me off if I asked you a question about your past and you refused to tell me. I'd understand if you couldn't tell me, but a refusal for the sake of maintaining your manly honor would probably earn you a punch in the face."
Damon considered that for a moment. "Did you tell Kendall everything?" he finally asked.
That quick flip of the coin was a little more shrewdness than she liked to see in a guy.
"No," Chelsea admitted, fiddling with the tape. She was having a hard time getting it to stick properly to the gauze. "I never told him I don't want kids—at least not for ten years. I didn't tell him I've killed six people. And I never told him I'm a virgin." She didn't even blush at admitting it, although it was a near thing.
He perked up at hearing that last one. "You're a virgin?" Baird asked, clearly skeptical.
"Is that a problem?" Somehow she managed to keep perfectly level when she asked that question.
"It's not a problem, it's just—unusual. I'm pretty sure I saw a fourteen-year-old girl dragging her kid around the other day. It seems like they're popping them out younger and younger these days. I mean, who knew Santiago was just ahead of his time? These days he'd be considered an old man fathering a kid at sixteen."
Chelsea sighed. No matter how much the COG wanted to put motherhood on her horizon, she couldn't do it. She wouldn't. Not because they said so.
"Chelsea," Damon brought her attention fully back to him. Apparently he'd misinterpreted her sudden silence. "Seriously, it doesn't bother me. I'm not really sure what the hell we're jumping into, but you're in the driver's seat. Just don't expect me to know what I'm doing without some guidance. They don't make a technical manual for this shit, and believe it or not I do need a manual for some things."
She'd have to think on that some, and figure out if she found it reassuring or terrifying. For the moment she was too tired to be afraid any more. Tomorrow after work they would have to see Dom. Maybe articulating it would cause things to fall into place.
If only she could have a conversation with her mother about this. That would help so much.
"So how'd you get those?" Chelsea asked, motioning once more to his scars.
"My brother tried to hack off my arm with a cleaver." He said it so easily she almost thought he was kidding at first, but none of his sarcastic tells showed through. No raised eyebrow, no wise-guy attitude.
"Really?" she asked. "Why?"
Baird shrugged with his good shoulder. "He was pissed off at me. I got one over on him that morning. When I came home, Chris got some of his buddies to grab me and they held me down on the table while he tried to chop me up."
It took a conscious effort to keep her mouth from falling open. "What did you do?" she asked.
"I kicked him in the balls, then I kicked him in the face when he bent over, and I bit one of the guys holding me, and then I ran like hell."
"Holy shit." She could tell already it was going to be hard to keep her promise to not feel sorry for him. Her insides ached knowing she couldn't do anything. When he was young, someone he should've been able to trust did a truly terrible thing to him, and she couldn't go back in time and stop it, or tell the boy he'd once been that someday he'd meet people who would care for him.
That she would care for him.
"So I guess you're not very fond of guys coming at you with a knife, huh?" she asked, thinking of Wes with many echoing pangs of guilt.
"I guess you could say that."
"And you almost had to go through that again tonight because I let Wes fool me," Chelsea concluded. "I wanted to be with someone so much I didn't see there was something wrong. My friends paid for that mistake. Dom did, and you almost did too."
Baird nudged her arm. "Don't do that to yourself. You were too close to see it. Trust me, if Cole went nuts and started offing people in his spare time, I'd be the last one to notice."
Unconvinced, Chelsea rewarded his effort to cheer her with a wan smile. Leaning forward, she gave him a short kiss, just the barest touch of her lips to his. It still felt really good to do that.
Slipping his good arm around her waist, Damon pulled her awkwardly across his lap, giving her a real kiss. Sighing through her nose, Chelsea placed both hands on his shoulders, never breaking away while she gingerly moved to straddle his lap.
Neither of them were expert kissers, but a little passion mixed with a large dose of enthusiasm went a long way. Just like earlier in the evening, when everything else melted away and left the two of them behind, all her worries became a little more distant. After everything, this felt more right than anything ever had. It felt safe.
They were dangling at the end of a very tenuous thread of control.
"Can I ask you something?" she asked when they paused for breath. "I know this is going to sound stupid, and maybe a little lame. I just—I know terrible things are bound to happen to me, and while I have control over it I want my first time to be something good." She ran her fingers affectionately over his prickly buzzed hair. "Something I won't regret."
She felt every muscle in his body tense beneath her, and the feeling was impressive. Just the thought of becoming intimately familiar with those muscles bunching and relaxing sent a tiny tremor ran down her spine, leaving goose-bumps in its wake. Her fingertips told her the hair on the back of his neck had stood straight up. The idea was just as electric for him as it was for her.
Baird withdrew momentarily. She'd started to realize he had an internal processing space. Like a computer, he could snap off calculations instantly, like it didn't require any thought at all. Some of the questions she'd thrown at him tonight required a little more chugging out of that mental engine, and so the pauses were noticeable.
"Are you sure you wouldn't regret being with me?" he finally asked. "I mean, I figured we could grab dinner a few times first. Maybe then Dom wouldn't shank me with that Commando pig sticker he always carries around."
Chelsea half smiled, giving him a kiss that left both of them breathless.
"All right," Damon said, once he'd finally collected his brain again. He deftly shifted her on his lap. "You've convinced my dick, as I'm sure you're already aware. However, there's still the issue of protection. I don't have any." He quirked an eyebrow at her and waited for her answer to that.
Chelsea felt her heart sink. Oh, well. It was probably for the best anyway. As much as she'd like to grab a snapshot, frame it, and stick on her mental wall for the sake of future enjoyment, maybe it would be better to wait.
"My back's sore anyway," she admitted. They were both pretty beat up. She'd just picked gravel out of both of Baird's knees. In retrospect, the act itself probably wouldn't be very enjoyable considering they both had fresh stitches.
"You sure?" Baird asked, cocking his head a little to the side.
That nearly stopped her heart. What was he offering? "I don't want to get pregnant," she blurted. Just the idea of that possibility reduced her to a fragile, trembling mess, and the strength of the negative reaction shocked her.
"Whoa, calm down. I don't want you to, either," he said, holding up his hands to placate her. "Trust me, that's the last thing I want right now."
Chelsea sighed. She just needed sleep. Tomorrow there would be so much to sort out.
Baird jerked his head toward the bedroom door. "Come on. Hop off and I'll take you home."
Chelsea didn't move, glancing at the large, welcoming bed extending out beyond where they sat. "Could I sleep here?" she asked softly. Was that too much to ask? Just the idea of traveling back to the apartment and spending the night there alone if Cole didn't return struck her as exhausting, and depressing.
Damon considered for a moment, seeming to go back and forth for before he finally said, "Um, yeah. I guess. Get under the covers. I'll be there in a minute."
Chelsea smirked. "You're not going to sleep on the couch and let me have the bed?"
"I don't have a couch. Even if I did, I'm not that much of a gentleman," he informed her, giving her hips a squeeze before dumping her off his lap.
"Marcus let me have his bed," she pointed out. "He slept on the floor."
"That's because he's a pussy," Damon said, heaving onto his feet. "If he'd get over himself he'd still have a chick in his bed every night."
She was sleepier than she'd thought. Even crawling the short distance across the bed felt like it drained the energy right out of her.
"You going to make it?" Baird asked, making his way toward the bathroom.
"Yes," she insisted, finally making it to the pillows. Pulling back the sheets, she slipped under them, warm in her over-sized t-shirt and sweatpants. She had extra clothes in her bag, but when Baird offered her some of his, she'd accepted.
She had a feeling he'd never loaned his clothes to anyone before, with Cole being a possible outlier—assuming anything Damon owned actually fit the former Thrashball player.
Besides, she had a feeling he secretly enjoyed seeing her flop around in his shirt. He'd suggested dryly that she forego the sweatpants all together.
She fully intended to wait for him to return, but the second her head hit the pillow, she was out.
Baird took his time in the bathroom. That girl did a hell of a number on him, and he couldn't just shrug it off. It really was incredible, considering he'd nearly gotten stabbed and then stitched up later. There'd been a few others who'd caught his notice over the years, but none quite so potent. Even after he endured searing pain, all she had to do was wiggle her ass against him a little and he was ready to go.
By the time he finished up, she'd already passed out. That was fine. He'd probably do the same the second he laid down next to her. Sleeping next to a warm body would be pretty fucking weird. He'd spent most of his life curling up in dark lonely corners, hoping no one would bother him. Then again, he had spent a decent number of nights out in the open back-to-back with Cole or Rojas or Tanner, without even a camp fire to keep warm because it might give away their location. How different could it be?
Very different, his libido reminded. Out in the field with a bunch of guys, his brain had often wandered off to projects he needed to finish, or would like to take on. Lying next to Chelsea, he'd have a hard time thinking about anything other than the fine attributes of that warm female body next to him.
And how much he wished he could roll over and be welcomed into that warmth.
Shit. She's already killing my efficiency by at least thirty percent.
Silently crossing the bedroom, Baird picked up his jacket and fished through it until he found what he was looking for. Then he walked over to the half-open bedroom window, letting his elbows rest on the sill and leaning out, looking over the new construction popping up all over this part of the city. Apartment complexes identical to his would soon dominate the area, but it wouldn't be enough. Human nature had kicked into overdrive, and it would be a long time before housing caught up with the booming population.
Pulling the string of unopened square packages out straight, Baird recalled exactly how much he'd paid for them just a week ago. They were damn expensive, and now he didn't know what to do with them. What if Chelsea found them? He could hide them, sure, but what if she did discover them? What if she figured out he'd lied to her? He still didn't know quite why he'd done it. To test her? To make damn sure she didn't intend to use him?
Well, she'd passed with flying colors then. She didn't want a kid out of him. She probably didn't know what the hell she wanted, other than to mitigate any future pain she might experience at the hands of some as of yet unknown asshole who might one day finally get the best of her. Even if it did leave him with a nasty case of blue balls, he probably did the right thing turning her down.
Of course, doing the right thing didn't get him off like it seemed to for Fenix and Santiago. He was half tempted to wake her up and make some excuse about forgetting he'd stored them in the fridge. Maybe she'd still be up for a good time.
Glancing over, Damon saw her curled up under the blankets, one arm stretched over the space he'd soon occupy. She was completely out.
With one final sigh, Baird let the condoms slip from his fingers and watched them flip over and over while they fluttered to the sidewalk below. Some lucky bastard would make a hell of a find tonight. Besides, if Chelsea did decide under better circumstances that she wanted him to be her first ride, he'd be far more likely to rock her world if he didn't have to worry about aggravating any injuries or passing out as soon as he finished.
He did have his pride, after all.
After closing the window he made his way over to the bed, lifting the covers and then her arm, slipping in beneath both and pulling her head onto his good shoulder. He sighed, brushing back her hair with his fingertips.
He wasn't a pushover with a woman, but he still enjoyed having one. Glancing over at Chelsea, he spent a minute watching her chest rise and fall with each soft breath. She'd sewed up his arm without batting an eye and she didn't fall apart in a tight spot. Hell, with a little luck he might even teach her how to do some basic mechanic work. She wasn't gifted in that area, but she was apt enough to learn without frustrating him. Unlike most guys, she actually listened and retained.
Even with all his misgivings, Baird had to admit, he enjoyed having this woman in particular.
Three years ago, fifteen miles off the coast of Vectes...
This was her nightmare. Any officer's nightmare.
"Marcus?" She grabbed his face between her hands and she slapped his cheek. She slapped him harder.
Nothing. He was out, maybe dead. Ash from the engine room fire blackened his skin, and he bled from a handful of cuts on his face and neck—metal splinters embedded in flesh after a RPG hit the side of the ship just ten feet from where he'd taken cover to return fire. His armor made it impossible to tell if his chest rose with each breath.
Where the hell did Stranded get RPGs? Why did they wait so long to use them?
Machine gun fire ripped through the air, and an ominous black column rose high above their ship into the formerly blue sky. It would mark their location if Vectes ever realized they were under attack. Or, like blood in the water, it might bring in more Stranded for the kill. If help came too late, that tall pillar would be the only thing left to mark their collective grave site.
Down on one knee next to a bulkhead, Anya took a deep breath, one hand on Marcus's still form. At least she'd never fooled herself. She knew she was green. Getting up to speed for combat had become her mission since Jacinto sank and just like in all her pursuits, she'd pursued it with gusto.
But all the extra PT and drills in the world didn't hold a candle to real field experience. She'd leaned hard on her sergeants, especially on Marcus, and now she had no one to lean on. No one stood between her and the men.
They were her responsibility now.
"Ma'am!" One of the engine room boys, a red-haired kid named Taylor Dunn, took a knee beside her. His face was so black from fighting the fire below deck, she hardly recognized him. He had to scream over the firefight so she could hear. "Ma'am, my father sent me to tell you the fire's under control, but there's no way to salvage the engines. We're taking on water faster than the bilges can pump it out. It'll be slow, but we're going down."
"And the radio?" Anya asked. "Has anyone been able to make it into the wheelhouse to call for help?"
Dunn shook his head, his mouth set in a grim line. "No, ma'am! The fire's still burning in there. There won't be anything left when they put it out."
I'm alone. No mom, no Hoffman, no Marcus, no Command, no Control. What the hell do I do?
"Do they need you downstairs?" Anya asked the kid. He was at least eighteen and he looked strong enough, especially for a Navy boy. She was surprised he didn't sign up to be a Gear.
"They've got all the pumps manned down below and the fire crew doesn't want me. Unless you give me a rifle, there's nothing I can do but pray, ma'am."
Anya picked up Marcus's lancer. The chainsaw made the thing damn heavy. Her rifle had no bayonet of any kind. She didn't have enough strength in her arms to maintain accuracy while firing a muzzle-heavy weapon.
Dunn accepted the weapon, and she breathed a little easier when he handled it like he knew what he was doing.
"Use that to keep Sergeant Fenix alive," she said. "I need you to stay with him. If we go to the lifeboats, it'll be up to you to make sure he gets off. Are you up to it?"
The kid nodded.
Anya almost asked if he was sure. Marcus weighed a ton in his stocking feet. In armor he weighed closer to ten shit-loads, as he'd so elegantly put it.
Trust the boy to find a way. That was her mother's voice.
Giving Dunn one last clap on the back, Anya checked her rifle. She still had more than half a clip. At least that part of her recent training had come in handy. Even in the heat of battle, she could account for every shot she'd taken.
The buzzing of a speedboat's engine off the starboard bow constantly threatened closer before retreating, revving up to a higher pitch every time the driver put the prop over hard to avoid returning fire.
Anya coughed when she moved past an access door to the lower decks with smoke billowing out. Her boots slipped while she hurried along with her head down, and she put a hand on the deck to regain her balance, only to find she'd slipped on a slick of blood.
When she finally gained the aft deck, she found ten men—the remaining three members of Delta squad, four members of Jace Stratton's Alpha Seven, and three green privates from the newly formed Theta Four.
Dom manned the big swivel belt-fed fifty caliber mounted on the deck. With the engine running, the hydraulic turn-table beneath the gun would've given Dom a 180 degree line of fire and he would've made short work of even the most elusive speedboat. But without power, the gun's mounting limited it to a ninety-degree swivel. One speedboat had succumbed, but the rest had adapted to the gun's range, always skirting just beyond the line of fire.
With nine lancers and one hobbled belt-fed aft, and at most two squads on the foredeck, they didn't have nearly enough firepower. The ship's big guns were fixed in place, completely ineffective against close mobile targets. Marcus had been trying to cover those big guns when he went down. Even if they had the spare manpower to get more ordinance topside from the magazine, the guns were probably damaged. It could be suicidal to fire them.
"Anya! Where's Marcus?" Dom called down from the gun platform. He was sighting down the barrel, waiting for one of the boats to forget, just for a second, exactly where that line of fire extended.
"He's down." Her voice almost faltered saying those words.
What would she do without him? Without that hope that maybe, someday...
"What?" Dom called, his head snapping around, fear in his dark eyes. She knew exactly how he felt.
But she couldn't let him lose focus.
"Santiago, take command of Delta One," she ordered.
The panic didn't leave his eyes. She'd sat on his shoulder through dozens of firefights and she'd never seen him lose his cool. Until now. "Where is he?" Dom demanded, turning to jump down from the platform.
She could not let him do that. That gun was covering the other nine Gears firing off the back of the ship. If Dom came down off that gun against her orders, it would show every man on the ship she'd lost control of the situation.
"Don't you dare move off that gun, Santiago!" she screamed over the din of the firefight, shoving him back around. "I will staple your balls to that seat if I have to!"
Whatever he expected to come out of her mouth, that wasn't it. He still appeared shaken, but he stayed at his post.
"I hate to spoil your dinner party, ma'am, but we've got more company!" Baird yelled caustically from where he and Cole were taking cover by the port rail. Apparently he didn't think much of her standing around talking to Dom when they needed someone to lead.
He was right.
"Which side?" Anya shouted back.
"Seven o'clock! It's the biggest fucking yacht I've ever seen and they've got fifteen inch guns mounted on the deck. They're coming around on us and if they get a firing solution, they'll blow us out of the water!"
"Baird, take a squad. Anyone but Cole. You have the artillery. There're only two rounds left and I expect you to make them count. Float those guns before they float us!"
"Wilco." Ducking down, Baird went back and collected the three Theta privates. "Welcome to Sigma, boys. I sure hope you last longer than the last bunch they put me in charge of."
"Santiago. Arrange your men to take out those speedboats with minimal loss of ordinance. Is that clear?" she shouted right in Dom's ear, just to make damn sure he heard her.
A half beat of pause and then, "Yes, ma'am." He wasn't happy about it.
Anya decided she'd care about that if and when they made it home alive. She could afford to be a friend when she was just the messenger passing on orders. When the orders came from her, it became a different ball game for all of them.
She didn't waste another second. It was, "Cole, you're with me," and a moment later their boots pounded the deck, heading for the stairwell to the hold.
Anya held up one of the life-jackets, studying her handiwork. This part of the hold was cut off from engineering by sealed fire doors, so there was hardly any smoke here in the armory. The stairwell that led to topside was a different story.
Cole poked his head in the door. "They ready, ma'am," he said.
She only had four life-jackets, but it would have to do.
"Did they give you any trouble?" she asked.
Cole shook his head, a ghost of an amused smile on his face. No one in their right mind gave Cole any trouble. "No, ma'am."
The freighter wasn't just transporting supplies from the mainland. It was also transporting six Stranded prisoners Gorasnaya had imprisoned for murder and piracy. Six prisoners the Stranded pirates apparently wanted back.
Anya finished patching the interior of the final life-jacket and then folded her field knife and grabbed all four of the orange jackets, letting Cole lead the way into the corridor where they waited.
With Cole's bulk and lancer at their backs, the six men made their way up to the main deck, too busy coughing and sputtering to make a dash for it. Their eyes were all watering to the point of tears.
"You," Anya ordered, shoving a life jacket at one of them. "Take this. Jump off over there." She shoved him toward a corner of the ship.
Once they understood what was happening, the Stranded prisoners were more than happy to cooperate. They didn't question her sending them off different corners of the ship. They took the life-jackets offered, two of them found a buddy to hang onto, and they all jumped off. They swam in different directions, and soon the pirates on the speedboats figured out their game and started picking them up, dividing the effort to make it go faster.
"Cease fire!" Anya shouted. "Let them pick up their men! Focus on the gun ship!"
A muffled 'thump' signaled Baird's new crew firing off a round of artillery, and a moment later the over-sized yacht got hammered by fire in spite of its efforts to evade the shells raining down out of the blackened sky. The rear half of the Stranded ship got pounded through the surf, quickly dragging the rest of the ship down with it.
Anya patted Damon on the back herself. "Nice shooting, corporal," she said, sticking to cover beside him on the starboard foredeck.
"Yeah," he agreed grimly, turning skeptical green eyes on her. "Now what? Those speeders aren't leaving, and they're free to take pot shots at will. They're probably calling in reinforcements to finish us off. With all due respect, ma'am, you just let our leverage swim away."
This was her nightmare. Holding the reins in an impossible situation with no recourse, no way out. No way to preserve her humanity.
Anya glanced over at Marcus's prone form. He'd started to come around at Dunn's prodding. He was still lying on the deck, but his eyes were open. Those cold, pale eyes that always seemed to look straight through her. He would never forgive her. She doubted things would ever be the same between them if she crossed this line. Then again, he didn't seem very interested in a future with her anyway.
She would certainly never be the same after today.
Anya pulled a transmitter from her breast pocket, from beneath her armor. She'd taken it from the armory along with four blocks of plastic explosive and four waterproof detonators.
"Sorry, mom," she whispered.
"What?" Baird shouted.
Her thumb flipped back the safety and then she pressed the button.
All four remaining speedboats simultaneously went up in flames.
It worked better than she could've possibly hoped.
Baird's mouth hung open just a little while he cautiously looked over the rail, pushing up his goggles to see better. The sudden silence was deafening. The four boats were still running. One went around in a tight circle until it capsized. Two others stalled out after the explosions and started to sink, and the last headed out away from them at top speed, weaving while the last living men aboard tried to jump ship and escape the flames.
"Holy shit," Baird said. "What'd I miss?"
"Corporal." Her voice sounded strange after the assault her ears had endured. Suddenly each of her limbs felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. "Find a way to call home. I don't care how, just get it done. Any resource on this ship is currently at your disposal."
"Um, yeah. I can do that," Baird agreed. Still cautious, he got to his feet, making his way down the line to collect a couple under-qualified assistants before heading below decks.
Anya kept moving. She didn't pause to recount what she'd done. If she didn't keep on the move it would catch up with her and suck her down. She set a watch at all corners of the ship, and then sent the rest of the guys below to help with the firefighting effort. There was still a great deal of smoke, but it was more white than black.
She spent some time on one of the pumps. It was dirty, hard work. Between the heat from the smoldering embers and the plate armor, she soon felt like she was roasting alive. In ten minutes she was relieved. Heat exhaustion was setting in quickly on anyone pumping, so the shifts were kept short. She took two more rotations before Baird called her up onto the deck.
Topside, the blond engineer pointed out three tiny specs on the horizon. Ravens were inbound, and it was one of the most welcome sights Anya had ever seen.
She had all her injured men medevaced on the Ravens, with Marcus going up last. She put Dom in charge of overseeing the operation, which meant he got to ride home with Marcus. He seemed to appreciate it. He even shot her a wan smile after they pulled him aboard off the winch and the chopper started to gain altitude, leaving her behind on the deck below, watching them go, her hair flying around her face.
At the end of the day, when the tugs were in place and hauling the ship back to Vectes with the hope of salvaging the wreck, Anya sat down with Baird and Cole in the mess on Calmaira, one of the COG's remaining small cruisers and part of the fleet escorting them back to shore. When he saw them, the Calmaira's cook brought out a bottle of shine and three glasses.
He was wise enough to leave the bottle.
Cracking her neck to each side, Anya thought about how amazing a hot shower would feel. She could rough it just fine with the boys if she had to, but she was still a girl. Warm water and her own quarters were waiting for her back on the island.
"I think I broke a nail—or two," she commented, examining her dirt-encrusted fingers. It would take days to scrub the black off. She didn't even want to think about what her hair probably looked like, or her face.
Baird slowly turned his head toward her, like he couldn't quite believe what he'd just heard. "Are you kidding me? After, 'Santiago, I'll staple your balls to that chair!' you're bitching about a chipped nail?" He mimicked her voice in a way that wasn't very complementary, and then he eyed her, calmly waiting for her to react.
"You really enjoy getting a rise out of people, don't you?" Anya surmised.
Cole chuckled, like it amused him to see his buddy get called out on his game.
"Yeah, well," Baird said. "You're not as fun as your other half. But seriously, what you said to Dom—that shit was epic. The guy needed to get his ass kicked and Fenix sure as hell won't do it."
With lips pursed, Anya thought on that. As much as she hated to admit it, Baird was right. Dom did need to get his ass kicked once in a while. The man was far too old and far too experienced to be a private. He needed his own squad, but he wouldn't voluntarily leave Marcus and none of the officers had enough fight left in them to force him to take a promotion to corporal or sergeant.
Cole nudged her. "You held it down today, Boss-Lady," he said.
"He won't see it that way," she reminded softly. She'd crossed a line, and although now she was too tired and numb to feel it, the acid taste of bile still clawed the back of her throat.
She'd lost the contents of her stomach more than once since she'd been relieved for the evening. Odds were good the shine whiskey she was partaking of wouldn't last long either.
Cole shrugged. "Maybe not. But he's still breathin', and he can thank you for that."
Anya couldn't argue with his logic, but it didn't relieve the terrible hardness that had taken hold in the pit of her stomach. Instead of answering, she took a drink. They all did, and none of them said anything more the rest of the trip home.
