Page 96 of Covert Mission

He looks down at the floor, staring at his combat boot. Seconds tick by. My mind runs wild with ideas about what he’s thinking.

When he finally speaks, his expression is conflicted. “Did Beast talk to you?”

I’m not sure how to answer his question. “What do you mean?”

“Did he talk with you about anything personal?”

For some reason, this question makes me incredibly uncomfortable. I shift in my seat. My neck starts to feel hot. “Sure, we talked. I mean, not a lot…”

“Did he talk about his past?”

I was uncomfortable before—now it feels like I’m in a frying pan.

“No.” I press my lips together and rub my sweaty palms over my legs. “I saw his scars. Is that what you’re talking about?”

I instantly feel like I’ve said too much. Admitting I saw his scars clearly means we were unclothed. Or Lucas was shirtless at the very least.

He stares at me, unblinking, with intensity I’m beginning to wonder about. Are all SEALs like this?

The tension thickens. I blurt, “He didn’t really talk about his scars, if that’s what you’re trying to ferret out.”

Truck’s expression darkens, and something passes behind his gaze like a glimpse of some locked door that you wouldn’t dare open. His tone is low and rough. “Not all scars are on the outside.”

A shiver runs through me. My heart is galloping. My mind is reeling. I have to take a couple of seconds to recover.

What has happened to Lucas?

I whisper, “I know that. Most of my scars aren’t visible.”

“Did he talk about his past?” Truck repeats his question.

“No. Lucasdid nottalk about his past. But he asked about mine. And I think this conversation is over. I’m not comfortable talking about what happened between Lucas and me. That’s private, and it feels like you’re bullying me right now.”

Truck pulls out a chair and flips it around backwards. After straddling the seat, he folds his arms on the curved, wooden back. It’s impossible to read his expression, no matter how hard I try.

I’m reminded of CSI and how interrogators put the heat on their suspects.

My suspicion is confirmed when he changes the tone of his questions. “Did you lie to him?”

I jolt and try to hide my sudden need to swallow hard. “No, I didn’t lie to Lucas.”

Truck tips his chin toward the chair at the table. “Why don’t you take a seat and relax?”

Now my mouth hinges open. “You’re kidding, right? I can’t relax. You’re drilling me. A man who tried to drag me away from a disaster zone in the middle of a horrifying extraction is in a house next door, being interrogated, by the man who insists he’s going to look out for me. Before that, I find out that some random whack job rolled into town to tell me I’ve been fired. Oh, and yesterday, armed rebels were about to—” I shudder. “I’m not okay, Truck. My life is…”

My composure evaporates. There is a war of emotions tearing me limb from limb. I’m hurt. I’m mad and confused. Last—and definitely not least—I’m scared that my entire career is going up in smoke as I sit here helplessly.

The urge to punch a pillow, to burst into tears, to kick something all at the same time is almost more than I can take.

I fist my hair with one hand and mutter, “My life is coming apart. Now I need to make some calls. Private calls.”

He motions to the chair with the flick of his index finger. “Sit. Down. Camile.”

I clench the strap of my backpack. “No, really. I need to make some calls.”

“It can wait.”

Grrr. I am a millimeter away from yelling the roof off of the place. “All of you are so freaking bossy.”

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