But he had a few weeks to figure it out. With a sigh, he looked around the empty house. Dustin lived with his fiancé, Cristina, most of the time these days, which left the place looking a bit neglected. It’d been just waiting for him to come back to help Dustin finish the upgrades, so they could sell it and move on to the next project. Dustin had redone the kitchen and both bathrooms. He’d pulled the carpet and refinished the original hardwood floors. And he’d done a good job, too. All that was left was a couple coats of paint and some tile in the entry, and this house could be flipped, something Dustin was eager to do.
As for himself, he was having a hard time caring. About anything—except his three simple needs.
Since there was no food and no willing woman, he’d get right to the sleeping portion of the evening. The room was furnished—as opposed to the last time he’d seen it, when it’d just had a mattress on the unfinished floor. Now there was oversize knotty pine furniture, complete with a king-size bed. It seemed hugely luxurious compared to what he was used to, and it hit him.
He really was back in the real world.
Physically, anyway. Mentally? Not yet. Not even close. He didn’t even know if he could come back to his world and not be ready to protect and serve twenty-four/seven. Not be hard and cold and willing to do whatever it took…
Be normal.
With the wind continuing to batter the house, he stripped off his shirt and flicked on the small TV over the dresser.
No reception.
He pulled out his cell phone and searched for the weather, and discovered the reason. Apparently he’d walked into an unprecedented storm, with even heavier rain and wind expected. For an extra bonus, flash-floods warnings were in effect.
Wasn’t that special. He hadn’t dealt with a flood since six weeks ago, in the Midwest, where his unit had been called in to assist with SAR.
He and Matt had both gone in, but only Jason had come out.
Yeah. This was going to be a kick.
He headed straight for the bed and felt some of the tension leave him in anticipation of sleep. With a long sigh, he stripped out of his pants, then stretched out on the mattress with only his boxer briefs and dark thoughts.
Tired and edgy, and feeling old for his twenty-nine years, he let himself relax, hoping like hell he was too far gone into exhaustion to dream. As he drifted off to the wild winds pummeling the house, his stomach growled, and he promised it that even if a naked woman appeared at his side right then and there, food—not sex—was next on the list.
JASON AWOKE with a jerk and leaped to his feet to run for his gear. When he realized he wasn’t on the line but back at home, he lay down again and swiped a hand over his face as the rain and wind continued to batter the house around him.
He didn’t like to admit that he wasn’t decompressing fast enough, or that his hand was trembling, but he’d deal with both. Because that’s what he did—deal with things. That was his claim to fame, his skill, his MO.
Letting out another long, careful breath, he took in his surroundings and realized it was nearly dawn.
Which meant he’d slept straight through the night.
And then he realized something else. He’d been awoken by an assortment of brain-racking noises. The crazy wind. The steady drum of rain pounding on the roof and the windows.
Adding to the racket was the ringing of a phone, and then the click of a message machine.
“You know what to do at the beep,” came Dustin’s recorded voice from somewhere nearby.
And then a soft, female voice, crackling through static and hard to hear. “Dustin? Dustin, are you there?”
The male in Jason, the one who hadn’t been with a woman in so long, took in the pretty voice and thought, Go, Dustin, but even through the incredibly bad connection, he recognized that she wasn’t trying to be seductive and fun. No, she was filled with nerves. Something within Jason automatically reacted to that, the same something that had put him in the military in the first place, the thing that made it impossible for him to walk away from a fight or someone in trouble, and he lifted his head, searching the still dark room for the phone.
There wasn’t one, not in here.
“I think I need help,” she went on as Jason ran out of the bedroom to find the phone, wondering if she was Cristina, Dustin’s fiancé. With the horrible connection, there was no way to tell for sure, but he doubted it. The Cristina he knew didn’t ask for help.
He finally narrowed in on a blinking red light on the nightstand in Dustin’s bedroom, and knew he’d found the machine. He reached for the phone connected to it, but the receiver wasn’t in its cradle. “Shit.”
“Dustin?” she said again, her voice breaking up with static.
Jason could hear the storm ravaging in the background, both through the phone and the windows, coming in with unexpected surround sound.
“I know you’re not scheduled to work this weekend,” she went on, “so I’m really hoping you’re there.”
“Hang on,” Jason told the machine and slapped on the light, squinting into the sudden brightness as he searched for the on-the-loose phone. Gotcha, he thought triumphantly, eyeing the cordless handset lying on a dresser. He hit the talk button with his thumb and…nothing.
The battery was dead.
“Don’t hang up,” he yelled at the machine as if she could hear him, and once again went running, slamming his shoulder into the doorway. “Goddammit.” In the living room, he looked around in the wan light for another phone.
There. On the small table beside the couch. Lunging for it, he barked “Hello!” into the receiver, just in time to hear the click.
He’d lost her.
He was getting good at that, losing people—and yeah, there it was, right on cue, the helplessness surging up into his chest, making it impossible to breathe without pain.
He rounded back toward the bedroom, holding his aching shoulder, going for his cell phone. Seemed he was on a mission after all—to first find Dustin and then, through him, hopefully the woman with the worry in her voice, the woman who needed help.
AS LIZZY MANN TOSSED aside her cell phone and drove through winds that were jarring her little Honda around like it was nothing more than a Matchbox car, she wished her sister would call again. Not that wishing had ever gotten her anywhere with Cece.
Ever.
“Evacuations are beginning,” the deejay announced through her radio, and Lizzy tensed.
“The Santa Rey bowl is filling up, starting at Main,” he said. “All the way to the high school.”
“Don’t say Eastside,” she murmured, glancing at the radio as if she could actually affect the report. “Please. Please, don’t say—”
“And all of Eastside, starting at Second.”
