A Seal's Touch. Tawny Weber

      “Lieutenant, you engaged with a minor subject. You left said subject for dead, is that correct?”

      Still at attention, Taylor didn’t spare a look for the NI weasel. But he did take great pleasure in mentally flipping the guy the bird.

      “The enemy was armed,” he repeated. Again. This time he added, “Said enemy had a finger on the trigger and one of my teammates in the crosshairs. According to intelligence provided by NI, everyone inside the installation was to be considered a terrorist. Standard—”

      “That’s enough, Lieutenant,” the captain interrupted. “You’re not here to justify following orders or for doing an exemplary job.”

      Right.

      Even though it felt like it.

      But Taylor was too well trained to let his thoughts, or his dislike of the NI weasel, show.

      “I’m not concerned with justification,” the weasel said. “Lieutenant, given the severity of what you faced, have you requested a medical exam?”

      “I wasn’t injured. Sir.” Since it was his only option for expressing his opinion of that idea, Taylor snapped out the sir with as much disgust as he could.

      “And if you were ordered to report to NCCOSC?”

      Damn and double damn. No way Taylor wanted to deal with the Naval Center for Combat & Operational Stress Control. He didn’t deny that they did some good, but he didn’t need it.

      All he said was, “I follow orders. Sir.”

      Without looking, he could tell the guy wasn’t done. But once again, the captain interrupted.

      “That’ll be all, Lieutenant. Dismissed.”

      Without hesitation, Taylor turned heel and strode out. He didn’t breathe until he’d cleared the room, shut the door.

      He let his shoulders relax, yanking off his cover. He smacked it on his thigh then slapped it back on his head, tugging the brim low.

      With a brief nod to the officer manning the desk, Taylor double-stepped it into the hallway. He didn’t make it two feet before he was hailed by his commanding officer.

      “Yo, Wizard.”

      “Sir.” Taylor gave Irish an easy nod before tilting his head toward the door at the end of the corridor. “I’m done here. So I’m officially on leave now, right?”

      Taylor waited for Irish to do him a favor and dismiss him. But after a long stare, instead of nodding Taylor away, the commander pointed at one of the wooden chairs lining the hall.

      “Not quite yet.”

      “Another debriefing?”

      “Nah. Just a little guy talk and a friendly warning.”

      The tone as much as the words themselves told Taylor that he didn’t have to stand on ceremony. He grabbed a chair, flipped it around and straddled it, using the back of his hand to shove his brim up so he had a clear view.

      “Talk.”

      Irish, in uniform, doffed his hat and sat opposite, leaning his elbows on his thighs.

      “NI is on a fishing expedition. You know it. I know it. The brass knows it. So I’m not going to bother pointing it out.”

      “I appreciate you not mentioning it.” Taylor’s lips wanted to twitch but he was a strong man. He kept control of them.

      “I’m a good guy that way.” Irish shrugged.

      “That’s what I always say.” Taylor waited for the laugh, but Irish’s face didn’t budge.

      That’s when he remembered the friendly warning part of Irish’s comment.

      Crap.

      He waited.

      Irish looked down the hallway to the left.

      Then he looked to the right.

      Taylor just looked at him.

      When Irish looked back, he tilted his head toward the office Taylor had just left.

      “The NI ass-hat has an agenda.”

      “Besides SEAL baiting?” Taylor murmured, thinking back on the debriefing. To the leading questions, to the pointed use of information. “They gonna institute post-operative health checks?”

      “Not sure.” Irish glanced toward the door then shrugged. “I don’t think NI is looking for anything that simple.”

      Taylor didn’t, either.

      Considering what that meant, they were both silent for a moment.

      “So that was the friendly warning?”

      “Nope.” Irish shook his head. “We’ve got a para-dive training operation coming up. We’ll be operating out of Coronado. So if you have any projects you wanna take on, now’s the time.” After a beat he continued. “Or if you need downtime, more than a few days’ leave, it’s good timing.”

      Damn.

      Was he that obvious?

      No, he realized, he wasn’t obvious. Irish had been on the mission. So he was likely on the same page.

      Taylor stared at his boots, letting his mind empty of everything but the feeling of support from his commander. By extension, from his team. They were trained to have each other’s backs in battle, to know that they were covered on a mission, that they always had support. But knowing it extended to everyday life, to the ugly and beyond...

      “I’m fine,” Taylor said again. But this time he meant it. “All I need is a little time, a little distance. I’ve got the next few days’ leave. I don’t need more than that.”

      “Good enough.”

      Standing, they shook and turned their separate ways.

      All of a sudden Taylor stopped and turned around.

      “Yo, Irish?”

      The commander stopped walking and glanced back over his shoulder. “The friendly warning?” Irish grinned. “You’re on shaky ground with the ladies. They figure you lied about your date, that you’ll show with a bimbo du jour instead.”

      “Seriously?” With a huffing sort of a laugh, Taylor shook his head. “Don’t the women have anything better to do than worry about my sex life?”

      “They couldn’t care less about your sex life. It’s your love life they’re interested in.” Irish patted one hand to his heart. “Such potential, so much to offer. You’re being wasted, you know. It’s a crying shame.”

      Shit.

      “I’ll figure it out,” was all he said, though.

      An hour later he’d put the mission effects, the ass-hat, the matchmakers and the debriefing out of his head. Nobody looking at him would see a SEAL, lonely hearted or otherwise. All they’d see was a man in a leather jacket and worn jeans flying by on a tricked-out Harley.

      Taylor loved what he did.

      His life was his career. Being a SEAL was who he was. What he was. All he wanted.

      But sometimes it sucked.

      Fury, pain and misery all balanced on a knife’s edge. If they tilted one way or the other, he knew he’d lose it. And lose it in an ugly way.

      The wind pounding against him loud enough to drown out the sound of his Harley, Taylor raced along SR 75. He barely noticed the beach, the other cars, the time. Instead, he focused on the speed. On the feel of the motor roaring beneath him. On nothing.

      Right now, all he wanted to think about was nothing.

      It might have been an hour later, it might have been five. But by the time