Call To Engage. Tawny Weber
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handle it.
He would. He had to.
Because he was a SEAL.
Being a SEAL, it’s all he had. It’s all he was. He’d protect that, hold that, to his dying breath.
While Lansky scooped up another burrito for each of them, Elijah poured coffee and pondered how he’d gone from the classic skinny kid growing up in a small town outside Napa to become a supposedly badass SEAL.
He’d spent his childhood in Yountville, a dreamer more interested in drawing pictures and scoring with girls than taking on bad guys. When he’d learned that bad guys—or rather, the hard-ass jocks who’d run the school like gangs ran the streets—didn’t check interest before they kicked ass, he’d figured he’d better reconsider his thinking.
He’d joined the service fresh out of high school, eager to serve, sure he could make a difference. That choice had taken him the world over, had shown him man’s highs and lows and had netted him a fistful of commendations. Trained first in linguistics, then in cryptology, he’d put his skill with words and his talent with puzzles to good use.
He’d learned to fight. He’d developed strategic skills. He’d found himself.
But true credit for making him the man he was came down to his being a SEAL. A SEAL and, more to the point, a member of the elite group of SEALs that formed Poseidon.
Twelve men had come out of BUD/S together ten years back, and thanks to Admiral Cree, all twelve served among SEAL Team 7’s various platoons. That meant they were able to continue training together, studying together, excelling together.
And when called up, to serve together. They were an elite force of warriors, all focused on one purpose: to be the best of the best. They trained longer, they pushed further, they fought harder than anyone else. They focused on strategy; they specialized in everything.
They were, Elijah knew, the reason he was the man he was, and they were the reason he was alive today. They’d pulled him from the flaming bowels of hell, he admitted to himself as he and Lansky finished their breakfast.
“I cook—you clean. Since I hate dishpan hands, I figure this works fine,” the other man said with an easy smile at odds with his bloodshot eyes. As the sun rose, washing color into the jut of space deemed the kitchen, Elijah studied his roommate. You’d think Lansky’d been the one having the crap dreams from the drawn-out lines on his narrow face.
“Works for me. Don’t wanna do anything to hurt your pretty looks.” Elijah gave him another once-over. The guy resembled one of those cherubs his mother had painted on little china dishes, only all grown up. Blond hair, blue eyes and a sweet-cheeked innocence combined with a body sculpted by military training were just a few of the many tools Lansky put to use in his never-ending quest to bag as many chicks as he could.
And speaking of...
“I didn’t figure I’d see you this morning,” Elijah said, dumping the pans into the sink with a squirt of soap before adding hot water. “Thought you had plans last night that’d keep you in someone else’s bed until reveille. What happened? You strike out?”
“I never strike out, my man. I simply move on.”
Didn’t look like he’d moved on. Looked more like he’d spent the night suffering, brooding and hating life.
But as members of Poseidon, Elijah and Lansky had worked enough missions together, and yeah, cruised enough bars, that he knew the other man’s style. Lansky would give a friend—hell, an enemy—the shirt off his back if he needed it, but he didn’t share diddly unless he wanted to. And the man hated giving up to the point where stubborn tiptoed toward stupidity.
Come to think of it, they probably had all those things in common.
“What’s her name?”
Lansky’s scowl deepened as he refilled his own mug; the way the rich brown liquid sloshed against the white crockery made it clear this wasn’t a breakfast conversation he wanted to have.
“Her, who? It’d be a waste to limit myself to just one woman, Rembrandt. You know that.”
“Right.”
That was Lansky’s usual MO. Love ’em and leave ’em smiling was his motto. But if Elijah wasn’t mistaken, that motto had taken a nosedive since the other man had met a sexy brunette a few months back. With the skill of a man who enjoyed beauty in all its forms, Elijah brought the face to mind. A lush brunette with the face of a Greek goddess and the body to match.
Although Lansky had gotten to know her a lot better—along the lines of biblical knowing—they’d both met Andrianna Stamos months ago on a covert op run by Poseidon in search of a rogue SEAL. One who’d dirtied the team, who’d betrayed his country, who’d jeopardized a critical mission. A man who’d hidden treason behind a friendly smile and lied his way up the ranks about who he was, about what he’d done, about everything from deserting his child to where he’d hidden the riches reaped from treason.
They hadn’t found Brandon Ramsey. Still didn’t know if he was dead or alive. All they knew for sure was that he’d stolen classified information under the guise of an explosion.
Elijah rubbed his fingers over the puckered scars discernible even through the fabric of his slacks and hid his grimace with his cup.
“You ever had it hot for a woman who didn’t want jack to do with you?” Lansky asked with a shrug. “You know, the kind of woman you can’t shake from your mind?”
The swallow of coffee turned to vinegar in Elijah’s mouth.
Damn.
The memory of big brown eyes and the sexiest smile ever to curve a Cupid’s-bow mouth flashed through his mind. Just as quickly as that memory appeared, it was followed by those eyes filled with tears, brimming with accusation, and that mouth trembling as it said goodbye.
The vicious, cutting pain hit all the harder because it was unexpected. He knew exactly how it felt to have a woman rip his heart out of his chest and crush it to dust while he watched, helpless on the sidelines. Recovery in the burn ward was easier, and it hurt a hell of a lot less.
Elijah dumped what was left of his coffee in the sink. Looked like the scars on his leg weren’t the only ones being poked at this morning.
“Yeah. I know what it’s like. Rejection is fucked, my friend. Rejection when the heart’s involved? Fucked beyond words.” Wanting to put it from his mind, he started on another dish.
“Pretty much the worst,” Lansky muttered, his tone making it clear he was looking for assurance that he was wrong. But Elijah didn’t have any to give him. Not when it came to heartache and women.
“I’m pretty sure I’d rather take on a dirty bomb and a cell of urban terrorists single-handed than give a woman my heart again,” Elijah confessed, naming two of the threats the team hated most. Urban environments usually meant higher collateral damage, bigger rebuilding costs and, worse, playing nice with locals. “I figure there’s a better chance of beating the terrorists. Women? That’s a no-win game.”
“That is not a comfort,” Lansky said with a bitter laugh, holding out his empty cup for Elijah to add to KP.
“Even at the best of times, relationships are never easy, ” Elijah shot back. He didn’t know if it mattered if the relationship had lasted two weeks, two years or two decades. The other party ending it sucked hard.
“Good thing we’re not in the business of easy,” he added as he stacked the dishes in the cupboard, hoping to make up for the dismal morning pep talk.
“So why do we play?”
“Best game in town.”
“True that,” Lansky agreed, grabbing his cap from the closet before tossing Elijah his own.
They both gave one last, automatic look around before stepping