Excerpts

Chapter One So I may be tainted in my truth When I claim I'm bullet-proof But every half-assed assault Has been a death by default --Abby Ahmad, "Tri-Me" Chief Petty Officer Chris Waldron knew he looked like hell and he felt a hell of a lot worse. He didn't know how long he'd spent strapped to a bed staring up at a plaster ceiling in some kind of drug-induced haze while his body healed and his mind remained numb. He floated in and out of consciousness, mainly because the doctors kept waking him up, which was really starting to get on his last fucking nerve. He'd been a SEAL for eight years, long enough to know that complaining never did anyone much good. But inside his head--man, he was bitching up a storm and a half. Someone had shoved his iPod earbuds in, and until the battery died he'd been slightly contented listening to AC/DC's Back in Black album in a continuous loop. He woke himself up singing the chorus of Creedence's "Green River" out loud. The nurse was staring at him as if he was crazy and normally he'd be all Oh honey, I could give you some of this crazy if you'd just lay yourself down here. But not today. Because even though she was pretty, with a kind face, he realized on some level that his mind could take longer to heal than his body if he didn't start dealing with what had happened. Sex wasn't the answer. Still, the nurse was so intent on staring at his eyes--the two different colors tended to do that to people--that she'd forgotten about the needle she was supposed to inject into his IV tubing. Now the drug that had kept him foggy hovered in his periphery. He was slower than normal, but still pretty damned fast. The nurse called for the doctor, but it was too late. He'd yanked the needle out and held the IV pole like a weapon, since they'd confiscated all of his. "Son, it's all right--you're on a U.S. Military base infirmary in Djibouti. The nurse was trying to give you your pain meds but we can talk about it first." The doctor spoke slowly while Chris stared at him, willing himself to believe that, but his body was still reacting--his hand held tight to the IV pole in a fight-or-flight response, and since flight wasn't an option, he was going to bash whoever came near him with the damn pole. "Chris, come on, man--put that down before you fuck someone up." It was his CO's drawl, heavy like thick syrup, which meant Saint was as tired as Chris felt. "No more drugs," Chris told the doctor while he continued to retain possession of the I won't take any more drugs pole. The doctor looked at Saint, who said, "If he needs them, he'll ask." The doc relented, motioned to Chris for his arm, which was bleeding all over the place, and Chris reluctantly let go of the metal pole. "Sorry, ma'am," he told the nurse as she put a bandage on his arm. "You've got a great voice, Chief," she said with a smile. Saint rolled his eyes because normally one comment like that could make Chris a one-man concert. But even though the music was still playing in his head, all he did this time was say, "Thanks." He remained seated at the edge of the bed once he and Saint were left alone, struggling to get his equilibrium back. He stared down at his bare feet and felt a sudden urge to rip the hospital gown off his body. Which he did promptly, throwing it on the ground while asking, "How long have I been here?" "Twenty-four hours. You made it to the helo on your own steam." He didn't remember that fully. The memories were there, but the edges blurred, bleeding into the bi Excerpted from Hold on Tight by Stephanie Tyler All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.