Water of Life

WATER OF LIFE

RHYS ASTASON

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Copyright © December 2011, Rhys Astason

Cover Art by Calisto Kerrigan © December 2011

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Water of Life

Rhys Astason

Acknowledgements

It takes a village….

To my wonderful gals, J & H, for reading and re-reading this story, for putting up with my paranoia and insecurity (and cracking the proverbial whip).

To J for making this manuscript so pretty with lots of red.

To my kids for eating countless mac & cheese dinners.

To my wonderful husband and his, Are you done yet?

Why yes, yes I am done.

Chapter 1

Camp Audie Murphy

American Federation, Joint Forces Command

On the coast of The Republic of Oman

0530 GST

Master Chief Petty Officer Jackson Monroe hated running. That hadn’t always been the case but after twenty years in the Federation’s Navy, time had finally caught up with him in the form of a solid hour of pure pain. Eighteen months ago, regardless of terrain, an hour of running would have been nothing. Hardly enough to break him into a sweat unless he pushed himself racing his Raider teammates, the Wolf Pack. But he had been whole then.

His new reality was a bluish tint to his face because his overworked lungs simply refused to process the lifesaving oxygen any faster. It was probably due to the fact they were now burning with fiery vengeance, his lower back was screaming with every movement, and his left knee felt like it was about to crumble into dust if he took another step. His whole body felt like it would burst into flames at any minute. The only good thing was that his right knee felt fine. Actually, the titanium joint and attaching rods felt nothing. Never would.

Jackson hit the sandy beach portion of the hardest trail on the base and slowed down his pace to a light jog. He couldn’t complain. This leg wouldn’t blind him with agony if half of it got blown off. It was a good leg. The best that the American Federation Military could provide which meant it was the best prosthetics available in the world. He had been lucky. Eighteen months ago, he had only lost a leg. Several of his teammates had lost a whole lot more.

Morning, Master Chief.

Morning, Chief.

Chief.

Jack looked up in time to see the arrogant smiles from three members of Special Warfare, Raider Six, the Dragons, run past him. The fuckers had lapped him even though they had started at least twenty minutes later. It would be all over Camp Murphy by the time he got back. It didn’t matter that they were fifteen years younger, on the active duty roster and had use of two completely non-mechanical legs. He was never going to live this down. If nothing else, the other Chiefs would skewer him over an open fire for making them look bad.

Over the hill, one of them said loud enough to carry over the breaking surf.

Assholes, Jack muttered under his breath, coming to an abrupt stop on the hard sand. He gave up the ghost and leaned forward, hands resting on his thighs. He rubbed his very human aching knee, ignoring the water that rushed against his shoes and silently cursing at the metal that was now his other leg.

He looked up at the retreating backs of the Dragons, so eager to go spread the gossip that they had lapped Master Chief, the Ball Breaker of Camp Murphy. Jackson wondered what the blazes drove him to run this course. He hated sand as much as he now hated running.

Good morning, Master Chief.

Oh yeah. Now he remembered.

That smoky voice hit him right in the groin every single time he heard it. He straightened and turned, meeting sparkling green eyes that were alight with mischief.

Today she was actually within an arm’s reach. With the whole bloody beach to walk on, she was just a hairs breadth from intruding in his personal space and brushing against him. His breath stalled in his throat. Close enough so his hands could rip open the offending wetsuit and finally feel the softness underneath. Where his lips could finally taste the skin he had been dreaming about for over six months.

She sent him that naughty grin he now considered as belonging solely to him even if it couldn’t possibly be true. The one that hinted she knew exactly what he was thinking about and made so many promises that his cock twitched in anticipation. This flirtation had been going on since they’d met. But flirtation was all it could ever be. Cold harsh reality slammed into him like a freight train.

Gracen Ellison was simply too pretty, too young…and too commissioned.

Morning, Captain, he replied, his voice sounding harsh even to his own ears.

The moment shattered.

Something flashed across her eyes. Regret? Anger? He had just reminded both of them that whatever they were doing was against regulations. Her smile tightened imperceptibly, something he wouldn’t have recognized a few months ago, but now it was as clear as a bell. She gave him a small nod, bordering on brusque dismissal before trotting up the beach with her surf board tucked tightly under her arm and heading up the wooden steps towards the parked cars.

I’m such an asshole.

He followed her to apologize. To kiss her senseless. Anything to take away that bruised look from her eyes and bring back the promising, smoldering look that he loved.

What the hell are you doing, Jackson? came the irate voice behind him.

Only years of training kept Jackson from reacting poorly and looking guilty as he turned to face his best friend and former Wolf Pack teammate, Chief Petty Officer Brian Hunter.

Chief.

Don’t you Chief me, Master Chief, Brian said, his arms crossing against his impressive chest and giving Jackson his best ‘I know I caught you doing something you weren’t supposed to’ look he usually reserved for green sailors just off the boat. This is a level five course, Jackson. You have nothing to prove. The Navy didn’t promote you to Master Chief to keep your pretty face around. You have skills they find valuable, but if you blow out your other knee they will have no choice but to send you packing.

Jack slowly nodded, dropping his head to hide the relief that flooded his features. Hunter had only caught him running a course he hadn’t been medically cleared for and not staring after a pretty young captain like a starving man facing a juicy T-bone.

You’re right.

Of course I’m right, Brian replied, slapping Jackson on shoulder that, had the other man not been prepared for, would have sent him sprawling on the sand. I’m always right. Brian grinned broadly, showing off white pearly teeth against a darker skin tone.

Asshole, Jackson grumbled. It was definitely becoming his favorite word.

Fop.

Jackson’s eyes flattened dangerously and one eyebrow arched as he put the full weight of The Look onto Brian. Fop?

You know, Brian hesitated, when that one duke goes out of his way to…

"I read the book, Chief, Jackson said, glaring menacingly. Then his lips twitched and the mask of righteous anger completely fell. But I never thought you’d be man enough to admit to reading it."

The silence lasted for a full two seconds before Brian’s explosive laughter filled the beach.

Asshole! Brian shook his head, a smile still playing across his lips. You were right. It was a great way to just blow some steam. Their eyes locked. Sometimes words weren’t necessary between brother warriors. The memories haunted both of them. Brian’s smile faltered briefly and eyes dropped to Jackson’s leg, then away.

Brian-

I swear to God, Brian pointed at Jackson, a smile back on his but this time it didn’t quite reach his eyes, if you tell anyone I actually read that lovey dovey girl porn, I’ll kill you in your sleep. And Jesus Christ those covers are horrid even in a reader.

He responded to Jackson’s snort with his own laugh. Come on, let’s get out of here. He turned and smirked. Bet I can beat you to the truck, old man.

Jackson shook his head, a lazy grin in his face as he followed gamely up the weathered steps even as Brian detoured to a different car first. He knew that they would have to talk about that last mission someday. Really talk. But not today.

Jackson’s pace slowed when he saw a blue lump on his bumper. He picked up the still frozen ice pack. Gracen. Guilt rode through him hard as he glanced up to see her on the second level parking waxing her board. Nothing he could do right now, but he’d figure out a way to apologize somehow. Coffee. He’d buy her coffee and apologize. Satisfied with the plan, he pulled open the truck’s tailgate and hopped on, before gingerly placing the ice on his pounding knee.

Jesus, you are getting old, Brian said, handing him a cold drink.

Pot. Kettle. Black.

Brian laughed. I’m vintage. He puffed out his chest and tapped it twice before pointing to Jackson. You, my friend, are an antique. No shame in being elderly, though. He saluted with the bottle before taking long drink. The broad smile on his face slowly faded. This is my last tour with the Raiders.

Jack sent him a piercing look. Hunter was a career man, like himself. And that career was Special Warfare or nothing. They pushing you out?

No, Brian shook his head, but the new guys are getting younger every day and I’m starting to feel old. He shrugged. Not as old as you, of course. He laughed at Jackson’s scowl. Speaking of which, he nodded towards the upper level, are officers getting younger? A low, appreciative whistle cut through the air. Damn. Should be against regulations for a captain to be that fuckable. Isn’t the Army supposed to be full of rejects?

Show some fucking respect, was on Jackson’s lips but he managed to bite it back and followed Hunter’s gaze up to the second parking level. His eyes drank in the sight of Gracen peeling off the wetsuit to reveal a deep red tankini that had become his favorite. He tore his gaze away. Doctor Ellison? Never thought of her that way. He hid his blatant lie behind the bottle of water, taking a long drink and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

He couldn’t believe how close he’d come to snapping at Hunter. Letting it out that he had a thing for the pretty, young officer – hell, it was bordering on obsession, if he was honest with himself – was all he needed to top off this FUBAR day that had only just began. Looking at the crashing waves, he purposely ignored Brian’s incredulous look.

Dear Mrs. Monroe, Brian intoned dramatically, the Naval Division of the American Federation regrets to inform you that your son, Master Chief Petty Officer Jackson Monroe is not just old, but actually a living corpse….

Stupid. Moron. Imbecile of epic proportion! Gracen Ellison viciously rubbed a new coat of protective wax into her board. Waxing could have waited until the next time she went out. It would take repeated, long term emersion before salt water ate into the new, delicately balanced fiberoxy Surfrider board, but after that bitch slap by the Master Chief, she needed to do something physically vigorous. Since slamming her head against the Jeep wouldn’t do her reputation any favors, waxing her board to a factory shine would have to do.

What had she been thinking? That a flirtation with the Master Chief could go anywhere? She couldn’t ask him out even if she had the balls because of her rank and he clearly wasn’t the type to go against regs. What was worse was the knowledge that where she thought it had been a mutual flirtation, he had just been humoring her, a superior officer. He had just been waiting for her to buy a clue and when she hadn’t, he finally slammed the door shut on her face.

Morning, Captain. No ‘Mornin’ Doc’ which had been the usual greeting or the incredibly rare ‘Good Morning, Gracen’ with that slow sexy drawl of his that made her think of bed and long nights of salacious sex.

With a groan, she rested her head on the board. This stupid crush had to go, especially after that complete shutdown. She’d been embarrassed and more than a little bit hurt but instead of just getting in her car and driving away, what does she do? Leave an ice pack on his truck.

Even from the surf, she had seen him favoring his all too human left leg as he pushed his body to the breaking point. She’d seen it because she had been watching him with hungry eyes as he ran on shore. Waiting for him just like she normally did every morning he ran this particular killer course she knew – Knew! – he hadn’t been cleared for but couldn’t find it in herself to rat him out to the SpecWar surgeon. All so she could have a few flirtatious minutes with one of the sexiest men she had ever met.

Even after the shutdown, her inner doctor took over and monitored the potential injury regardless of the fact that the man was clearly done humoring her ridiculous infatuation. Wasn’t that the reason she was still in the parking lot? Because the doctor in her was worried that the knee was going to crumble under him and there would be no one there to help?

She glanced down to the lower level where the two experienced Raiders were talking, Chief Monroe holding her ice pack to his knee, Chief Hunter leaning on the fence. Well, he wasn’t alone now. If the Master Chief’s knee gave out, his buddy could take him to MedBay. She let out a frustrated huff, but carefully stowed her board before angrily ripping off her wet suit.

Laughter rank out on the parking lot.

Don’t look. Don’t. Look.

She peeked.

Chief Hunter was slapping his knee laughing hysterically, a sight totally unbecoming for a hard ass Chief, and the Master Chief just shaking his head, his lips twitching as if fighting off a smile.

Damn. He was even sexy when he was a jerk.