jaw dropped. It wasn’t her reaction that goaded her father into recanting, though. It was the expressions on the rest of the faces in the room.
“What I mean is that protecting the citizens of Bedford is my job, and this is part of that,” he said, giving Genna a paternal look. The kind a proud father gives a little kid, loving and indulgent and just a little patronizing.
It made Genna want to throw a tantrum just to justify it.
But the minute she snapped, the family drama would start. Guilt, games, hospital trips. Every freaking time.
Her throat closed up and black dots danced in front of her vision. Genna felt as if she was choking. It was all she could do to breathe, which was probably just as well given the words that were trying to trip off her tongue.
Finally, she sucked in a deep breath, lifted her chin and gave her father a chilly smile.
“I guess you don’t need me, then, do you?”
Ignoring the uncomfortable looks ricocheting around the room, Genna packed up the rest of her cookies. They’d all gotten a big old dose of gossip fodder. They weren’t feasting on her baking, too.
The last thing she heard as she swept through the door with all the majesty of the princess title Brody had pinned on her was her father’s muttered words.
“I’m gonna kick Brody Lane’s ass.”
* * *
BRODY STOOD BY the small lake down the hill from the park, noting that the cattails were chest-high now and the surrounding trees had created a canopy overhead. He used to come down here with his buddies after dark to drink. Or, every once in a while, with a girl, since not much action could be had on the backseat of a Harley. Some enterprising kid had tied a rope to one branch, right above the no-swimming sign.
Bet the local law loved that.
He missed the ocean.
He missed activity.
Hell, he missed reveille, spot inspections and mess hall chow.
“So this is where you’re hiding?”
Brody sighed.
What he didn’t miss were people. Which was one of the reasons he’d chosen this side of the park. It was rarely populated.
“If I was hiding, you wouldn’t be able to find me.” He didn’t turn around when he said it, just kept staring at the murky water.
“You don’t look surprised to see me,” Masters said as he reached Brody’s side, mimicking his stance of both hands in his pockets staring over the lake.
“I heard you stomping down the path.” And he’d been expecting him. Irene had passed on a half dozen phone messages, each one more demanding than the last. Brody had ignored them, of course. But nobody put Masters off for long. If the guy wasn’t so brilliant, his call sign would be Bulldog instead of Genius.
“I came to haul you out of hiding.”
“I’m not hiding. I’m recovering.” Brody gestured to the uneven path. “Walking, working the kinks out, pushing my limits.”
“Moseying through a cozy small-town park at dusk pushes your limits?”
Brody shrugged.
Leaving the house pretty much pushed his limits these days.
“The doctor’s report said you’re ready for PT. Actually, I’m paraphrasing a little. What it said is that you should have reported to base to start thrice-weekly physical therapy a week ago, as soon as you got back to California.”
“I’m on leave.”
“Convalescent leave. Which, according to the manual, means you’re off duty but still obligated to fulfill your duties, such as they are laid out by your superior officer.”
“You read too much.”
“We’ve all got our faults.” Masters shrugged, kicking around the rocks and gravel beneath their feet.
“I figured I’d take another few days. Start physical therapy next week,” Brody said. Not really a lie. If he’d thought about it at all, he’d definitely have put it off.
“Why?”
Brody hunched his shoulders, glaring at the water and wishing he’d opted for a nice, anonymous hotel room in some remote city to recuperate. Masters still would have found him, but it’d have taken the guy a couple extra hours.
“I’m not ready.”
His teammate was silent for a few seconds, still stirring the rocks with his foot as if searching for gold. He bent down, grabbed a flat rock and sent it skipping over the lake. Three bounces. Not bad.
“PTSD?”
“I jacked up my leg,” Brody snapped. “Not my head.”
“Dude, that mission went straight to hell. Landon is still chewing on asses over the intelligence breakdown. And you bore the brunt of it. Nobody’d think less of you if you were having trouble processing it. There’s no shame in that.”
Brody puffed out a breath. He wasn’t dissing guys facing it. Post-traumatic stress disorder was real, and from what he’d seen, it was pure hell. He thought about pointing out that he’d gotten through debriefing just fine, but he knew Masters wouldn’t buy that. Debriefing didn’t mean jack. Guys came back from missions, left the military all the time with their heads inside out. A guy didn’t do or see the kind of things SEALs did without it taking a toll.
“I’m not ashamed. I’m just saying that’s not the issue.”
“Then you’ll report for physical therapy tomorrow.”
He quickly marshaled a handful of arguments. His bike was on base, so he didn’t have wheels. His right leg was damaged, not in any shape to operate a car. And he couldn’t ask his sweet little gramma to drive him the two-hour commute back and forth to Coronado. He wasn’t even sure she had a license anymore.
He didn’t offer up any of them, though. SEALs didn’t make excuses.
“You could consider it an order,” Masters said in a contemplative tone, bending down to pick up another stone, then winging it across the lake.
Brody grimaced. Not that the guy scored five bounces. But that he’d resort to pulling rank.
“Deal with whatever’s going on. You need someone to talk to, give me a yell. But don’t take forever. The team is waiting for you to finish this little vacation and get your ass back to work.” Masters waited a beat, then added, “Besides, we miss your cookies. Can you get your gramma to send a care package with you when you come in tomorrow?”
Brody snorted.
Then, straightening his shoulders, he faced reality as he had so many times in the past. Orders were orders, no matter how ugly they were or what degree of reluctance he felt about them.
