When I eye Sarge again, the look on his face says he already knows I’m not going to back down. “Tell me you’ve got some way to get me to her or else give me a goddamn phone so that I can manage it.”
A war of wills happens between us before his eyes flicker over toward the doctor and then back toward me. “I’ll see what I can do, but I’m not doing shit until the doc clears you to leave.” Then Sarge and the doc meet each other’s eyes in a silent agreement. They’d better not be fucking with me right now or I’ll walk out of this sterile prison on my own accord and get to her any way I can. I have to see her. It’s the only way I think I’ll be able to stop this ache in my chest that has nothing to do with the blast.
“You’ve got twenty-four hours to get me there,” I demand even though I know I don’t have a single leg to stand on. I’m not military personnel. He is under no obligation to get me to Germany to see her, and yet I feel so fucking helpless right now that I do the only thing I can: boss him around with the hope that it will work.
“You need to rest now,” the doctor says as he looks up from his clipboard, the stern warning reinforced by the look in his eyes. Shit, now that I know Sarge is going to work on getting me to Beaux, that she’s currently stable, I realize just how fucking much my head is pounding.
So I let my head fall back against the pillow and inhale a deep breath as I close my eyes. I instantly feel better without the bright light of the room, but my mind still wanders.
Still worries.
Still relives that look on her face as she ran toward me, knowing I wasn’t going to make it to save her in time.
Chapter 22
T
here’s a lot of time to think on a seven-hour flight.
A lot of time to look at the same five photographs of Beaux from the morning of our embed mission over and over. Her silhouette against the sky, her cautious smile, and the selfie we took together that shows two people in love.
Except only one of them knows it.
I try to sleep to escape the pain in my body and the more prevalent ache in my heart, but the deep rumble of the C-17 Globemaster III transport vibrates through my chest in a way that prevents me from getting any real rest. I feel like I’ve been in the center of a tornado, both mind and body battered and bruised and heart put through a wringer. Thank God that Sarge was able to pull some strings so I could hitch a ride on a plane of medical evacuees heading to the Ramstein Air Base in Germany just beyond my twenty-four-hour time frame.
From my tiny little jump seat at the front of the plane so that I’m out of the way of the critical care team taking care of wounded soldiers, I can overhear the medics relaying to one another they need to buckle up for landing.
I owe Sarge big-time. I’m sure he’s breaking every rule in the military handbook to get me on this flight, but I think he blames himself a bit for what happened. And he shouldn’t. It’s not his job to watch Beaux or me on an embed. It’s not his responsibility to know Beaux has a soft spot for dogs and that she was going to see a wounded animal and want to help.
No. That’s my job. And once again I failed – and I have berated myself over it left and right in the past thirty hours. I’ve gone over the entire chain of events and blame myself for getting caught up in my conversation with Rosco without looking around more, not that that would have solved anything. Beaux made it clear on more occasions than I care to count that she’s stubborn and has a mind of her own.
I just have to hope she uses that obstinacy right now to fight like hell to overcome her injuries.
The frustrating part is that I don’t even have enough energy to be mad at Beaux for not following the rules, because all I want is to see her. The measly bits of information I’ve gotten haven’t told me shit.
Sarge got me on the transport but hadn’t been able to get me any other information beyond that she was stable. And stable doesn’t mean shit to me. Stable could have so many variations that my mind has gone over and rejected every single one of them while the minutes have crawled by without any updates on her condition.
When the wheels touch down, the jolt makes me wince as my head gets jarred from side to side and my sore muscles ache as they tense up. My knee jogs in anticipation from the fact that I’m minutes away from Beaux now, and the pressure in my chest has intensified now that I’m here.
And for some reason as I sit in this beast of a plane as we taxi across the tarmac, I begin to question myself. Am I making more of my feelings for Beaux because of everything that happened to Stella? Am I overly attached to her, considering how long we’ve known each other? Has the coincidence of what’s happened made me marry the feelings for both women together?
What in the fuck am I thinking? I swear to God it has to be nerves along with the hit I took to the head that’s making me think crap like this. Because I know how I feel about Beaux without a doubt. I go to scrub a hand through my hair and stop when I remember how sore my scalp is, settling for running my hand gently over my stubbled and scratched-up jaw to try and knock some sense into myself.
I knew how I felt about her on our rooftop date when we blew bubbles together. I knew how I felt about her as we walked side by side into the destruction of the village bomb site. It’s never been more clear to me than right now, even with the anxiety over her condition and doubt trying to weasel through the cracks all of my fears have left in my psyche.
What I feel for Beaux isn’t that lust-to-love crash course feeling that Stella used to tease me about. Fuck no. This is so completely different, and yet I can’t even explain it to myself. When I think of Beaux, there’s an ache in my chest, a warmth in my gut, and a fear in my heart kind of feeling like someone used Super Glue and it just won’t let the hell go. It’s like even if I wanted to rid myself of her, I don’t think I could.