Enemy Zone: Enemies-to-Lovers Standalone Healing-Love Military Romance (Trident Rescue) Page 2

  “Lieutenant.” Cullen infused the full command of his former rank into his tone, and Eli stilled immediately to focus on him. Technically, his friend didn’t have to obey a word he said, but after almost a decade of conditioning, giving orders and following orders still felt as natural as breathing, though they’d been out of the navy for a couple of years now. “Get your ass over here and give me your stupid arm.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jesus.

  “So, Denton Uncovered has a new angle and a new face.” Cullen injected lidocaine into the wound, his own shoulder twinging in sympathy.

  Eli winced. “If you want to distract me, can you pick a more pleasant topic?”

  Cullen snorted. The only “news” that paper uncovered were the rumors and sensationalist gossip it created itself. The tabloid’s editor, Frank Peterson, lived for three things: power, chaos, and coming out on top. The man would do whatever it took to ensure he had all those at any given point too. And now a new low—sending in a drop-dead gorgeous reporter. Long straight strawberry-blonde hair flowing down her back like a waterfall. Fair, flawless skin. Bright blue eyes like a mountain stream. She’d been wearing a professional-looking blue pantsuit that had highlighted those eyes, and spoke with a soft and surprisingly sultry voice.

  Cullen had no idea how Frank had managed to snatch Skylar Reynolds, but it likely had to do with the fact that she wasn’t from around here.

  Either that or she was cut from the same cloth and was eagerly following her mentor’s footsteps. Who was Cullen kidding? Of course she was cut from the same cloth. She started planting lies right there at the scene. Drunk driving? Eli Mason, the head of the local pharmaceutical conglomerate?

  It was a dick move. Though the girl seemed to actually believe her own words.

  The sight of Sky’s face flushed with exasperation and her eyes flashing with reined-in temper had turned him on. Tremendously. And the visceral way in which his cock rose to attention against the zipper of Cullen’s cargos had only served to aggravate him further.

  Arousal mixed with animosity proved to be an extremely uncomfortable reaction.

  Besides, when it came to women and romantic entanglements, he had the worst track record imaginable. Which was probably a good thing in retrospect. Cullen had too many things fucked up with him to be fair to subject a partner to.

  He’d just finished the last of Eli’s sutures when the private landline lit up next to him. Since his dispatcher was on maternity leave and his office assistant had gone out suddenly with appendicitis, there was no one to route the calls to. He snatched up the receiver.

  “Trident Rescue.”

  “Cullen, this is Suzy.”

  Suzy Canefield, his dispatcher, thank Christ. The past three months she’d been on maternity leave had been hell. He’d been making do with temps, but none of those people had the skill set Suzy had, and frankly, the whole point of the Rescue was to have a small tight-knit group. He needed Suzy back, and he needed her yesterday. Which meant hearing her on the other end of the line filled him with relief.

  “Great to hear from you, Suz. Looking forward to being back here tomorrow?” God knew he was.

  “Well, here’s the thing, boss. I’m not coming back tomorrow after all.”

  Cullen’s stomach sank to his knees. “Need more time off?” Please say no.

  “Actually… I need to tender my resignation.”

  Fuck my life.

  “Mind telling me why?” he asked instead, trying to keep his tone even.

  “It’s Bobby. His request to be stationed in Stuttgart has been honored, so all three of us will be settling in Germany for the foreseeable future. It’ll get him out of the Middle East, and it’s a promotion for him too. We’ll be able to be together as a family now. We just received the call this morning.”

  “That is great news,” Cullen said, meaning every word. No one knew better than him what horrors abounded in Afghanistan and Iraq. Bobby coming back alive and whole to be a husband and father was worth celebrating.

  Not that many came back whole. Cullen sure as hell hadn’t. Bar Peterson—their fifth musketeer from military school—hadn’t made it back at all.

  Which wasn’t to say that Suzy’s news didn’t leave the Rescue in a lurch, because it absolutely did. Suzy was Cullen’s right-hand man. Or woman. Whatever. She’d been indispensable.

  “Thank you for understanding, boss. I wish I could’ve at least given you notice, but…” Her voice fizzled into nothing.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll hold down the fort till I find a permanent replacement.” He paused. “I mean it, Suz. Give my congrats to Bobby and take care of yourself. You need something, you call me from any time zone.”

  Hanging up, he glanced up at Eli, who’d taken it upon himself to slap a Band-Aid over Cullen’s work, offer him a smart-assed salute, and traipse out of the room. Ingrate. Not that he didn’t love that ingrate like a brother. He’d die for the guy and knew Eli would return the favor. So would Liam and Kyan.

  What none of the assholes would do, however, was restock the supply closet or file medical reports on something other than whatever scrap of paper happened to be around when they deployed. You’d think that with all four of them now heading up major businesses, administrating something as small as Trident Rescue would be easy, but the reality proved anything but. Even Liam, who owned a security company, could barely be trusted to lock the door after himself.

  “Suz isn’t coming back,” Cullen hollered out to Eli, and his one-time lieutenant marched back over the threshold.

  “What? Not ever?”

  “No. Bobby got stationed in Germany. She and the baby are going with.”

  Eli scratched his head. “You need to hire someone ASAP.”

  “Oh, you think?”

  Cullen scrubbed a hand over his short hair. His assistant, Catherine, should be returning within the next few days. Unless she pulled a Suzy. Catherine Falkner, a matronly lady in her sixties, hadn’t missed a single one of her workdays until she’d been rushed to the ER with a high fever and severe stomach pains that turned out to be appendicitis. So chances were she’d be back relatively soon. He hoped.

  As if she’d sensed his need for her, a text bloomed across the screen of his cell.

  Doctor says I’ll need to be on half days with light duty only, but I’m released for work starting tomorrow. May I come in from eight to one?

  He typed his answer to her as fast as his thick fingers would allow.

  You can work whenever you want. And for fuck’s sake, find me a new dispatcher.

  I’ll wash your mouth out with soap, Cullen Hunt.

  Cullen snorted.

  Looking over Cullen’s shoulder at the messages, Eli shook his head before swatting the back of Cullen’s.

  “You deserved that, asshole. But at least I trust Catherine more than I trust you to actually hire someone. I know Trident Rescue is your baby, but you need someone here. Someone who isn’t you.”

  3

  Sky

  I return to Denton Uncovered to hear cackles of laughter as soon as I walk through the entrance. The photographer—whom I hadn’t ever formally met—and the sportswriter stare at me with mirth.

  “So…how’d it go?” Capaldi, the sports guy, asks.

  “Did you get your story on Eli Mason?” Dyer plays with his camera.

  I bristle. Had the bastards known Frank was sending me on a wild-goose chase? “What’s so funny?”

  “Ignore them, honey.” As if summoned from his office by my presence, Frank materializes beside me, his tone patronizing. “Boys will be boys.”

  Boys will be boys. I’d heard that line before back in New York. It’d been right before my career had gone up in flames. Blood boiling, I spin to my new editor. “Why did you tell me the accident was caused by alcohol?”

  “That’s what my sources said, honey. And you should never believe in other people’s sources.” His voice hardens. “A fact you’d know if you had a s
hred of experience or at least some common sense. Don’t like what I give you on a silver platter? Put on a short skirt and start getting your own sources. Or quit journalism. But if you’re expecting to be spoon-fed stories, you’re in the wrong fucking business.”

  “I…” I opened my mouth, then shut it again.

  “Have the story on my desk tomorrow,” he huffs, disappearing back into his office. When I turn back around to Capaldi and Dyer, neither of the men is laughing now. But they aren’t looking at me either.

  There’s a huge lump in my throat, but I refuse to fall apart in front of the men. What happened at the scene with Asshole Adonis and now with my boss feels far too familiar. I’d hoped to put any chauvinistic bullshit behind me, but here I am, facing it all over again. Still, this isn’t the time to show weakness.

  Straightening my spine, I spend the rest of my workday shaping the actual facts I’d managed to collect into a story. Journalism is my passion. Real journalism—the kind with integrity and the power to change the world for the better. For tonight, that means writing up a traffic accident in the best way possible.

  By the time I finish, everyone else has gone home. I slip my report under Frank Peterson’s door, then leave. I slide into my driver’s seat, finally allowing my head to fall forward. I let myself wallow for a grand total of sixty seconds, then, breathing through my nose, renew my resolve and drive to the dank basement apartment I’ve rented.

  As I step through my door, I’m accosted by the subtle odor of mildew. My home is dark and windowless, and that may actually be real moss growing inside the crack of my door, but I’m thankful to have a roof over my head just now. If things don’t change soon, that may no longer be the case. Working part-time for Frank pays nearly nothing.

  I switch on a lamp and settle onto my bed to review my job hunting progress. The only other paper in town, the Denton Valley Leader, claimed to have no open positions, the same with the more distant publications I’ve talked to virtually. The details differed, but the theme stayed the same: “We’re not hiring right now, but we’ll keep your résumé on file.”

  My search outside the field is doing little better. I’ve got résumés out for secretarial duties, tutoring, even a few waitressing positions. Nothing.

  In other words, I’m shit out of luck.

  Opening my banged-up laptop, I go through the latest local offerings to send out résumés to anything that I might remotely qualify for. A paralegal offering and a dispatch/office manager post. Glancing at the name of the second business, I laugh out loud at the irony—Trident Rescue, Adonis’s stomping ground.

  Well, too bad. Running into the man on occasion might be awkward, but so is being homeless. I hit Send on my application and résumé. Feeling drained in every way possible, I shower, throw on my comfiest nightshirt, eat some peanut butter crackers for dinner, and fall into bed.

  Which is exactly when my cell phone rings, my mother’s picture flashing on the screen along with that up-and-down xylophone sound. I consider ignoring it. Conversations with my mother never leave me anything but furious—not that that stops her from starting them over and over.

  Still, I can’t help but wonder if something is wrong. What if this is an emergency? Not her kind of emergency, but the real kind—totally possible given the temper that some of her sugar daddies have had over the years. You’d think living with my father would have taught her the signs of dangerous men. Hell, maybe it did, and she just doesn’t care.

  I oscillate back and forth like a fan before finally giving in to my fears and picking up. “Mom? You okay?”

  “I’m just fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Because you’re calling me near midnight.”

  She giggles on the other end, dropping her voice conspiratorially. “Oh, Greg and I were caught up in Bloomy’s most of the day, and then he just insisted that we visit Tiffany’s. And by the time we got home, and one thing led to another… Well, I’m just now coming up for air, and I need to know my little girl is doing okay.”

  Translation: I didn’t want my newest sugar daddy getting distracted from buying me things, and finally, I have time alone to brag.

  “Could you please not talk about stores like they’re your friends?” I rub my face, trying to remember whether Greg was the seventy-year-old doctor or the “happily” married real estate attorney. “Anyway, I’m fine. And I’m going to bed now. Good night.”

  “Wait! I wanted to tell you that Greg is inviting us—both of us—on a cruise! He wants to get to know you, you know, and it would be such a great opportunity to spend time together. Especially after all that’s happened in New York—”

  “I have a job, Mother. I can’t drop it to go on a cruise.”

  “Don’t be silly. We can talk to Greg about some positions he may help you find. But that can only happen if he knows you better.”

  I try not to choke on the word “positions,” because I’ve exactly an idea of which ones he’d be looking for. “Ma, I’m going to bed now. Good night.” I disconnect the line before she can answer and set the phone on silent until morning.

  I’m on my way to the paper the next morning when my cell rings again. A Catherine from Trident Rescue. She sounds so competent and polite that, for a moment, I think I’m being pranked. Fortunately, I recover in time to register that I’m actually being invited to an interview.

  Pulling over to the side of the road, I eagerly jot down the details. Yes, today will work. Three p.m. is perfect. I will be there.

  By the time afternoon rolls around, however, I’m more confused than optimistic. Trident Rescue was described as a small rural EMS service, but the building Catherine sent me to is one of the fanciest in town—right next to the Mason Pharmaceuticals tower.

  With several stories of a reflective glass façade, the place looks like a high-power office suite rather than a practicing medical facility—though the building name does have the word Trident in it. Grabbing my phone, I google the address to learn that I’m at Trident Medical Group headquarters. The place administers Denton Valley Hospital and some affiliates. Perhaps Trident Rescue is just too small to be mentioned?

  After circling the structure a few times, I realize I’m in danger of running late and decide to just go inside.

  Stepping into the lobby with its marble columns reminds me of entering a museum, except even more opulent. My heels click loudly on the gleaming black tile floor beneath my feet as I pass two revolving glass doors and a gigantic mural of children’s handprints before coming to a stop at a circular reception desk.

  “Good afternoon,” I tell the stunningly beautiful woman with raven-black hair and perfectly made-up features who mans the post. “My name is Skylar Reynolds. I have an appointment with Mr. Hunt.” I almost cringe saying the name—an ironic match to the medic’s name from the other day. “Can you point me in the right direction?”

  With her chin raised, the woman peers down her pert and adorably small, straight nose at me. The placard in front of her says Rachel Arnault, and not only could she be a model, but she seems keenly aware of this. Her blouse looks silky and expensive, and her silver—or maybe platinum—necklace, earrings, and assortment of rings contrast prettily with her skin tone.

  I’m reminded of what I put on this morning. While it’s pressed to within an inch of its life, my belted black dress is hardly high-end. I can’t afford much, so I’ve had to get somewhat creative when it comes to shopping for business attire. Clearance racks have long since become my best friends, and so have the occasional finds in thrift shops. I have to work not to cross my arms over my chest to cover the tide of inadequacy that washes over me.

  “Of course. Ms. Richards, is it?”

  “Reynolds,” I correct.

  “Yes. Mr. Hunt’s office is located on the seventh floor, penthouse level. Just scurry to the elevator bank over there.” She points. “It’ll be the second door on your left. Though given that you’re late, perhaps you might wish to reconsider disturbing him?”
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  “I’ll risk it.”

  Rachel offers me a crimson smile that’s the teeniest bit too saccharine, and, doing my best not to feel cowed by it, I turn to follow her directions.

  Taking some deep calming breaths on my way up, I square my shoulders and step off the elevator. My heels sink into a thick cream carpet the moment I do, and I take note of the floor-to-ceiling windows and rich dark crown molding that line the corridor. As I close in on the second door to my left, my heart pounds harder and harder. I don’t belong here. People like Rachel belong here.

  Stopping in front of a thick wooden door, I feel my whole body freeze as I read the nameplate: CULLEN HUNT, CEO. TRIDENT MEDICAL GROUP.

  Cullen.

  Obviously, it couldn’t be that Cullen, but just the sight of the similar name sends an unwelcome tingle along my thighs. I try to knock, only to chicken out at the last instant. Closing my eyes and pulling myself together, I lift my hand determinedly. But this time, the door opens before my knuckles can even make contact. A very large—and very, very annoyed—man with an Adonis-like body and mossy-green eyes glares at me from the threshold. It’s him. It’s that damn Cullen.

  My mouth dries, everything inside me simply freezing. Shit. Holy blessed shit.

  For one insane moment, I consider the idea that maybe the medic from yesterday has a twin. Certainly there’s something different about the man who stands before me now compared to the Cullen from yesterday. Instead of an Under Armour shirt emblazoned with the Trident Rescue insignia, this Cullen wears a tailored pinstriped suit cut from what’s probably exceedingly pricey and finely woven wool. His silk tie, a mossy green that resembles his eyes, likely costs more than my entire closet.