Damned (SOBs Book 4) Page 4

  Kruze nodded, not quite understanding but committed to help any way he could. “Bottles’ll do that, sure. Glass explodes. Did you get cut? Do you need a bandage or something? I’ve got plenty of first-aid supplies.” He turned her much smaller hand over in his palm, checking to see if he’d missed an injury when he’d washed it before.

  “No, Kruze, err, Mr. Sinclair. The cuts aren’t on my hands or arms. They’re, umm…” She hesitated, then murmured, “…on the backs of my legs and my—”

  “You’ve got glass in your ass?!” That thing in his head called a filter didn’t always engage quickly enough. But occasionally, when Kruze remembered to use it, it came in handy. Not this time. “Err, yeah sure, I mean…” Spit it out. “I’ll do whatever I can to help you, ma’am. Let’s see what you’ve got, umm, need.”

  Shifting off his lap to his side, Banks leaned onto her hip and curled her feet beneath her. His dirty blanket folded along with her legs. “Are you sure you don’t mind? You won’t be embarrassed?”

  The prettiest blush darkened her cheeks, and holy hell. For a split second, Kruze was transported to another time and place and… That same quirky feeling of déjà vu evaporated as quickly as it started. He didn’t know whether to shake his head or nod, so he settled for, “Navy SEALs aren’t afraid of anything.”

  That earned him the briefest flash of acceptance. “Okay then.”

  “Are you positive this can’t wait until after we eat?” he asked, suddenly flummoxed at what she might be asking. He did have a rep with the ladies, and to date, he’d never bedded one twice. Not that applying first-aid skills to this woman’s backside would lead to them hooking up, but… He was a pushover when it came to women. Most women. Did he dare take the chance?

  Banks lifted to her knees, then her feet, and unzipped his jacket. “I can’t sit any longer, and it hurts when I walk. I just hope you can get every single piece out. Some of them are pretty small. You might need a magnifying glass.”

  The damned Gore-Tex jacket was way too big on her. Kruze got that, but he wasn’t prepared when Banks lifted her ragged excuse for a skirt up, and… Holy Mother of God. His big mouth went dry and his jaw went slack. She was commando under that skirt. Naked. Yikes and gawddamn. Not a stitch of underwear covered her taut backside, which was probably good given the extent of injured skin Kruze was looking at.

  His big brain re-engaged with a jolt. How the hell had she walked this far with so many open sores on her poor rump? Dried, bloody streaks led upward to several red, angry pockmarks that could only be from—ouch—embedded glass. The poor thing! More streaks lined the backs of her thighs and calves, all blackened trails of dried blood. The most serious pock marks were limited to the backs of her thighs and up high under the swells of her butt cheeks, but those poor cheeks.

  “See what I mean?” she asked over her shoulder. “I got as many slivers out as I could, but I can’t reach these last bits, and they’re… they really hurt.”

  He put a hand on her closest hip and pressed his thumb beside the swollen red mark. Judging by the heat of it and the size of the knot under her skin, it was infected. “You were running away when it happened?”

  She closed her eyes and pursed her lips, pushing out a sigh. “No, I couldn’t get away. They kept me on a tight leash. Seriously. Whenever they let me out of the hole, they put a studded-leather collar around my neck, and one of the women always held the leash.” Bree lifted her hair to reveal the angry red circle around her neck that Kruze had noticed before. “They said I was an American dog. I’d barely turned my back to the fire, when the first bottle exploded. But then, it was like being in the middle of a firefight, only I couldn’t get away. Other people were hurt by flying glass, too, but they... they...”

  “Let me guess. They helped their people, not you.” Gawddamn them.

  “Something like that,” Banks murmured, her head down and her long, dirty tangles once more hiding her face.

  Kruze saw through the reply. The arrogance he’d thought he’d seen before never existed. Banks was simply a proud woman in pain. She was embarrassed and thought herself defeated. Two months being held captive had no doubt brought more rude awakenings about her right to freely roam the world than Brianna Banks had ever imagined.

  The men who owned these mountains could be barbaric in their treatment of women. There was no freedom of speech here, no entitlement, especially for a woman who’d grown up under the generosity of the red, white, and blue. Tribal chiefs were throwbacks to medieval warlords. They governed with iron fists, blood, and warfare. For the most part, they didn’t give a shit about inalienable rights, women’s rights, or anyone’s rights except their own. Oddly, their women seemed to accept their lowly stations in life. Most of them supported their leaders and husbands, even the cruel ones.

  “When was this party?”

  Banks pushed another breath through her pursed lips. “A couple days ago.”

  “And you’ve been walking all this time?” Unbelievable.

  Her head bobbed. “Yes. They were taking me to someone they call General Berfendi?”

  “Berfende? Gawddamnit,” Kruze cussed, correcting that hard ‘e’ sound at the end of the bastard’s name, to a harder ‘a’. “Berfende’s an ass. He’s been leading these rebels’ fight against Turkish soldiers and their own people for years. He’s a sadistic bastard who has no problem killing women and children if it gets him what he wants. We need to be gone as quick as possible.”

  “Yes,” she breathed. “Yes, please. I’d very much like that. But first—”

  “I’m sure sorry. I didn’t know how much pain you were in before,” Kruze told Banks sincerely. “I wouldn’t have been so rough carrying you if I’d known.” And I sure wouldn’t have had my hand on your ass all the way up this mountain.

  “I tried to tell you.” There went that sad lip again. This woman was quickly working his last line of defense. Like he’d had one to begin with.

  Kruze stared up into an elegantly cute, but pale face, that seemed to grow more beautiful by the minute. And oddly familiar, damn it. But there was no way he’d ever met a woman from New York City before. He would’ve remembered.

  “Okay, let’s get started.” Hurriedly, he dragged his first-aid kit out of his gear bag and flicked the lid open with his thumb. It took a minute to organize what few supplies he’d need on the open lid: an array of cotton swabs, sterile gauze, hand-sized antiseptic wipes for her, a larger set to disinfect his hands, plastic-wrapped sterile gloves, long-nosed tweezers also wrapped in plastic, and an empty plastic bag which he shook out and set aside for garbage.

  He tossed the package of hand-sized wipes to Banks and told her, “Wash up. I tried, but I might’ve missed a few places. Feel free to use as many as you need.”

  His ten thousand Lumen LED headlight lamp came out of his bag next. Fitting the strap snug over and around his forehead, he arranged the beam of tiny focused light where he needed it, to locate every last sliver of glass in that backside.

  “Would you rather lie down, kneel, or stand while we do this?” Kruze asked when he was finished prepping, his voice gone uncommonly hoarse at what he had to do next.

  “I don’t think I’m strong enough to stand while you—” Banks nodded her chin at the supplies he’d gathered. “—you know. Do that.”

  Rearranging the blanket that slipped off when she’d stood, he patted it and said, “Put my jacket back on and lie down. I’d cover you with a drape if I had one. You need to keep warm, and I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  “Having my bare ass hanging out is the least of my worries,” Banks breathed. “I’m just glad you’re willing to help.”

  “Of course.” Kruze ripped one pack of the larger wipes open and began cleaning his fingers, under his fingernails, his hands, and forearms up to his elbows. He opened the pre-packaged tools he’d need next.

  By then, Banks had demurred, put her skirt down, and knelt like a servant at his knees. “I
really appreciate this, Mr. Sinclair.”

  “Please, I’m just Kruze, and I’ll call you—?”

  “Bree would be nice.”

  “Bree? Really? I knew a Bree once. A long time ago. Small world. Ready?”

  She settled flat onto her stomach. “I am if you are.”

  Chapter Four

  God really was go-o-o-o-od, make that great. No, make that spectacular, and Kruze had the absolute proof at the tips of his callused, but clean and sterile-gloved, fingers. He’d lifted the skirt off Bree’s long legs, and rolled it carefully up to her waist and out of his way. The skin on her backside wasn’t tanned like her face, neck, and hands, likely because of the rags she’d been forced to cover her vile, American body. The skin of her ass was creamy white, except for the angry red divots where flying glass had struck and streaks where she’d bled. He could only imagine the pain. But her cheeks were hollow, instead of plump and lush like they should’ve been. She was seriously underweight. He could see clearly now, and there were significant bruises on her body that he wanted to ask about, but didn’t.

  A woman’s ass would always be magic as far as Kruze was concerned, and Bree’s was spectacular, even with those nasty trails of dried blood spoiling the view. Adeptly, he used every last drop of the betadine from his kit to paint her rear, from the dimples below the small of her back to the backs of both knees, where the damage began.

  She shivered as goosebumps prickled her skin. “Whoa, that’s c-c-old.”

  “Sorry, I’ll warm you up later. Err…” That didn’t come out like he’d meant. “What I mean is, I’ll reheat dinner and whip up a hot toddy to help you sleep later. I’ve got instant coffee if you want.”

  “Caffeine,” she sighed. “A girl’s best friend.”

  “You like a boost to get through the day?”

  “I used to, but weren’t we supposed to get out of here?”

  “We need to rest and eat first. We’re safe. We’ll leave in the morning.”

  Bree settled her chin over her crossed forearms. “Coffee’s better than energy drinks.”

  “Ever use straight caffeine tabs?” Kruze pinched the tweezers until it grabbed hold of the tip of the tiny glass shard peeking out from the crease at the back of her knee.

  “No, no one needs to be that wired. Ever try inhalers?”

  He shook his head, deposited the shard into the garbage bag, then said, “Nope,” and made the P pop. “I’ve got enough vices. Don’t need another.”

  “Like what?”

  “Nothing illegal, if that’s what you’re asking. Just coffee, whiskey, cigarettes. The usual.”

  “I didn’t know you smoked. I mean, I can’t smell it on you.”

  For some inner caveman reason, Bree admitting she’d been close enough to smell him, turned Kruze hard. He ignored the sensation springing to life in his pants and explained. “I swear off cigarettes whenever I’m working. Smoke carries on the slightest breeze. It’d give me away.”

  He squeezed a goodly dose of antibiotic cream onto a bandage, then pressed it over the first glass-free wound. One down. He’d already zeroed in on his next target, a shiny speck gleaming from the center of the next bloody divot, this one farther up the back of her same leg. The first wound hadn’t been as infected, but the skin around this one was puffy and red.

  Bree watched over her shoulder while he eliminated the sliver, then two others, before he doused those wounds with sufficient antibiotic cream and sealed them with bandages.

  “Are you a trained medic?”

  “Former SEAL, remember? We all have some medical training.” Carefully, Kruze smoothed a palm over the back of her bandaged thigh, making sure he hadn’t missed anything. “I hate to sound like a creep, but how does that feel? Any stings? Pinches?”

  “Feels better, thank you.” Bree sighed, as she laid her head sideways on her folded arms.

  She sounded sad. He cocked his head to his shoulder to look at her. “Hey. I’m going as fast as I can. Give me twenty more minutes and we should be done, okay?”

  “Why do you hate me?”

  Kruze blinked at the unexpected question. “I… I don’t.”

  “Yes, you do. Disgust was written all over your face when we were stuck under that jeep. I could feel it rolling off of you. Is it because…?” She stalled, then recovered with, “You didn’t want to be there, did you? You didn’t want to rescue me.”

  “This is going to hurt,” he muttered, avoiding the question while he tackled the largest chunk of glass barely sticking out of her butt cheek. Damn, it was slick with infection, but one razor-sharp corner was stuck under her skin. Just like the lie that was stuck in his throat. Kruze was forced to dig the tip of the tweezers into her tender flesh, maybe a quarter of an inch, before he got a good grip on the glass.

  “Well?” Bree asked quietly, even as Kruze pulled the offending sliver out and discarded it. “Ouch, that hurt. What’d I ever do to you?”

  “Sorry. That one was deep.” He huffed a patient breath but admitted, “It isn’t you. It’s something that happened to my brother a couple years back. I acted badly today, and I’m sorry. It was my fault, a bad case of transference. Displaced anger. Whatever you want to call it.”

  “What happened?”

  “It has nothing to do with you, honest. It’s just that…” Kruze hedged like the chicken-shit he could be when it came to admitting he’d been wrong, in this case, assuming Bree was the same kind of devil as a few other journalists. It all came back to the lies that had been spread about Chance, and the fact that whatever happened to one Sinclair brother, happened to all of them.

  That was when Kruze could be the most unreasonable and reactive as hell. He knew the three Sin Boys weren’t always right. But when one of the many high-and-mighty media giants fabricated half-truths and innuendo, about either Chance or Pagan, Kruze went ballistic, as in nuclear meltdown. He might fight and squabble with his pig-headed brothers, who didn’t? But if anyone messed with them, by God, they had to answer to him.

  “You’re a journalist,” he finally said, as if that explained anything.

  Her shoulders stiffened. “So?”

  “So…” He latched onto one of two remaining slivers, this one in her other poor butt cheek. It slid easily out once he had a good grip on it. He whisked it into the trash bag. “It just seems to me that Navy SEALs get a raw deal every time they tangle with anyone from the press. We’ve all been lied about, had false claims made about where we were, and who allegedly was with us. And hey, let’s not forget all the character assassination you guys are so damned good at, when we happen to eliminate the murdering sack of shit who just murdered eleven Marines we were sent to cover. Heaven forbid we SEALs don’t always follow those fuckin’ ROEs that keep us from defending ourselves and our Navy brethren, while we’re all taking fire and dying in the line of duty. For Christ’s sake, we’re not just replaceable parts in this war machine, you know. We’ve got families, too.”

  Kruze snagged the final sliver, needing to put it and this discussion behind him. “Let’s just say I’ve got plenty of reasons to dislike anyone with a press card. Me and my brothers have been burned every damned time one of your buddies opened their mouths and lied. Hell, you don’t even have to know the facts before you sensationalize your version of the truth.”

  “Is that the collective you in general, or do you mean me in particular?”

  He growled, mad at himself for jumping on this particular bandwagon. “Not you,” he admitted, as the last shard of broken brown glass fell into the garbage bag at his side.

  “So, you’re just taking it out on me.”

  His cheeks puffed, then hollowed with a sigh. Kruze grunted. “Already told you I’m an ass.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Hate to ask again but…” Kruze smoothed both palms over her bare butt and down the backs of her thighs. “Feel anything?”

  “No glass shards,” she replied.

&nbs
p; That sounded qualified, but encouraging. So, like the playboy he would always be, Kruze repeated the maneuver, pressing hard enough for Bree to feel any sliver he might’ve missed. “How about now?”

  “Nothing that hurts.”

  “But?” he asked, wishing there was a way to hit rewind and start over with Miss Brianna Banks. It wasn’t often he burned bridges as fast as he had with her.

  “Nothing. I feel absolutely nothing.”

  Kruze couldn’t help thinking, ‘Well, damn. That’s too bad.’

  Chapter Five

  Rather than cry and embarrass herself further, Bree stayed where she was, on her belly on the dirt floor, her head on her crossed arms, and watching Kruze Sinclair. At least he’d covered her before he’d gone outside. But there’d been magic between them once, and there still was. It simmered in the air like a magnetic charge. She could feel it, but he either didn’t, or he wouldn’t admit it. Kruze was right. He was an ass.

  But he hadn’t always been, and those magnificent guns were still eye candy, even covered like they were. He had massive forearms and biceps that still stretched his shirt in all the best ways. His hands were impressively large, just like the other body parts she couldn’t see. Bree closed her eyes to her memories of those long, capable fingers as they worked his rifle. They’d worked magic on her body once. Like a lovesick fool, she’d given her heart away that night. But then he’d walked away.

  Kruze positioned his rifle on its bipod in the narrow crack in the mountain he called the entry, had even dropped to the hard stone floor and aimed the rifle’s scope downhill. It had to be an uncomfortable position, him twisting on one hip to see out the narrow crevice that led to this cave. Yet Kruze hadn’t complained, not about the cold nor that she was wearing his one and only jacket. He’d even wrapped his dingy blanket around her legs. But there he was, embracing cold Mother Earth in the middle of temperatures that had to be below freezing by now, dressed in just pants and a couple shirts that couldn’t possibly keep him warm.