JASON MAUER STAGGERED through the fifty-mile-an-hour winds and into the house with three things on his mindâfood, sleep and sex.
Thanks to Uncle Sam and the National Guard, he hadnât been home for any real length of time in years, home being the small California beach town of Santa Rey. When he was in town, he shared a house with his brother, Dustin, and hoped to find the fridge stocked with at least sandwich makings and, please God, a beer or two.
As for the sleepâ¦well, he had a bedroom. The question was could he shut down enough, push away the haunting memories long enough to actually get some shut-eye.
The jury was still out on that one.
Which left sex.
He needed a woman for that, at least the way he liked it, and seeing as heâd been working his ass off on his last military stint, spending some special quality time at every national disaster that had hit the news, plus a bunch that hadnât, he was fairly certain he was lucky just to be alive, much less naked with a woman.
With a bone-weary sigh, he dropped his gear and headed directly toward the refrigerator. He should call his brother, his sister and his mom, and let them know he was back a few days earlyâ¦but theyâd be all over him, wondering if he was really okay, if heâd recovered from his loss.
He hadnât.
So he didnât call, not yet. Instead, he looked out the windows into the growing dark, even though it was barely five oâclock in the afternoon in June. From the kitchen window, he watched the ocean pound the shore, the waves pushing fifteen feet minimum. The winds had stirred up some seriously ominous clouds, and he was surprised to see trees doubled over from the gusts.
Heâd seen bad weather in his timeâhello, hurricanes Rita and Katrinaâbut nothing here on the supposedly mild Central California coast.
His stomach growled, reminding him that itâd taken him all day and three flights to get here, bad storm or not, and he couldnât remember the last thing heâd eaten. Peanuts, given to him by a cute flight attendant? No, a candy bar grabbed at the airport.
And the damn fridge was empty.
Yeah. Pretty much how his life felt at the moment. Empty as hell. Matt would laugh at that and tell him to get over himself.
But Matt was dead, six weeks now.
Still shell-shocked, Jasonâs gut clenched hard at the thought of his best friend lying six feet under, and suddenly he was no longer hungry. Fuck it, he thought. Fuck thinking, he was going directly to bed, no passing Go. He kicked off his shoes, and so damn tired he practically staggered like a drunk, moved down the hallway. He was âin the tweenâ as his sister, Shelly, would say. In between military life, which was all heâd known since high school, and his old life, which no longer even seemed real.
Which world did he want?
The government wanted him back, of course. He was highly trained and valuable. That wasnât ego, but fact. He was a rescue expert who worked with nerves of steel. Or he hadâ¦
His family was hoping heâd stick here. His mother, living twenty miles north of Santa Rey in San Luis Obispo, wanted him to be safe and sound. His sister, who lived with her while going to Cal Poly, wanted him to date her friends. Dustinâhere in Santa Reyâwas his partner in their on-the-side renovation business, and wanted him home to be a more active presence.
As for what Jason wanted? No clue. None. Zero.
Zip.
But he had a few weeks to figure it out. With a sigh, he looked around the empty house. Dustin lived with his fiancé, Cristina, most of the time these days, which left the place looking a bit neglected. Itâd been just waiting for him to come back to help Dustin finish the upgrades, so they could sell it and move on to the next project. Dustin had redone the kitchen and both bathrooms. Heâd pulled the carpet and refinished the original hardwood floors. And heâd done a good job, too. All that was left was a couple coats of paint and some tile in the entry, and this house could be flipped, something Dustin was eager to do.