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Franz wished he could claim such noble purposes.
Perhaps they had been, at the beginning. Not that he’d been a complete Pippin about things. Life wasn’t an ideal existence, but if he could give other people even a boost toward that, he’d leave the planet better than when he arrived on it, which was a hell of a lot better than renting out surfboards or pouring pineapple whips all day.
That philosophy lasted until the end of his third tour, when violence and disillusionment started taking heavier tolls. His attitude changed about the D/s dynamic, veering away from the selfish immediacy of the sex. He began to see what he could give back to a submissive, including the acceptance, approval, and higher purpose he’d been seeking for himself…
Until the disaster with Abbie.
Dark times…shared a very few.
Zeke Hayes just happened to be one of those few. The weight of that knowledge made the man’s shoulders slouch as he re-crossed his arms, quietly venturing, “Is it true?” He pushed out a violent grunt when Franz returned nothing but a stubborn glower. “Is it true, asshole? Do you have a…‘thing’…for Tracy Rhodes?”
Franz hauled in a heavy breath. Scuffled both feet while glancing at his watch, hoping he’d luck out and see it was time to fire up a new burner cell with which to contact Sol. “She’s the goddamn president now.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“The hell it doesn’t.” John reared his head back, letting his face contort sharply. “And what the hell is a ‘thing’? You in fifth grade, man?”
“Apparently, I have good company.” Zeke’s gaze darkened. “You’ve dodged the issue with everything except ‘my dog ate the homework’.”
Franz welcomed new steel to his stance and fresh grit to his jaw. He planted both hands on his hips. “I think there are more important issues to address than my attraction to the vice—the president. According to some polls, half the nation is attracted to her.”
“You trust the polls?”
“Now who’s dodging the issues?”
“Fine. I don’t think you can address the issues, until you deal with the attraction.”
A laugh barked out. He ignored the burn churning up his throat at the same time. “Deal with it, huh? Just like that?”
Zeke cast his gaze toward the ceiling. It was going to be a good look for his daddy-o arsenal. “I didn’t say you have to flog her and fuck her. Go meditate it off if you have to.”
“Meditate it off?”
“Or pray to the island gods. Or take a cold shower. Or cut your goddamn balls off.” He unfurled his arms and tossed up both hands. “I don’t care what you do, asshole; just get your shit together about whatever you’re feeling for the woman. Though for the record,”—he wheeled around, grabbed his beer bottle, and knocked back the remaining gulp inside—“don’t blame you for the caveman urges. She’s a gorgeous woman, and you did just save her life.”
“And then there’s the polls…”
“And there’s you with the dog eating the homework again.”
For a long second, his fixed stare felt like the best choice of reaction. If he moved right now, he’d either hug or deck Zeke. Neither was acceptable; both were lame extremes; completely blamable on the relief of coming clean with at least one person about this crazy…
Thing.
Fuck.
Fine. He admitted it. Even knowing what kind of a damn dilemma came skipping along in the wake of doing so.
The conflict of knowing Z was right. About all of it.
He had to clean this shit up. His conflict was collecting on his cracked engine like used motor oil, meaning he risked making everybody else on the team crash and burn too. Not cool when there were lives at stake. Important ones.
In short, if he wanted to keep his big head on straight about protecting Tracy, he had to take care of the issues in his little head. Somehow, in some impossible way, he had to.
Dammit. You’re Special Forces, asswipe. Suck it up, buttercup, and make this mission happen.
His brain two-by-four’ed it into his senses.
But where the hell did the other voice come from, fronting its retort like an emotional I-beam?
