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    The Barman and the SEAL
    The Barman and the SEAL
    The Barman and the SEAL
    Ebook121 pages2 hours

    The Barman and the SEAL

    By RJ Scott

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    About this ebook

    After losing everything, is it possible for a broken man to find love?

    Travis, a former Navy SEAL grappling with post-traumatic stress disorder, is the first veteran to seek help from the Ellery Mountain Veteran Center. He’s struggles to reconcile the haunting memories of his past actions with the life he’s returned to. In the midst of a highly public breakdown, it is the owner of the local bar, Avery, who steps forward, offering support and understanding.

    Estranged from his family, Avery manages the sole drinking establishment in town—The Alibi—where he lends an ear to others' troubles while trying to forget his own. Recognizing a kindred spirit in the wounded warrior yearning for companionship, Avery discovers himself gradually falling deeply in love with Travis. With unwavering determination, he commits himself to helping Travis, and demonstrating that with determination, they can build a new life together and have a love that will last forever.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRJ Scott
    Release dateSep 2, 2015
    ISBN9781785640223
    The Barman and the SEAL
    Author

    RJ Scott

    RJ Scott is the author of the best selling Male/Male romances The Christmas Throwaway, The Heart Of Texas and the Sanctuary Series of books.She writes romances between two strong men and always gives them the happy ever after they deserve.

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      Book preview

      The Barman and the SEAL - RJ Scott

      Chapter One

      The cold was biting. The cutting wind carried ice and snow high up in the Salang Pass three thousand meters up in the Afghan Mountains northwest of the capital Kabul. Typically his captors covered him—they would tell him in their broken English they weren’t completely lost to conventions of how to look after prisoners. But tonight was different. He had a vantage point in the center of the camp, two foot off the ground in the small metal and wood cage.

      He could see them drinking and the campfire that warmed them and was the only light in this small unsheltered area. Tents flapped in the wind and the raucous laughter was enough for him to know they’d probably stumble to their tents in a drunken stupor. The SEAL wasn’t important. He called for help. No one heard him or brought over the tarpaulin that was his only protection against the night.

      He had curled over seven of his ten fingers when the sun rose this morning. Yesterday it had been six fingers to count the passing of time. Seven days in this place and the infections in his leg and arm were nothing to a rattling cough that had his chest squeezing in pain and his back in spasms. He shifted to find comfort, ended up twisted like a pretzel in the five-foot cube with his back to the worst of the snow.

      His cold weather gear, including his boots, had long ago been shared out to the rebels and he was left in combat pants, a T and his thin under-jacket. Sneakers finished off the protection for his skin. He was fucked and he knew it. Even if someone got him out, even if any of his team had survived, he was broken in half by this place.

      The pain in his back increased and he heard the inhuman whimper that left his mouth. He needed antibiotics, pain meds, and he couldn’t even focus on pain not being an option. Little by little his humanity was being stripped from him. He was dying, an hour at a time the ice was burning his skin and he curled his hands and feet so he wouldn’t lose them to frostbite.

      Feebly he rocked in the cage, hoping the whole thing would topple on its side. Then if it crashed to the floor at least someone could possibly cover him from the snow and ice. A lethargy stole over him. He should be trying to get out, but there was no point. He’d seen the explosion, seen the mountain fall, crushing the team. He was lucky he’d been covering their six. His only injury was the evil laceration from his knee to his ankle that now oozed pus and hurt like a bitch. All his equipment gone. Any hope was gone.

      He was sweating and bile rose in him, but his stomach was empty. He didn’t fight the retching or the pain, if he concentrated hard enough on home, on the hills and valleys of Virginia, then he could at least escape in his mind. He stretched his legs and the extremities of the cage held him solid. Pinned.

      He cried.

      And woke up from the nightmare in his bed. Safe.

      Hey, Daniel said from the stove. Travis almost turned on his heel and left the kitchen. It was three am, no one was supposed to be up. Especially not Daniel with his sensitive observations, his no-nonsense assessments and his damn understanding green-eyed gaze.

      Hey, Travis said in reply. He felt like shit. The dream of being back in that place, with the pain—and the crying—had wrenched him from sleep. Again. He couldn’t remember the last full night of sleep he’d had.

      You want hot chocolate? Daniel asked. He shook the tin of chocolate powder in front of his face and smiled. I can’t promise cream and marshmallows like Luke uses, but I can mix hot water and powder.

      Travis debated. Saying yes meant Daniel and he would probably have to talk. Travis didn’t want to talk. His throat was still clogged with tears and his head and shoulders ached with tension. Damned sleeping pills weren’t even working if the terror in his head could drag him so sharply out of sleep. Sickness rolled in his stomach as the thought of chocolate hit his mind. Can’t even drink fucking hot chocolate. For fuck’s sake.

      I just came in for some water, Travis lied. Need to take some pain pills. Why did he do that? Why did he even talk let alone elaborate. Yes, he could get water in his own room, but he could have got away with no more talking if Daniel had just accepted his excuse. But no, idiot, he had to go and mention pain. Daniel made that patented frowning face of his then nodded. The frown was so quick it was ‘a blink and you miss it’ reaction. Although Travis may well be a fucked-up, washed-up ex-SEAL, he still had the ability to read expressions in a millisecond.

      Cool was all Daniel said. He didn’t push on the pain meds or the fact Travis was awake or that he probably looked like shit. He was soaked through with sweat and he knew from looking in the mirror that his face had a gaunt, haunted look. Five weeks he’d been here in the middle of freaking nowhere at this place and every single night he’d had these dreams. Like Afghanistan would never leave him—the scars on his body and in his mind a permanent reminder.

      Pathetic. You cry like a freaking girl.

      Crossing to the sink he pulled down a glass and filled it with water. Then quietly and with a soft goodnight he left the kitchen and made his way back to his room. A hot drink would have relaxed him maybe. His mom had this way of adding cinnamon to hot chocolate and he needed that connection. He’d talked himself out of his room on the promise of finding the god damned cinnamon.

      Freak.

      At least stretching his legs helped a little. The tendons in his left leg were pretty shot, but the healing had started and physio helped. He closed his door and leaned back against it. There were a few rooms like this in the whole place—all the same. A large bed, a cabinet, a closet, a TV. There was Wi-Fi, somewhere for him to recharge his cell and a small desk for his laptop. He was connected to the world here and he could look up anything he wanted. See any show he wanted. Maybe catch up on some movies. And one day he would. Maybe one day he would even take the brand new laptop out of its box.

      Stupid.

      He tipped the water down the small sink in the connected shower room then peered at himself in the tiny, lit mirror. That was one hell of a cliché, staring at the man who stared back at him. He needed a shave and a haircut and tomorrow apparently was the day. They were going into town to see some hairdresser after Travis had mentioned he needed a haircut. Daniel casually advised he’d arranged it in passing. The man inside Travis who wanted to feel normal, had immediately agreed to go down into the town. The place he’d only seen from the car window when he’d been driven here. He could shave first—maybe get his headspace out of pathetic and into positive. Hell, it had to be time.

      Why can’t I just snap out of this crap?

      ‘Because you’re suffering.’ That was what the experts said. The ones who hadn’t been in the Navy, the ones who hadn’t survived BUD/S, the ones who hadn’t seen a team of friends dead in front of you. The ones who hadn’t lost everything that mattered to friendly fire and the snow on the mountain. Tensing, he realized he was gripping the sink so tight that his knuckles were white with exertion.

      Carefully he released the hold and curled over five fingers into a fist. One for each of the five weeks he had been here. He was utterly determined that when he curled over all eight and the two thumbs that he was finished. He would be fixed, or he would be dead. No point in living half a life like this.

      Useless.

      Settled in these thoughts, he yawned and crossed back to his bed. He never had the dreams a second time in a night but couldn’t explain why that was the case. Maybe his brain was exhausted just as much as his physical self. He would sleep now. The taped schedule he’d stuck to his closet door said he had group therapy at ten a.m. Great. The haircut at eleven meant he at least had an excuse to run from therapy. If he had to listen to the other two here whining on about feelings and meaning and life purpose he would find the nearest gun and shoot them. He set his cell for an eight a.m. alarm and ruthlessly ignored the list of missed calls and messages. Every so often he would delete them until the message appeared telling him he had no more messages. And the amount of times

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